#{ musings; fyodor }

[guacamoleroll]

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

ᴛᴀɢʟɪꜱᴛ: @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

© ɢᴜᴀᴄᴀᴍᴏʟᴇʀᴏʟʟ 2024 — ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴄᴏᴘʏ ᴏʀ ʀᴇᴘᴏꜱᴛ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋꜱ ꜰᴏʀ ᴀɴʏ ʀᴇᴀꜱᴏɴ. ʜᴏᴡᴇᴠᴇʀ, ʀᴇʙʟᴏɢꜱ ᴀʀᴇ ʙᴏᴛʜ ᴡᴇʟᴄᴏᴍᴇᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ᴇɴᴄᴏᴜʀᴀɢᴇᴅ

[baby-girl-aaron-dessner]

— Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karamazov

[fyodorloveclub]

can we talk about sugar daddy fyodor?

of COURSE we can talk abt sugar daddy fyodor. and how if your eyes linger on literally anything for more than 5 seconds you can consider it already purchased. your his little doll and plaything, loves to always keep you in pretty pretty dresses or skirts and skimpy lacy underwear - though sometimes he prefers no underwear at all so he can finger you or just straight up fuck you whenever and wherever. fyodor is absolutely not the absent sugar daddy who only gets dinner with you once a month and sends you your allowance on venmo every week - no way. he's very generous, but he absolutely makes you work for that money. when he says sit, you sit. when he says stay, you stay. no if's, and's, or but's.

sugar daddy!fyodor's style is very simple but sleek, usually tailored, slim-fitting black slacks and high neck black sweaters, typically paired with a nice watch - but not the gaudy, clunky ones. he doesn't flaunt his wealth at all, but it's very clear by how put together he is that he has money.

and he fucks like nobody's business. he may appear slim and potentially weak, but he is anything but. the mans stamina is insane, and he'll fuck you into oblivion. and of course compensate you handsomely ;)

[pastel-rights]

A couple BSD AU designs I crafted up based on musing shenanigans between me and my friends 🫶

Here’s ( Part Two ) of this uh. mini series ig!!

[mumblingmuse]

previewed this on my writing account, but wanted to post it here. based on this reference. i'm honestly thinking of someday doing commission work with self-inserts in mind.

[sadeyedlady-writes]

Undoubtedly the worst thing about Fyodor Pavlovich is that there is absolutely nothing which he holds as sacred, holy, untouchable, worthy of reverence or respect. Everything is a joke to him.

The very worst way this is exemplified is his alleged (but come on, we all know it was him) crime against the “holy fool” Lizaveta Smerdyashchaya, which for him was yet another distasteful joke. Lizaveta’s innocence and vulnerability are recognised by the community of Skotoprigonyevsk, both young and old, and we are given paragraphs and paragraphs to show how she is widely adored by the townspeople and how attempts are made to shelter, protect, and care for her.

When Fyodor Pavlovich violates her, he violates something that the community holds as sacred.

That, to me, is the core difference between someone like him and someone like Mitya. Even though Mitya has done a lot of “dirty things” and may on the surface appear to be following in his father’s footsteps, his heart is a noble one, or at least one with noble intentions. One that is filled with reverence and genuine emotion and a hatred for what is abhorrent—even when he himself is doing things that are abhorrent.

And even though we can fully understand his hatred of his father for his loathsomely mocking, irreverent, dishonourable, ignoble attitude toward everything, once his father is dead, he still feels sorry for that hatred. He still regrets the relationship he never had with the father who neglected him as a child and possibly swindled him as a young man. That alone speaks to the kind of heart that he has.

“It is a noble man you are speaking with, a most noble person; above all—do not lose sight of this—a man who has done a world of mean things, but who always was and remained a most noble person, as a person, inside, in his depths, well, in short, I don't know how to say it ... This is precisely what has tormented me all my life, that I thirsted for nobility, that I was, so to speak, a sufferer for nobility, seeking it with a lantern, Diogenes’ lantern, and meanwhile all my life I've been doing only dirty things, as we all do, gentlemen ... I mean, me alone, gentlemen, not all but me alone, I made a mistake, me alone, alone ... ! Gentlemen, my head aches,” he winced with pain. “You see, gentlemen, I did not like his appearance, it was somehow dishonorable, boastful, trampling on all that's holy, mockery and unbelief, loathsome, loathsome! But now that he's dead, I think differently.”

“How differently?”

“Not differently, but I'm sorry I hated him so much.”

“You feel repentant?”

“No, not really repentant, don't write that down. I'm not good myself, gentlemen, that's the thing, I'm not so beautiful myself, and therefore I had no right to consider him repulsive, that's the thing. Perhaps you can write that down.”

- The Brothers Karamazov, 3.9.3 (Pevear & Volokhonsky translation)

There is no beauty to be found in anything about Fyodor Pavlovich, and though Mitya contests that the same is true of himself, I argue differently. There is something beautiful in the struggle of an imperfect human toward nobility, despite being doomed to always fall short. To again and again slip into one’s baser impulses, and yet again and again stand back up and trudge onwards.

Both are human, but Fyodor Pavlovich is all of the very worst things about humanity, while Mitya is the worst things mingled with much of the very best.

[plutorine]

whenever i think i'm going feral / on the brink of delirium and my partner calls me up and asks me whether i've eaten/drunk anything yet i feel like raskolnikov miserably lying in bed with nastasya coming into his room asking him the same thing

[chronically-idiotic]

"Well, if God doesn't exist, who's laughing at us?"

— Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karamazov

[possessedbydevils]

We would all be Rogozhin if Nastasya was real

(other vers undercut)

I was playing with colors and the second one looked a little pink so l couldn't help myself #sorrynotsorry

[note-boom]

Absolutely delighted by how the general consensus of the fandom after that episode is just "how old is Fyodor??"

Good job, Bones

[guacamoleroll]

— 𝖆𝖑𝖑 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖜𝖆𝖞 𝖍𝖔𝖒𝖊 𝖎'𝖑𝖑 𝖇𝖊 𝖜𝖆𝖗𝖒! ⋆⁺₊

featured: osamu dazai, chuuya nakahara, fyodor dostoevsky, nikolai gogol, sigma

content warning(s): fem!reader, domestic moments, mentions of marriage, kisses and cuddling, these men are whipped, fluff, references to christmas traditions

author's note: i hope you're all enjoying (or at least relaxing) during the holidays! sit back, grab a cup of steaming coffee or hot chocolate, and enjoy some sweet moments with our bungou boys ٩(^ᗜ^ )و ´-

summary: what gifts do our bungou husbands gift you during the holidays?

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

𝗢𝗦𝗔𝗠𝗨 𝗗𝗔𝗭𝗔𝗜 ⋆⁺₊ ⸺⸺⸺

Your eyes flutter open as sprinkles of sunlight peeking through the blinds serve as your only alarm, traces of chocolatey hair prickling your skin as he nuzzles into your neck. Your fingers twirl the coils of his knotted tresses, smoothing them into shining waves before pressing kisses against his ear. And that's when you see it.

A basket perched on your nightstand, tied neatly with a bow, and piled high with various cosmetics and accessories. As you sort through each item, feeling nostalgia pinging with every gift, you realize there's a reason you recognize them. 

Each is a small element from a moment in your relationship—the nail polish you wore on your first date, the lipstick you chose for your first kiss. He notes the quirks of others subconsciously, though he chooses to ignore them unless it benefits him. But not with you.

He cherishes every ephemeral habit—the crease of your forehead as candles burn on, the haze of your eyes as raindrops pour down, the indention of your lips as movies summit closed. You're always too preoccupied to notice, but he gawks at you without shame, admiring the purity of your features. He is known for being abstract, but you are his complete opposite. So completely unabashed in sharing your opinions and sentiments, even through your own expressions. And in a way, you're far braver than he believes himself to be, so he knows he must remind you of that.

𝗖𝗛𝗨𝗨𝗬𝗔 𝗡𝗔𝗞𝗔𝗛𝗔𝗥𝗔 ⋆⁺₊ ⸺⸺⸺

Your sleep is interrupted by a yelp. For a moment, you wanted to keep your eyes closed, still sluggish with sleep, but a sequence of other noises pulled you out of bed. Unaware of the eyes peeking out from under the covers, a smirk on their proprietor's face as you shuffled out of the room, you journeyed into the living room. And he knew that you had found precisely what you were looking for when he heard a barrage of coos and badly muffled shrieks escape your lips, rushing back into the room with a puppy snuggled in your arms, a cute bow fastened to its collar. He knew your heart had been stolen at a glance, much like he had been long ago.

That puppy is now your child, a part of your family. Even if you don't realize it, this dog expresses his eternal fondness and dedication to you and any family you plan to have. He would prefer to pick a larger dog breed, the loyal type of canines that remain devoted to their families (Akitas, Belgian Malinois, German Shepherds, etc.). He knows you'd love any dog, but he wants to guarantee that you'll be protected if he isn't there.

And don't be surprised if an engagement ring follows a few months later. You're raising an animal together—your fur baby—and while it's a bit out of order, he wants to tie the knot officially. And you'll have the cutest little ring bearer in the world ⋆˙⟡♡

𝗙𝗬𝗢𝗗𝗢𝗥 𝗗𝗢𝗦𝗧𝗢𝗘𝗩𝗦𝗞𝗬 ⋆⁺₊ ⸺⸺⸺

(I briefly discussed this in a post a while ago, but I wanted to expand on it a bit further.)

A stack of uniform presents pile in symmetrical mountains around the base of your shared tree; each fold intricately pristine. However, he insists on having a large breakfast, reveling in your anticipation with each course as you eye the gifts—it's too cute. Once you've finally reached the tree, he observes with unstated delight as you rip open the wrapping paper, only to discover hardcover copies of classic novels in your favorite genres.

He knows you peruse through his personal collection while he is away on missions, missing him and seeking comfort in his familiar words. Without your knowledge, he has caught you with a beaming grin on your face, skimming the story, enamored by his annotations. So once you've finished the book, with your thoughts written neatly inside the pages, he'd offer to swap with you, finding a sudden interest in the story.

Because the way your brain operates is absolutely fascinating to him—it is, in his (correct) opinion, one of your most stunning attributes. He finds himself seeking other ways to look into your thoughts, and if you just so happen to get inside his head as a result, he finds that he doesn't mind all the much.

𝗡𝗜𝗞𝗢𝗟𝗔𝗜 𝗚𝗢𝗚𝗢𝗟 ⋆⁺₊ ⸺⸺⸺

He would be bouncing up and down as soon as the sun rose, forcing you onto the sofa as he picked presents up from across the room. However, breaking away from tradition, he insisted that he opened the first few, utilizing many of your gifts as props for a little skit.

He enjoys your laughter more than any other sound in this world. It's such a freeing sight, watching you throw back your head, unable to help yourself. Even in the midst of his antics, he finds himself unable to avert his gaze, wide-eyed as you laugh without a care in the world. To him, you're always beautiful, but especially when you're happy.

And in that, he realizes that he wants to make you laugh all the time. Every second that you're together should be filled with joy. His heart constricts painfully whenever he sees sorrow on your face, and he has made it his prime duty in life to relieve your suffering. Anything that has ever made you laugh is collected in those gift boxes, and he feels lighter than ever as you giggle in your seat.

You have become the rope that tethered him to the ground, but he finds that he no longer wishes to fly free. Perhaps he has become exactly what he used to fear: his own attachments anchoring him, but he doesn't mind. He is a fool, but only for you.

𝗦𝗜𝗚𝗠𝗔 ⋆⁺₊ ⸺⸺⸺

He has never had anyone to celebrate the holiday with before; there hasn't been a reason. So instead, he would bury himself in his paperwork, trying to find a purpose through the letters, though he knew it was all in vain. So when he finds someone to celebrate with, he will ensure that you will stick around until the holiday next year.

You're met with bundles of presents, heavy with luxurious clothes and fragrant accessories, things he knows you like. But one of those gifts stands out amongst the rest: a simple box with a neat but fashionable outfit inside. Your eyes scan the seams, and it dawns on you—these are handmade. 

He knows his stuff about fabrics and colors, constantly choosing different options for the casino, and one of his stress-relieving hobbies (in my headcanon) is sewing. Before you came into his life, he made his own clothes, finding only brief comfort in the repetitive stitches.

But there is something so domestic about creating clothes for someone you care about. Thoughts of them are embuded in every stitch, seams pressed with care as it's molded to flatter your body specifically. It reassures him whenever you walk around the building, showing off your new clothes with a smile on your face—you are his family, his home. His other half. And you are here to stay.

ᴛᴀɢʟɪꜱᴛ: @imhandicapableofmath @lovedazai @hauntedsol @ruru-kiss @ishqani @zyilas @lovesick-fairy @fedyascoffin @squigglewigglewoo @kelperspelt @miloofc @thesilvernight0wl @s1eepybunny @dazaisms @deepseafragments @justanotherjester @sillyspookycat @kotysluny @aureatchi

[yeonban]

AH...

[fyodorloveclub]

Thoughts on:

How would the first time with Fyodor go?

Would Fyodor wait until marriage?

Do you think Fyodor is a virgin? Because I can imagine him to either be completely uninterested in sex, or him having used it as a method to get his way/assert dominance/manipulate people/… before

Is he rough in bed or is he too weak for that?

Do you think he moans and whimpers a lot, or has himself under full control and barely makes a sound?

Thank uuuu, have a nice day <3

im so glad you asked

depends on the type of first time! whether you’re both losing your virginity, one person is, or it’s just your first time having sex with each other. either way, i think it would be awkward but sweet. i don’t think fyodor is the type to have sex with anyone he’s not committed to, so there’s a lot of love and passion, but he’s not very experienced. there’s a lot of awkward positions and weird noises and not quite hitting the right spots, but he’s so determined to learn your body and make you feel good, you’ll cum at least once. and it only gets better from there hehe

fedya talks so much about being god’s right hand man so i believe canonically, if he ever would, yes, but in my vision of him no. he’d have to be very committed and trusting of his lover which would take a while, but he finds it foolish to wait until making a lifelong vow to a person to have sex. he’s a very logistical, calculated guy so in my version of him no

i go back and forth on whether or not i think he’s a virgin in canon. i do however personally disagree with the hc that he’s asexual - i don’t think he’s necessarily uninterested/repulsed by sex, it’s just not like. he’s sooo tunnel vision of his goal that anything other than it is extraneous and he just doesn’t entertain it. doesn’t mean he doesn’t sometimes jerk off to sex fantasies sjfbskdj though he probably has some shame associated with it. and i don’t think fyodor really ever uses physical means (ie sex) to manipulate or assert dominance. he’s very much a mind fucker and verbal manipulator though its very much a fun concept to play with i won’t lie skfjskd

oooo good question. kind of going back to the last thing he likes being very verbally rough - degradation/humiliation, bossing you around and stuff. he uses his words to be rough. i do think he struggles physically yeah, but it doesn’t mean he doesn’t try ajfbskfj

he tries to be stoic and keep it to manly grunts, but when it’s just too fucking good he’s whimpering and moaning for sure heheheh especiallyyyy if you’re riding him or giving him head

thank you for this i had fun with it ily

[mumblingmuse]

alternate caption: if hurt, why sexy?

[lars2312]

“A dream! What is a dream? And is not our life a dream?”

Fyodor Dotoevsky

[starsburned]

@curscism ❤️ for a one liner.

"In the midst of chaos, there's also opportunities. Is that what you're counting on?"