Here, I've organized the Bungou Stray Dogs fanfiction I've written and translated for you! Now you can easily find fyozai/skk fics in these dedicated lists. I'll keep it updated regularly! Enjoy!
š All audiences. ā¤ļøāš„ +18 content.
FYOZAI
š Talk to me
š Stay a little longer
š See you next time
ā¤ļøāš„ It happens
ā¤ļøāš„ Confession
š One more time
ā¤ļøāš„ Without happy ending
ā¤ļøāš„ Good morning, Fedya
š You're carelessly dancing, little kitten
š No big deal
SOUKOKU
š Snow White
ā¤ļøāš„ Good night, Chuuya
š Say no more
š So why did you let me belive
š My name shouted a thousand times
š Don't leave me alone
š Everything, everything was fine
ā¤ļøāš„ And is this knife at my throat plastic?
Summary: Just two pathetic men holding onto each other in the quiet ruins of a normal life.
Dazai snapped.
His voice rose, thunderous and sharp, as if a great tragedy had just unfolded. And yet, it was triggered by a trifleāa meaningless detail, a recurring annoyance, and Dazai loathed repetition. He stood there, snarling, clutching the offending pajamas in his hands.
In his eyes, the laundry... reeked. Apparently, they hadnāt used enough softener. Was it an attempt to save money? He used to take his clothes to the nearby laundromat, but ever since the staff changed, he rarely returned satisfied.
Fyodor, the sole witness to these sudden outbursts, didn't react. He had grown accustomed to it; he knew better than to try and soothe a man upon whom logic had no effect in such a state.
Afterward, Dazai would usually be haunted by shame, resentful of his own emotions, sinking into an offended silence against himself and the world. In those moments, Fyodor would simply let him wallow, finally finding the peace to focus on his reading.
But this time was different.
Dazai suddenly burst into tears.
Beautiful, Osamu. You're losing your mind over the scent of a rag that should have been burned the moment you left the Port Mafia.
He tossed the pajamas aside, slumped onto the sofa next to the Russian, and pulled his knees to his chest, sobbing like a child.
"Iām pathetic."
The words barely reached Fyodorās ears. The man remained absorbed in the next page of his book, seemingly indifferent to the lamentations of a partner driven to tears by the musty scent of laundry.
"I know. Thatās why Iām not interrupting you," Fyodor clipped.
That was when Dazai decided to interrupt him. Unapologetically, he dropped his head onto Fyodorās thigh, demanding attention.
Eventually, Fyodor wove his fingers through those soft, brown curlsāa gesture Dazai found grounding. They remained like that for a while, the silence broken only by muffled sniffling, quiet curses, and the turning of pages.
Soon, Dazai grew weary of his own misery and drifted off. When he woke, a cup of tea was waiting for him. The tea tasted of unspoken apologies.
In the dead of night, he wordlessly slipped into Fyodorās arms. The Russian obediently closed them around him, resting his chin atop Dazaiās head. Though they didn't stay that way forever, those fleeting moments were enough for Dazaiābreathing in the scent of his loverās skin, which tasted of salt and sea breeze.
Neither spoke.
The irony was that Fyodorās presence promised a strange kind of safety and acceptance.
Dazai didn't have to restrain himself here; his secrets never left the walls of this apartment. Of that, he was certain.
He felt ashamed of his volatile natureāa part of himself he tried to tame by avoiding the worldābut sometimes, a nagging thought haunted him: that this very nature might cost him his only anchor.
Whenever that fear crept in, he would press his body closer against the Russian, as if to confirm he was still thereāalive and willing to accept him in his pathetic entirety.
"Weāre both pathetic, thinking we could lead such an ordinary life..."
Fragments of words reached Dazaiās drifting mind, but he didn't answer. He was already halfway to the land of Morpheus.
ā ļø WARNING: This story contains mature themes and may be distressing to some readers.
Even when you kiss me, youāre too far away.
Rose petals fell to the floor, one by one. Dazai plucked at them, stripping the flower heād bought for himself earlier today; heād grown bored of it quickly, and now he crushed the blood-red petals between his fingers.
"I told you already. Use this number with discretion," Dostoyevskyās voice spoke from the other side, so calm it bordered on tedious.
A familiar sensation washed over Dazai, now dulled by alcohol. Another petal found its way to the tatami mats.
The man sat curled against the wall, an open bottle of cheap booze standing beside him like a brave companion. Once again, heād failed to keep his promise to cut back on this filth... Heād downed half the bottle, and just looking at it made him feel nauseous. How boring...
"You picked up after the second ring, my dear Demon!" he called out with false cheer.
"Only because I still harbor the illusion that it might be something important..."
"What could be so important at this hour..."
Dazai feigned a moment of reflection.
"Your constant need for attention?"
"Spot on," Dazai clicked his tongue in approval. "How is it that you know me so well?"
"I listen to you. Unfortunately, with understanding..."
"So, what do you propose?"
"I donāt know. Youāre the one calling."
"Oh, come on! Thatās exactly why Iām calling! Think of something!" Now the desperation in Dazaiās voice sounded like a convictās plea. The final sign that he was well and truly wasted.
"Iām bored, Dostoyevsky!"
A deep sigh reached his ears.
"I noticed..."
"Maybeā" Dazai swallowed the word halfway before deciding to finish the thought, "āwe should have a drink?"
Silence fell over the line as if on cue.
"Thatās... risky," the Russian finally said, his voice sounding a tad tremulous to Dazai. It put him in a slightly better mood. "I never know if you won't swap my drink for an 'original version' of your own..."
A drink with bleach? I hadn't thought of that until now. The corners of Dazaiās mouth curled into an ironic smirk.
"But you love a gamble, Demon Dostoyevsky, don't you?" He drew out the words, playing with them like a cat with a new toy. "Thatās why youāre leaving... I can hear it. Youāre already outside. Well, hurry up. There might be lines in the shops at this hour, and Iām starting to run out of alcohol..."
And ideas on how to make your life more miserable.
"To hell with you, Dazai..."
"Today?" The detective stared at the wall calendar, crushing the last rose petal. "I'm counting on it. After all, thatās what one does on Valentineās Day, isn't it?"
The preliminaries proved unnecessary. Along with the alcohol, Fyodor brought a chill that seemed to Dazai the only place where his loneliness felt truly at home.
Brewing emotions shaped themselves into tears once their naked bodies intertwined in a lover's embrace on a futon as cold as their hearts.
"Am I doing something wrong?" Fyodorās voice pulled him from the thicket of his own thoughts. That almost authentic concern even amused him a little. Laughing out loud for a moment, Dazai could have passed for a madman.
"I think I drank too much."
"I rarely see you sober..."
"Otherwise, youād be seeing me in handcuffs..."
The obviousness of it hit them both, shattering the moodāif they had managed to build any amidst the irony and half-truths. Dazai stared somewhere past Fyodorās head; he could feel the manās tension heightening under his fingers. Ascetic lighting washed over their silhouettes, clinging to each other in search of warmth, but even the intoxicating scent they created failed to stir him.
"I don't think I can do this," he muttered finally. "Let's call it a night."
In an apologetic gesture, he kissed the side of Fyodor's neck, then murmured against that paper-thin skin:
"Iām terrible, aren't I?"
A long moment passed before he received an answer.
"Do you need a reason to start crying again?"
"So I can feel like a human. Do you never cry?"
"Iāve forgotten how itās done."
"Itās enough that you feel."
"I feel too much. Perhaps thatās why I stopped..."
"I like your scent," Dazai changed the subject. "Itās exactly like you: icy and distant. Even when you kiss me, youāre too far away."
Their noses brushed, their breaths fanning across each other's faces.
"I think Iāve finally caught you, and then you suddenly slip away. Every damn time."
"Even now?" Fyodor asked.
Dazai gave him a long look. His hands had been resting on his lover's thin shoulders for some time, like a worn-out shawl.
"Especially now," he whispered.
He pressed his lips, warm from the burning liquor, against Fyodor's chapped mouth, narrowing his eyes. He felt Fyodor suddenly surge against him, the sharp angles of his frame colliding with Dazaiās own in a sudden, desperate alignment, and he let out a groan.
Ah... So the devil hasn't left him yet...
But God clearly had.
Dazai let his lover take what he needed; if this shell of a man could still serve a purpose, it was only to be consumed like this.
Fyodor was just fastening the buttons of his shirt; its sterile scent drifted around, fighting the odor of spirits. Dazai lay on his side, staring at the manās back. Had he chosen him, or had he been chosen?
Youāre even afraid of your own bodyās reaction, you fool...
It was better if the answer didnāt come to him once he sobered up.
The door closed behind Fyodor, and only then did Dazai slip a hand between his legs, finally allowing himself that moment of oblivion.
Fresh bandages, blood on the white rug, and a silence that tastes like power. Dazai tries to survive the morning after, while Fyodor finds new ways to remind him who owns his bodyāand his pain.
Christmas Day had arrived, though it never quite reached their sterile apartment. Decorated in a minimalist tone, amidst cold steel, glass, white surfaces, and red accents that looked like blots of crimes committed within these walls, it fared perfectly well without a tree or tacky decorations reminiscent of American family comedies.
Dazai learned that the holidays had begun from his father, who had sent him an invitation to a Christmas gatheringāwhich the son ignored with the utmost joy. He probably hadn't even mentioned it to Fyodor, wanting to spend this day simply with him.
He stretched slowly, testing the limits of his pain so as not to further irritate his fresh wounds; they were covered by a new bandage that had already soaked through with blood since yesterday, even though his partner had tied it a bit looser than usual. It revealed patches of bruised skin on his arms. Dazai stared at them, his mind drifting back to those hours during which he had probably begged too hard for more...
Fyodor slept beside him, though it didn't seem to Dazai to be a deep sleep, but he didn't dare check; if Fyodor decided to finish what they had started yesterday, irony alone wouldn't protect him, and the uncontrollable pain would be unacceptable. It would likely end rather badly.
It wasn't even eight o'clock yet. They had fallen asleep quite late, and from the intensity of their "games," Dazai could judge the level of his exhaustionāit exceeded the limits of common sense. Just like his longing: during the entire time he was away, Fyodor had sent him only a single messageāa laconic notice that he wouldn't be there. He wondered if this man possessed any feelings left besides a notorious anger that he had to expel so violently, as if fearing it would poison him and make him stop being so irritatingly perfect, almost mechanical in everything he did...
Only now did he notice the bloodstains on the sheets. His fastidious lover would be furious when he saw them, so it would be wise to escape elsewhere in the meantime. At least for a moment, until he cooled down. Had it been otherwise, Dazai would have reproached himself for not taking a holiday break from their relationship. Instinctively, he adjusted the duvet to cover them.
December sunlight streamed through the glass walls, melting the delicate snow that still lay in large clumps on the sidewalks. A lazy stillness filled the spacious bedroom, where the only accent suggesting it was still a bedroom and not a sterile operating theater was a massive, fluffy rug. Dazai sincerely loathed it. That white, dense weave wasn't just there to add coziness to the room.
That would be too simple.
Occasionally, one of his punishments involved hand-picking the smallest impurities out of it; childish, yet practical, perfectly suited to his loverās pedantic disorders. Yesterday, at the very end, Fyodor had ordered himābarely able to standāto clean up the entire mess they had left behind.
"This mess is proof that humans live here, not robots," Dazai had snapped back before his face plowed into the rug; some of his blood had landed on it too. Now, its dried stain almost mocked his efforts from the night before. He cautiously sank his feet into the soft pile, waited a moment, and tried to stand. As expected, his body unanimously refused to cooperate. He cursed quietly.
"Going somewhere?" Fyodor asked suddenly.
"Not anymore... I was waiting for you to wake up. Good timing, it didn't take long. Now, carry me to the bathroom. Everything hurts... because of you. If you hadn't made me clean everything up, Iād be in better shape today."
Fyodor hoisted himself up and sat behind Dazaiās back. He placed a hand on his thin shoulders, which first tensed at the touch and thenāgradually pressed at specific pointsārelaxed.
"Clearly you must still be in decent shape if you have the strength to wag your tongue..." he added.
"Do you want to find out for yourself that I don't?"
The retort came in an instant.
"Iām afraid if you lay still, I might actually enjoy it. Even tied up, you thrash around like a hog."
Dazai sighed.
"Perhaps today I am your best Christmas present..."
"In that case, I'll enjoy it when I return."
Fyodor slid his cold hands under Dazaiās wounded back, drawing a soft hiss from his throat, and lifted him with almost reverent caution, the way one lifts items worth a fortune: at least you don't throw them against a wall as long as they still serve their owner...
Dazai didn't weigh much; he was only awkwardly tall, but his partner possessed a strength that his frail stature did not easily betray. Dazai's body felt like a ragdoll to the touch; it could easily be molded by fingers at will. Fyodor was far more hardened by years of training, time in the military, and places where a writer lounging on a sofa would have died a hundred times over.
"Are you going somewhere?" Dazai looked the man in the eyes.
"Your father is hosting a Christmas charity banquet at the Imperial," Fyodor explained, carrying him into the bathroom. "Don't tell me you didn't get an invitation."
The sarcastic morning smile on Dazaiās face vanished instantly, replaced by a thin, hard line.
"Until now, Iāve managed to ignore it quite successfully..."
It seemed Fyodor intended to leave him at the entrance to the toilet, but it was enough that he spoke:
"Can you manage to stand on your own for a minute?"
Dazai looked at him coldly. Without a word, he grabbed his hand and pulled him inside. Leaning heavily against him, he placed his penis into Fyodorās hand, aimed at the urinal.
"Of course. As long as you don't move."
Fyodorās hand tightened on his hip. Dazai felt that familiar, dark tremor. The stream of urine passing through the limp organ apparently hadn't cooled his loverās thoughts... He saw by his downward-staring, glowing eyes that he was fighting the impulse to cup his hand beneath it and massage the warm urine onto the skin.
Dazai only groaned, "Oh God," and quickly shoved his hand away; the water took what Fyodor hadn't managed to catch. He had barely turned around before he fell against him with his whole body. Today, his nose no longer recoiled from the scent of another human in this house; after all, he had slept through the night curled into the man beside him, without waking once.
He was completely saturated with him.
Both were naked and equally desperate for a bath to cleanse them of the filth of the past few days. Nudity did not faze them daily; it was clothing, with its colors, that often clashed with the consistency of their sterile domestic ecosystem. Dazai eagerly took advantage of the freedom; his erect member was the most beautiful accessory in the apartment. The unit was on the twentieth floor, with windows running from floor to ceiling. Often taken from behind in front of them, he would preen proudly over the city below, holding it in contempt as he came against the glass.
"To the kitchen, now," Dazai said curtly.
Fyodor embraced him, but this time he didn't lift him. Supporting him, he led him to a separate room and left him on a white, high chair at the rectangular counter. One could get the impression that his solicitousness was sincere, and therefore almost touching, if it had anything to do with sincerity at all. Dazai knew well what that feeling connecting them the morning after was. It was another form of control that his body desperately craved to remain in one piece. Even as Fyodor arranged him on the counter, he knew he had no intention of resisting. He allowed it. He would remain there until the same man, having satisfied himself, took him down. Protest would cost him too much, and he needed this specific, dubious care that only he could provide.
He closed his eyes. The sight of a lawman greedily taking a still urine-wet penis into his mouth was too pathetic to arouse him on its own, but Dazai was patient. He waited. Soon, Fyodorās warm lips took over. That was something they hadn't had the strength for yesterday.
The stimulus ceased to matterāthe blood, reaching its destination, finished the job. Biology is interesting. By equipping us with this toy, it made us self-sufficient, and yet surrendering control over the intensity of one's experiences has its perks, Dazai thought. An orgasm reached as a pair is always stronger, and he needed that beneficial rush of neurotransmitters to soothe the tension tearing at his muscles. At this moment, his penis was as limp as the rest of his body, which was likely Fyodorās primary intent. He flicked it a few more times with his tongue and finally, reluctantly, let it slip from his mouth like a finished lollipop.
"Have you had your fill...? Can we eat breakfast like civilized people now, not like vulgar Frenchmen?"
In response, Fyodor pulled him to the edge of the table, lifted his legs, and draped them over his shoulders.
"I'll have seconds," he replied, pressing a wet kiss to an exposed patch of skin on his calf. His hard penis brushed against Dazaiās buttocks, and a hand soon parted them, forging a path to pleasure.
"Then hurry up. In a moment, I'll become sleepy and sentimental. Youāll miss your Christmas banquet, forced to listen to the tales of my first failures in school art competitions."
There had been no failures, of course, except oneāthe pretty music teacher ultimately didn't fall in love with him when, at age ten, Dazai flawlessly performed Paganini's first Caprice on the violin, but he had to sound dramatic.
"Weāre going there together."
"Thatās not what I want to hear while youāre trying to get inside me, you know?"
"You're too tense."
"Weāre talking about a banquet hosted by my father. Iām sorry it doesn't turn me on as much as it does you. Being part of something 'great'... is only for people with low needs."
"Don't fight me. Try to relax."
"Fyodor."
"Be good. Just try for today, alright?"
"Don't expect too much... One man already has too much power over me, and Iāve heard he doesn't like to share it. He's currently trying to ram himself into my ass and seems genuinely surprised that without lubricant, he won't get further than the welcome mat."
"Oh, how I want to fuck you..." Fyodor groaned, burying his face in Dazaiās neck until his voice was lost in his partner's bandages, "so you won't even have the strength to talk."
Dazai embraced him in an almost tender gesture and placed a hand on his messy hair. He pulled him closer, while his free hand found Fyodorās penis, still standing at attention before him.
"Afraid it'll go soft if you step three paces away?" a quiet, almost caring whisper slithered straight into Fyodorās ear as Dazaiās fingers teased his most sensitive partāthe one that only the Russianās ego could rival. "The lubricants are in the next room."
