#remember when I used to write and post frequently here?

[obscuremantisman]

GREAT!! so I was wondering if you could do the John Doe Rochas313 skin x reader....heh. because there is no rochas313 x reader and i love my boy💔💔 take ur time!!

SKIN!Rochas313 x Reader

CW: This shit all ooc because i created a whole ass lore, bro 💔💔. I spent most of my time drawing him instead of writing this ngl, also i have him as 21+ years old. YES, THIS FOLLOWS THE SAME READER IN THE OTHER FORSAKEN POSTS.

update: uhhh, hello! (((・・;) i've been occupied... with being a lazy ass, that's all.

Rochas thought things couldn't get worse. His world was corrupted. He was alone in it with this... this thing.

It all happened so quickly... He didn't know how to react. His body felt... numb? Not really, but it was reaching that point. He was scared... or at least he used to be? Everything feels so fuzzy, so underwhelming. Rochas313 couldn't bring himself to care...

He remembered a few things, his friends, or where they? He didn't know. Their faces are all... blurry. All he knows is that they left him behind once things got riskier, once he was like this... or did they? Weird, he couldn't remember.

Hmm...? When did he reach this place? He doesn't remember leaving his map. There is so much yeast, so much space to grow.

Who are they?

These people... They stared at him with wide eyes. The fear, the disgust, and pity in their eyes. It all had him.. flustered.

Please don't look at him... He knows he doesn't look good, knows he's a danger, knows he's nothing more than a host to a disgusting parasite, so stop looking, stop looking, stop looking, stop it, stop it now!

After his very first round, things got messy. Missing walls, misplaced decorations, glitched items, and roots everywhere. Yeah, you can bet the Specter didn't like that. Where's Rochas313 now? In the void, a place he can't mess with nobody.

The void is a map specifically designed for Rochas313. It seemingly has nothing in it except for a powerful, frequently updated anti-virus and a giant screen showing all that happens around the forsaken realm to keep him distracted from his own thoughts. The rounds, killer's lobby, and survivor's lobby are constantly watched by him. His favorite? survivor's lobby. They always put up a little show every round break, and they.. they remind him of someone.

Rochas is a biological cage. He successfully keeps the virus under check once left calm, but once aggravated enough... The parasite takes full advantage of his instability, which is why he's given access to watching others in the first place, but it's not like it could get out for long enough to cause any real damage. The specter learned its lesson once Rochas313 almost got a bite out of one of the survivors...

The Specter isn't interested in getting rid of his existence because if he dies, the parasite will find a way to remain, and it's constantly hungry for obvious reasons. The forsaken realm is full of nutrients, and that little virus is very much interested and sneaky, so yeahhhhhhh Rochas313 has to stay.

You met him by pure coincidence.

He had been particularly bored that day and, by accident, saw a glimpse of one of the survivors getting brutally cut in half. Yeah that messed him up and fucked his day up, enough to give the virus control for a few seconds and teleport him inside said round.

He just popped up behind Taph, said guy too distracted with trying to take back an explosive you were holding far up in the air just for fun.

It was definitely a surprise to the botb of you when the whole map shook and started glitching. A few of the walls even fell, and you swear some trees disappeared.

But alas, you, a curious freak, threw the explosive in your hands right away to another direction and approached Rochas313 to have a better look while Taph didn't waste another second to run off desperately once he peeked behind himself.

You only ever saw a few pictures and videos of him back in the days when you were just a normal human having an average life, and the fact he was here while there was already another killer for the round? You were rightfully curious. You didn't even realize that he was able to see you until he attempted to slash your body, wood claws phasing through your body, earning a confused incoherent grumble.

That had you even more surprised. A killer that was able to see you? You had to torment this guy affectionately.

As if analyzing you, his soulless eye stared onto yours while you poked him around, his body growing bigger as the virus was actively consumed assets until the sky turned red and suddenly... the both of you disappeared. The specter had once again sent him back to his prison.

Rochas313 doesn't usually speak. There's roots growing in his throat.

After meeting you, though.. he put an effort in cutting off these little branches so he could communicate better. He doesn't know sign language, and making gurgling noises was very much embarrassing. It hurts, but the only way to cut the roots off is to reach them with his hands, so he always makes sure to do it properly so his voice can stay for a week. It rarely doesn't leaves him bleeding but you don't need to know that.

He loves your company! If it was up to him, he would've been following you around just to talk.

Being around someone that doesn't stare at him with fear and that is nice to him even with the way he looks has definitely skyrocketed his mood and overall mental health.

Unfortunately, he barely gets to meet with you , nor see you around. The giant screen in his void can't catch your form properly, like a ghost caught on camera. That is why you proposed a simple way to have contact... a hunt.

Every new round, you, along with a few useless objects in the round, build simple things around. A 'hello' made from rocks, a chair with the drawing of a cat made out of grass on top of it, some plates piled up with a plant on top. Simple things to keep him happy, to show you cared.

One time you sticked your hand inside his empty eye socket. If you weren't able to go through solid things, you're sure your hand would've been stuck and possibly eaten.

Surprisingly, but not so much, Rochas couldn't feel a thing! That's why you made it a little hobby to stick flowers in it when you had the chance, even if they all eventually disappeared. That dumbass virus eats it every damn time. No romantic action that involves such things as gifts is allowed in its sight or it'll fucking find a way of chugging it down.

But how do you guys even meet? And how do you even leave the void??

Rochas hasn't been completely honest about the ways he gets out of the void. Sure, the virus takes over if he's unstable, that you knew, but what if... what if he's been letting, more than once, the virus take control just to get the chance of meeting you, hmmmm? Would you be nad at him? Eh, definitely not, but he's quite embarrassed to tell you he does that. He doesn't want to seem clingy.

And as to how you get out of the void... You discovered how to do so by accident. You were just chatting with Rochas after what seemed like maybe a few days after you both got stuck together in his void, and while you were pacing around, you touched the screen which Rochas uses to watch things around and sluuuurrp. Guess who got sucked out of the void.

Overall, Rochas is just a chill, kindhearted guy who just happens to be the host of a highly powerful virus. He cherishes every moment together with you and appreciates your gifts and attention with all his heart, even if sometimes all the affection overwhelms him.

Give him a little kiss on the cheek and his flesh side with be as red as C00lk1d's skin, while the wooden side will be sprouting flowers. He melts faster than butter on the pan.

The virus actually feeds off a great chunk of his emotions, so it was a surprise when he was all timid and a stuttering mess. Apparently his little parasite preferred negative emotions, which is why Rochas appears numb and tired most of the time.

But with that aside.. now you know a way to get a big reaction out of him.

there it is, sorry i took so long,,,,

[shroomyv]

ᢉ𐭩GOOD BOY(‘S) [1]

Pairing: mark grayson x sinister mark x Mohawk mark x viltrumite mark x F!reader (god damn)

Synopsis: been awhile since the invincible war ended. A few of them ended up being captured in your world and kept in the prisons. Cecil allows you to visit them and (clearly) has not a damn clue as to what you’re saying or doing with them. Usually, it’d be complete chaos and nothing would change or happen in the room. However, you finally try something new with them…all of them…(should be good to mention here that you have powers…if u didn’t you’d honestly be stupid going into that room with confidence 🧍🏾‍♀️)

Warnings: story will lead to smut, slightly suggestive, harsh words (like bitch, pussy, or slut), not proofread, some corny dialogue (bear with me pls)

W.c: 2,086 (rlly doing my big one)

A/N: (there’s alot I have to say so pls bear with me 😭) first off, thank all of u for all the constant support on my other fics and even my shitty little doodles I posted. Means a lot to me. This is my first series/series writing and it’s also the first fic I’ve made with multiple ppl speaking let alone mark variants. So I’m begging you, please bear with me. If anything is overly fucking terrible or bad feel free to dm me advice. Also I’ll be making a master list soon for all my writings. Or wtv. This is part one to the series and it’ll get super smutty in the next one so I hope u js enjoy this one for now. It’ll be meh…(I highkey think it’s bad but wtv)

Long after the Invincible War, you were still intrigued by all the versions of your boyfriend that had come into your world to reek havoc and chaos. Most were dead, some were in prison, and some were thrown into whatever place they went to. Being a superpowered scientist under Cecil had its perks–you got to not only examine and see these variants, but you also got to speak to them (only with the supervision of your world's Mark of course). Your visits grew more and more frequent to them, it went from once a month, to once a week, to 3 times a week. They had memorized the times you visited, the clack of your heels, and your pen clicking before you entered their cell each time.

Your Mark always complained–sometimes it was genuine concern for your safety and reasoning, other times, it was clear and blatant jealousy. 

“Why do you always want to go see those bastards, they almost destroyed the entire world. Not only that one of them almost crushed you to fucking death! If this gets too bad we're not seeing them again…” he was annoyed–making good and fair points. Sadly, you were too stubborn to attempt to listen to them. 

“You've almost crushed me to death before,” you said with a shrug as you kept walking down the long hall getting ready to get to the cell that held the marks. 

“WHAT!? When was this?” Mark had stopped for a second now having genuine concern as he hadn't remembered ever doing that. He tried his best to make sure you were protected from anything and everything.

“You crushed me plenty of times in bed–it's ok though because I've crushed you back just as much so we're even.” you had one smug ass smirk on your face seeing Mark's annoyed one before you two finally made it to the room. Before you could swipe your keycard to enter the room, Mark grabbed your arm having you stop and listen to what he had to say. “I'm serious babe…let them get out of line and we aren't seeing them again, they'll just rot in here till Cecil finds something to do with them.” 

You used your free hand, swiping the keycard as the door opened. You turned to your mark lifting his chin with your pen as he looked prepared to hear whatever you had to say. 

“I will decide when this research is over. However, you know if you want it to truly end and for me to stay out of this cell, you would only need to tell Cecil you won't accompany me anymore. Until you do that…we're continuing.” 

You were stern and stubborn, meaning every single word you said. You finally pulled the pen down—giving his cheek a soft kiss before walking into the cell.

“Well, we see who wears the pants in your little relationship.” The mark with the mohawk said before he just started laughing trying to bother and mock your mark as best as he could. 

“Hey well at least I get to leave here, I'm not locked in a fucking cell with my arms hanging up!” your mark snarled back–getting closer to Mohawk Mark as they glared each other down.

Sinister Mark cut into the conversation, having a lot worse to say about your mark and his “submission” to you. 

“Hey, does she fuck you too? I just wanna get a full scope on how pussy you are! God, you're pathetic…weak…” 

They were being little assholes ganging up against your mark, all besides the viltrumite one. He was just silent, observing your behaviors. As those 3 bickered,  you walked up to him with crossed arms.

“Nothing to say?” You asked leaning in closer to his face. He backed up as best as he could, struggling to even move a bit because of his restraints but he found small ways. 

“No…bitch…” he said before scrunching up his lips. You just leaned into him closer and closer knowing he couldn’t do a damn thing about it. “Don’t your people have a thing for respecting higher-ups? Am I not higher up right now?” You were absolutely smug watching as his expression kind of dropped. He knew you were right and he hated every bit about it. 

The cell was silent now…the other marks wondered why he stopped fighting back, falling silent. 

“Don’t tell me you're all pussy now too!?” Mohawk Mark had said in a snarky tone. Your mark was walking up to you to pull you back from him. You raised your hand stopping him from coming closer as you used your other hand, softly rubbing viltrumite Mark'sk'sace. 

He jolted from your touch for a second—not being used to anything like it at all. However, he had been in that cold cell for days, weeks even, with no warmth whatsoever. He melted into your hand as you kept rubbing it softly—he felt odd…like he had never felt before. He released soft huffs the whole time until you finally stepped back. 

“W..wait-“ he exclaimed trying to get your attention again. Before he could even say what he wanted, sinister Mark butted in.

“What the hell did you just do to him!? He’s never been like that ever!” 

Your mark wanted to be filled in as well, waiting for your response.

“I just touched 'em relax.” You were honestly shocked yourself. 

“C'monn…let’s go, your mark said wanting to get the hell out of there. The other marks were getting angry and you were touching another mark…one that wasn’t yours—it made him a bit jealous. 

                                      

“Wait wait…I wanna something…” you said with a grin as you rushed to Mohawk Mark. He looked a bit annoyed but intrigued. You drew closer and closer as the other marks watched once again—it’s all they could do…

“Listen whore, I’m not your mark…so hands off.” He said in a snarky tone. You just kept moving your hands towards his face not giving a damn, you were testing every ounce of patience he had.

“I will fucking bite you! I promise it…” Mohawk Mark tried to move his head back as quickly as he could to get away from your hand. Eventually, it landed right on his forehead before moving upward, softly stroking his hair. He tried to bite you for a second so you used your powers. With a hard glare from your eyes, his body was paralyzed in mere seconds as you rubbed it softly. You released your hold on his body just as fast as you used it.

You kept stroking his head, you saw him moving his head forward as best as he could so you could keep going. Your other hand reached up to his face, squishing it softly before you began to stroke it. He let out a noise of pure satisfaction…a soft moan. As soon as he realized, you backed up satisfied with your work on his behavior. He went from snarling and snapping to melting in your hand.

Your mark grabbed your shoulder, making a notation to get the hell out of there. You just gave him a soft kiss trying to keep him satisfied as you had one more mark to deal with. You knew your mark was getting jealous quickly so you had to hurry it up.

As soon as you walked over to sinister mark in his restraints he spat on your face. The other marks watched waiting to see what happened your mark dashed over to you as he began a screaming match with sinister mark. 

Ignoring them and all their noise, you just spat right back on his face as the room fell silent. You were even now—the only difference was you could wipe the spit off of your face but he couldn’t get it off of his. Your hand reached up to his face as he prepared to bite you but you flicked his nose before continuing. You rubbed his hair—making it messy in mere seconds before you looked him dead in the eyes, smiling warmly.

“I promise you, if you ever spit on my face again I will break your face in.”

Your mark was just frozen in the spot waiting for this interaction to finish. Sinister Mark's eyes widened a bit before going back to normal—he was surprised at how you could look so gentle while threatening him. 

“Yes bitch…” he said in a snarky tone trying to get some power back in the situation. You smiled before pinching and twisting at his nose. He couldn’t do a single damn thing about it.

“Huh? What’d you say?” You waited for him to change his manner of speaking. Your mark reached to pull your arm down as you 2 shared a look. He was trying to figure out what you were even doing but you gave him a glance that said you could handle it.

“Yes…ma’am” sinister Mark said in an annoyed tone this was basically his version of surrendering defeat. Your hand went to his face stroking it just like you did to the others. At first he acted like he didn’t give a single fuck about you or your touch—seconds later he was melted into your cheek moving his own face to have it happen faster. You stroked his face slower and began scratching his hair as Mohawk Mark began complaining how that wasn’t fair. Sinister mark was losing himself—lifting his chin to have that touch and rubbed to. He bit his lip trying to keep in any sounds he would’ve made but eventually one slipped out.

“F…fuck…” he moaned out roughly before you moved your hand away from him

“Good boy.” You said back with bliss in your voice. You honestly felt aroused by the fact you had 4 Marks folding for you just at the simple touch of your hand and sternness in your voice.

“God…what did she do to us…” Viltrumite Mark said sounding embarrassed or even frustrated that that even happened. The other Marks (sinister and Mohawk) just told him to “fuck off” as they kept their heads down in a bit of shame. They were absolutely in shock at how they folded that fast but knew they wanted more. They were pissed that they clearly weren’t getting more.

You had them fold enough for the day. Plus, your Mark looked like he wanted to snap sinister Mark's neck for spitting on you. He was tired of being in that damn room for the day. Your mark grabbed you by the waist giving you a look that said “You needed to leave” You just nodded and let him lead you out of the cell. You and your mark left the cell making your way out of the building. Mark was flying you 2 home as he wanted to talk about what the hell happened. 

“So…what was that..” he asked in a genuine and jealous tone. He wanted to know what was up with all of it. Why did you guys keep going back, why were you touching them, how did you make them fold that easily? He wanted answers…

“Honestly…I don’t know. I didn't even think it’d work on the viltrumite one but as soon as it did I just had to try it on the rest of them and it worked. Guess you’re just weak for me in every universe?” You gave the best answer you could to your mark waiting for his response.

“Not gonna lie…I was a bit jealous. They practically killed everyone and now they wanted to fold just cause you touched them!” Mark exclaimed before you kissed his face softly. He had calmed down quickly just from your lips. 

“Relax... you're the one who gets to take me home. You win either way. However...I do need you to take me back there tomorrow. It’s something I wanna do with you there. All of you…” you had something a little sinister and against the rules on your mind.

“Again!? What is it…I’m so sick of that place…” your mark wanted to know what you’d do if you went back. He was tired of going there and honestly was ready to never go back again. However, he was trying his best to trust your judgment and see where it’d go. 

“Don’t worry about it…just know that you’ll have fun. All of you, trust me. You said with a smile before Mark finally landed, bringing you two to your house. You had plans…foul plans…and you couldn’t wait to put them into action tomorrow. 

[olderthannetfic]

For AO3 readers, MUTING is the solution to a problem they may not have come across yet.

I just thought of an extremely functional solution for a problem with AI fanfiction that a friend of mine shared her worries about. You see, she was particularly worried that her experience as a browser and reader of fanfiction will start to decline as AI fanfiction starts clogging the Sort By Recent filter on AO3.

Ok, so it didn't occur to me right away, and that is why I think it justifies this long anon post, but I just remembered that AO3 already has a tool to help you weed out low effort sludge that I have successfully used even prior to the increase in AI works. It does require people to be logged in though.

The solution is Muting, which has been around since 2023. I've even used it before for specifically this precise problem. There is a particular rare pair I like, but the primary producer of fics for that pair is one very prolific author whose fics are egregiously low quality. Like, the author even admitted that she frequently just find and replaces the names of the characters when she moves on to a new fandom.

After muting her, it about halved the number of fics in that tag, which was great, because it relieved me of an irritation and also allowed me to find other works. Muting folk who post AI generated works will have the same effect.

Why this will work: The main problem with AI fics is not that they are low quality, after all low quality fics have always existed - it's that they are both low quality and trivial to produce. Therefore, even one person who feels entitled to produce ai fanfiction could easily flood any particular tag with their works. But each time you mute an ai producer for one bad fic, you will end up removing all of their fics from your view, in any of your tags and fandoms. With a little weeding and upkeep, you should be able to browse contentedly as you always have.

Problem: Not all AI fics are tagged as such. How do you tell if a fic is AI?

The hallmark of a fanfiction author who generates stories with AI will be that they are prolific producers of low quality works. Why? because generating stories with ai is easy. It is much easier to generate a bad story with AI than it is to write a bad story without it. Therefore a person who uses AI to generate fics will have a lot of works.

The problem of false positives. What if you mute an author who is just bad right now but could improve?

My friend, if a person is already a prolific author of bad quality fiction, and they haven't gotten better yet, they probably will not improve to your standards ever. So you haven't lost anything by muting them. The goal here isn't to name and blame people who use AI - it's to make your own personal browsing experience better.

The problem of false negatives: What if you read a story and didn't realize it was generated using AI because it was good and you enjoyed it? You read something that you enjoyed on AO3 for free. This is not a problem.

You can find the mute button on AO3 by clicking the authors name. It will be in the same line as subscribe and block.

--

[boilingrain]

I’m almost completely done with the allegiances for Floodwaters but I have run into a small problem

So I decided to have one Main/POV character in each clan and I’ve already decided the POV characters of Thunderclan, Shadowclan and Windclan (Hawktail, Blackberrynose and Snowfeather respectively) but I can’t decide which Riverclan cat should be the POV character

With the other POV characters, I decided while writing down notes about their personalities that I wanted to show things through their eyes. I didn’t really go into this with plans about specifically who would be the main characters (since the main characters from the original version, After the Flood, have been deleted from existence because the original draft of the story with the allegiances was lost when I moved computers and Minnow is really the only remaining character from the original because I forgot everybody else)

I’m considering Aspennose but idk

[room-surprise]

Evidence that Kabru from Delicious in Dungeon is Indian, a Masterpost

(EDIT: This post is an excerpt/remix of Kabru's section of my larger essay about the real world linguistic and cultural references Dungeon Meshi. You can read the essay on AO3 here. I also have another post about what part of South Asia I think Utaya is based on here.)

Since Kabru’s first appearance in the anime is upon us, I wanted to write something that compiles all the evidence we have that Kabru is meant to be a person of South or Central Asian ethnicity, or at least whatever the equivalent to that is in the Dungeon Meshi world. 

Ryoko Kui can and does draw people of many different ethnicities, and the way she draws Kabru matches the way she draws other Asian characters in Dungeon Meshi. He doesn’t look Black, or Hispanic, or any other ethnicity because he isn’t supposed to. He looks like a dark-skinned South or Central Asian person, because that’s what Ryoko Kui probably intends him to be.

So let’s go through the evidence! (There are no spoilers for the plot of Dungeon Meshi below, but there ARE spoilers for Kabru's backstory as explained in the manga, and in extra materials like the Daydream Hour and Adventurer's Guide book.)

KABRU’S NAME

The Dungeon Meshi Adventurer's Bible tells us Kabru’s real name is unknown. There are other characters whose real names are only told to us in the Adventurer's Bible and were never revealed in the manga, but then Kabru, Thistle and Izutsumi’s entries simply say their real names are unknown, and though Kui could tell us their true names, she doesn’t. I assume this means that the characters themselves don’t know what their real names are, and that the names they go by are not their birth names, but this is only a supposition on my part.

KABRU THE MOUNTAIN

Kabru (काब्रु) is the name of a mountain on the border of Nepal and India, and part of the Himalayan range. It’s the 65th tallest mountain in the world and it is very snowy and icy, with frequent avalanches. Because of this, even though it’s not the tallest mountain in the world, climbing it is challenging, and is not often attempted. Those few that have managed to climb it consider it a major achievement.

“This prohibitively fearful icefall… had thwarted numerous expeditions, perhaps even the 'thought' of attempting the mountain… Unstable seracs of the icefall, a complex maze of chasms, and delicate snow bridges spanning seemingly never ending, near bottomless crevasses… Each time the members stepped into the icefall, they stood a good chance of never returning.” (Kabru - Mountain of the Gods, Major A. Abbey, Himalayan Journal 52, 1996, editor Harish Kapadia)

WHAT DOES KABRU’S NAME MEAN?

Kabru is a character that is known for being very good at charming people, but who doesn’t express himself honestly, because he’s trying to manipulate the people and situations around him in order to maintain control at all times. I think nobody really knows who Kabru is deep inside, maybe not even Kabru himself, so a remote, hostile, icy mountain that’s hard to climb seems like an extremely appropriate name. 

Some of the oldest English sources I found regarding Kabru suggest that Kabru isn’t the correct local name for the mountain (a common problem in early Himalayan exploration by Europeans) and might just be a descriptor, or that it’s a misspelling. 

This makes the name seem even more appropriate, since Kui’s told us Kabru’s true name is unknown. It’s possible that Kabru was a place-name or a descriptor that Milsiril (Kabru’s elven foster mother) was given when she picked up a traumatized 7 year old Kabru, and she just started using it as his name, and that even he doesn’t remember his real name thanks to his severe trauma.

The fact that people in the real world can’t seem to agree on the mountain Kabru’s name, or what it means, reminds me of the running gag of Laios repeatedly getting Kabru’s name wrong in the manga.

"All the people near the Kabru massif call it 'Kaboor'." (The Alpine Journal, 1921-22 Volume 34, Edited by George Yeld and J. P. Farrar)  “It is also said that the name applies to a peak close to Kinchinjunga on the southeast, and not to the peak known to Europeans as Kabru… [The real name is] Pahung Ri [Pauhunri].” (Appendix I: Place Names in Darjeeling. The appendix says it was “compiled mainly from an article written by Colonel Waddell and published in the Journal of the Asiatic Society of Bengal (Vol. LX, part I, 1891)”) “Kangchen is a Tibetan name… the Sikkhimese use it as the name for the peak called Kabru by Europeans.” (Charles Bell, Dyhrenfurth's Himalaya (Berlin, 1931)) “...Kyabru or the horn of protection. The name is… Kabur… possibly a corruption of Kangbur or the swelling of snow; it might also mean the white swelling (kar-bur).” (Appendix I: Place Names in Darjeeling.)  “Kabru literally means the 'White Avalanche' peak (Ka means 'white' and bru means 'avalanche').” (Kabru - Mountain of the Gods, Major A. Abbey, Himalayan Journal 52, 1996, editor Harish Kapadia)

I’ve seen one other mountaineering article cite the “white avalanche” meaning, and I think it’s plausible since the Appendix says it can mean “white swelling” or “swelling of snow”, which may very well be a literal translation for “white avalanche”. 

WHAT ABOUT UTAYA? IS THAT INDIAN TOO?

Utaya means “raised” or “uplifted” in Hindi, but it’s also a real village and a Japanese boy’s name.

Utaya (ウタヤ) is the name of the village that Kabru was raised in before his mother died and he was adopted by the elf Milsiril. Utaya is located in the southeast of the Western Continent. It’s worth noting that Kabru probably wasn’t born in Utaya, since his mother had to flee from her home to keep Kabru alive, so Utaya may be some distance away from his birth place… Not so far that a woman with a newborn baby couldn’t survive the trip, but far enough that her husband’s family gave up on chasing her. So Kabru was probably born in a close-by area.

In the real world, Utaya (Yakut: Утайа) is in an extremely rural and isolated area with a population of less than a hundred people. It’s located in the Sakha Republic, which is in the Northeastern part of Asia in the Russian Federation. The Yakut/Sakha are a Siberian Turkic people.  

The Turkic peoples are a collection of diverse ethnic groups of West, Central, East, and North Asia as well as parts of Europe, who speak Turkic languages. 

Early and medieval Turkic groups exhibited a wide range of both East Asian and West-Eurasian physical appearances and genetic origins, in part through long-term contact with neighboring peoples such as Iranian, Mongolic, Tocharian, Uralic/Yeniseian peoples, and others. Turkic peoples share, to varying degrees, non-linguistic characteristics like cultural traits, ancestry from a common gene pool, and historical experiences. 

JAPANESE MEANINGS FOR UTAYA

Utaya can be a Japanese boy’s name with several different meanings, depending on which kanji it’s spelled with. In most of the spellings: Poetry, sing a poem, singing, compose poetry

In many of the spellings: The place where the sun shines, it's been a long time, distant, big, to shoot with a bow, to swear, affirmation, question.

The Utaya disaster happened a long time ago.

If Utaya is up in the mountains above the clouds it’s a place where the sun shines brightly.

 Kabru has sworn to himself that he will prevent another Utaya tragedy from happening.

In only a few of the spellings: to mend, feathers, wings, a word for counting birds and rabbits, sort them out, washing with water to separate the good from the bad, roof, house with a roof, a world covered with a big sky, infinite space, song that praises the Buddha, Eight.

Counting birds and rabbits makes me think of divination and also that the people of Utaya were like little birds and rabbits (small prey animals) to the monsters that devoured them.

Separating the good and the bad could hint to the “judgment” of Utaya and the greed of its people that led to their downfall, also sorting through things to separate good and bad is something that’s done with food and other resources.

The Himalayan region is often referred to as the “roof of the world”, with a big open sky above it. 

The infinite could refer to the dimension the demon comes from, or to the sky above the mountains. 

Buddhism is a common religion in the Himalayan region, and eight has auspicious connotations in Buddhism. 

With all that in mind, Utaya as a name for Kabru’s home village is an interesting choice, and adds another layer to his origins, maybe suggesting not just North Indian/Himalayan, but Central or North Asian cultural influence as well. 

It is also possible that the name is just telling us that Utaya is “up” in the mountains, or that it was “uplifted” by the wealth of the dungeon, or even that Kabru was “raised” there… The Japanese name meanings are also extremely fascinating and hint at similar ideas, as well as the tragedy that happened to Utaya.

WHY ELSE DO YOU THINK KABRU AND UTAYA ARE HIMALAYAN?

In the real world, the Himalayan mountain range is an extremely popular tourist destination, and the amount of people who want to visit and attempt to climb the mountains far outpaces the local ability to support it. This makes me think of the dungeon of Utaya and how people overcrowded it in their desire to conquer and exploit it. 

Dungeons as an unsustainable way for locals to make a living that leads to the destruction of their homes when the dungeon inevitably collapses is a major plot point in Dungeon Meshi, so I think the parallel is likely intentional. Characters often talk about someone “conquering” the dungeon, and “conquer” is also the terminology commonly used for climbing a mountain. This terminology obviously has a hostile, imperialist subtext in the real world, since it’s most commonly used by outsiders talking about proving their strength by climbing a mountain.

Also, there are local legends in the areas surrounding Mt. Kabru that there is a valley of immortality hidden on its slopes, which reminds me of the way that the dungeons can grant conditional immortality to the people inside of them.

This image of Utaya could be showing us a village built on a mountainside. The house shapes seem a bit more Middle Eastern than Nepali/Indian, but it’s not a detailed drawing and the roof styles are a mix of flat and peaked.

CULTURE

In the Daydream Hour sketchbook, Ryoko Kui included a small comic about characters sharing desserts from their home countries. A young Kabru is shown enthusiastically trying to share an unnamed sweet, and he is interrupted by his elven foster mother, who insists he present a type of elven cake instead. We know that Kabru hates this type of cake, and he seems disappointed to have to eat it and talk about it.

The white balls in Kabru’s dessert are very likely meant to be  an Indian sweet called rasgulla (literally "syrup filled ball"). Rasgulla are a dessert popular in the eastern part of South Asia, made from ball-shaped dumplings of chhena dough, cooked in light sugar syrup. While it is near-universally agreed upon that the dessert originated in the eastern Indian subcontinent, the exact origin is disputed. Rasgulla are as culturally important to the Bengal and Odisha regions of India as Parmesan cheese is to the region of Parma in Italy.  

Rasgulla are also popular in Nepal, where they are called rasbari. 

KABRU’S PHYSICAL APPEARANCE

Kabru is one of several characters in Dungeon Meshi with clearly non-European features: he has brown skin and thick black/dark brown curly hair. He has almond-shaped eyes with long, dark lashes (fans like to joke that he’s wearing eyeliner). All of these are traits common to people from the Indian subcontinent. His blue eyes are not common for someone with his skin/hair color, but blue or green eyes are not unheard of in that region either. 

(Indian man with blue eyes)

Blue or light eyes are often a cause for discrimination, like what Kabru experienced as a child. More on this in a moment.

Kabru is 5’7” (170cm) tall, which is short for a Northern European man (180), tall for a Nepali man (162cm), but close to the average height of Indian men (177cm). He has a slender build, which is also common for Asian people in general, and South Asian men in particular.

Compared to the European-looking tall-men in Dungeon Meshi (such as Laios, Falin, Delgal, Marcille’s father), Kabru’s facial features look more like the other Asian characters, such as Toshiro and his party. 

CAN DARK-SKINNED PEOPLE HAVE BLUE EYES?

Yes. Light-colored eyes are very uncommon in parts of the world where most people have dark eyes, since dark eyes are a dominant trait in real-world human beings. That means that in order for two parents with dark eyes to have a child with light eyes, both parents need to have a recessive light-eyes gene (or for there to be an illness or genetic mutation), and that’s rare in populations that don’t have a lot of light-eyed people to begin with.   

THEN WHY DO SO MANY DARK-SKINNED CHARACTERS HAVE BLUE EYES?

Anime and manga often give characters with dark skin light colored eyes instead of allowing them to have brown or black eyes, which is much more common in real life. It’s a hurtful design trope that makes many readers feel that their natural dark eyes are somehow ugly or inferior to blue eyes.

This trope is used over and over again by authors who want their characters to look “cool” and “exotic”, and for their eyes to be high-contrast to make it easier to show their emotions.

I don’t think this is what Ryoko Kui is doing in Dungeon Meshi. 

UNREALISTIC HAIR AND EYE COLOR COMBOS IN ANIME

In a lot of anime/manga, blue eyes (regardless of skin color) don’t actually mean anything in the narrative, in the same way characters having green or pink hair doesn’t mean anything, the colors are non-diegetic, they don’t actually exist in the world, like the music that plays in the background without an on-screen source. 

It’s an artistic shorthand to make characters visually stand out, instead of giving them all black hair and eyes like most real-life Japanese people… Which is what most anime/manga characters are meant to be: Japanese people. 

Dungeon Meshi has a large cast of characters that are explicitly meant to be non-Japanese. We know this because there’s a group of characters that are Japanese, and they’re drawn differently from everyone else, they wear ethnically Japanese clothing, and have ethnically Japanese names. 

Unlike other series, where eye and hair color don’t mean anything, Dungeon Meshi has no unrealistic skin, hair, or eye color combinations. 

(Except for the elves, who seem to have different genetics than real world-humans. I’ll get into that another time.)

Ryoko Kui must be aware of the dark skin, blue-eyes design trope, because if she gave Kabru blue eyes just because she thought it looked good, surely she would have made some of the other Asian or dark-skinned characters have light eyes. Out of 9 Asian or dark-skinned tall-man characters, Kabru is the only one with blue eyes.

Kabru having light-colored eyes is central to his story, and Kui talks about it.

KABRU’S STORY AND WHY HIS BLUE EYES MATTER

Kabru’s father and his family tried to kill Kabru when he was born because he had blue eyes. Kabru’s mother ran away, and ended up raising Kabru by herself in Utaya. She didn’t try to return home to her own birth family, but instead struggled to raise a child completely on her own with no money or support, which implies she had no other options, due to the fear people of their region have for people with blue eyes.

This is a real thing that used to happen frequently in areas where most of the population has dark eyes, and it still happens to this day.

In a realistic story, this is logically what would happen to a character with dark skin born with blue eyes in a place like the Utaya region. It’s rare for manga or anime to show dark-skinned blue-eyed characters facing this. 

WHAT IS THE “EVIL EYE”?

The “evil eye” is a supernatural belief in a curse brought about by a person looking at you. The belief in the evil eye has existed since prehistory, as long as 5,000 years ago. It is estimated that around 40% of the modern world's population believes in the evil eye. This concept is most common across the Mediterranean, the Balkans, the Middle East, and Central and South Asia, areas where light-colored eyes are uncommon. 

In areas where light-colored eyes are rare, people with green eyes, and especially blue eyes, are thought to bestow the curse, intentionally or unintentionally. Just one look from a blue-eyed person is often considered enough to inflict a curse.

One of the most famous and widespread talismans against the evil eye is the nazar, a glass amulet featuring concentric circles in dark blue, white, light blue and black. It’s supposed to “bounce” the curse away from the wearer. 

HOW DOES THIS APPLY TO KABRU?

Imagine Kabru growing up in a village surrounded by people wearing and hanging talismans that look like his eyes, because the people around him think blue eyes are evil. They call his mother a witch for birthing him, and a whore because she doesn’t have a husband. Imagine parents forbidding their children from playing with or even talking to Kabru. People crossing the street to get away from him, or chasing him away by throwing rocks.

I think the reason young Kabru was able to learn how to speak some kobold is likely because he was so heavily ostracized by the other tall-men around him, the only children he could occasionally interact with in Utaya were kobolds, who might not share the same cultural superstitions that the tall-man do. 

This childhood trauma, combined with Kabru’s experience of the dungeon collapse in Utaya, and being raised by an elf that treated him more like a pet than a human being, set Kabru up as a character who has never had a home where he belongs. He has been an outsider from the instant he was born, and every place he has lived treats him as an “other.”

To his father’s family, he was a curse. To his mother, although she loved him, he was a burden. To the people of Utaya, he was a monster. To the elves, he’s a tall-man baby (no matter how old he gets) with funny looking eyes, to the people on Merini Island, he’s a foreigner from the West with elven ways and education. 

CONCLUSION

I wanted to write this because I know some people will see Kabru in the anime for the first time today and think "Oh, another dark skinned blue eyed character! This is a bad character design that is evidence that the author is racist at worst or ignorant at best.” And I don’t think that’s a fair assessment of Ryoko Kui’s work in Dungeon Meshi.

This isn’t to say that Ryoko Kui has never done anything wrong, or that her work couldn’t be more inclusive, or that there’s no way in which she could improve. 

But there are pages and pages of artwork she’s done that shows she cares about these issues, and I think it’s worth celebrating when someone makes that kind of effort with their artwork.

ANYWAY…

If you’ve read this far, you’re very strong hahaha. I hope you enjoyed this essay. I’ll be publishing more soon when I finish my Dungeon Meshi research on the names and cultures of all the characters. Wish me luck!

[space-station-nursery]

◜ 🎧𓂃 Helping regressors with: Social Anxiety ‧ ⛈️◞

⁺　　◍ 　 . 　 ⁺　　☆　　⁺ 　 . 　 ◍　　⁺

Regression comes in many different forms, for many different reasons, including anxiety for some. As a CG, it is important to be able to help your regressors during this time, SO, here are some tips on how to help a little with Social Anxiety

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⧼ 1 ⧽ Make sure to plan ahead!

Letting your regressor know where you’re going, what day, and what time can give them enough time to mentally get ready for the day. Some littles need more time and some less so make sure to discuss it with them!

⧼ 2 ⧽ Remove them from the stimulant!

Sometimes, taking a break from big social locations can help your regressor calm down quickly and assess their needs before moving forward. Safe spaces for this can include a family bathroom (ones that are one room only) a far off booth in a food court, sometimes even in small corridors, hallways, and even outside

⧼ 3 ⧽ Learn grounding techniques!

Going out can be stressful and can cause big emotions like anxiety or panic at stacks. Learn east/simple grounding techniques like the countdown method, blowing bubbles, or even non-harmful stimming !

⧼ 4 ⧽ Show them affection!

This may vary per regressor, but actively reminding them that they’re loved, holding/squeezing their hand, giving them frequent hugs or praise can help a regressor remember that they can get though this scary time ! DO NOT RE-WRITE OR POST AS OWN

⧼ 5 ⧽ Comfort items!

Having a regression bag is incredibly helpful to give your little a way to carry comfort items [check this post for bag ideas]. If they’re not big on affection during times of high stress, offer a comfort item (like a paci or toy) or even offering a short distraction like snacks might be helpful !

⧼ 6 ⧽ Communicate!

Sometimes a “Don’t worry” or a “You’re okay” isn’t enough to sooth an anxious little. Instead, acknowledge and validate their feelings and offer ways to help! Try out phrases such as “I know you’re feeling [blank] but I’m not gonna let anything happen to you” or “I can tell you’re getting [blank emotion/feeling], would you like to try this?[this being anything you believe can help your regressor]” !

⧼ 7 ⧽ Avoidance!

Whist taking a break from an extreme stressor is good, always remember to premise going back into the space with kind words and affirmations! Avoiding triggers/stressors reinforces that the issue is something to fear, and not to conquer. It is not always possible or even healthy to avoid triggers 24/7

⧼ 8 ⧽ Notes!

Everyone is different in how they show stress and what their needs will be, make sure to communicate with your young one to find solutions that will help them and recognize when they might become anxious in a space. This won’t always be easy, but it is necessary Always use kind words with your regressor. Your patience will always be appreciated by your little especially when they know their thoughts are getting the best of them.

⁺　　◍ 　 . 　 ⁺　　☆　　⁺ 　 . 　 ◍　　⁺

18+ blogs // DD!LG, AB!DL and variants [even "SFW"] // 27 and older // DNI

Fact OTD: There is a statue of Jason Voorhees [killer in Friday the 13th] at te bottom of a lake in Minnesota!

[stellaspectral]

I just recently found your blog and to say I absolutely love your writing is definitely an understatement.

I really love your post about Dating rise Donnie headcanons, and was wondering if you could do a version of it for rise Leo? Of course, if this has already been requested or you can’t or don’t want to write it for any reason, no hard feelings!

Remember to take breaks and drink water!

A/N: Wow, thank you so much for the kind words! It truly means a lot! 😊 I can totally do a version of dating headcanons for Rise Leo! I haven’t had that specific request until now, so here they are 💖

(And I appreciate the reminder about breaks and hydration; I need to remember more often!)

Dating Rise Leo (SFW)

💙 ROTTMNT Leonardo/Gender Neutral Reader 💙

CWs: None. All characters are aged-up.

Leo is always trying to look cool to impress you. Expect unnecessary flips to grab something, leaning against walls/doorframes, etc. This is almost always accompanied by a smirk that’s trying its absolute hardest to be charming, and probably a wink or two.

He’ll find excuses to sling an arm over your shoulder, playfully nudge you, or ‘accidentally’ brush hands when reaching for the same thing. It’s his way of breaking the touch barrier under the guise of casual confidence.

Leo frames asking you out as a challenge: “Bet you can’t beat me at [video game/contest here]. If I win, you gotta go on a date with me. If you win …” He’ll pause and smirk. “… you still gotta go out on a date with me. ‘Cause winning is awesome and you should celebrate with someone equally as awesome—like me.” Then he’ll wink, hoping the bravado masks the nervousness.

Get ready for a barrage of cheesy pickup lines, usually delivered with finger guns and a hopeful smirk. “Are you a portal? ‘Cause I feel like I could just fall right into you.” or “Did it hurt? When you fell from … that moderately high ledge I just portaled you away from?” He thinks they’re hilarious and peak romance.

Playful teasing is Leo’s primary love language. He’ll gently poke fun at your quirks, engage in witty banter (or what he considers witty), and try to get a rise out of you. If you can dish it back, he’s absolutely thrilled. It becomes a friendly verbal sparring match he finds incredibly engaging.

He bestows upon you a series of increasingly ridiculous (and often pun-based) nicknames. He uses them frequently, testing them out to see which ones make you laugh, groan, or blush. It’s his way of creating an intimate inside joke between you two.

Leo will turn almost anything into a playful challenge, enjoying the lighthearted competition with you. He’s genuinely happy even if you win, though he’ll demand a rematch.

He’s not shy about showing affection. He’ll sling an arm around your shoulder, casually grab your hand, maybe even attempt a dramatic dip-kiss when the mood strikes. He wants everyone to know you’re his awesome partner.

Forget your jacket? Want snacks from the place across town? He’ll use his portal powers for you (and he definitely also uses them to make dramatic entrances when portalling to meet up with you.)

For dates, there will be rooftop picnics with breathtaking city views, some urban exploration, maybe a visit to the Coney Island Boardwalk. Back at the lair, prepare for extensive viewings of the Jupiter Jim franchise, complete with his commentary.

His gifts are … eclectic. Expect things like:

1. A t-shirt with a terrible pun: I Fell For You (Through a Portal) or You’ve Stolen a Pizza My Heart. 2. A coupon book for redeemable ‘Leo Services’: One free portal ride (destination may vary), One epic training montage soundtrack, or One distraction from boring chores. 3. Occasionally, he’ll nail it with something surprisingly thoughtful he overheard you mentioning weeks ago.

Got a big test, presentation, or event? Leo becomes your hype-man. He might leave encouraging (and pun-filled) notes via portal or send ridiculous motivational voice messages. He believes you’re amazing and wants you to succeed, even if his methods are extra.

While he loves being the center of attention, he also loves seeing you shine. If you achieve something cool or demonstrate a skill, he’s your loudest cheerleader. He’ll brag about you to his brothers and anyone else who’ll listen.

He thinks you’re the coolest person ever (besides himself, naturally) and he’ll hype up your interests, even if he doesn’t fully understand them. If you’re passionate about something, he’ll ask questions and encourage you enthusiastically.

If you’re upset or stressed, Leo’s go-to move is distraction. Feeling down? Suddenly, you’re sharing a pizza on top of the Chrysler Building and he’s cracking jokes to help you feel better. He might not always know the right words, but he excels at trying to make you laugh your worries away, even if just for a little while.

He also quickly learns your go-to comfort foods. He might not know exactly what to say, but he’ll appear with your favorite takeout, a specific type of candy, etc. Whatever you like. It’s his tangible way of trying to make things better.

The smirk drops fast if you’re in danger. One second he’s cracking a joke, the next his katanas are out, and he’s placing himself squarely between you and whatever threat dares approach. He might play it cool afterwards, but the fierce protectiveness in his eyes is unmistakable.

He’s not immune to jealousy. If someone else is clearly hitting on you, he won’t make a big scene. Instead, he subtly reasserts his presence with louder jokes, an arm over your shoulder, or suggesting you two leave for some place ‘way cooler.’

He picks up on your specific slang, your favorite obscure references, the particular way you phrase things. He’ll weave them into his own banter, just to see you smile or playfully roll your eyes. It’s his way of showing he listens and wants to connect on your level.

Just as you learn to read his moods beneath the jokes, he becomes surprisingly adept at reading yours. He notices the slight shift in your tone, the way you hold your shoulders when stressed, or the specific sigh that means you’re overwhelmed. He might not always react perfectly, but he sees it, and his attempts to cheer you up become more targeted.

While he projects effortless cool, you catch glimpses of the weight he feels as leader. He might get contemplative after a mission that didn’t go perfectly or seek your opinion on a tactical decision he’s mulling over. He values your perspective, even if he doesn’t always admit it directly.

Beneath the bravado, there are moments when the façade drops. Maybe after a tough mission or when he’s messed something up. He’ll get quieter, rest his head on your shoulder, and implicitly seek reassurance. He might not say he’s feeling insecure or scared, but you learn to read the signs, and being there for him in those moments deepens your connection immensely.

Leo’s gratitude often comes in quieter moments: a sincere “Thanks for putting up with me,” a hand squeeze after you’ve helped him through a moment of insecurity, or just a soft, genuine smile directed only at you. These subtle moments mean more from him than all the jokes and puns.

[intotheelliwoods]

Alright gang, heres Avocado Toast! :) The Steven Universe style fusion between Sprout and Poptart!

All assorted art and asks and posts related to them will be under the tag #freshavocado <- <-

Here is a bunch of notes, some have links to related art:

-First and foremost, the fusion is the literal embodiment of self love. It is going to be super hard to catch them without a smile!

-The initial fusion happened by complete accident! Poptart joined Sprout for the night for insomnia mixed with feeling cuddly reasons. In the morning they woke up fused haha!

-Sprout didnt tell anything to poptart about his fusion with Big Leo and that it was possible for them to do the same, it was after their initial first accidental fusion that he opened up more about the concept and his experience

-You can often find Toast hugging themselves and fidgeting with their hands! A related thing to note is that it takes the fusion a while to learn how to use two arms on the same side without bonking them into eachother, and also takes a while to learn how to not fall off balance with so much arm weight on one side without being on the other!

-Clothes are not part of the fusion, when they unfuse the result is either Poptart or Sprout in some VERY oversized clothes haha

-The fusion between Big Leo and Sprout is the same fusion! Same personality! But minus the 'Toast' part of the name, back then the fusion was just named Avocado!

-Related to what is above, there is a thought in the back of the fusions mind thinking that they would never get to exist again, up until Poptart showed up that is allowing them to exist once more, and they cannot thank Poptart enough for that

-The first time Big Leo and Sprout fused (Avocado) was different than Sprout and Poptarts (Toast) first time fused. With Avocado, they fused the same way Poptart and Sprout did (cuddles) but this never happened before, the fusion panicked instead. However the fusion was too strong and stable to unfuse. Big Leo and Sprout didnt know how to even unfuse after all! Anyways they spend the whole day fused and trying to hide themselves from the family while also figuring out how to move with the new body haha

-Toast is, hilariously enough obsessed with Sprout and Poptart and loves to see pictures and hear stories of them, some part of the fusion wishes it was possible for them to meet the Leos they are composed of

-Sometimes when Sprout is having a really bad chronic pain day, Poptart offers to fuse with him as a way to 'share the pain' since Toast has twice the amount of pain tolerance, and can handle the pain way better than Sprout can

-Similar to whats above, at some point both Sprout and Poptart become reliant on Toast to fight for them in physical battles. Sprout doesnt want to fight, it hurts, and he hurts even after the fight, but Toast can fight for him pain free. Poptart is tired of trying to learn a new fighting technique and is often upset he is not as strong as he used to be, but Toast is strong and knows how to fight.

-lmao they also become reliant on Toast to do chores

-What Sprout and Poptart remember doing fused depends on how emotional and stable the fusion was

-An amazing idea thanks to @dianagj-art that I am in love with is that Poptart/Sprout and Toast often pre record videos and write notes to eachother to say hello in the only way they really can. Toast loves to see and understand who they are composed of and whos love they represent. While Sprout and Poptart love to see who they can become

Crossover notes with @dianagj-art:

-The initial time they fuse and form Toast, Sprout is so happy he gets to feel what it is like again. He missed the feeling. The fusion is super fun and cheerful at first, but with time Poptart gets tired and wants to stop. While Sprout insists they keep staying together because he doesnt want to lose the feeling again. Due to this the fusion slowly becomes more and more loopy and unresponsive throughout the day and zones out frequently. Eventually Oneion asks whats wrong before realizing what is going on inside their head, and is the outside trigger to get Sprout to finally let go.

-Out of everyone else, Toast has the best chance of getting on One-Ones good side out of the excitement of another Leo fusion like them. Unfortunately in Toasts attempts to befriend One-One through some sparring, it does not go well....

-Toast is a perch for One and Oneion... do you understand.....

[aayakashii]

Okay yall already know, I'll be posting Valentine's Day themed headcanons for each House in Tokyo Debunker, but it won't be in consecutive days anymore rip I'm tired

All prompts come from this post here ♡

And dividers are from @saradika-graphics 🫶

Taglist: @wannaberecluse

Frostheim | Vagastrom | Jabberwock | Sinostra | Hotarubi | Obscuary | Mortkranken

Valentine's Day in Sinostra

Taiga

how does he show affection?

He makes an effort to remember everything about you. Your name, your eyes, your body, the things you have said – even if he has to write it down, he will do it. He will write journals upon journals and keep them close to him. His memory may still fail him from time to time, but his effort speaks for itself.

does he like hugs? what are his hugs like?

He does, in fact! He drapes himself over your body, leaning his full weight onto you as he whines, asking for just one more coin. He acts as if you're an extension of his body – he's always holding you somehow, no matter where you two are. Even if everyone's looking, he'll guide you to sit on his lap, and he will hug your waist and straight up take a nap. His hugs feel possessive too, his black nails gently digging into your skin, as if he's worried you'll leave.

is he good at flirting? how does he flirt?

Is he good or does he just say things in a sultry voice while his face is 1cm away from yours? Either way, you're paralyzed by his gaze and the way he seems to turn all your limbs into jelly. He knows how to turn you into putty in his hands and he is very much aware of that.

is he good at gift - giving or does he struggle to get it right?

You're gonna have to tell him exactly what you want in order to get it, otherwise he won't give you anything at all; he doesn't even know it's Valentine's Day. And even if he did, he doesn't care. He cares about you, though, so if you say you want something, he'll get it.

is he quick or slow to give his heart away?

Quick. He doesn't know it's happening. He sees you through the fog of his memories more and more frequently, and soon, it becomes a dire need to have you by his side. He's not the type of man to make excuses for his behavior – he knows he wants you, and he's fine with it.

does he find ‘i love you’ easy or hard to say?

He has a hard time with it. Every time he opens his mouth and it seems like he's going to say it, the words dissipate from his tongue. Something keeps him from doing it, but he's clueless on what it is. Maybe it's the uncertainty of the future, maybe it's his own emotional walls – either way, it takes him time to get used to it, even if he knows it to be true from the start.

does he get jealous in a relationship?

It's not just jealousy; it's anger that someone would be stupid enough to take their chances with you. And he doesn't let his anger simmer – he immediately pulls out his gun and shoves the barrel onto that bastard's forehead. It takes a lot of coaxing from you to keep Taiga from blowing the man's brains out.

what is his ideal date?

You. Him. Nap. Anywhere, everywhere.

would he ask the big question or expect their partner to?

He doesn't care about marriage itself, but the opportunity of having you forever bound to him does seem appealing (he might propose in the first day of your relationship though, so watch out).

how does he feel about valentine’s day?

He doesn't even remember the date. If you tell him about it, expect his constant teasing. He thinks it's hilarious that you want him, of all people, to be romantic, but also he'll give to all your requests without much resistance.

does he get protective easily?

He's restless when you're not around him. Moody, angry, snappy. He wants to know where you are and why you're not near. He will protect you if something happens, but will also whisper into your ear that if you just stayed beside him like a good kitty, things like that wouldn't happen. So, yeah. He's protective enough.

does he believe in true love?

You're the closest thing to it that he has ever known. Maybe it is, or maybe he's a fool.

Romeo

how does he show affection?

Through words. Granted, these can be quite harsh, but Romeo is the personification of tough love. He yells at you to stop slouching, to eat properly, to drink water, to rest well. He (gently, softly) bonks your head when you're being too hard on yourself. All of these are moments in which he's letting you know that he cares deeply for you.

does he like hugs? what are his hugs like?

He says he doesn't like them and complains whenever you tackle him in a hug, but he also doesn't push you away – in fact, he hesitantly places his hands on your back, as if he's not even sure what a hug is. If you can see behind the cloud of french perfume that surrounds him, you might even find his cheeks tinted pink.

is he good at flirting? how does he flirt?

He's good at shamelessly buttering people up in order to get what he wants, but that's not exactly flirting. So, honestly? He doesn't have a clue on what to do with you. He doesn't want to embarrass himself, but sometimes you're so daft that he ends up needing to yell about how he wants a kiss. And that's terribly embarrassing too. (You frustrate him a lot btw)

is he good at gift - giving or does he struggle to get it right?

He's great, but he's gonna give you what HE thinks you need. You want flowers and chocolate for Valentines? No, you don't. You need new clothes and skincare. And he will be giving you just that. Romeo will always think he knows better.

is he quick or slow to give his heart away?

S l o w. Vulnerability was the first thing he snuffed out in order to get where he is now. The idea of willingly being vulnerable with you sickens and terrifies him. It takes a very long time for him to have some trust in his relationship with you. It's a struggle against his defense mechanisms and his desire to be yours. You'll need some patience.

does he find ‘i love you’ easy or hard to say?

Impossible. He relentlessly avoids all thoughts about his feelings for you – though he hasn't been having much luck, given that you occupy probably 70% of his mind at this point, but he refuses to give in.

does he get jealous in a relationship?

YES. Romeo's jealousy, however, comes with an extra side of extreme possessiveness. He's too tired of letting the things he holds dear fall through his fingers, and he most definitely won't let you do that either. If any guy decides to shoot their shot with you, he WILL be ordering his guards to give him a beating he'll never forget. He will also drape you in his finest clothings as a way to show everyone that you're his.

what is his ideal date?

Girl's night, luxury edition. He would love nothing else than spending a whole night with you doing skincare, wearing sheet masks, while one of those korean channels that make cool drinks play in the background. No stupid men around to annoy him, no casino problems to solve. Just Romeo, you, korean youtube channels, and a ton of serums.

would he ask the big question or expect their partner to?

He would rather be the one asking, but he will be extremely happy if you pop the question first. It would very much reassure him that you WANT to spend your life with you, you WANT to stay by his side. He doesn't have to fight tooth and nail to keep you in his arms because you decided to make your house in them of your own volition. And that's priceless to him.

how does he feel about valentine’s day?

Number one: how can he profit from it? Number two: buys obscenely expensive gifts for you and quickly shoves them in your hands with a kiss on your forehead. Sorry, but he has places to be, bills to pay, money to earn, and Valentine's is the perfect day for that.

does he get protective easily?

Yeah. He's very protective of all his most precious things, terribly afraid of losing everything all over again. Why would it be different with you?

does he believe in true love?

People like him need to stop believing in fairytale things in order to survive. But he doesn't really shun the idea anymore.

Ritsu

how does he show affection?

By spending his every waking hour with you (or at least trying). Ritsu follows you around when he isn't the one dragging you with him. When you tell him he doesn't need to spend even his breaks with you, he says he just needs to gather more material in order to profile you more accurately (yes, he's recording everything). He's a little confused, but he got the spirit.

does he like hugs? what are his hugs like?

He actually likes them, but he prefers you'd avoid surprising him and only give hugs in the privacy of your rooms so none of you get sued for public indecency. He's kinda upfront about it too, saying "I would like to hug you right now" every so often. It's the only moment in which you feel Ritsu actually relax with you. He sighs and rests his chin on the crook of your neck, almost falling asleep. It's tiring to train all day every day to become Japan's best lawyer, after all.

is he good at flirting? how does he flirt?

Did you really think it would be any other way? Come on. You know he can't flirt to save his life.

is he good at gift - giving or does he struggle to get it right?

Much like Luca, Ritsu will also give you something he thinks is amazing – which is (another) Compendium of Laws. Unlike Luca, though, if you try to tell him what you want, he WILL disagree and try to convince you of accepting his gift. And you'll need a very convincing argument to make him budge (just say his legal books don't fit the norm when it comes to Valentine's gifts and you'll be okay).

is he quick or slow to give his heart away?

He's... kinda slow. He probably realized he had feelings for you after someone pointed out that he looked like he had a crush on you. After that, he started researching, because who was he going to ask for advice when you were always the only one to help him? He had to figure out on his own and coming to terms with it took a little time. Once he was certain of it, however, he was quick to let you know.

does he find ‘i love you’ easy or hard to say?

Surprisingly easy. Ritsu is very practical. Once he acknowledges his feelings, there is no need to be ashamed of something that is expected out of a serious relationship. He will say it when he feels like it, randomly, and it always catches you off-guard.

does he get jealous in a relationship?

He will always deny any accusations of jealousy, but you know from the twitch on his eyes, the furrow of his brows and his scowl that he's absolutely seething. Ritsu might go all the way and find a legal reason as to why someone should not be speaking to you, and you'll have to reassure him that no one is trying to steal you away from him. He will say that he wasn't thinking about that, but you know better.

what is his ideal date?

I'm sorry this will sound boring, but he would also LOVE the idea of a study date. He could spend the whole afternoon reading to you and it'd be perfect in his eyes. If you wanna be a little adventurous, he's open to buying some cup noodles and chips so you can eat while studying... I know, so debauched of him, isn't it? /s

would he ask the big question or expect their partner to?

He wants to ask. In his mind, it's like an important item he has to tick off from his "relationship list". He feels like it's his duty to you, to be the one that's the pillar you can lean on. After a while, though, he realized that it stopped feeling like a duty and more like a desire of his own.

how does he feel about valentine’s day?

I'm holding your hand right now. He never even acknowledged the existence of this date. Please tell him in detail why you think Valentine's Day is important and what does a partner usually expect from their significant other. He will probably end up interpreting it in his own unique way anyway, so... be patient

does he get protective easily?

Yes, again because he feels like it's his duty as your partner to be your protector as well. He's stronger, he's faster, he can fend off every danger that comes your way. Sometimes you wonder if he's legit stalking you, though, because he's very fast to appear right by your side at the littlest sign of problem.

does he believe in true love?

Of course. Isn't he with you? That's all the proof necessary.

[dxmedstudent]

Medblrs, who's still around?

I'm aware that it's been some years since my previous medblr list and previous medblr roll call posts. Over the years we've built a thriving and supportive medblr community, which we've been really lucky to have. I'm using medblr in the widest sense, here - nurses, PAs, pharmacists abd all sorts of other professions are welcome.

Years have passed. Many of us have continued to live offline lives or post less frequently because work, kids, other interests and just life got in the way. Some have changed specialties. I know that there have been years I've been fairly quiet because life was busy! But even if you post infrequently, youre still a valued part of the community. Please feel free to reblog and add yourself to the list.

Some left the sphere of medicine, that's cool too - if you ever identified as a medblr, there's still a place for you here.

New medblr friends have joined - why not introduce yourselves? It would be great to make some new connections in this sphere.

I'm also curious about non medblrs who lurk here for fun.

I'll start first. I'm @dxmedstudent (she/her, late 30s), I also go by Tink (that predates my blog here and is somewhat unrelated). I started my blog here over 10 years ago when I was a UK med student writing med student comics which can still be found over at @dxmedicalstudent .

I spent some years in hospital medicine before becoming a GP this past summer. I haven't changed my name or icons in that time so if you think you remember me, you're probably right.

Lovely to meet you all, and to say hi to old friends.

[miruac]

dating osamu miya - headcanons

masterlist

navigation

warnings: not proofread, extremely self indulgent, minor atsumu cameo, word vomit. disgusting word vomit.

a/n: guys why are we making fun of osamu for liking food...i think its cute...that means hes a chub hub and his love language is probably acts of service also i go feral for slight chub <3

in highschool he acts like he didnt care

the typical stoic guy nonchalant guy

but when it came to you? EHEHEHE HE HAD A LITTLE BLUSH ON HIS FACE

the first time you guys saw each other was after an assembly

you were cleaning up, and coincidentally it was the end of the day

tsumu and osamu were racing to see who enters the gym first and ended up fighting...

tsumu THREW osamu and he landed at your feet...you literally had to nudge him w/ur foot to see if he was still alive

he gave you the nastiest side eye bc he thought you were atsumu 😭

but when he realized you weren't he got up so fast and apologized so quickly

ok moving on i rambled 2 much

during the talking stage he's still a little quiet

like he just listens but he remembers everything

you said you liked how his bento box looked?

he got it for you

you said you use only a certain type of pencil/pen because you like how smooth it is?

he got it for you

everyone writes osamu as if he hogs his lunch but its his lunch!!! he has a right to!!! its his food!!!

he always packs a little extra just for you to have </3

atsumus starts wondering why the food in the house disappears so fast but when he saw you and osamu he immediately understood

you frequented the convenience store down the street, whenever it was during your lunch break of after practice

if osamu had to rank onigiri, it would be his moms and then the convenience store

and that says smth knowing how picky his tastes are...

during games you'd be on the edge of your seat

ok this may be ooc but i literally see him mouthing 'this is for you' before he serves and he winks in your direction

I THINK THATS FUNNY YOU GUYS

surprisingly he didnt miss

atsumu teased the HELL out of him

would always walk you home even if it was out of his way

literally wouldn't leave until he saw you go inside HES SO PROTECTIVE

speaking of protective it deffo helps he's actually six feet not like those posers

will tower over you and any guy who even dares approach you like oh hes behind you? everybody RUNS

his mom LOVES YOU

shes not like those stereotypical boy mothers like she does care for the twins but isnt OVERBEARING

hc that he hugs his mother whenever he comes home after a long day </333 nothing is more comforting than a motherly hug

his mom gives you that same hug WAHHH SHES SO WARM AND CUTE I LOVE MAMA MIYA(hey sounds like mamma mia)

osamu invited you over bc you two had to study and she got so GIDDY LIKE HER SON ISNT BITCHLESS

she cooked up a FEAST that night

and know you know where osamu got his cooking skills from

the entire time atsumu was silent but he was lowk sulking that he got kicked out of his room and no one paid attention to him that night.....

is clingy

he is CLINGY

his love languages are quality time, acts of service, and physical touch

if hes tired or down in the dumps he'll literally slump over on you

he NEEDS to have a hand on you whenever you're together

even if its like as minimal as you guys linking legs when youre sitting on the couch together that satisfies him enough

my shayla....my shayla </3

-----------------------------------------------------------

...guys. GUYS. HI!!! im back!!! sorry its been so long, i've actually been so busy with exams and post secondary stuff 😭😭 just recently started rewatching haikyuu during winter break and im back on my osamu brainrot BUT EHEHHEHE HERE WE GO!!!! I HOPE U GUYS LIKE THIS ONE

[everpresence]

I was wrong.

over the last few weeks, i started heavily questioning my beliefs.

i noticed that some of my desires came in faster than other desires. some of them (as you may see in my recent posts) took years to reflect, but some of them got reflected so fast at the speed of light.

i’ve been told by various people that there’s usually a time delay for desires to materialize in the 3D, and for some reason, it resonated with me. that’s why i mention it in my answers because i was merely basing it off of my own experiences with the law.

but something clicked for me recently. i watched a video by missy renee, about why people haven’t seen their manifestations for years. i’m just going to put it out there that you don’t need to pay for coaching. there are a lot of manifesting coaches that don’t know what they’re talking about, and when you read source, it’s a lot more telling. missy renee is not one of those coaches. she has read source and has even applied those teachings into her life. if i have to recommend a coach for you to watch, though, it would be her.

anyways, there was a line that she said that i immediately wrote down because it caused so much confusion in me. basically, she said that the reason why we have yet to see things come to pass is because we are still identifying with our old beliefs — our old story — and due to this, we become double-minded. this double-mindedness is then perceived as the “time delay.”

in that moment, i slowly leaned back in my chair. it was an “a-ha” moment for me, but it was also a little harrowing.

how long have i held myself back from just accepting that i am the person that i wanted to be? how long have i been limiting myself, telling myself the old story over and over again like a broken record? more importantly, i’ve been telling other people that there is such thing as a “time delay” because i decided that i should experience the delay.

so when i wrote a list and just allowed my higher self to figure it out, some of them came in so fucking fast at the speed of light. it stunned me. that’s when i realized that i was holding a false belief.

i never thought that i’d be writing an apology post, but here i am. i’m holding myself accountable because i was the one that wrote that there is such thing as a “time delay,” but in reality, there isn’t. sure, you don’t have to be pitch perfect with your beliefs, but when this desire has no conflict with your beliefs — when you have no resistance, when you aren’t arguing with yourself about whether you have it or not — then there’s no delay.

i remember some people said that it should not take more than thirty days, and i used to think that it’s bullshit, but now i can clearly see that there is a reason why they believe this. it’s not even about the length of time, but about how frequent you return to the state. it’s all about you accepting that the person you want to be is who you are now.

besides that, i want this post to be a reminder that everyone’s beliefs are constantly changing. there is always going to be expansion, growth, an inevitable withering of the old beliefs and the blossoming of new beliefs the more we learn about how this all works. this is why i want people to go back to reading source, to not always take everyone’s posts as “truth” or “the gospel” because we are all still learning in the end. learning never ends.

edit: i don't mean to say all this for you to start focusing on the physical reality as your primary reality. i still wholeheartedly believe that this is merely a reflection of your beliefs, and ultimately, it is all about who you are choosing to be right now despite what it looks like.

[shhhsecretsideblog]

No Time To Hide

This was something I wrote for an Imagine You’re Pregnant prompt, original post here. Thought I’d make a side blog and post it here as well cos I really enjoyed writing this and might be tempted to write more birth fics

Eva opened the wooden window of her small cottage, letting the cool autumn air whip through her hair. The smell of woodland and damp grass filled her nostrils as she took a long, calming breath.

Describing herself as a green witch, Eva loved her little cottage hidden away from everyone deep within the rich forest. Coven life was never something that appealed to her; the idea of being constantly surrounded by other witches, their opinions and their magic, was torture for Eva. She much preferred her own company, free to live her life the way she wanted. Free to use her own style of magic, without the distraction or judgement of others. It was why she decided to live here in the heart of the forest. There was a river that flowed through the centre of the woodland, the ancient trees stood tall around her home, and the forest floor was packed with all manner of plant life. It was perfect; just her, the elements and Mother Nature.

Despite her preference of living alone, as time passed Eva began to yearn for something… it wasn’t romance or friendship, but the idea of a child. Children were never something she had considered, but as she grew older Eva had begun to see the benefit of having children. Someone to pass all her knowledge and wisdom to, someone to love and care for and share all that she’d learnt. She wanted to pass on this way of living, to create a legacy.

A few months ago, nine to be exact, she enchanted a local townsman - not that he would ever remember it. And now here she was, rocking side to side and cradling the underneath of her heavily pregnant stomach, preparing herself as birth drew near.

The cramps had started yesterday afternoon, small and barely noticeable at first. Eva had been terribly uncomfortable these last few weeks, suffering constant aches and twinges, so she did not immediately give them any thought. However when they got sharper and more frequent, forcing her to pause whatever she was doing, they soon got her full attention.

Not knowing how long this could take but knowing she would eventually lose mobily as her labour progressed, she collected all her preparations and got the supplies ready. Blankets, towels, sterilised medical equipment, all within easy reach in the main living room. Snacks and drinks lay available on the coffee table and a pot of hot water sat by the open fire keeping a constant warm temperature.

“Mmmnnngghhhhh” Eva moaned deeply as the latest wave peaked. She leaned forward resting her elbows on the window sill, jutting her hips back and swaying them slightly. The baby was low and heavy in her pelvis, the head pressing downwards as her body slowly opened up.

When the latest pain had eased Eva straightened and looked down at her swollen stomach, speaking lovingly towards her unborn babe. “You’re really coming aren’t you little one? I’ve not done this before so please take it easy on me.” Her child responded with a gentle kick prompting the witch to smile.

Over the next few hours Eva got into a good rhythm riding out the contractions, each one hitting sooner than the last and with incrementally more vigour. She paced, rocked, squatted, kneeled, trying to find any comfortable position to ride out the waves. Her low and heavy stomach made moving from position to position cumbersome; one hand staying on her bump or her lower back at any given time, while the other kept her supported on whatever furniture or surface was nearby.

As the contractions ramped up, creeping steadily towards unbearable, the witch’s teeth clenched tight and she growled behind them. Three minutes apart. Holding on to the back of her armchair Eva lowered herself into a deep squat. Sweat covered every inch of her body, her thin linen dress and underwear clinging to every curve of her fertile frame.

Her hips were in agony, the pressure building. She opened her mouth to wail but no sound came out, shocked into silence by a sudden burst between her open thighs. Immediately the pressure eased and Eva could catch her breath again. The wooden floor below her feet was soaked; her waters had broken.

“Oooooooh okay- We’re getting so close- Are you ready to come out now baby? I cannot wait to meet you.”

Eva stood up, cradling the curve of her spasming bump. Her bare feet stepped ungainly out of the puddle on the floor and she quickly threw a tea towel down to soak up the worst of it.

“It’s just you and me, little one. We can do this.” Eva reassured herself, rubbing circles around her swell, preparing for the intensity to soar now her waters had gone.

However, before the next contraction could strike the witch startled at the sudden loud interruption of ringing bells. Rapid and urgent, the piercing chimes echoed all around her cottage, howling through every room.

Witch hunter!

The enchantments set up around her hidden home in the forest hadn’t gone off in decades - she had almost forgotten the wards were still in place. And yet the incessant ringing immediately chilled her to her very bones, suddenly haunting her with long forgotten memories of the brutal murders of her fellow witches.

Her stomach clenched with a new, different sensation - fear. At any other time Eva would arm herself with weapons and potions and storm outside on the offence, making sure to take down her enemy before he had the opportunity to strike. But now… the pressing weight in her hips and the constant aching of her contracting womb showed she was in no position to attack, or even defend herself, if put up against a murderous witch hunter.

She had to get out of here. The warning bells throughout her home would soon reach the ears of the witch hunter and then he would beeline straight to her hidden sanctuary. She needed to find somewhere else to hide.

Distracted by the chimes, Eva was unprepared for the next contraction when it ripped across her body, rooting her to the spot. She doubled over in pain, palms planted firmly on her thighs.

“Unnnhhhhhhhhhhhh no-no-no-no……” she whimpered through strained breaths as the pain skyrocketed and her belly hardened. Panting heavily the witch ignored growing desire to bear down. Her waters had broken, she was probably almost fully dilated, if not already. But she couldn’t stay here. If she stayed, both her and her child would certainly be killed. She had to leave and find somewhere safe to deliver this baby.

After what felt like an eternity, the contraction finally faded and she bolted straight out the back door of her cottage, leaving barefoot with nothing but the clothes on her back. She had wasted precious minutes since the warning alarm riding out that last pain - she couldn’t afford to waste any more time gathering supplies to take with her. Eva took off as quickly as she could, disappearing deep into the lush green forest.

She barely got out of sight behind the first set of oak trees before another contraction was already upon her. Two minutes apart. Leaning against the rough bark of the nearest tree, Eva squeezed her eyes shut and tried hard to swallow the whimper creeping out her throat. The unbearable pressure was demanding in its silent request and her knees trembled with the effort of ignoring it. The baby was so heavy, and dangerously low. Feeling like it would just fall out if she took a step too wide. Yet she remained strong, persevering and weathering the storm in her uterus, determined to keep this baby inside of her until she got somewhere safe.

The second the pain let up an inch the witch was on the move again running as fast as she could across the forest floor. Over ferns and moss, rocks and fallen branches, thankfully the hardened soles of her bare feet were used to the uneven terrain. She made sure to keep off the main footpath and stayed hidden within the dense trees, but it made for more of an obstacle course than she’d like. With added weight of her labouring belly she couldn’t move at speed and on a few occasions nearly lost her balance. But deeper and deeper into the forest she went.

The trees became her allies, providing cover and support when she was forced to stop with each new powerful contraction… 90 seconds apart... 60 seconds apart. A large, ancient willow tree with an unusually curved trunk was the latest comrade in her fight for survival. Eva had pitched herself within the alcove of the trunk, out of sight and leaning back against the bark, lifting the weight of her hardened stomach with both hands. The long hanging branches brushed the forest floor in a circle around her position, hiding the witch behind a nature-made curtain.

“Grnnnhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!” Eva could no longer hold in the animalistic sounds of her extremely advanced labour. The baby was right there, nestled deep in her widened cervix, desperate to be born.

“Nooooooooo-please-baby-wait-a-bit-moreeeeeee-” she begged through gritted teeth. The next contraction started before the current had even finished and the need to push was too powerful to refrain. Knees bending and thighs widening, Eva’s body pushed of its own accord.

It felt right, pushing. It was what she was meant to be doing - to follow nature's primal instinct. And yet she couldn’t forget the very real threat of the witch hunter, still hidden somewhere in this forest, poised and primed to kill her.

The fierce contraction continued to hold her hostage. A long grunt escaped her mouth as her body pushed along with the pain.

“I can hear you, witch!” A gravelled voice taunted from across the thick forest.

Eva’s eyes widened and immediately clamped her mouth shut, biting her lips together drawing blood. Half squatting against the tree, every muscle in her body continued to strain as it forced the baby lower and lower and lower. She couldn’t stop pushing even if she tried. One of the hands cradling her stomach shakily ventured south, lifting up her dress and feeling between her legs. Through the thin damp fabric of her underwear she could feel the baby’s head begin to enter the world.

She panted silently, tears streaming down her cheeks. The forest stretched out for miles, completely uninhabited in all directions; she was all alone. There was nowhere to go and no one to help. Heavily pregnant, being hunted, and seconds away from birthing this child.

A loud snap of wood echoed from a few metres away. Eva suddenly bolted like a startled deer, consumed entirely by fear and survival, and disappeared again into the thickened wood. She ran, wide legged, the heavy boulder of a baby’s head deep in her pelvis screaming to be born. Push! Her body cried out. Stop running and PUSH!

But she couldn’t. If she stopped she’d be dead.

Another contraction ripped through her as she ran. 30 seconds apart. Her muscles tensed and squeezed as she ran, her body trying to force the baby out despite the mother’s desire to hold on a bit longer. She could barely stay upright, the raw adrenaline no longer enough to keep this birth at bay. Her legs became jelly, all she could feel was pain and pressure and fear. Eva faltered, she couldn’t go any further. Out in the open she planted her hands against the nearest tree, widening her stance, and pushed. Hard.

“Mnnnnnnnrrrrgggggghhhhhhh!!!”

More of her baby’s head began to appear behind the fabric of her tight underwear.

“Ohhhhhhhhhh-Hecateeeeeeeeeeee!” she whimpered, praying to the deity.

Her baby was close to fully crowning, she could feel it. The white hot agony of being widened and stretched beyond anything she imagined made her eyes water and throat nauseous. She retched, a dry heave, and desperately tried to catch a breath through the dual need to push and the sudden urge to vomit. The texture of the rough bark beneath her palms was the only thing keeping the witch semi-grounded and preventing her getting swept away in the overwhelming sensations currently tearing her body apart. Still bracing the tree, Eva’s head dipped as she took slow deep breaths, ignoring the instinct to push in order to ride out the sudden nausea.

An ominous whistling sound drifted through the trees carried on the wind. Eva could barely hear it over the thundering beating of her heart, that is until she heard:

“Come out, come out, wherever you are!” The voice sang.

The witch hunter was close. But so was her baby... Eva felt between her legs again to evaluate just how bad her situation was. It was bad. Her underwear was stretched beyond repair as it housed a significant portion of her baby’s head, filling her cupped palm. Ignoring all the pain and her body’s pleas to push, she panted heavily and tried to think! She needed a plan to survive.

The witch hunter had physical strength, yes, but he did not know these woods like Eva did. This was her home, her sanctuary, and she knew every inch like the back of her hand. Beyond her laboured breaths and the unnerving whistling of the approaching witch hunter, Eva registered another sound nearby - the swooshing sound of running water. The river - she was by the river!

Lifting her head the witch frantically scanned the surrounding area, getting her bearings of where she’d ended up within the woodland. She was a few hundred yards from the river’s edge, about a mile from her cottage. It wasn’t an area she often visited because of…. That’s it! Okay, it wasn’t a great plan, and there was no way to know if it would work, but it was her only shot of survival.

She took a steadying breath through the current contraction squeezing her womb, fighting once more against the primal need to push. The baby’s head filled her underwear, millimetres from a full crown. If she pushed again there was no way she’d be able to stop until the head was fully born.

Whimpering through the pain Eva stood up straight, one hand staying between her legs, and she prepared herself to move. Just get to the river. She told herself before making her way unsteadily east.

The sound of rushing water grew louder as she stumbled slowly through the forest. One step. Another step. Nearly there. She knew exactly where to go, and where to avoid, desperately trying to stay focussed on her surroundings and not succumb to the agonising pain crowning between her thighs. Keep going.

“You can’t escape me, witch!” The voice threatened, getting closer.

Eva stumbled into the side of a tree, her bare shoulder scraping against the bark. Pausing, she took a brief moment to breathe through the pain. It was a mistake. The second she stopped to inhale deeply her body started bearing down again, forcing the baby down. Immediately the head came to a full crown in her damp underwear and she screamed.

“WITCH!” The murderous voice roared.

Eva turned and saw a flash of black leather through the distant trees, and it was coming her way. Cupping the baby’s head she tentatively wobbled forwards, knees trembling, staggering towards the riverbank. The blinding pain was constant, her eyes barely focussing. She had to make it to the exact right spot or her plan would certainly fail. Her footsteps were shaky but determined as she continued the last few carefully placed steps in her journey. Behind her the crunching sound of a disturbed forest floor drew ever closer.

Reaching the river’s edge Eva collapsed against the large boulder that sat on the grassy bank. She made it. Turning around against the stone, the cold granite pressed against her back as she faced the woods and waited for the imminent arrival of the witch hunter. But the baby’s head inched lower, her body stretched to its absolute limit. She wanted to cry, to howl, to scream. Instead she focussed inward, drawing on all the power from the earth under her feet, and taking a deep breath she finally, and intentionally, followed her body’s demands. Teeth gritted, a growl behind them, she pushed with everything she had. Her whole body trembled, bearing down against the pressure of the large round head slowly appearing between her thighs. The ears… a nose… she could feel it all. Her hands frantically scrambled under her dress and within seconds the baby’s head popped out into her underwear and she cupped it quickly within her palm. The relief was instant and for a brief moment Eva’s heart calmed as she held her child’s newly born crown.

The witch’s reprieve was short-lived as the approaching footsteps from behind one of the nearby trees resulted in another person soon entering the river's edge. The witch hunter was dark haired, full beard, but was not as athletic as Eva was expecting. There was sweat glistening on his temple and dripping down his neck, disappearing beneath a thick leather jacket. His mouth practically drooled at the sight of her and he gripped the long hunting knife in his hand. The lust for her death was haunting.

“At last… you’ve given it a good go, I’ll give you that, but you cannot escape your fate.” The man said as he took a step towards her, threateningly swishing the knife in readiness. “You are an abomination, evil incarnate. Witchcraft has no place here. My family has been taking your lot out for centuries. And it looks like I get the honour of not only killing you… but the next generation as well.” He glared at her pregnant swell.

“No- no! This- this child is innocent…” Eva panted, still holding the head of her half-born babe hidden under the draped fabric of her dress.

The witch hunter scoffed and took another two ominous steps in her direction through the fallen autumn leaves. Eva watched each step with a laser focus.

“No descendant of a witch is truly innocent.” He drawled, tilting his head with an unnerving animalistic incline. “Wickedness will run through its veins, there is no saving its soul.”

Eva couldn’t take her eyes off his feet, watching every step he took. She chose this location for a reason, knowing she needed to end up exactly here by the rivers edge - dangerously using herself as bait. His heavy boots crunched through the orange leaves, sauntering slowly towards her like he was toying with his prey. So close. Her heart stopped, breath held as Eva prayed to all the Goddesses for her plan to work. Then whoosh!

The witch hunter was suddenly hoisted in the air by his foot, caught in a primitive trap laid here many years ago by the previous inhabitants of these woods, whom were long dead and forgotten. The man roared as he was pulled sharply towards the sky, his arms flailing, the hunting knife falling from his hand in his shock.

Eva exhaled heavily and closed her eyes in pure relief. The steady thumping of heart pulsed around her body, beating once more now the immediate threat disappeared. The man yelled and shouted at her as he hung limply from the tree, but the sound barely registered with the witch. Her senses had been overtaken by the sudden movement of the baby, turning inside her, and an all too familiar urgent weight pressing down signalling her work was not yet over.

Eva tried to move but she was too far gone, too deep in labour, every muscle seemingly locked in position. “Unhhhhhhhh Hecate….. mnnnggghhhhh the baby- the baby is comingg…..” she whimpered, the pain splitting her in half as she was stretched once more with the baby’s shoulders. All her bodyweight was pressed back against the boulder, and she managed to sink towards the ground. Squatting deeply, her large rounded stomach rested heavily between her thighs.

“Ohhhh it’s coming…. I- need… mnghhhhhhhh I’ve got to… got to pushh...”

She ripped off her underwear as the next contraction started, freeing the baby’s head from the confines of the damp linen. With both hands ready to catch, the witch pushed with renewed determination. “Urghhhhhhhhhhhh!” One shoulder was out! Then the next shoulder. She took a breath, panting, holding the child dangling from her body. Eva became suddenly hyper-aware of the breeze and leaves, the nearby river and the crisp autumn air, all the elements surrounding them which her child was now being born directly into. Trembling, she beared down fiercely once more and within another few minutes a newly born witch entered the world.

Eva sobbed with relief, quickly pulling her daughter up over her stomach and placing her against her chest. The infant made a soft gurgling sound, her first breath, and then started to cry. To a new mother it was the most beautiful and reassuring sound in the world.

“Disgusting…. Filthy little vermin.” The witch hunter sneered with venom.

Eva had forgotten her audience and looked up with hatred at the man still swinging upside down from the tree. She held her baby tight and secure against her skin, as if shielding the child from the mere sight of him.

“You should drown that thing in the river.” He spat.

Red, blinding fury overwhelmed the new mother. With the pain gone and her baby safe in arms, pure fury raced through every pore of the witch’s body, consuming every atom of her being. Rising slowly, babe still clutched in hand, Eva approached the hanging man with eyes glowing with revenge.

“When I get free, I'm gonna enjoy splitting you from ear to ear!” He roared.

Her head tilted in observation watching the man’s disgusting arrogance in his determination to kill her despite still struggling against the rope binding his leg. Apparently unaware his threats were idle and his attempts to escape the trap were futile.

The witch bent down carefully to pick up the large silver blade that had fallen amongst the browning leaves. The man didn’t see the new mother pick up his weapon, and didn't notice the switch when the hunted became the hunter. Eva stalked silently, murderously towards the hanging man.

Before he could open his mouth to mock or belittle or challenge her, Eva’s hand swished past his vision in a flash, the blade gliding through the witch hunter's throat like a knife through butter. The man’s eyes widened, taking a heartbeat to register what just happened, before the cascade of blood erupted from the open wound and he began to choke and splutter.

Eva dropped the knife.

Delicately readjusting and shhhing the newborn cradled in her arm, she took one final look and started their journey back to the cottage. Eva found comfort in the sounds of the forest; of the flowing river, the whistle of a breeze, and the drip drip dripping of her enemies blood now pooling onto the forest floor.

[ladystoneshart]

The Stranger and gender-nonconformity in ASOIAF

I might elaborate on this on a later post but I find it interesting that The Stranger, this genderless figure that is generally feared by the followers of the Seven and sometimes outright omitted from their rituals and traditions (e.g. when sam sings about the seven to gilly and the baby in affc or asos I don't remember which), is frequently associated (by the text itself!) to characters who fail to abide to societal expectations of gender performance.

arya is the most obvious case of course, with the whole house of black and white arc and general valar morghulis shenanigans, but also tyrion (who thinks of The Stranger as his patron and is seen by his peers as not being a Real Man™️because of his disability) and to a lesser extent cersei (jaime makes this association in affc. also her whole prophecy thing is very Stranger coded imo). you could even make a case for brienne and jaime (I'm writing a whole Thing about jaime's gender failings so that's why I'm including him here but don't worry about it) if you choose to read Lady Stoneheart as a representation of The Stranger, her being this agent of death who is also sometimes reffered to as The Silent Sister (cat also has this moment in I believe acok where she talks about the silent sisters and how she envies their ability to connect with the dead but I digress). fuck you could even make a case for sam and his connection to the white walkers plotline!

The Faith of the Seven is such a gendered institution I think it's pretty amazing that george included this genderless entity that is both feared and misunderstood by most followers of said religion and seen as an outsider then proceded to associate it (them? what pronouns does The Stranger use in the original text?) with characters who are ostracized by westerosi society for falling somewhere outside traditional gender expectations.

which could mean nothing

[idkwhatever580]

Baby No!

Pairings: Natasha Romanoff x Reader

Prompt: Reader finds a mug identical to Natasha's favorite mug and starts plotting...

Warnings: Fake tears, broken glass, swearing, kind of mandala effect, karma? (I don't believe in karma, but it's the easiest way to explain it.

A/N: Hey guys! I feel like I haven't made a serious post in forever and I am having some serious writers block with the requests (I'm so super-duper sorry about that) But I always feel like after writing a few pranks, I get into the gist of things again. However, I might be fooling myself this time since I think I have a 2,000-word essay due next week that I haven't started on and a 1,000-word essay possibly 1,500 words due the following week, so yeah. T-T

Also, this was inspired by that one masc lesbian tiktoker named Alaire. They make a bunch of videos reenacting scenes with their girlfriend who has only ever dated men. They always go like "baby no!" when their gf is crying or about to cry lol.

It was just a normal day for you, driving home from buying groceries and you impulsively decided to stop at your local thrift store to see if they had anything new.

They knew you buy name and saved what they thought would interest you because you frequented their shop so much. You literally got first pick on most of the items they had solely because they love you so much.

So, as you stroll in, you smile and wave at the owner who waves back and nods her head to signal that there is new stuff in the back waiting for you to inspect.

You smile and walk right past all of the racks and shelves that you've sifted through a hundred times before, and you walk into the back and wave at Mary, the sorter.

You walk to your section that they labeled and you immediately frown, you spot a mug that you know.

It's Natasha's favorite mug. The mug has cute handle and was the only one that you could ever find. So, you walk over to it and pick it up wondering if it ended up in the box of things that you donated, possibly on accident. Although you could have sworn Nat was using it just the other day.

You roll your eyes picking it up and remembering that you have cold groceries in the car, you decide that you need to go. While taking it to the register, you decide not to mention anything to Kevin, the cashier, because they would probably give it back to you for free and you hate to leave them without buying a single thing.

You pay for the mug and take it home. Once you get back, you quietly wash the mug and go to put it in its usual spot, but you find that the mug is already there. You have a moment where your brain is stuck trying to put the pieces together, but when it clicks that you just bought a duplicate to the unique mug that Natasha loves so dearly, you start plotting.

You smirk and run upstairs knowing that Nat is in training for another hour or so and you quickly grab the fake blood from your period prank with Nat.

You know that Nat will probably come in on the first floor, and you chill in the basement, where Nat has coincidentally found her mug from you forgetting to put it back after stealing it. You check the time and calculate how long you have.

15 minutes... that's enough time for you to glue a fragment of the dupe coffee mug to your hand mostly carefully so you don't actually cut yourself and pour the blood in a way that it is dripping down your arm from your hand.

Once you are sure it looks amazing from every angle, you smirk and set up the camera. Which probably would have been easier to do with two hands but whatever. You like to do things the hard way sometimes.

Natasha comes in and yells out, "Y/n! I'm home!"

You yelp out pretending to be startled by her voice and you drop the mug on the floor.

Natasha hears the familiar crash of shattering ceramic and runs down to check on you saying, "Y/n? Are you alright?"

You fake a worried face and tone, "Yes! I'm fine baby! Just whatever you do, don't come down here!"

She frowns, "I need to make sure you are okay, I'm coming down okay?"

"Baby No!"

It's too late, she is already rushing down the stairs to check on you, the first thing she sees when she scans the room is you cowering in the middle of the floor with shattered ceramic pieces all around you and one big shard in your hand, "Y/n! Oh my god!"

She runs over, careful not to kick any ceramic pieces around, and carefully takes your hand in hers, "What happened detka?"

She looks into your eyes and you make your lip quiver and your eyes fill with tears as she tries to hush you, "No baby, its okay, please don't cry."

You let a few tears slip and say, "but- but you- I-" Your eyes widen as you look down and say, "Nat please don't be mad!"

She furrows her eyebrows reaching in the closet quickly to grab a first aid kit as she sits you on a table to assess your hand.

You frown and rush out, "I was drinking with your mug and then you scared me, and I dropped it and broke your favorite mug!"

She freezes when she realizes exactly what mug you have stabbing into your hand right now, but only briefly. She quickly composes herself and shakes her head, "I don't care baby, mugs are replaceable, you are not."

You quickly smirk at the camera when she looks away but recover when she comes back. She sets up her stuff and stops to look up into your eyes, "Detka? I know this isn't your first rodeo, but this is probably going to hurt like a bitch. I still need you to sit still though, okay?"

You nod your head as she starts to carefully wipe the blood off to try and assess the wound and how many stitches you'll need.

She frowns, "This looks like it should be deeper, but I think it is only superficial. That is a good thing, it means you might not have to go to Bruce, but I'm going to need to take the ceramic shard out before I make any final decisions."

You nod your head, but as she goes to pull it out slowly you yelp and pull your hand away before she can even touch it, "I'm scared! What if I bleed out?"

She shakes her head and holds yours in her hands, "You're not going to bleed out, I promise. If I was worried about that, I would have already taken you to the Med-bay, okay? I just need you to trust me. Take a deep breath, okay?"

You inhale and exhale slowly, and then bring your hand over to hers and nod your head.

When Natasha pulls the cut shard off of your hand though, she sees that it was glued on, and your hand underneath it is completely fine. When you see confusion cross her features, you start giggling, and not long after you are laughing your ass off.

She makes the connection, and her face drops to a glare. "Are you kidding me? I was so concerned about how the hell you even got a piece of ceramic this big into your hand in the first place, and you were just pranking me the whole time?"

You giggle and nod your head, but you forget to tell her about the duplicate mug scenario, so she frowns and says, "Did you seriously break my mug for a prank?"

After thinking about it, you decide to double prank her and nod your head laughing even more, but you realize you crossed the line when she drops down and slowly starts picking up every piece she can, and she starts trying to place them together.

Obviously, this doesn't work, and it crumbles to pieces again, but she sniffs a bit, and you realize the gravity of the situation. You place a hand on her shoulder, and she shrugs you off, so you try to talk to her, "Baby? I'm sorry, okay? I didn't realize it meant that much."

She shakes her head and mumbles out, "My sestra got that mug for me. It was the second thing she ever bought for herself once she got out of the red room, and she gave it to me. She- she's going to be heartbroken when she finds out it's broken. I'm heartbroken that it is broken." She lets a tear fall and then composes herself.

"Wow, I- I never knew, I'm so sorry. Can't we just find one on ebay or something?"

Nat lets out a frustrated huff and stands up and she starts cleaning the glass off the floor as she rants, "No! I can't find one on ebay, don't you think I've tried? Don't you think I know how clumsy and stupid you are, and was trying to be prepared for a situation like this to happen because you never ever listened to me when I told you not to touch my mug, but you're Y/N so you have to break the rules! I just didn't realize that the reason I would need such a duplicate would be because you are so careless and awful that you'd break this!"

Your jaw drops a bit at her rant, and you try to find words as Nat huffs and starts calming her breathing. You are a little hurt by her words which, on one side, you don't have a right to be hurt because you are the one that wanted to do a prank, but on the other hand, Nat just admitted that she never initially trusted you with her mug which really hurts. "I- I don't know what to say..."

Nat sighs and mumbles, "Look, I'm sorry, okay? I am just frustrated and I-"

You put your hand up to stop her and move to open a drawer and grab the original mug. You hold it in your hands, "I found a mug that looked exactly like yours at the thrift store today. I thought it would be some harmless fun to smash the duplicate one and prank you, but I'm realizing that I may have taken it too far."

You try to not let the fact that you are incredibly hurt show, but you are not the black widow or anything, so you just start on your own rant. "I know it was heartless and cruel of me to play this kind of prank on you. In my defense you never told me the story behind the mug, so I didn't realize how much it meant to you. Now... I am very sorry that I broke the duplicate on purpose, but here is your precious mug that you clearly don't trust my clumsy ass with. And most of all, I'm sorry that you never trusted me enough with it in the first place, so much so, that you thought you had to find it online so that I wouldn't hurt your precious mug."

You softly, but firmly, push the original mug into Natasha's hand and step back. You turn to go upstairs and inevitably lock yourself in the bathroom or something, but Nat says, "Y/n wait! I- I didn't mean it, I was just angry, okay? People say things that they don't mean when they get angry."

You huff and turn around and hold up your pointer finger, "No Natasha, you’re lying to me, want to know how I know that you are lying? Natasha Romanoff does not say hurtful things when she gets angry. Maybe I do, maybe Yelena and Tony and Steve and Alexie and so many others do, but not Natasha. No..."

You pause and start using every name in the book you can come up with, "Natalie Rushman stays calm and collected when she is angry, Fanny Longbottom takes a step back and thinks before she speaks, Natalia Romanova is calculative and smooth with her words. So, no... Do not tell me that MY Natalia Alianovna Romanova has suddenly had a change of heart, and suddenly starts spewing nonsense that she doesn't mean when she is angry, because that is a lie. The Nat I know, has more self-control than anyone on this earth, the Talia I know does not say something that she doesn't mean unless she knows I will catch her joke or understand her sarcasm, the Natty I know doesn't lie for things like this. So don't go and say something just to make me feel better after you spoke your truth, even if it did hurt my feelings..."

You take a deep breath and look deep into her eyes, "And before you say it, I know I have no right to be hurt over how you felt when I broke your mug, but you and I both know it goes so much deeper than just a mug. I get why you were angry and frustrated, I really do, and I understand why you said those hurtful things, you had every right to do it. Those hurtful things were at least truthful, I just wish you didn't feel the need to lie to save my peace. I wish you'd have told me that you didn't trust me with something that meant so much to you. It probably would have saved a lot of hurt."

She opens and closes her mouth to try and come up with something. Anything. She sighs eventually and nods her head, “you’re right. I should have just told you, it’s no excuse but I thought it would be better if I kept it a secret, but now I see that I was wrong. I'm sorry baby."

You hum and say, "Honestly, I'd have done the same thing. So, sorry for getting all pissy about it, you were just trying to look out for me, but unfortunately it was a lose-lose situation for the both of us." Thankfully, your ADHD brain jumps topics swiftly when there is an awkward pause, and you say, "I'm hungry. Are you hungry? Let's make dinner!"

You both go upstairs and start cooking y'alls dinner and live happily ever after. ;)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: Hey guys, so this has been in my drafts for a few weeks now, and I am just really trying to get it out to y'all, so it is super rushed at the end. I honestly don't even remember where I was going with it, but I had enough to bullshit it. I hope y'all like it!

Also, I am going to stop writing for a while, I think college is really catching up to me, and honestly, I am only apologizing to the people who I promised I'd write their fics. I really got in over my head and I am so so sorry. If I end up writing those fics, it is definitely going to be a surprise for the both of us. I might write a few things every now and then, or if your request can be shortened then I might do that. BUT that is only if I am inspired to write. Once again, I do apologize for breaking a promise, but I have to prioritize myself and I can't apologize for that.

Also Also, I have not been super active on tumblr recently, so if I don't reply or I am not interacting with your posts as I usually would, I am okay, and I pinky promise I am not going to do anything concerning. Maybe I break my normal promises, but you best believe I hold true to my pinky promises.

Masterlist

Taglist

@ilovesnat @ihartnat @marvelnatasha12346 @moistblobfish @justarandomreaderxoxo @lovelyy-moonlight @symp4nat @ale-estrabao @mrsrushman @kkreader78o @cheekysnake

[theonlyqualitytrash]

Gramen ante falcem - Fyodor x Reader

Synopsys: "Муж и жена—одна Сатана." 

This is a story of desire and devotion, but not the kind sung about in hymns or sealed in sunlit chapels. He meets your need for safety, affection, and understanding in a way no one else ever has. That alone would be enough to cause dependence. But he doesn’t stop there. He never condemns you for your “sinful” feelings. Instead, he rewards them, affirms them, redeems them. Where others might shame, he sanctifies. He becomes both priest and savior in the private cathedral of your longing.

This is not a redemption arc.

Warnings/Tags: Fem!Reader, cult themes, religious trauma, psychological/emotional manipulation, emotional codependency, loss of agency, symbolic cannibalism, breeding kink, pregnancy, miscarriage, soft body horror, blood mentions, smut, MC has anxiety/low self esteem, emotional manipulation, power imbalance, mild gore.

Please read with caution and take care of your mental well-being. If any of these themes are distressing to you, proceed carefully or consider skipping this fic.

A/N: Writing this made me realize I desperately need to write a canon Fyodor wedding—something softer, with fewer cults and more mutual sanity. And also an MC who has some spine (affectionately). Anyway, here’s a fun game: take a shot every time I use the word reverent.

Word count: 21,000

One thing you will always remember from your parents is the lesson to not judge a book by its cover. It is a shallow thing to do, and it says more about you than the person you're judging. But never trust blindly, either. People, in general, are built on opposites: born to do good, but stained by the ease of evil. They find sadness in happiness. They kill each other for love.

So, judging is survival, and first impressions are everything.

Fyodor knew that. He could not afford to mess this up. He would not.

You've met two and a half years ago. At first glance, he was warm—but not overly so. Calm and restrained, but never distant; never distant with you with you, that is. He was just a kind stranger who frequented the same corners of the city as you did. A quiet constant in a world full of noise.

Soon after your first meeting, you learned he'd grown up in a secluded mountain town in Russia. He had come here, he said, to see what else life could offer. He spoke to you softly, almost fondly, like his words were secrets meant only for your ears. He told you about his home and how he still missed it sometimes. How he wrote letters to his parents—old, gentle people that were untouched by the world of screens and satellites. You knew that was true; you saw the careful way he wrote their names when he let you come with him to the post office on quiet afternoons.

Sometimes, you read together. It was never planned, but somehow, he was always there, a book in hand, whether he was reading it or simply holding it, like an old prayer.

Fyodor was magnetic, and he knew.

Maybe it was his smile, that small curve of reverence directed at you when you spoke. Or his eyes, dark and bottomless, searching. Or maybe it was something you couldn't name—something not from this world. Something divine, like a presence that made you ache before you even understood why.

Being around him reminded you of how alone you truly were. Not lonely—at least, not always. But there was a quiet pressure in your heart, like a longing for something more. Something this world could not offer, not in its noise, or in its mess.

What began as curiosity quickly bloomed into infatuation.

When Fyodor cracked you open, he found exactly what he expected: a heart too full, too deep and too bruised. You were born to feel everything, and the world had called it too much. You were grass before the scythe—delicate and yielding, too easily cut down by yourself when they couldn't bear your softness.

But he could. He saw the ache beneath your gentleness, and he would not let you be trampled by a world too brutal to deserve you. 

No, it was always only a matter of time. Of course it was. He would bring you to the mountains, to the quiet cradle of the peaks, where no blade could reach you, where no hand but his could touch you. From there, you could both watch the world burn. Together, untouched and at peace.

He would save you. There was never any doubt. 

He saw the way you tiptoed through the world, terrified of breaking the ground beneath your feet. How words felt too sharp in your mouth, so you chose silence instead. Your voice, a soft, hesitant, uncertain thing, was a sound he craved. You'd speak while looking away, eyes downturned, biting the inside of your cheek like it could anchor you beneath the weight of his gaze.  

Where others saw mess, he saw meaning. Where they saw too much, he saw depth. 

The easy part was courting you. 

Traditionally, for him, it would have been an entire process. His mother or father would’ve visited your family’s home—never directly speaking of marriage, but circling around it in riddles and old-world phrases. The custom dictated that the first few visits ended in polite refusals, the conversation little more than a poetic dance: 

“Our gander is looking for a goose. Might you have seen one?” 

And the answers came back just as cryptic, full of metaphors and gentle deflections. 

But none of that happened. Because your parents, to put it simply, didn’t care.

Or perhaps they did—in their distant, conditional way. As long as you didn’t end up in the hospital spending their money, they considered your life your own to manage. Their disinterest wasn’t cruel. It was something worse: hollow. Polite. The kind of absence you couldn’t point at, but always felt. And that absence carved a space in you—and it was perfect for Fyodor fill it, fully and forever.

To him, it explained everything. The way you hesitated before asking for help, the way you ignored your body until it collapsed, and the way you apologized for resting. He saw how much you'd never been taught, how much care had been withheld from you under the guise of independence.

When you spoke of them, your voice flat, eyes trying not to gloss over, he listened. And he added it, quietly, to his growing list of reasons to save you. 

And your so called friends... ah, don’t even get him started. They didn’t understand you. But he did. He remembered the way your voice trembled, as if trying to mask your heartbreak, when you told him what happened. How you had poured your soul out to someone you trusted. How you shared something precious, something that made your chest swell with meaning. Only to receive an “You’re thinking too much.” Again and again.  

And so it came to be cemented into his brain that he would take you away. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere holy. Somewhere you could finally breathe. And he would make you happy. Oh, he would. 

He would take you back, even if it took a decade. And of course—he would take his time. Rushing would spoil the beauty of it. Spoil you. He needed you to come willingly, gently.

It was in the first year of knowing him that he asked for you to be his partner. 

You, soft and naive, nearly came undone at the seams. How could someone so brilliant, so careful, so kind want you? It felt like something out of a dream you never dared to have. And you swore then, that you would cherish this man, however long he stayed in your life. 

You didn’t know, of course, that Fyodor had no intention of letting you go.

Your life together unfolded slowly, carefully, like bricks being laid with deliberate hands. One after the other. Mortar. Patience. A foundation carved from certainty. When fear crept in, especially in the hollow hours of the night, he would be there. Whispering reassurances. Gently reminding you of your worth. Or rather, the worth he saw in you. And compared to everyone else in your life? It was sky high. 

His parents visited only once. 

You understood—they were in their seventies, not accustomed to travel, especially not by plane. But when they arrived, it felt like something sacred. Like something soft being placed into your hands. They welcomed you as their own, with no hesitation or judgement. Just warmth.

And when you tried to speak to them in your broken Russian, fumbling syllables with trembling lips, they didn’t laugh. They corrected you gently, tenderly. Their eyes glimmered with pride. With acceptance. 

It was like nothing you had ever received from your parents. And it wrapped around your heart like a prayer you didn’t know you’d been waiting to hear. 

He had originally planned to wait longer. Years, maybe. Patience was in his blood. But watching you fracture beneath the weight of a world that had no place for you... that changed things. You needed saving, and he would not wait while the storm pulled you under. So, he proposed.  

It wasn’t grand. There were no fireworks, no elaborate gestures. Just the two of you, tucked into a quiet corner of a national park—hidden from the world, as always. The sun was dipping low, casting the sky in hues that looked painted by hand. Gold bleeding into rose and then into purple. A masterpiece meant for no one else. 

He got down on one knee. 

No speech. No rehearsed promises. Just a small black velvet box in his hands, and a smile that pulled something deep from your chest. 

He didn’t need to ask. Your answer was already there, in the way your hands trembled, in the tears catching light in your lashes. 

You dropped to your knees in front of him. Your lips found his cheek, soft and chaste, as the tears came in earnest. You couldn’t stop them—not that you wanted to. 

This man. This wonderful man. He wanted you.

“Oh, my darling Fedya,” you whispered, voice cracking between kisses. “Yes. Yes! A million times, yes.” 

He didn’t hesitate. Of course he didn’t. He already had a handkerchief waiting. A soft, embroidered square he used to dab your tears with a touch so tender it made you cry harder. “You shine even more when you're crying,” he murmured with a smile, as if it were the simplest truth in the world. 

The way he saw you in that moment... it was everything you’d ever longed for. You, undone. You, adored. Even in your vulnerability, especially in your vulnerability, he offered reassurance like it was scripture. 

He kissed your forehead, slow and lingering. Then he took your right hand, and with fingers that never once trembled, slipped the ring into place. It fit. Of course it did. The weight of it felt familiar. Almost like it had always belonged there. 

His beautiful bride to be. 

Then came the planning. You both agreed to do it in a way that honored you both. First, a civil marriage—just a quiet signing of papers before your family. It was a formality more than anything, a gesture of obligation. Not love. Not celebration. Merely proof to show your parents that this was a long term commitment.

After that, you would fly to Russia for the true wedding—a religious ceremony in Fyodor’s hometown, surrounded by the people who mattered. His parents, his roots. Their age it made it difficult for them to travel for the civil part, and truthfully, that suited you just fine. Because the second wedding was the one that felt real.

The civil ceremony was small, very small. He wore his suit, you wore your white dress. Present were your parents, a few acquaintances from work, a handful of friends, the legal officiant, and the two required witnesses. Everything felt… awkward. Off. Like you were both standing in someone else’s memory. 

You stood side by side in a sterile room: white walls, grey chairs, a clock ticking far too loudly. And in that moment, it all felt forced. Like you were marrying this man out of convenience. Like this was a quiet escape disguised as devotion. And maybe this was an escape. No—no, that couldn’t be right. You loved Fyodor. 

You stole a glance at his profile as you stood in front of the officiant—his calm expression, the patience resting in his features, the quiet devotion that never demanded anything too loudly. He was the man who asked for your hand because he loved you. So you had to love him too. That was how it worked. This wasn’t convenience. 

This wasn’t about running from loneliness. 

It couldn’t be. 

Even if he was the first man who had ever looked at you and really seen you. 

Even if he was the first who showed care. 

The first who stayed. 

…No. This was real. 

This was genuine. 

You didn’t marry him because you were afraid of dying alone. 

The officiant’s voice rang hollow in your ears, distant and weightless. Your hands moved mechanically as you signed the platinum paper. Black ink spread down across the neatly printed lines—each stroke another thread binding you to Fyodor. Yours came out angular, sharp, like the pen didn’t quite belong in your hand. His signature curved across the page like a quiet declaration: smooth, certain, as if he were signing a love letter instead of a contract.  

And then it was done. 

You and Fyodor, partners and lovers, until death do you part. 

And the kiss. Maybe it was the atmosphere numbing you, or the sterile air of the room, or the hollow ring of your name spoken by someone who didn’t know how to say it with warmth. The kiss passed too quickly—you didn’t even have time to respond. Just a brush, a formality, as if affection were too sacred to share in front of these people. 

Fyodor smiled down at you, and the expression was soft, oh so gentle it made your chest tighten. There was a small cruelty in the way he withheld, offering you only a fleeting kiss you couldn’t hold onto.

“Is something the matter, dearest?” he murmured, low enough for only you to hear. He didn’t turn toward the sound of your friends cheering, or your parents’ stiff, performative applause. It was all for show, and he had never cared for theatrics. 

You shook your head, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “No, no... I just, I just wished it was longer,” you whispered, the words folding in on themselves. Maybe a longer kiss would have softened the edge of your parents’ indifference. Maybe it would have made the moment feel more real. They would’ve been more excited to watch paint dry than witness their own child get married. Yeah... a distraction would’ve been good. 

Distraction? 

Were you using Fyodor as a distraction? 

From the silence in your home? From the way your life had been so terribly lacking? 

No. No. You loved him. You did. 

Truly. Wholly. 

This wasn’t about convenience. You weren’t using him. 

You weren’t. 

As consolation, Fyodor pressed another kiss to your lips—this one softer, more lingering, as if he knew your thoughts were tangled in a web of doubts again. When he finally pulled away, his fingers, delicate and sure, brushed a stray lock of hair from your face, his touch a silent promise of reassurance.  

“Quiet your mind, my dear,” he murmured, his voice low and soothing. “I apologize for not kissing you more thoroughly... remind me to make up for that when we’re home.” The hint of a smile played on his lips, knowing exactly how he made you feel.  

Your heart raced, cheeks flushed with a warmth that crept all the way to the tips of your ears, and you turned away quickly, unwilling to face the heat building inside you. It was too much—the way he effortlessly drew you in, made you feel both small and cherished, like he was the sun and you were just a leaf drawn irresistibly into its orbit. 

You couldn’t admit it out loud, not the way you wanted him, the way your body ached for him. It was too embarrassing, too consuming to even think about saying, but his presence? His eyes? His perfect mouth... it was all too tempting. Too undeniable. God made him so beautiful.

With a deep breath, you turned to face the gathering, trying to steady yourself, but the façade before you was cold, distant. You let out a shaky sigh, and in the dim light of the moment, you grasped Fyodor’s hand, your anchor. His warmth bled into you, grounding you, and for a heartbeat, it felt as if nothing else mattered.  

With him, the world outside could vanish; when everything else was lost, there would always be him. His voice a lullaby that would hold you close and remind you that you are his soul to keep. He will be all that you need, your wide eyes oblivious to everything. Everything but him. 

The ceremony was over, the legalities completed, and there you stood, married. But as the guests began to disperse, and the buzz of the celebration began to fade, your parents approached you with a sense of finality, almost as if the day’s events were nothing more than a business transaction. 

Your father handed you an envelope, the weight of it in your hands unsettling. You hesitated for a moment, staring at it, the gold seal on it shimmering in the light. Your mother stood beside him, arms crossed, eyes distant.

“This is for you,” your father said, his voice flat. “A sum for your future, from us.” 

You opened the envelope slowly, the thick paper crinkling beneath your fingers. Inside was a substantial amount of money, far more than you’d expected. It felt surreal, like something meant for someone else. Someone still tethered to that life. 

Your mother’s voice followed, calm and clinical. “This should cover what you need going forward. Now that you’re married, there’s really nothing left to discuss.” There was no spite in it. No overt cruelty. Just a quiet finality, the kind that doesn’t beg for understanding. The kind that doesn’t care if you’re hurt. 

The envelope hung heavy in your hands, more than money: it was severance. Payment for a daughter they no longer intended to know. You were a transaction, an obligation completed. Nothing more. Their eyes barely lingered on you as they turned away, leaving you standing there. 

For a moment, all you could hear was the dull thudding of your heartbeat in your chest. You glanced at Fyodor and hoped your mascara wasn’t runny—his presence beside you was a comfort, but also a reminder of what had just happened. What you had just become. His eyes were fixed on you, unreadable, but not cold. There was a softness there, something close to pity or pride or both. His hand brushed against yours, grounding you in the moment, but the air still felt heavy. Thick with the realization that you had been cut loose. Severed and abandoned in a way you couldn’t yet name, let alone comprehend.

The flight to his homeland was not what you’d expected. Two hand rollers, clothes for the season, and Fyodor’s steady presence, yes, but everything felt too perfect.

No long lines, no delays, not even a wrong order at the café. Everything unfolded with eerie precision, like the world had smoothed itself out just for you.

Was this how the honeymoon phase should feel like?

Fyodor watched you sip your drink, his expression content, almost knowing. He told you not to pack too much—his parents had already prepared your wedding clothes. Everything would be ready when you arrived.

It struck you as deeply thoughtful. Not only were they paying for the ceremony, they had chosen your dress. Entrusted you with their customs. And Fyodor—Fyodor had entrusted you with his culture. With his name.

You found yourself wondering how it would all play out. A few quiet weeks—get married, take a longer honeymoon, as Fyodor had suggested with a warm smile, then settle down. Time wasn’t an issue. Money wasn’t an issue. His parents wanted you to stay for a while.

And so it was off the plane, into a cab, then a long drive into the mountains. The roads twisted higher and higher, and the trees grew taller, older, like they had been watching the road longer than anyone who drove it. You rested your head on Fyodor’s shoulder as the landscape blurred past in shades of green and stone.

His arm around you was still the best part of the journey.

When you stepped onto the bricked road, something shifted inside you. It wasn’t like the roads in the city—this path felt quieter. Worn by time but never weary. There was peace here, something welcoming in the air, like the land itself had parted, waiting for you. One hand clutched your roller, the other rested in Fyodor’s, steady and warm as always. You walked together, your steps echoing between the stone homes.

His village was tucked into the embrace of the mountains. A quiet settlement with roofs pitched against snowfall, walls of wood and stone built to endure. Narrow brick and dirt paths wound like veins through the heart of it, leading always to the great church that loomed at the center.

Fyodor had spoken of three old women before. He called them the grandmothers of the community—not his grandmothers, but everyone’s. His voice softened when he spoke of them, almost reverent. He said their presence was a blessing. That where he came from, age was not feared, but honoured. These women had lived through storms, through births and burials, through the burning of old chapels and the building of new altars. Their wisdom was not questioned. It was followed.

And now, they were waiting at the church steps.

The women stood together, as though carved from a single thought. Sisters by blood, and by something older. The first had white, clouded eyes—she saw what others could not. The second, her head wrapped tightly to cover her ears, tilted toward you, as if listening to the sound your soul made. The third stood silent, her mouth sewn delicately shut with white thread. Her mind, they said, held too many things to speak, and so she had chosen silence instead.

Together, they saw all evil, heard all evil, and kept it away through their devotion. They were not cold. They were not frightening. They were warm in the way fire is warm—ritualistic, steady, and ancient.

The deaf sister stepped forward first, her voice a mere murmur, soft praises in Russian, her words flowing in a rhythmic lullaby. Her fingers brushed through the air, tracing a quiet path around you, as if mapping a silent blessing. She glanced at Fyodor briefly, her eyes softened by something deeper than respect—almost an unspoken understanding. Then, as though waiting for a signal, she turned back to you, her presence both calm and reverent.

The blind sister followed, moving with the grace of someone attuned to every subtle vibration around her. Her hand reached out, fingers lightly grazing your skin, searching for something deeper. As her palm rested against your forearm, you felt the weight of her touch, a lingering sensation, as though she could read the truth of you through the delicate hum of your pulse. She said nothing, her silence more profound than words.

And then the mute sister approached. Without speaking, she placed a small folded note into your hands. The Cyrillic letters on the page were graceful, etched with care, though unreadable to you. The weight of the paper pressed into your palm, heavy with meaning. You lifted your gaze to Fyodor, your uncertainty clear.

He took the note from your trembling hands, his fingers brushing yours in an intimate gesture. His other hand slipped into yours again, warm, possessive, grounding.

“We are blessed,” he whispered, his voice a soft murmur just for you, his words wrapping around you like a protective embrace. “That our Fedorushka,” he paused, an amused smile tugged at the corners of his lips, he was not bashful of the nickname, “has found such a wonderful soul. We are happy to have you here.”

His eyes flicked down to the paper once more, his fingers moving over the note as if it held something he could not yet fully grasp, but his gaze softened with every passing second. When he looked back at you, there was a warmth in his eyes, simmering with the unspoken bond between you two.

“It seems to me, my dearest, that you are welcomed here with open arms.” he continued, his voice laced with something both tender and commanding.

Your eyes gleamed, and your heart throbbed with something unfamiliar but deeply rooted. They wanted you here. You. Not as an outsider, not as a guest, but as someone who belonged. It echoed within you louder than anything your parents had ever said. You couldn’t help the smile blooming on your face, quiet and aching.

“I’m glad…” you whispered, as though speaking louder would shatter the fragile grace of the moment. 

That night, you slept apart. 

Fyodor’s explanation came with that same gentle, coaxing tone he reserved just for you. It was tradition, he said—an act of reverence, not distance. His village didn’t recognize the civil ceremony as a true union. The real wedding would come, and until then, being alone together would be seen as giving in to temptation, allowing the sin of lust to stain something sacred. 

"Distance makes the heart grow fonder, my dear. Does it not?" he murmured with a soft smile, brushing your knuckles with his lips before leaving. “And abstaining is a gift. An offering of restraint, in honor of the bond we’re about to seal.” 

You didn’t argue. You didn’t want to. You watched him go, a hollowness blooming quietly in your chest. It's reverence, you told yourself. Not rejection. Never that—he never rejected you, only preserved you. Protected what was his. 

The next morning arrived dressed in gold and promise. The village was alive with movement, every doorstep spilling into the streets with arms full of fabric, food, and flowers. It felt like something out of a dream—like the whole community had placed their hands on your wedding, molding it together like sacred clay. Every glance you received was reverent. They didn’t just look at you; they saw you. And when they looked at Fyodor, their eyes shimmered with trust, devotion, even awe. 

You turned to him as you both watched the bustle from the threshold of a house. “They’re really doing all of this for us?” you asked, half breathless. 

He nodded, voice low and calm, like running water. “Here, dearest, a wedding is not just a private affair. It’s a celebration of the whole community. Think of it as a testament to unity and to divine love. Our happiness becomes theirs.” 

You smiled again, softer this time. His community—a tightknit family bound by shared faith and quiet rituals—was happy for him. For you. For both of you. And you couldn’t help but feel the warmth of being cared for like this, not just by him, but by all of them. 

Now you understood why he wanted to bring you here, to this place nestled between mountains and myth. It wasn’t just about having a wedding; it was about offering you a piece of his world, of him. His family, his past, his traditions. A glimpse into what shaped him. You were being invited in, allowed to brush against the marrow of who he was. And perhaps, letting you weave your lonely, fragile little heart around him tighter.

It hit you then, the weight of it, and your eyes gazed at him. At his sharp cheekbones, his patient gaze, the quiet gravity he carried like a second skin—and without thinking, your lips pressed to his. 

A gasp echoed around the square. The kind of silence that follows a snapped string. Before you could even process what you’d done, his mother had rushed forward, her movements quick despite her age, hands trembling as she stepped between you two and gently pulled you apart. 

You blinked at Fyodor, then at her, confusion flooding your face. Your heart plummeted, landing somewhere cold and distant. Did you do something wrong again? 

Her voice came in fragmented English, laced with Russian, eyes wide with genuine concern. “Нельзя… kiss before wedding... Плохая примета, bad sign…” 

Heat clawed up your neck like wildfire, and your stomach twisted. You felt too large, too clumsy in your own skin, the shame blooming sharp and stinging in your chest. You didn’t know. Of course you didn’t know. Your hands began to tremble, the blood in your veins turned to static. A breath hitched—tight, shallow. The moment cracked like thin glass beneath your feet. 

Were you already ruining it? Would they take this as a sign you didn’t belong? 

Before the spiral could swallow you, Fyodor was there. Always there. “My dear,” he said softly, his voice a whisper anchored in warmth. “I am here.” 

His hand found yours and held it firmly. You could barely meet his eyes, but he saw everything. The storm behind your ribs. The way your thoughts turned against you. How even the smallest things curled inward like shameful secrets. 

“You did nothing wrong. You didn’t know,” he murmured, brushing his thumb across your knuckles. “And now you do. That is all.” 

You nodded—barely—and turned to his mother. Your pulse thundered in your ears. Your throat felt tight, but you forced the words out, trembling and low. “Я… я извиняюсь… пожалуйста—” 

You couldn’t finish. The knot in your throat was too tight, the weight of eyes and expectation pressing too heavy. 

I deeply apologize. Please, forgive me. Please. Please. Please. Please— 

Fyodor’s hand moved gently to your back, guiding you a step closer. “…простите её, мама,” he said, warm and steady. He did not shield you. He stood beside you, close, steady and grounding, so you could be seen. 

His mother’s eyes lingered on your face for a moment. You could feel her searching—not for perfection, but for sincerity. Then her face softened, a quiet nod of understanding passing between you. The tension broke; not entirely, but enough to let you take a full breath again. 

Then, wordlessly, his mother cupped your cheek, guiding your face gently down to meet her lips on your forehead. The kiss was brief, but it spoke the language of forgiveness, of acceptance. It was the kind of kiss that felt like a promise, that regardless of the mistake, there was love here. Real love. Not like your parents’ love. Not out of duty or obligation, but something deeper, something that wrapped itself around you and held you in place. 

They loved you. Not out of convenience, but because you were you. Because you were the one who would stand beside their son. His soon to be bride. 

Later that day, with your nerves slightly quieted and the edges of your uncertainty dulled, you made your way to the fitting for the wedding dress. When you saw it, your breath caught in your chest. The dress was nothing like the ones you’d seen in storefront windows back home. There was no glittering white tulle or trailing silk. Instead, it was heavy with meaning, each thread a whispered prayer, each fold a tradition reborn. 

It wasn’t just a dress; it was a piece of art, woven from years of tradition and patience. The kind of craftsmanship that took time to master, that asked for devotion, something you could never have imagined. As your fingers brushed over it, you felt the weight of all that history and love, all that care that had gone into making something so beautiful for you. 

The fabric was a muted ivory, handwoven linen stiff with embroidery, the craftsmanship was immediately apparent—each stitch a delicate testament to care and reverence. Crimson threads snaked around the hem and cuffs in swirling patterns of vines and flowers. 

Around your waist, a ceremonial sash was wrapped three times and knotted with careful hands. Red for blood, white for spirit. The women told you, in hushed voices, that the knot was to protect your womb and bind your soul to your husband’s. 

Your head was crowned with a kokoshnik, a headdress of white and gold. The intricate patterns of the embroidery caught the light, the shining threads curling like fire against the muted ivory of your dress.

The kokoshnik was no simple adornment; it was a symbol—one of status, unity, and transformation. The gold threads spiraled, each stitch carrying meaning, a binding, not only to Fyodor but to this life you were stepping into. 

A single sprig of rue was tucked into the back—it was a tiny symbol of protection against envy. 

In that moment, you wondered what it truly meant to be loved. You thought of your parents—the money they handed over, the silence between you, and then you thought of Fyodor’s parents, their quiet gestures, and the warmth you could feel in the delicate folds of the wedding dress they gave you.

When you asked for Fyodor, hoping for his approval or to see his reaction, you were gently coaxed back into place. You didn’t understand all the words, but the meaning behind them was clear: "stop" and "bad luck."

Later, when Fyodor heard what had happened, he only chuckled softly. He explained that tradition forbade the bride and groom from seeing one another in their wedding clothes before the ceremony. To do so would invite misfortune. 

You understood. There were so many differences between this place and the world you came from—so many things to learn, to accept, to absorb. The customs, the rituals… they were pieces of the love you had chosen. Pieces of him. 

And in their structure, you could find comfort. In their repetition, security. If this love demanded something as small as patience, as mystery, then you would offer it freely. 

Because you couldn’t afford to lose it. 

You couldn’t afford to lose him. 

And the wedding. Oh, the wedding. The morning air was sharp with a crisp chill as the first rooster crowed, heralding the sun’s slow rise. The morning itself was a blend of quiet chaos and careful order, a flurry of activity, yet everything was moving with purpose. Your wedding, their celebration, and you—the guest of honor. They wouldn’t let you lift a finger. While eating, while dressing, while opening doors, you were treated as something divine, untouchable, as if you were holy, and beyond the reach of worldly concerns. 

The stone church welcomed you and Fyodor like an old friend, its ancient walls standing strong against the passage of time. The air was thick with history, and the light inside was dim, filtered through the stained glass windows, casting muted hues across the floor. You felt something you never thought possible—safe. Safe? That word had always eluded you, slipping through your fingers like sand, yet here, amidst these people, in this sacred space, it settled on your skin.

The church was hushed. No music accopanied you, no murmurs of delight or distant laughter. Only the soft crunch of salt beneath your bare feet; scattered across the stone floor in intricate patterns, too careful to be meaningless. 

Three women stood before you, robed in white linen veils that veiled their faces entirely. The deaf one, the blind one, the mute one, they were your silent guides. Each held a tall candle in front of her chest, the flames swaying with each of their slow steps. 

You walked behind them, your hands folded over your heart, feeling it pound through your fingertips. As you approached the altar, the scent of beeswax and smoke grew stronger. Fyodor waited at the end, his eyes never leaving you. There was reverence in his gaze, yes, but something more—something unreadable, like awe twisted with hunger.

He wore a long rubakha, a traditional white tunic shirt that fell past his thighs, its edges embroidered to match yours: flowers and black thorns. Over it, a deep red vest fastened with mother of pearl buttons. His sleeves were tied with ribbons the same crimson as your sash, knotted at the wrists, the ends trailing like bloodlines. 

A golden pin, an old, modest heirloom, was fastened to his chest in the shape of a cross, but not a crucifix. It was older, harsher, with sharp corners and ancient, unfamiliar symmetry. 

When you reached him, the veiled women drifted away like smoke, vanishing into the pews as if they’d never been there at all. Not a single word had been spoken since the ceremony began. Only breath, only movement, only the hush that blanketed the room.

The silence pressed against your skin, not harsh, but expectant. A test, perhaps—of your stillness, your obedience. You weren’t afraid. You had rehearsed every moment of this in your mind, over and over, until it became a prayer of its own.

But still, your heart stirred. Not with fear. No, never with fear, never when you were with him. Only the ache of awe. Fyodor, impossibly calm and beautiful in the way untouched things are beautiful. And somehow, still reassuring.

A woman approached: his mother, wrapped in a deep red shawl. In her hands she held your sash—now unwound from your dress and carefully laid across her palms. 

You extended your hand. Fyodor extended his. Your wrists met—palm to palm, skin to skin—and the fabric coiled around you both, slow and ceremonial. Once. Twice. Trice. With your free hand, you held your end of the sash and Fyodor took his. Together, you pulled. The knot cinched between you—firm, final, binding. Not uncomfortable. No, it felt right. Inevitable. As though your bodies had always been meant to be tethered this way. 

The guests began to whisper. Not words, but prayers. All of them at once. A low, choral murmur that echoed through the stone chamber like wind over a field. You could not pick out any one voice, nor any one phrase, just sound, like a lullaby hummed by the earth. 

Fyodor didn’t look at the knot. He looked at you. “You are mine,” he said softly, his breath warm against your cheek. “And I, yours.” 

You could only stare up at him in awe and love. No, this was not just a wedding, this was your soul, your very being, melting into him. You were not marrying into a family. 

You were being enshrined into it.  

With the knot sealed, you both kneeled together on a white square tarp. Your hand tighten on Fyodor’s. 

A clay bowl was passed between hands, slow and sacred. Inside: ash, fine and grey, smelling of burnt herbs and something older—myrrh, maybe. Another vessel followed it, this one carved of wood, filled with golden honey, viscous and shining in the candlelight. 

Fyodor’s mother took the ash first. She dipped her fingers into the bowl and touched it to your forehead in a cross, then again to Fyodor’s. 

“So you remember grief,” she whispered. 

Then she dipped another hand into the honey. This time she touched it gently beneath your lips, and then Fyodor’s. 

“So you choose sweetness, even when you could choose silence.” 

The room was breathless. It felt as if something larger than all of you was watching, as though the mountains themselves had bent to witness the vow. 

Fyodor didn’t blink. His voice was low, steady. “We will be devout,” he murmured, and you felt the honey sting where his words met your skin. Your lips parted instinctively, tasting the gentle authority in his kiss. His free hand cradled your cheek, and in that moment, you could no longer tell where his skin ended and yours began. All you could breathe, all you could feel in that moment, was him—his presence, his warmth, his taste. 

A vow passed between your lips, something too soft, too sacred to understand fully, but your soul understood, as your thoughts dissolved like smoke in the air. Everything that existed before was erased.

When you finally parted, your head spun, disoriented, like you’d been submerged too deep in his embrace. Fyodor, ever composed, wiped away the honey that clung to your lips with slow precision, and without thinking, you parted your lips in welcome, as if your body knew what it needed. His fingers slipped past your mouth, and you instinctively began to clean them, slowly, reverently. The heat unfurled in your stomach, pooling lower, making it impossible to ignore.

Why were you feeling like this? This was ritual, sacred, pure. You shouldn’t be so... affected. His fingers in your mouth, caressing the soft muscle of your tongue, applying just enough pressure to remind you of who is doing this to you. You should push these thoughts away, banish them, but they were there, igniting a fire within you that you couldn’t extinguish. 

Weak. Weak. Weak. You should be able to control yourself.  

When he pulled his fingers from your mouth, it left an ache that settled deep in your chest, like a piece of his soul had been torn away from yours. You were left hollow, a strange emptiness where once there was warmth. 

Then it was his turn. 

Fyodor’s grip on your wrist was gentle but unyielding, his fingers wrapping around the fragile skin and guiding your hand to his lips with a quiet command. You hesitated, taking a shaky breath, your hand trembling as you wiped the honey from his lips. It felt intimate, sacred. Slowly, you slid your fingers into his mouth, letting him offer the same care you had shown him moments before. You felt the weight of his gaze, the intensity with which he took your fingers, his mouth closing around them with purpose. 

Now he mirrored your position, but it wasn’t the same. You were small, reverent, offering care as he had moments ago. Yet even in this gesture of supposed submission, there was control. Quiet, coiled dominance in the way he guided your hand, subtle and unmistakable. The illusion of equality dissolved the moment his mouth closed around your fingers.

He wasn’t yielding. He was tasting.

His movements were precise, deliberate—the touch of a predator biding his time. A patient one. He would wait, yes. Wait until you were soft enough, pliant enough, trusting enough to be devoured. Even a wolf could be still when the hunt was worth it.

The next moments passed in a blur; a haze of motion and sound, untethered from reality. At some point, you and Fyodor shattered porcelain. You couldn’t remember how the plates had been placed in your hands, only the sound of them breaking. The shards scattered across the floor like fallen stars, each fragment a promise: prosperity, health, happiness. You almost wished you could grind them into dust—fine powder to be swept into the walls of your home, each speck a testament to the years yet to come, to the bond you had just sealed.

Then came the feast.

The celebration stretched into endless faces, laughter, toasts and songs all blending into a single, pulsing rhythm. You danced until your toes throbbed and your lungs clawed for air. The music seemed to vibrate through your bones, every step a prayer, a performance. You were proving something—not just to them, but to him. That you were worthy. That you had earned this. That you belonged beside Fyodor, not by grace, but through grit.

Your chest burned. Your limbs ached. Dizziness curled at the edges of your vision like smoke. But you didn't stop. You couldn’t. Not until the other women began to falter, one by one, feet stumbling, breath hitching. Dropping out like falling petals, until you were the last one left. Still moving. Still enduring.

The cheers came next: rising around you like a wave, like heat. They cheered for you.

Then he came.

His hand found your face, cool and firm, steadying you as the world spun. You looked up, vision blurring at the edges, and he offered you a cup. His grip was steady, grounding, as he guided it to your lips. You drank deeply, greedily, the liquid thick and sweet on your tongue.

“You are a vision, my dear,” he murmured, voice low, reverent. “I could not look away.”

His eyes didn’t waver. As you drank, he tilted your chin just slightly—ensuring you swallowed every last drop. Not a drop wasted.

He was taking care of you. Hydrating you after your dance, after your sacrifice. A lovely husband, in his own way. His care seeped into you like warmth, like honey, melting doubt into something sweet and heavy. You were his, and he would keep you whole.

When the party at last began to fade, the tables emptying, the village quieting, you found yourself nestled against him on a wooden bench outside your new home. The night air was crisp, but the space between your bodies radiated heat. His presence was a hearth, one you would never again stray from.

His arm wrapped around your shoulders, and his thumb traced soft circles on your arm, a subtle movement that grounded you further into this new reality. There was no question of leaving, no thought of what came next beyond this moment. You didn’t question him—didn’t question anything anymore. 

Here, in the quiet of the night, with his embrace surrounding you, you felt content. You had no desire to leave, not even the smallest thought of making a life apart from his. In this moment, it was as though the rest of the world had disappeared, and all that mattered was the warmth of his body beside you. 

His voice, slightly lower, the thick tinge of his accent heavier in the stillness of the late hour, reached your ears like a soft caress. "Dearest, let us get you inside. The night is cold." 

In response, you only hum, a soft sound of agreement, and let him guide you through the quiet night, your steps slow as if savoring the moment. Into your new forever home. The air inside is warm, and as you step across the threshold, you feel the weight of the world lift just a fraction. 

He leads you into the bedroom, where he lights a small flame on the nightstand, the soft glow casting dancing shadows on the walls. The flickering light warms the room, but it’s Fyodor’s presence that truly envelops you. He steps closer, his movements deliberate, unhurried, as he reaches for you, his hands gentle as he begins to undress you. 

“You must be tired. How about I help you get into something more comfortable?” he murmurs, his words soft but with an unspoken command that makes you nod without hesitation. 

Words, for now, are unnecessary. His hands work with slow precision, each movement of his fingers carefully undoing the layers of your clothing, as if peeling back each part of you with reverence. You could feel the weight of his gaze, hungry, yet patient. His hands linger on your skin, as if savoring each soft, exposed inch, and the warmth that spreads through your body in response is undeniable. 

He helped you out of your dress with slow, unhurried care—his fingers gentle as they undid each clasp, each tie. You were trembling beneath his hands, not from fear, but from the weight of it all. The exhaustion. The expectation. The ache.

When you are left in your undergarments, vulnerable and open before him, he shifts, his hands moving to gently unravel your hair. His touch is tender, as if each strand he brushes from your face is a sacred offering. You close your eyes, the sensation of his hands in your hair sending a ripple of heat through you, one that has nothing to do with the warmth of the room. 

You exhale sharply, trying to quell the overwhelming rush of desire that suddenly stirs within you. 

“Is something upsetting you?” His whisper brushes over your skin, his voice filled with soft concern, but there’s something deeper in it, a hint of possessiveness masked by gentleness. 

Then came the words—rushing out before you could catch them.

“Fedya… I feel hot, and… and I wish for more.”

Your breath hitched as the confession escaped, raw and clumsy. You glanced up, eyes wide, shame blooming across your chest like spilled ink. “I… I’ve had thoughts. About you. Especially during the honey and ash ceremony. I—”

You faltered. The heat in your chest rose like a fever, mingling with the ache that hadn’t left you since the moment his fingers touched your lips. Had you said too much? Would he see you as unclean? As wanton? You were his wife now. Shouldn’t you be better than this?

Then he chuckled.

Not cruelly. No, his laughter was soft, low, warm enough to unravel you. He brushed your cheek with the back of his hand, a touch too tender for how undone you felt.

“Oh, my dear,” he said, voice dipped in affection. “I hope you are not chastising yourself. It is only natural to desire your husband, no?”

His eyes held yours—calm, unreadable, but kind. You could feel yourself sinking into them, the shame in your chest dissolving beneath his gaze like sugar in tea.

“And besides,” he continued, tone still velvet, “it is our duty to consummate our marriage.”

Your breath caught. Consummate.

The word echoed in your skull like a bell rung too close. Your mind spiraled—images rising, shame blooming again, this time wrapped in heat. To have him above you. Inside you. The shape of him, the weight of him, the sheer presence.

You reached for his tunic with trembling hands, your voice little more than a breath: “So I can undress you…”

Not a question. A prayer.

His smile deepened, eyes darkening just slightly. “Yes, my dear.”

And that was all you needed.

That simple, sacred yes lit something inside you. A flame you had been denying, repressing, pushing down again and again until this moment. Until permission made it real. Until you were allowed to burn.

Your hands moved on their own, eager, trembling as they peeled the fabric from his ivory skin, inch by inch. Slowly, but with purpose, the distance between you both began to disappear, the space between skin and skin closing. Fyodor guided you gently to sit down onto the mattress, and as you settled against the sheets, you watched him loom over you. The warm, flickering light of the candle slid over his features, over his ribs—his fragility on full display. How could a man so delicate hold such an overwhelming power? 

His hands, so gentle yet firm, traced patterns down your sides, each movement a soft hymn against your skin. He sank, lowering himself to the floor as though he couldn’t help it, as if he were driven by something too deep to resist. 

A thought lingered in your mind—did other angels fall this sweet? 

His voice was low, muffled against the skin of your upper thigh as he confessed, with reverence, how long he’d searched for a place to worship, for something to hold onto, something to claim. 

Oh, how you put him to his knees. 

But it wasn’t submission. No, this was something different. He was a man who knelt out of his own choice, his own will. Even now, with his gaze lowered to the floor, the power still lay with him, quietly and resolutely. You could feel it in the weight of his presence, the way he was still in control, even in this position. 

And you found solace in it. In that constant. Him. The hunger in his eyes, the hunger in his touch. It was allconsuming, unrelenting. How long he had waited, patient and still. Now, he would savor every inch of you with a ferocity that bordered on wildness—on something primal, urgent, even rabid. And you... you would let him. You would let him have his fill because, in that moment, what else could you do but give in to the hunger? 

He continued his path, kissing his way up your thigh, over your belly, and across the soft curve beneath your breast. Every press of his lips, every touch was a whisper, coaxing you closer to surrender. You wanted him to split you open, to break you in ways you had only ever dreamed of. As his lips traced the tender lines of your ribs, you found yourself yearning for him to pry into you, for him to lick the heart of you, to taste your blood, to crack your bones and suck the fatty marrow from them—each moment pulling you deeper into the intoxicating pull of his touch. 

Lips continued their exploration and when they finally reached the hardened peak of your breast, his tongue circled the stiffened bud, drawing it into his mouth where it swelled even more, throbbing with need.  

Then—a soft bite. Deliberate. Possessive. 

His shaky breath spilled across your breast, warm and trembling, and then another bite followed, deeper this time. Each flick of his tongue, each slow drag of his mouth sent jolts of electricity straight through you, unraveling you from the inside out. Your inner walls clenched helplessly around nothing, aching, starving, to be filled. 

Goosebumps bloomed across your skin. A whimper slipped from your lips, fragile and wanting. Your hands tightened in the sheets, searching for something to anchor you as you whispered his name like a prayer barely remembered. 

That is exactly what he needed to continue. Fingers danced along the slick petals of your sex, teasing, stroking, parting them with maddening leisure. They glided through the dewy folds, gathering the evidence of your arousal before circling your aching bundle of nerves. 

You bucked against his touch, a wanton sigh escaping your lips as your body betrayed your desire. Were you losing control, drowning in the tide of sensation he was unleashing? Were you too much? Oh God, what if you were using him? 

Sensing your inner turmoil, Fyodor murmured against the soft swell of your breast, "Hush now, my sweet. Silence the doubts that plague your mind. I am here, and I am not going anywhere. This, right here, is where I want to be."  

His words, a soothing balm to your frazzled nerves, nonetheless ignited an inferno within your womb. The way he made you feel desired, cherished, worthy of such intimate attention—it was terrifying in its intensity. His touch, his presence, his very essence consumed you utterly, and you found yourself craving more, needing to surrender completely to the depths of his love. 

Gently, almost reverently, Fyodor pushed a single digit past your glistening folds, delving into your scorching heat with maddening slowness. His eyes, narrowed into smoldering slits, remained fixed upon you as he watched you unravel, drinking in every minute reaction. He did not take pleasure in your moans. He took pleasure in the way you tried to hide them—because control was holy, and you were closest to divinity when you denied yourself.  

Your body instinctively begged for more of his touch, any crumb of attention. Then a second finger joined the first, stretching you exquisitely, eliciting a breathy whimper from your throat that you tried to suppress. Your head lolling back as your legs fell open, baring yourself completely to him. For him. 

"There we go, my darling..." Fyodor murmured, his smile soft and indulgent. "You are breathtaking. Say it back to me. Tell me that you are gorgeous." His fingers continued their sensual assault, stroking along your silken walls, coaxing out breathless moans that painted your cheeks a pretty pink. 

"I... I am," you managed to murmur between hitching breaths, your voice trembling with need. 

"You are what, dearest?" Fyodor prompted, curling his fingers just so, eliciting a more wanton sound from your lips. "Louder, my love. Claim your worth." He punctuated his words with another deep, purposeful thrust, his eyes never leaving your face. 

"I am... gorgeous," you whimpered, the admission torn from your throat as pleasure coursed through you. Your lashes fluttered, your lips parted, and your body shuddered beneath his practiced touch. 

"That's it, my splendid wife," Fyodor praised, his voice a low, approving. "Simply splendid." He continued his relentless, intimate caress. In and out, slowly, curling, as if testing how you would react. Every gasp, every flutter of your heat slick folds, every tremble in your lashes—his. 

All of it. Every movement, every breath, every shiver that danced across your skin existed only because he allowed it. Because he coaxed it from you with hands that knew you too well, with a mouth that worshipped and claimed in equal measure. 

You were his darling wife, after all. 

“May I touch you? P-please, Fedya...” you whimpered, the words trembling out of you before you could hold them back. A desperate part of you wanted to give back what he gave you; you wanted to be good. You needed to be enough. You had to be. To show him that he had chosen well, that his wife was devoted, loving, obedient. 

He smiled at your eagerness—warm, knowing. 

“Not now, my love. But soon... don’t worry,” he murmured, as his hands continued their quiet worship. He had studied you, learned you—memorized the subtle shiver in your breath, the way your body bent and bowed at only the sound of his voice, as if each word he spoke was divine scripture. But watching you unravel at his touch—it was intoxicating. Addictive. He didn’t want to stop, but you had to disobey. 

Fyodor paused, his touch withdrawing from your aching, empty depths as your trembling hands reached out to caress his chest, tangling in his hair. The sudden loss of his intimate caress left you bereft, a whimper of protest escaping your lips at the void he left behind. His fingers, glistening with your essence, paused at his mouth, and for a moment, you imagined you could see the glint of satisfaction in his eyes as he savored your taste. 

"What did I ask of you, my dear?" Fyodor murmured, his voice a low, gentle chide even as his gaze softened with understanding. The air between you crackled with a mix of disappointment and anticipation, the promise of consequences hanging heavily in the charged atmosphere. 

When you apologized, he felt nothing but warmth. Remorse meant you still feared losing him—and that fear was proof of devotion. 

"I... I am sorry, please..." you breathed out, quickly retracting your hands as if burned, only to clutch at the sheets beneath you, your fingers twisting in the fabric. The ache between your thighs throbbed, a crude reminder of the pleasure he had been stoking, only to leave you wanting. 

In that moment, he contemplated binding your wrists with soft linen and holding you down beneath the flickering candlelight—letting you tremble beneath him with no escape, no mercy. Not out of passion, but with calm indifference. A lesson, slowly and silently taught: that actions have consequences. But he did not act on it. Not yet. He was not that cruel, and you... you were still learning. 

So instead Fyodor leaned down, pressing a tender kiss on your breast, his lips lingering on the sensitive skin. "It is quite alright, dearest," he reassured you, his voice a low, soothing murmur against your flesh. "I could never be upset with you." His words were gentle, almost indulgent, even as his eyes held a hint of something darker. 

He didn't say it aloud, but you could feel it in the way his gaze raked over your body, in the way his hands still rested on your hips, gripping you. He wanted to take you, to claim you, to make you his in every way possible. To consume his little lamb until there was nothing left, until you were a part of him, branded by his touch, his love, his desire.  

“I will be good.” It wasn’t just a promise—it was a plea. A desperate offering at the altar of his affection. A whispered vow to earn, to keep, to deserve his love. “I want to be enough for you.” But no—want was too small a word. “I need to be.” 

There. That was the truth. Bare and trembling in your voice. 

He rose to his full height, slow and solemn, like a priest ascending to his pulpit. He kissed your temple and your heart throbbed in your throat, aching sweetly with every beat. He was divine. Untouchably divine. 

“You are enough, my dear,” he said softly, and it felt like absolution. Each word a golden thread sewing your soul to his, tighter, closer. “You’re doing something of high importance.” 

Your breath caught. Important. You blinked up at him with wide, searching eyes—uncertain, trembling. You were important. To him. His hands framed your face, cool and careful, as if cradling something holy. His thumbs brushed your cheeks in gentle strokes. 

“Do you know why you’re important?”  

You couldn’t answer. Because the truth was... you didn’t know. Not really. How could you possibly see yourself the way he did? 

His voice deepened, softer, heavier. “You will bear a child. And you will be a wonderful mother. I know it.” 

He would make sure of it.  

He leaned in closer, his breath ghosting across your lips. “And this child... this child will change lives.” 

Your heart stuttered. And it didn’t feel like a future being handed to you. It felt like a blessing. 

With unhurried hands, Fyodor guided you gently back, coaxing your body down into the mattress. His every touch was purposeful, tender, as if he were lowering you into sacred ground. The sheets embraced your back, soft and cool against your flushed skin. 

He loomed above you then; not threatening, but monumental. His gaze swept over you, slow and reverent, a dark storm of hunger tempered by restraint. He could take, he was capable of that, but he didn’t. Not yet. 

He waited. Because he wanted you to give it freely. To ask. 

And so you did. 

“Fedya... w-would you make love to me, please?”  

That is exactly what he wanted to hear. Let him fill the void. Let him fix you. Let him love you into shape. 

His eyes softened, like candlelight made flesh, and for a moment, he just looked at you. Quiet. Still. It was as if he were etching the moment into memory, branding the image of your bare, willing form into the folds of his soul. 

“You sweet creature, I will give you what you asked for.” 

His hands, long and pale and reverent, hovered just above your skin, trailing over the warm air that clung to your body. He wasn’t touching you, but you felt it anyway. Felt it everywhere. Like the ghost of a prayer. Like the promise of something holy. 

Your breath hitched. 

His hand moved first to your sternum, the center of your chest, fingers splayed. You could feel your heart beating under his palm, desperate and loud, like a caged bird. He felt it too. He smiled, just slightly. 

“Eager,” he whispered. 

Each touch felt like a verse recited. His fingers skimming over your breasts again, lingering this time to toy with the peaks, his thumb rolling slowly, slowly, watching the way your body arched into his touch like a flower turning toward sunlight. 

Fyodor's lips blazed a trail down your throat, his mouth worshipping every inch of your skin as if it were hallowed ground. He kissed the delicate hollow of your throat, the gentle slope of your clavicle, the soft expanse of your belly that cradled the promise of new life, his child. His love. His future. And then he was trailing back up, his lips brushing against the delicate curve of your cheek in a feather-light caress that made your heart stutter. 

For a moment, there was a breath between you. A pause. A beat that stretched into infinity. And then he was pushing into you, the head of his manhood parting your slick folds, and your world shattered. You gasped as your hand flew to his hair, grasping, clutching, desperate for an anchor in the sea of sensation drowning you. 

He moved deeper, his length sliding home, filling you, completing you in a way that defied logic and reason. It felt right. It felt meant to be. Your body, it seemed, had been sculpted for this moment, for him. Hollowed out to make room for his essence, his presence, his very being.  

If the universe denied you a house, a home, you would make one out of your entwined bodies, your limbs, your very souls. 

He moved slowly, deliberately—each thrust a careful offering. But you could feel the subtle tension of his shoulders, in the way his breath caught and his eyes fluttered halflidded. He was straining, not from unwillingness, but from the fragile cage of his body; his anemic frame trembling under the weight of restraint, devotion, and want. 

You wanted to help. You wanted to give back. You wanted to love him in return. 

“Fedya…” you whispered, your voice fragile, cracking like fine porcelain under heat. “I… I could… if you would let me…” 

Your thighs trembled, uncertain and your hands hovered—eager, scared, devoted. You didn’t know how to carry him through this, only that you wanted to. That you needed to. 

To be good. To be worthy. 

He fully opened his eyes, slow and unblinking, and for a moment he simply looked at you—drank in the sight of your offering. The mental imagine of you above him, trying so sincerely to ease him, to serve him, to deserve him... it unraveled something low and deep in him. He said nothing. Not at first. Only moved with measured grace, guiding you carefully, reverently, to straddle him. 

His hands, resting at your hips, held you as though you might shatter from too much praise as his thumbs drew grounding circles into your skin. And then, he guided you down. Slowly and deeply onto him. The stretch made your breath catch in your throat—but it didn’t hurt. 

No, it filled. 

Again, it felt like home. But this angle—new, raw, more intimate—made you take him deeper still, until the very head of him kissed the gate to your womb. You bit your lip. It was too much. It was perfect. You needed more. Up. Down. Slowly at first. Rhythmic. Not just friction—not just pleasure. 

But work. 

The kind that meant something. The kind that showed you were useful. That you weren’t just taking—you were giving too. You eased the weight from his hips, bore the strain with your own body. You labored for the ecstasy. Because pleasure, in your mind, could never be taken—it had to be earned. 

And still he held you. Still, he spoke, low and steady, voice wrapped in silk and smoke. “You’re taking it so well,” he whispered. A hush of praise against the shell of your ear. His hands didn’t tighten—they reassured. “Breathe. Breathe with me.” 

And you did. Because you trusted him to teach you how. 

You breathed with him, in perfect synchrony, the rise and fall of your chests like tides. He guided your rhythm with quiet words and subtle touches, the slow roll of your hips matching his whispered encouragements. You moved with the intention of giving, and yet he was the one granting you everything. 

He watched your face, drank in the way your lashes fluttered, the way your mouth parted. He drank in every little sound you made, every tremble in your breath, every plea. He looked at you like a man witnessing divinity. And as you rode him, tears welled behind your eyes—not from pain, but from being seen, cherished, claimed. 

Your head dipped until your forehead touched his, breath mingling in the narrow space between your mouths. Everything felt tender and raw. You wanted to press inside him. Crawl beneath his skin. Cradle yourself into the hollows of his ribs and rest there, where it was quiet and safe. 

You wanted to be good. You begged yourself to be good for him. 

The thought of being rotten inside, unclean or unworthy, clawed at your chest. You could not bear the idea that your soul might be something ugly. But Fyodor... Fyodor saw through it all. He turned that ugliness into beauty, that doubt into doctrine. He laid it bare and kissed it into something pure. 

Every corner of your mind had him in it now. Every thought looped back to him like a psalm. There was no self left untouched. No selfish desire that wasn’t rewritten in the language of devotion. 

And then when you said his name. Whispered. Soft. As if the syllables might break if held too tightly. It unravelled something in him. And you felt it—felt him shudder inside you, his composure fraying at the edges. 

“This is what you’ve earned,” he murmured, voice raw, trembling not from doubt but from depth. He meant it. He believed it. 

And somehow, that hurt more than cruelty would have. Because you hadn’t earned it, not yet. Not fully. But he was giving it anyway, and that was worse. Because it meant he believed in you. And belief was so much harder to live up to than punishment. 

Your walls clenched around him, your body seeking absolution in his. But it didn’t come. Not fully.

You were close—so close it hurt—but that final crest never broke. You stayed suspended, trembling with need, straining for something just out of reach. And still, he held you. Still, he filled you. Perhaps this, too, was a lesson. To be filled, not fulfilled. To ache for heaven and never quite arrive.  

He came with a shaky breath, his hands holding you tighter. And you felt it. You felt it: the warmth spreading, thick and slow, filling every aching hollow. Not just release, but something else. 

Something purposeful. 

Down your thighs it ran, hot and heavy. His seed. You closed your eyes and held him tighter, trying to pretend it was enough and that this was completion. 

Even as your breath trembled and your body still ached. This felt right. Even if you were still waiting. 

Because wasn’t that what you were for? To be made full by him. To carry something of him within you. A child. His child. The thought wrapped itself around your spine with a dizzying sort of pleasure. You didn’t dare say it aloud, but somewhere, deep beneath the sweetness of your exhaustion, a secret part of you whispered that maybe if he fills you enough... it will stay.

This feeling, of being needed, accepted and wanted, it will stay. 

The weeks following the wedding were dreamlike. The villagers are warm, curious, kind and you found yourself growing used to the rhythm of the place, where people speak slowly and smile without suspicion. Even your name, once just a sound, is now spoken with gentle familiarity.  

You and Fyodor never spoke of leaving. He didn’t mention it, and you didn’t think to ask. The thought simply never occurred to you. Even in the short time you’d been here, this place had settled into your bones. It felt like home, and leaving it felt as unnatural as forgetting how to breathe. 

Russian had come easier than you expected. You’d started learning it after you began dating Fyodor, out of appreciation. But sporadic study and forgotten Duolingo lessons hadn’t taken you far. It wasn’t until you came here, to his home, that it became more than a gesture. Most people spoke only Russian, so you had no choice but to learn. Daily life demanded fluency, and slowly, through necessity, you began to understand. 

You ended up spending a lot of time with Fyodor’s mother. She knows, from her son, that your mind runs too fast sometimes and that silence can feel suffocating, not soothing. So she begins to steep a special tea for you each day. A quiet ritual—just the two of you, served in a chipped porcelain cup with a small nod of encouragement. 

A mother in law like her is what people dream of when getting married into a family. So having this gentle woman take care of you like you were her own child did not only make you feel like Fyodor’s spouse, but an integral part of the family.  

It helps at first, the tea. The earthy, slightly bitter taste becomes part of your afternoons, a grounding note in the symphony of care you’ve been given. But then... 

It started with your breasts. 

They’d been sore for days, almost feverish to the touch, and you’d grown used to cupping them absentmindedly; it was a little reminder that something had begun inside you. But now, they feel… normal. Heavy, yes, but no longer tender. No more fire behind the skin. Just flesh again. Just breasts. 

You also notice it in the mirror and tilt your head slightly, wondering if it’s just your mind playing tricks; so you ignore it. “It’s too early to worry,” he tells you. “Every body is different. Some women feel cramps. Some bleed a little. Some lose their symptoms and everything is fine.” 

He says it like scripture. Like science. Smooth as silk over stone. And you believe him, because you want to. Because he speaks with certainty, and you are too tired to doubt. 

You try to eat, but your appetite is odd. That sharp nausea you used to wake up with is gone. No more aversions, no sudden cravings. You sip tea, and everything tastes muted. Dull. Like your body has stopped whispering those strange, hormonal requests. 

There’s a dull throb in your lower spine, like a string being tugged from behind. You try stretching, walking, lying flat and somehow nothing helps. It’s not excruciating. Just… constant. Familiar, almost. Like the ghost of a period past. You press your hand against the small of your back and whisper something to yourself. Maybe it’s just the uterus shifting. Making space. Rearranging. 

But something cold settles in your gut. 

And then the pressure begins. Low in your pelvis. It’s like a weight pressing downward, slow and deliberate. You feel full, not with life, but with gravity. Like your insides are preparing to let go. Your body has gone quiet.

You go to the bathroom more often. Your lower abdomen feels tender and swollen, like bruised fruit. Each trip, you half-expect to see blood, but the paper comes back clean. Clean. Clean.  

One late evening, when you could not sleep, Fyodor sat behind you on the bed. His hands, long and pale, press into the curve of your lower back, tracing small circles over your vertebrae. Your nightgown is pulled up just enough to bare your skin. It’s cool to the touch. Damp. As if your body already knows what’s coming. 

“Shhh,” he murmurs when you flinch. “The body is strange sometimes. You’re simply adjusting.” 

You exhale, small and obedient. He watches the back of your neck, the damp curls clinging there. His hands work downward. He is so careful with you. So calm. As if nothing in the world could go wrong when he’s the one holding you together. But your bones feel hollow. 

His thumbs push a little deeper into the muscles, working through the tension. You let your head fall forward onto the pillow, eyes closed. 

And then the warmth comes—pain. Real pain. A dragging ache deep inside your pelvis, like something straining to hold on. It leaks between your thighs without warning: a flush of heat, thick and undeniable. You feel it as it spreads, and you freeze. 

So does he. 

His hands go still. Slowly, you both look down. There's a stain blooming beneath you, deep and red and silent. Your nightgown clings to your skin. The blood is warm, fresh, and spreading. 

You don’t say a word. Your mouth has forgotten how. 

Fyodor moves first, with such purpose, such care. As if he’d done this before. As if he knew what to do. He peels back the sheets with delicate fingers, inspecting the soaked fabric like it’s a puzzle to be solved. No alarm, no disgust. His face does not change, but there is a flash of panic his eyes—not fear, not exactly, but a quick, cold calculation. 

He helps you sit up, then kneels again to remove the soiled gown from your body. You stare at your lap, the slick redness of your thighs, the clots on the fabric. A hot shame crawls up your chest, something primal. Like you’ve failed. Like you’ve broken something he gave you. 

But he doesn’t scold you. 

The blood did not unnerve him. Fyodor had seen prophecy in worse. Loss, to him, was not absence; it was clearing. A sacred pruning. If the womb had been emptied, it was only to make room for something greater.  

He wipes you down with a warm cloth, careful and reverent. His touch is slow, unrushed, like he’s washing relics at a holy site. Then he wraps you in fresh linens, clean and white. 

“You haven’t failed me,” he says softly, as though reading your thoughts. “This was only a rehearsal.” 

It was a temporary setback, a momentary loss. You swallow hard. Your throat feels bruised. 

“We’ll try again,” he continues, smoothing your damp hair away from your face. His voice is calm. Comforting. Final. 

And deep in your chest, beneath the grief and the ache and the shame, something flutters. Something small and awful. Want. That unbearable need to be filled again, to be remade. 

You hate yourself for it. 

He lays down beside you and holds you until the tremors in your legs stop. Until the blood has dried. Until your breathing evens out, your mind goes soft. 

You nestle into his arms like a doll, pliant, ruined, and beloved. 

And in the quiet, something inside you whispers he will fix it. He will fix you. He will put you back together in the way that he wants.  

The next morning, his mother lit a candle and stayed silent. She understood, too. She grieved with you—quietly. No wailing, no pity. Just stillness. His parents held you, one on either side, and you drank your tea. 

No one said the word aloud. But you felt it. 

The child—your child—was gone. 

He did not cry. Fyodor never cried. What broke inside him was not grief, but timing. The ritual was not yet complete. But you were still his. Still holy. And holiness, he believed, could not rot. “It was not your fault,” he had said, voice low and even. “Your body just needs more time.” And he held you like you were still carrying something precious. Like you were still full. Still whole.   

You tried again, a few weeks later. Gave your body the time it needed to realign its hormone levels, to remember what it was made for. And the second time… it was different. 

This time, the blood came earlier. Faster. You weren’t even sure if anything had truly begun growing yet. But your mind latched onto it anyway, frantically, desperately. The grief came harder. Sharper.  

It broke something in you. 

You screamed. You couldn’t stop pacing, couldn’t stop clawing at the sheets, whispering frantic prayers to no one in particular. To anything that might still be listening. 

Unclean. Unfit. Why was this happening?  

One of Fyodor’s hands pressed gently to the back of your head, guiding your face into the fabric of his shirt, the other rested firm across your shoulder blades, anchoring you there. They were there for comfort, yes, but also to guide the pain through you. It had to move. It had to pass. You sobbed into him, loud and shaking, pain on every nerve in your body—grief that was too big for your skin to hold. 

What if you couldn’t give him what he needed? Would he resent you? Would he leave you, slowly, quietly, like your parents? 

Even his gentle rocking, the low hush of his voice threading through your hair, did not soothe the aching hollow in your chest. And he knew that. He knew your grief wasn’t just for the child. It was for yourself. 

Grief was just all the love you couldn’t give. Wasn’t it? 

And your heart—your foolish, swollen heart—was too big for your body to process quickly. So he stayed. Patient as ever. Wrapped around you like something sacred. A man fulfilling a promise. 

He had brought you here to protect you. To make you feel safe. You just needed more time. That was all. He will take care of it and he will fix you.   

You found solace at the wooden table in Fyodor’s parents’ home. The surface was scuffed and well-loved, the wood darkened by years of elbows leaning, fingers tracing, heads resting. Old, gentle hands were steeping your tea in the kitchen. It had only been a few days since your second loss, and you were still fragile and tender around the edges, walking carefully in your own skin. Baby steps, they said. You needed that. Probably both literally and figuratively. 

You were bouncing your leg under the table, the repetitive tap of your finger against your thigh barely noticeable unless someone was watching you closely. Your eyes lingered on her back as she moved, her presence somehow soft and heavy all at once. 

And you found yourself wondering… 

“Mrs. Dostoe—” 

“Dearie, how many times do I need to tell you to call me Mama?” she interrupted kindly, turning just enough to smile at you. Her tone was scolding only in play. It was affection, not reprimand. 

“Ah. Yes, I’m sorry,” you said, offering a soft, folded smile. You didn’t mean to sound so formal. Of course she treated you like her own child, of course calling her Mama was an honor. You were grateful. Truly. But maybe it was just the way you were raised—polite, reserved, never too familiar too quickly. If you got too close, they might see it. See right through you. 

“I was just wondering… what was it like? Having a child?” 

Your leg stilled as she walked over and placed a cup in front of you. Her own tea followed, and then she eased down into the chair across from you, her body sighing into it. The smile that crept onto her face was soft and nostalgic, lines deepening around her eyes. 

“Dearie, your experience will be different from mine. And your time will come. I know it. I’ve been praying to God every day since your wedding.” Her voice held conviction. Certainty. Faith. 

Your heart fluttered, unsure if it was comfort or guilt that stirred. 

“But if you must know—it’s a blessing. Truly. I was never happier than when I carried Fyodor.” She took a sip of her tea, breathing in its warmth. “How is trying going?” 

Your mouth opened, then closed. What do you even say to that? Your thoughts didn’t go to ovulation charts or anything clinical—no, your mind just went to Fyodor. The way he fills you. The way your walls cling to him when he calls you endearments, or worse, when he says your name like a prayer he’s about to sin through. 

“I… Um…” 

Knock. Knock. Knock. 

Relief crashed through you like a gust of air. You didn’t even care who it was—thank God for the interruption. You began to stand, ready to open the door yourself, but Fyodor’s mother gently ushered you back down with a tut. She went instead. 

It was one of the town elders—the mute sister, the one with soft eyes and grey hair plaited in a long braid. She offered you a tender nod as she passed, disappearing with Fyodor’s mother into the front hall. 

You sighed quietly and reached for your cup again. It was warm, a comfort. Like always. 

And then, through the thin walls and the hush of rural quiet, you heard it: 

“She’s too delicate. That’s why I gave her black cohosh. It helps women settle down after difficult emotions. It cleans the womb.” 

She wasn’t whispering—not exactly. It was just… a statement. Folk medicine, spoken with the confidence of someone who’d made that tea for decades. There was nothing malicious in her voice. Just care. Old-fashioned care. 

Still… your hand froze halfway to your lips. 

Black cohosh. 

That name scratched at something in your memory. A health class? A book? Something online once, years ago. You couldn’t place it exactly, but the unease bloomed in your stomach like rot. Cleaning the womb. Settling difficult emotions. 

You smiled tightly when Fyodor’s mother returned. You finished your tea. You said nothing. 

But that night, long after everyone had gone to sleep, you snuck into the tiny hallway bookshelf. Your fingers trembled as you thumbed through an old herbal compendium. Black cohosh… You scanned quickly. Heart racing. 

And there it was. 

Not recommended during pregnancy. May cause uterine contractions and potential miscarriage. 

You stared at the words, jaw slack, eyes wide. The muggy heat of the room suddenly felt suffocating. Cold sweat gathered at your temples. 

You’d been drinking that tea every day. 

And then, an ache in your sternum as another thought struck: What if you kept drinking it? 

What if you bled every time, just to have him fill you again? Again and again and again and again. To feel him hold you afterward, soothe you, kiss the tears from your lashes. You would apologize, and he would forgive you. You’d try harder next time. And he’d breed you, fill you with the hope of being whole again. 

That night, cradled at Fyodor’s side, sleep eluded you. Did you even deserve peace for having such thoughts? 

The next day, you were at the table again. Lunch with Fyodor and his family. Warm baked bread, steaming bowls of solyanka, pickled cucumbers, potatoes with dill. You’d even made cherry pie—just how Fyodor liked it. Being part of something—it felt good. You felt good.  

Until the tea came. 

The cup landed in front of you with a quiet clink. 

Your hands trembled as you stared down at it. Your reflection staring back at you, judging you. 

Fyodor noticed, of course he did. He always noticed. But he didn’t say anything. 

You reached for it, just enough for the scent to hit you—sharp, herbal and deceptively gentle. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad…To keep being filled, emptied, filled again. To stay desirable. Needed. Wanted. 

And then your hand snapped back. You couldn’t think that way. No. No, no, no, no, no. The guilt bloomed so fast it nearly choked you. You were sick for even letting the thought breathe. 

You stood abruptly, the teacup tipping in your movement. The hot liquid splashed onto your dress and the lace tablecloth. A gasp rippled around the table. 

“Are you unwell?” Fyodor’s father asked, eyes narrowing in mild concern. 

“I’m fine—” You bit your lip. You couldn’t lie. Not now. You were shaking. 

Fyodor’s hand slid to yours. His touch careful, protective. 

You met his eyes. 

And not long after, he led you out of the room. 

You were in a small hallway, the kind where sound carried too well and nothing felt truly private, but you didn’t care. You gripped his hand tightly, almost as if pleading with him to forgive you for something that you did not do.  

“Please tell them I can’t drink the tea,” you whispered, your voice cracking. “My—my... miscarriages, they were caused by the black cohosh in it.” 

He blinked once. Then again. The sort of blink a person makes when they’ve taken a bullet and are waiting to feel the pain. His gaze drifted briefly to the door, to the room beyond where his parents sat. You could almost hear the quiet shifting of their chairs, their breaths, their ears. It was too quiet.  

Then he looked back at you, and stepped closer. His free hand came to rest at the curve of your waist, protective. Possessive. His expression didn’t change much—his tone stayed level. But a frown pulled at his lips, tight and cold. He looked like something had just brushed too close to the edges of his control. 

“Are you certain?” he asked, quietly. 

You nodded, guilt and fear spilling from your eyes, you didn’t mean to put the guilt on his mother. “Yes, yes, but I know they meant well,” you said softly, eyes flickering to Fyodor’s as though begging him to soften what you already knew would hurt. “She meant well.”  

He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t lash out. He said nothing for a long moment. Just… watched you. And when he finally spoke, his voice was still even, measured—so very calm it scared you. “From now on, I will personally see to everything you eat. No more tea and no more surprises.” 

You were trembling as you nodded, your body already sagging into the relief of being held, of being told what to do. Something in your heart ached and curled at the edge of his authority. It wasn’t fear. It was… surrender coupled with an emotion you didn’t know if it was relief or shame. Maybe all three.  

He cupped your cheek, gently turning your face toward his. “I’m going to take care of you. Do you understand me?” He tilted his head and leaned in to press a kiss to your forehead. His voice was calm, but behind it—rage, grief, restraint. “We won’t let this happen again, my dear.” 

It isn’t a question. It’s a correction. 

He doesn’t mean to punish you. He is simply taking control again, because he has to. Because something got to you. The tea was not meant to harm you, but it did anyway, and that is unacceptable. He will fix it.  

The door creaked open and his mother stood in the threshold, face pale and trembling, eyes wide with something that looked like heartbreak. 

You knew the moment her hands reached for yours that she heard everything. She came to you not with excuses, not with defenses, but with sorrow that sat behind her eyes like a gathering storm. Her touch was careful, reverent. Like a mother to her child. 

“Dearie,” she whispered, “oh, my God...” 

Your breath caught in your throat. You looked to Fyodor. He hadn’t moved much, but his hand on your waist had tightened, just barely. You could see the frown in his eyebrows, but his lips were drawn in a neutral line, offering no judgment yet—only restraint. 

You felt small under their eyes, under the weight of everything unsaid. 

“You were trying to help me,” you whispered. Your voice was thin, nearly lost to the stillness. “I know that.” 

A nod from her. “I was,” she said, her voice cracking. “I swear to God I was. I never—I never thought…” 

Her words dissolved into a soft sob, but still she did not let go of your hands. Her fingers shook in yours, wringing gently like she could squeeze the horror out of what had been done. Her eyes held no deceit, only sorrow and guilt so think it could drown. 

“I’ve given that tea to women all my life. It’s what my mother gave me. What her mother gave her. I never knew it could…” She trailed off, lips parting, then pressing together again, like the rest of the sentence might poison the space between you if spoken aloud.  

Behind you, Fyodor exhaled. It was slow. Controlled. 

He stepped closer, if that was even possible, so your back lightly touched his chest, so his presence could bracket you, ground you. One hand moved from your waist to cradle your stomach. Not in desire, but in mourning.  

The emptiness was shared. 

A few days pass. Enough to let the silence settle and enough to let your hands shop shaking when you sipped your morning water. But not enough to erase the ache, and definetly not enough to make you forget the emptiness inside you.  

You told him you were ready. Even though you weren’t sure your body could bear it again. Even though something deep in you whispered to wait. Still, you pressed your hand on his chest one evening and insisted. Your voice was soft, meek, but your plea was clear.  

He tilted his head at you, watching in that way he always did; like he was peeling back your thoughts layer by layer, insecurity by insecurity. His silence didn’t stretch long, but it was long enough that you almost took it back.  

But then, a small nod. “Alright,” he said simply as he took your hand.  

And then you laid your back onto the bed. He joined you slowly, reverently, as though you were something a mere mortal could not look upon. His fingers brushed down your sternum, pausing low on your belly, as a silent question and a quiet promise.  

And then he entered you again.  

Your body immediately reacted. You gasped softly—your body still tender, pliant, open and waiting for him. His length filled you inch by inch, a slow splitting that made you cling to the sheets. And of course you welcomed it, you needed it, because you needed him to reach somewhere your grief and shame couldn’t.  

He moved inside you with aching control, each thrust deliberate and deep, slow enough to draw out the tension coiling low in your belly. You took him so completely that it made you ache, but the ache felt right. It felt earned. Like your body was remembering its purpose, made to hold him, made to house this sacred union. 

Fyodor leaned over you, breath hitching against your skin, lips brushing across your cheek, your collarbone, the hollow of your throat. You were caught, suspended, like a pressed flower between the pages of his body and the bed, delicate and flattened beneath devotion.  

And when it was done, you let out a soft sigh. He cradled you in his arms, and you clung to him with something close to faith—praying, whispering in your mind that maybe this time it would stick. 

Maybe this time, you would be full and whole again. 

But the fear crept back in like a shadow under the door. The tea was no longer a threat; Fyodor had taken control of everything you consumed. But it wasn’t your body you feared anymore. It was your mind. 

You’d read once that a woman could lose her child from stress alone. And you were not doing well in the relaxing department. So the fear of miscarrying fed into itself. A spiral of your own making. 

Until— 

It was one evening, deep into your second trimester, you almost felt proud of something your body had done. No more blood. No more grief. Or at least, that’s how it should have felt. 

You told yourself it was just the fear of losing it again. Not the ache to be needed. Not the gnawing want to be desired. To have purpose. 

It was fear. Nothing else. You would tell him, and he would soothe you—he always did. 

You kissed his cheek as you slipped into bed, folding your hands beneath your cheek as you watched his profile. He was staring up at the ceiling, eyes distant, unreadable. You wondered what lived behind those deep purple pools. 

“Fedya…” you murmured. His gaze snapped to you—not threatening, but in that startled reverence he always gave you when you said his name like that. And suddenly, you wanted to melt into the mattress, to disappear beneath your own guilt. 

It’s just fear. Just fear, nothing else. He’ll soothe you. 

“I’m afraid,” you whispered. “Afraid we’ll lose another child.” 

He looked at you, quiet, dissecting. His gaze softened, though the stillness behind it never changed. Fyodor never flinched at your fear, nor recoiled from your doubt. To him, it was proof that your unrest hadn’t found its final anchor. And he would be that anchor. He would soothe the tremors, not by silencing them, but by reclaiming them, because peace was precious only when it came from his hands.  

“And what do you propose we do,” he asked gently, “to dampen this fear?” 

Your heart lurched. Heat flushed your chest. Words turned to blades behind your tongue. 

“Just… to be sure it stays, Fedya…” You trailed off, eyes stinging. 

Say it. Use your words. Come on. 

“Please…” 

Fear. Fear. Fear. 

“Please put it in me again…”  

You weren’t sure you’d spoken it aloud until you saw his expression shift. Slowly. His eyes dropped to your lips, then to your stomach and stayed there. He sat up, just slightly, resting his weight on one elbow as he looked at you—no, through you. His hand moved, slow and warm, settling over the gentle swell of your belly. You weren’t showing much, not yet, but to him, it was already sacred. 

“You’re trembling,” he murmured, thumb brushing across your skin, light and slow. 

You nodded faintly, only now realizing you were crying. You didn’t know when it started. He never chastised you for tears. He never told you to stop. 

“You poor thing. This body is mine to care for, my dear. You only needed to ask.” 

Your breath hitched as his fingers slipped beneath the hem of your nightgown with the kind of patience that made your chest ache. He never rushed. He devoured gently, so slow you didn’t even feel the sharp teeth until they were already spilling blood from you. 

Then, he dipped his head and kissed your stomach. Not sweetly. Devoutly. His hair tickled your skin; and you gulped hard, fingers twitching with the urge to reach for him. To thread through his hair. But you stayed still. Let him love you. Let him take care of you. 

His hand slid between your thighs—patient, searching. He checked you. Shame bloomed in your chest when his fingers came back wet. You wanted to hide.  He hadn’t even touched you properly and still, you were open, aching, ready. 

But he only smiled.  

You did not wait long. He parted your legs with quiet authority. One to the side. One resting on his shoulder. Then he filled you, deliberate and inevitable. Again and again. In and out. His brooding eyes never leaving yours. 

His pace, as always, was restrained. Controlled. Like he was preserving energy. But he never left you empty. No, he couldn't. He had to fix you. 

And when he finished, he did not leave. No, he closed his eyes and pressed a lingering kiss on your ankle. His seed was warm and thick, claiming. Your breath stuttered. You reached for him, skin slick with devotion, hair tousled, skin flushed. He looked like a statue, carved from the rarest quartz on earth. Or maybe not from this earth at all.  

But then there it was again, that stupid ache. A want. Your body clenched around him. A silent plea. 

You turned your face, ashamed. Would he let you finish? This wasn’t meant for indulgence. It was duty. Obedience. A sacred offering. How could you want more? 

Fyodor never saw a need for your climax. It felt too worldly to him—unnecessary. He saw your restraint as holy. Your ache, your suffering and your denial were your form of worship. 

But still—your voice, small and trembling, broke the silence. 

“Can I... please...?” 

He opened his eyes and stilled. That strange, quiet stillness he gets when something doesn’t match the script in his head. His gaze dropped to your belly. To your helpless, trembling form. He touched your stomach absently, considering. Then, slowly, he pulled out. 

The emptiness was unbearable. 

“You want to climax, my dear? Is that what you think you deserve?” 

His voice wasn’t mocking. It was curious. Indulgent. Like a parent humoring a child’s strange request. 

He kissed your belly again. Soft. Calculating. 

“But you’ve already received your reward. You carry it inside you.” 

Yes. Yes, of course. He was right. You should have been content. You were content. Greedy, greedy, ungrateful thing. How could you ask for more? 

But then— 

“But I could not deny you this,” he whispered, his voice velvet. “It is my duty as your husband to make you comfortable. To make you feel loved. Especially when you’re carrying something so precious.” 

Relief broke over you in a quiet wave. 

He shifted down. His fingers returned, so patient, so precise. He knew your body like scripture, like something studied in silence. And he didn’t dive in. He listened: to breath, to shiver, to the subtle trembling of your thighs beneath his hands. 

His lips brushed over your cheek; the contact was barely there before trailing down to your throat. He kissed once. Just once. And then his mouth stilled, his breath soft and steady against your skin as his fingers slipped between your legs and found you open and warm.

Then, with quiet intent, his fingers pushed inside—gathering what had dared to spill, returning it to its rightful place, as if it had never been meant to leave. He stayed like that a moment. Still and silent as though sealing something. As though reminding your body of its purpose. His purpose. 

Then he moved. 

He stroked you lightly, so lightly it felt like a question or a prayer. Your body arched into it before your mind caught up, gasping, legs spreading further on instinct. You tried to speak, to plead, but only a whimper came out, breath broken and wordless. 

That pleased him. His fingers moved with unbearable patience, pressing deeper, spreading heat through your belly like honey left too long in the sun. Your thighs trembled. Your mouth parted. Still, you said nothing.  

Circling, pressing, gliding just beneath the edge of bliss without letting you tip. Keeping you suspended. He didn’t let you come.  

Of course not. 

Cruel man, cruel husband, cruel seer—so gentle it almost felt like kindness. But it wasn’t kindness. It was mercy. He was letting you ache. Letting you feel what it meant to want something holy. 

“It’s remarkable,” he said, his tone quiet, musing, not gloating. “How we pretend desire is a thing we choose. But yours…” His thumb brushed lightly across your clit, just once, and your body flinched. “Yours is instinct. Pure and obedient.” 

He lowered his head again, kissed your throat—again, only once. You whimpered softly. Your hips shifted, chasing his touch. But he stilled. 

“I think,” he whispered, more to himself than to you, “we’re always closest to God when we deny ourselves. But there’s another kind of grace… the kind that slips through even when we try to contain it. A trembling. A gasp. The way your breath stutters against my fingers.”  

Your hands were lost, twisting in the sheets. You didn’t even trust your voice. You didn’t trust your mouth. You were afraid that if you spoke, you would scream. 

And he loved that. The restraint. The devotion. The trembling effort to be good. It was the kind of worship he valued most. 

He pressed his thumb against your clit again—finally—and circled it in time with his thrusts. Just enough to make you shudder. Not enough to let you break. 

Your chest was heaving. He watched the way your lips parted around soundless pleas and held you there, on the edge of your undoing. That’s when the tears came. Not from frustration. But from grace. From the unbearable sweetness of being seen in your silence, undone by mercy, loved so thoroughly you’d forgotten yourself entirely.  

And when he finally let you fall— 

When his fingers shifted just slightly, just enough to let your body cascade into release. It wasn’t like breaking. It was like communion. It was like taking the host at the altar. A private blessing. A holy indulgence offered from his hand to your body. 

“Beautiful,” he whispered against your ear. You were shivering, so weak, so precious, and so entirely his. 

He didn’t move for a long time. 

One hand splayed over your thigh, the other resting on your belly. His body wrapped yours with the calm of someone who just offered prayer. You felt his breath cooling the sheen of sweat along your shoulder. 

The field was quiet, touched only by the wind and the occasional sway of tall grasses bending to its will. A blanket had been laid out beneath you, soft against the earth, and you rested with your head in Fyodor’s lap, cradled by the gentle slope of his thigh. 

He had peeled a pomegranate with the same reverence he reserved for scripture. Its skin cracked open with a soft, fleshy resistance, revealing glistening seeds like rubies packed tight in a jeweled chalice.

Pomegranates were said to hold a single paradisal seed from heaven, a relic of Eden that had never withered. And yet, it was the same fruit Hades offered Persephone in the underworld. The same fruit that sealed her fate. 

And now Fyodor was feeding them to you. 

One by one. 

To share it with you was beautiful. To feed it to you, one seed at a time, between the soft parting of your lips was something more: it was a kind of quiet binding. You received each offering with the docility of a bride in worship, head tilted back slightly, lips glistening from the juice. 

There was something almost holy in the act. Or something quietly damning. The fruit of paradise… and the chain that kept you his. The tips of his fingers and your mouth both gleamed with the same red—like a sacrament dressed in the color of sin. You let him press the seeds to your lips like communion. And with each one, you accepted that paradise and captivity could share a taste. 

He watched the way your throat moved when you swallowed, how you breathed more softly as his hand slid to your belly, cupping the gentle swell with a control so tender it bordered on holy. You wore white, of course. A thin, gauzy dress that caught the light and curved over your body like the linen of a saint’s burial shroud. 

You looked like sacrifice incarnate, like an icon—the Virgin in linen, a vision sanctified by the weight of her duty. 

And to him, that was love. 

“My little prophet,” he murmured—not to you, but to the child nested in your womb. His voice, a breath of incense against your skin. “Grow as you must, and grow strong. Know that you are already loved beyond measure." 

His head bowed over you. He pressed a kiss to your forehead. He spoke in hushed russian—too soft to catch, the cadence of prayer wrapping around your unborn child like a lullaby only the soul could hear. 

His breath a hush against your skin. “They feel your warmth, my love. How could they not rest easy?” His hand brushed slowly over your belly, and his voice dropped, reverent. “The world you’ve given them is gentle. Sheltering and simply perfect.” 

You didn’t speak. You only closed your eyes and let the warmth of his hand ground you. 

He fed you another seed, red staining the corners of your mouth. He wiped it away with his thumb—slowly, carefully—then sucked the juice from his own fingertip, eyes never leaving your peaceful features. 

And in that moment, it didn’t matter that you were bound. That you had long ago given up autonomy in exchange for peace. In his hands, you felt seen.

Even if that love was a cage, you had long since chosen it. You did not reach for more. You did not resist. 

You simply opened your mouth again, and let yourself be filled. 

A few weeks. Some kicks from your unborn and quiet days of being taken care of pass. Then, one evening, contractions: a slow tide of tension that lapped at your spine and thighs, a rhythm you couldn’t quite breathe through but didn’t yet fear. Fyodor had kissed your forehead, pressed your hand to his chest, then left the room when his mother beckoned him away with a look you didn’t understand. 

Weirdly, he didn’t fight her on it. He only bowed his head. As if conceding to a greater law.  

And now you were surrownded by only women in the low amber light of the birthing room, or what was your bathroom turned into a birthing chamber. 

They had undressed you gently, washed you in warm water, combed out your hair and pinned it back with a hairpin that once belonged to a grandmother you had never met. They called it tradition. They called it care. 

Steam rose from a copper pot in the corner. 

The blind sister stood near it, stirring slowly with a long-handled spoon, as if she were divining something. Her clouded eyes blinked softly, her lips moving in silent prayer.

They sat you down in the water. It was warm, welcoming.

The deaf one kneeled beside the tub, her hands were stained from oils and roots, but they were sure and kind as they guided your legs apart. And the mute one was closest of all. She held your hand. 

Fyodor’s mother knelt behind you in the water, one arm steady around your ribs, the other splayed protectively across your stomach. You could feel her heartbeat thudding against your back, calm, ancient, like a second pulse inside your bones. She was solid when everything else inside you was slipping, stretching, tearing open.  

The first real pain came low and deep, molten and grinding. A swell inside you that no breath could soften. No prayer could unmake. Another woman brought a half-cut lemon to your lips, pressing it there—its sharpness slicing through the heavy sweetness of the air, grounding you, distracting you from the agony.  It helped. Barely.  

They did not rush you. No barking orders. No surgical steel or bright lights. Just warm hands and whispered prayers and cloths soaked in rosewater.  

“Breathe,” Fyodor’s mother murmured behind you. Her voice felt old. Like a bell rung deep in a mountain. 

You breathed. You bled. You bore down, again and again, clutching the mute sister’s hand so tightly your nails left crescent moons in her skin—but she never pulled away. She smiled at you. A knowing, ancient smile. 

This pain was sacred. This was the passage all women in the sect passed through. And now you were walking it too. Barefoot and broken but beloved and never alone. They were right there, guiding you, holding you through this pain, as if it were their own.  

You weren't sure when your voice left you—whether it had been dragged out in a scream or swallowed whole by the pressure, but now there was only breath. Water. And the soft rustle of fabric as the women moved around you like priestesses tending to the altar of your body. 

The pressure shifted lower. Deeper. Hotter. The pain no longer flared, it opened. Like a gate being torn off its hinges. Like something ancient pushing through the thinnest membrane of your humanity. 

“There,” Fyodor’s mother whispered, her fingers firm on your shaking thigh. “They are ready. One more, dearie. Just one.” 

You gritted your teeth so hard your jaw ached, the citrus juice dripping from your chin. You pushed. 

And then came the crown. The swell of the head, rigid and slick, stretching you wide, too wide, until the skin between your thighs burned, splitting at the edges, searing like hot metal pressed into flesh. There was no dignity in it, only rawness, wet and wild. The slow violence wrapped in purpose made you feel it: the delicate skin of your perineum straining to hold, fighting not to split beneath the raw demand of life.  

Water sloshed. Blood clouded the surface. 

There was a sound: a pop, wet and awful, as the head slipped forward another inch. Your hips bucked against the pain. It felt like your bones might break in half, your pelvis splitting like bark beneath the force of it. 

You cried out. Not a scream—something lower. A groan pulled from the pit of your stomach, old and animal and holy. 

“Good,” whispered Fyodor’s mother. Her breath ghosted the shell of your ear. “Very good, keep going.” 

You shook. Your vision blurred. The mute sister wiped your brow. The deaf one adjusted your legs again, pressing her palm low into your belly. 

You bore down once more, and the pain tore through you—a ring of fire igniting along the rim of your body, scalding and all-consuming. You felt it all: the slide of damp skin, the forced stretch of muscle, the way the world narrowed to a single unbearable point where your child was forcing you to open wider than you ever thought possible. 

And then—release. 

The head passed with a sudden wetness, like flesh sloughing from bone, and your breath shattered in your throat. Shoulders came next—twisting sideways, brutal and slow, like something carved from you with a dull blade. 

And then, finally— 

The child left you. 

A slithering relief. A slick, grotesque blessing. Your body emptied all at once with a low splash and the awful, perfect sound of new flesh hitting water. 

The room held its breath. 

Steam curled through the air, fragrant and heavy with sweat, milk, and copper. For one unbearable second, there was only silence—no cries, no cooing. Just the soft ripple of blood-stained water around your thighs. 

And then— 

A thin, reedy cry pierced the stillness. Soft at first. Then louder. Demanding. Alive. 

The mute sister caught them in her arms without flinching, lifting the tiny, blood-slicked body with sacred precision. The child was slippery, smeared with vernix and birth, their skin flushed in blue and pink marbling. One eye opened, not fully, and then clenched shut again as their mouth opened wide to wail. 

The cord pulsed between you—a thick, glistening tether, red and white like sacrificial silk. The blind sister held it delicately between two fingers, reverent as Fyodor’s mother reached for a curved blade. 

Snip. 

And still—it was not over. Not yet. 

A second wave built in your gut. Less urgent. Deeper. You whimpered as your body clenched again. The afterbirth. 

It came slower, heavier. There was no stretch now—just pressure. A dull, thick ache. And then it passed through you: a slop of deep red, warm and slick and strangely solid. You felt it slide from you like a second child—heavier than expected, less alive, more holy. The air changed when it left your body.  

Your muscles gave out. You nearly slumped beneath the surface, but warm hands steadied you—held you up as your child was finally swaddled and brought to your chest. 

Their skin against yours was hot and fragile, their breathing quick and uneven, mouth nuzzling blindly at your breast. You couldn’t see clearly. Couldn’t move your fingers. But your arms curved around them anyway. 

The bathwater was pink now. A soft halo of blood was drifting in whorls around your hips. 

The women whispered to one another in words you couldn’t follow. A final blessing, maybe. Or a warning. Then, one by one, they stood. They kissed your forehead, touched your shoulder. The mute one squeezed your hand. Fyodor’s mother murmured something as she pressed her lips to your temple, too soft to catch.  

And then they left you. Alone. Changed. Split open and whole. 

Silence settled over the room like gauze. 

Until— 

The door creaked. 

Bare feet on tile. A pause. He was here. 

Fyodor knelt at the edge of the tub, his white shirt open at the throat, his sleeves pushed restlessly up. His eyes raked over you—slow and disbelieving—as if you were some rare relic pulled from the earth, dirt-stained and priceless. 

You watched him through half-lidded eyes, your body too heavy, too hollow to move. Still, you offered him a weak smile: small, cracked at the edges, but real. The best you could give. 

His hand entered the water first, unhesitating. His fingers brushed your thigh beneath the surface—warm despite the cooling water, tender despite the ruin of you. You shuddered at the touch. 

His voice was too steady, too calm for what burned behind his eyes. “Look at what you’ve made for me.” 

He said me and not us. 

He reached forward, hands trembling from the unbearable weight of awe, and tucked a wet lock of hair behind your ear. His knuckles skimmed your cheekbone with heartbreaking care, as if he thought you might shatter if he pressed too hard. 

"You were brave," he murmured. "You were good." His voice was soft, reverent, like a man speaking to a chalice just after lifting it from the altar. 

You thought you heard more—another whisper shaped against your hairline—but your mind, dulled with exhaustion, couldn’t catch the words. They dissolved into the blood-heavy air like incense. 

Something about belonging. 

Something about forever. 

You closed your eyes, tears slipping hot and silent down your cheeks. It was too much. All of it. 

The baby stirred faintly against your chest: tiny, blind, perfect. Fyodor’s gaze dropped to the child, and the smallest, most fragile smile ghosted over his mouth. Something in him broke then, you thought. Something silent and secret. 

Without a word, he rose. 

You barely registered him undoing the buttons of his shirt, pulling it over his head with slow, careful movements. His pale chest caught the candlelight, sharp bones, translucent skin, and then he stepped into the water without hesitation. 

It didn’t matter that his white pants soaked up the blood tinted bathwater, turning pink around his thighs. It didn’t matter that the air reeked of sweat and iron and birth. It didn’t matter that the water was no longer clean. It was holy. And he wanted to be closer. 

Fyodor sank down behind you, one arm sliding carefully around your ribs, the other cradling the child to your chest. He drew you back against him with infinite patience, letting you rest your weight entirely on him. 

You felt his breath on your temple. Slow. Steady. Holding you both together. 

He pressed his forehead to your damp hair and stayed like that for a long, long time. 

At some point, you heard him whisper—not to you, but into the hollow space between your bodies: 

“All things must be broken open before they are made sacred.” 

You were too far gone to answer. But you felt it. Felt the truth of it seep into your skin, the same way the water seeped into your bones. 

He held you until your breathing evened out, until the shivering in your muscles dulled to a low, exhausted ache.  

Then, a gentle knock. 

The door opened just a fraction, candlelight catching on Fyodor’s mother’s shawl. She didn’t speak, but her eyes flicked to the child nestled between your chests—small, silent, sacred. 

Fyodor didn’t look at her when he spoke. 

“You may take him, mama.” 

No hesitation. She stepped forward and lifted the child from your chest with careful hands, as if cradling something anointed. You whimpered faintly at the absence, your arms twitching with the instinct to hold on—but Fyodor’s voice found you again, softer than before. 

“Shh. It’s alright. He’s safe. He is not away from us… only watched over.” 

You nodded—or thought you did. Your body didn’t feel quite yours yet. It had been a vessel, then an altar, and now it was just… heavy. 

Fyodor helped you up, not with force, but with patience. His hand under your arm, his other at your back. You didn’t walk so much as lean, let yourself be steered. Slumped forward. Bare feet finding cold tile with unsure steps. You were trembling. He didn’t comment. 

He wrapped you in linen and whispered something in Russian against your ear that you didn’t catch. Your mind floated somewhere outside your skin. 

The hallway was quiet as he led you to your bedroom.

He helped you sit. Then lie. Then breathe. 

You leaned back into the pillows, fingers curled loosely in the folds of the robe, too spent to speak. The pain was receding, but the echo of it still clung to your thighs, your spine, the base of your skull. 

Fyodor didn’t leave. He sat beside you, silent. One hand on the back of your neck, the other resting on your knee through the linen. He didn’t touch only to comfort, but to anchor as well. To remind you that you were still here, and still his. 

Time passed. Maybe an hour. Maybe more. 

At some point, you closed your eyes. When you opened them again, there was a knock, heavier this time. 

Fyodor’s father stepped halfway into the room. His face was unreadable, but his voice was soft. 

“It’s time. The meal is ready.” 

Fyodor nodded. No ceremony. Just fact. 

Your home felt warmer than before. Gentler. And when you stepped into the main room, the fire was bright. The table set.  

Your son, swaddled now, lay cradled in Fyodor’s mother’s arms. Eyes deep and fathomless. Mute. Watchful. Already his father’s child. 

And when you were led to the table, you let yourself be guided like a doll. A low chair, cushioned, a wool shawl tucked over your shoulders. Fyodor was beside you in an instant. 

Someone brought you warm water to rinse your hands. You blinked slowly, unsure whether you were awake or still inside some dream haze of labor. Then, Fyodor’s hand reached for yours, and when your fingers barely closed around his, he pressed a kiss to your knuckles. Cold lips. Warm breath. 

“You have given me something eternal,” he said, voice low and clear. “And still, you remain here, breathing. Beautiful. Enduring. I could not have asked for anything more.” 

A plate was set before you then: rich, earthen vegetables—carrots roasted in honey, soft bread torn by hand. A dark, tender cut of meat glistened in the center. You blinked at it, unsure. It smelled… warm, familiar, but you couldn’t place it. The tea beside it steamed faintly, rooibos mixed with lemon balm; meant to soothe the womb, they had said. 

Fyodor picked up your fork before you could. 

He cut into the meat with practiced elegance, slicing a modest piece and blowing on it. Then he brought it to your lips, cradling your chin in his free hand. “Eat,” he said softly. Not quite a request. 

You parted your lips. 

He watched as you accepted the bite. You chewed slowly. The meat was tender, perfumed with herbs, coated in honey and something metallic. Sweet, but not cloying. Strange, but not wrong.  

“You must take your strength back into you… for the child, and for me.” 

You hummed in response.

A pause.

“What meat is this?” You ask quietly after swallowing the first bite.  

He didn’t answer at first. His smile lingered, soft at the edges, unreadable. Then, gently, like a secret passed in a chapel he said. “It was part of you that you gave freely. And now… returned to you with care.” 

You trembled. Did he mean— 

“Would you prefer I lie?” he asked, almost fondly. “No… you would not. You would rather suffer in truth than live in soft deception. That is why I chose you.” 

He fed you again, slow and precise. Each bite coaxed from your lips like an offering. You leaned toward him without meaning to, a quiet tilt of your body seeking the steadiness of his. He noticed, of course.  

In the corner, Fyodor’s parents hummed as they cradled your son. The boy was asleep. Quiet and perfect. 

Fyodor leaned close as he gently wiped the corner of your mouth, careful and ceremonial, like a priest cleaning a chalice. “You have done beautifully,” he whispered, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “To bleed for me. To break yourself open for this cause we now cradle in our arms.” 

You closed your eyes. And though your limbs still trembled, you obeyed. Each bite was devotion. Each swallow, a promise whispered into the marrow of your being. You were carrying his blood in two forms now—in your arms… and on your tongue. 

You had given yourself wholly. And for that, he was pleased. 

Exactly three days later, the baptism took place. 

By then, your body had begun to mend. People came bearing flowers, offerings, prayers. They looked at you with awe, with trembling hands and wet eyes, as though divinity had passed through your womb. As though you had birthed not a child, but the second coming of Christ. 

And perhaps, for them, you had. 

The sin eater. Born from a bond that defied flesh and surpassed the small, trembling understanding of ordinary hearts. A child to carry the weight of sin on their back. A child to cleanse, to devour transgression not with wrath, but with quiet love, holy devotion, and willing sacrifice. 

You had been broken open to bring them this salvation. You had swallowed your own pain. Your own blood. And now they knelt before you, revering what you had made. 

The church was colder that morning. Not in temperature, but in breath, in time. As if the stone walls had drawn in the chill from the surrounding peaks and held it tight like a sacred truth. You stood in silence, your child bundled in white linen against your chest, their warmth the only thing tethering you to your body. The sky outside was slate grey, and the mist clung to the church windows like sighs trying to get in. 

The congregation was already inside. Rows upon rows of villagers, heads bowed, hands clasped, whispering. You didn’t understand the words—only the tone. Reverent. Awed. And maybe... afraid. 

At the altar, the three sisters waited. The same who had guided your wedding, veiled now in black. The blind one’s eyes were hidden beneath a shroud of muslin, tight around her skull. The deaf one’s ears were wrapped in woven wool, thick and solemn. The mute one’s lips—still sewn, the white thread now stained faintly crimson from old attempts at speech. Still, they stood tall. 

Your child did not cry. You had not heard him cry since he left your body. 

You stepped forward with Fyodor at your side, each step echoing on the stone floor. Behind the altar, a basin had been carved into the earth itself, a deep bowl. The water shimmered faintly with silver flecks—ashes, you realized. 

The blind sister reached for your child. 

You hesitated, but Fyodor’s hand pressed gently at the small of your back. “It is alright,” he murmured, soft and unhurried. “They will only bless what we’ve given.” 

You let go. Your heart beat like a warning. Not because you doubted him, but because part of you still feared exile. You had been welcomed. Anointed. Touched by holy hands. And still… something inside you whispered: do not get too comfortable. Love does not mean you belong.  

The sister’s hands, despite her blindness, were sure. She took the child in her arms, cradled like something fragile, divine, already mourned. 

Then came the immersion. 

Once—for the soul. 

Twice—for the flesh. 

Thrice—for the sins not yet committed. 

Each time, the child slipped beneath the surface like a falling star—disappearing into the water’s hush, only to rise again, eyes open, untouched by the cold. You clutched Fyodor’s sleeve, heart thudding like a warning bell against your ribs. 

The deaf sister approached with a small glass vessel wrapped in cloth. When she uncorked it, the sharp, resinous scent of myrrh unfurled into the air. Dipping her fingers in, she anointed the child’s temples, chest, and wrists. 

“So you will carry both burden and balm,” she said, breath thin as incense smoke. 

Then she rubbed a pinch gently along the baby's heels. 

“So you will be preserved,” she murmured. “So rot will not find you.” 

Then came the oil—dark, pressed from olives and mixed with herbs. She traced a spiral at the navel, then the throat. 

“So your voice will be guarded. And your hunger holy.” 

The mute sister approached. 

She said nothing—could say nothing. She pulled, from her robe, a small knife. 

You gasped—but Fyodor placed a calm hand on yours. 

“She opens her voice,” he whispered. 

With a swift cut, the stitches at the mute sister’s lips split. Blood dripped slow onto the floor. And then she began to sing. 

No words. Just sound. A low hum, aching with generations of sorrow and rebirth. The entire congregation joined in. A thousand voices, some cracked with age, others clear and melodic—singing without language. Just sound. Just devotion. 

You began to cry. You didn’t even know when. 

The sisters laid the baby in your arms once more. A wreath had been placed on their head made of sage, rue and pressed violets, all bound in red string. Around their waist, a small sash, mirroring your wedding one, looped thrice and knotted once. 

You looked down. 

Your child was smiling. 

That small, tender smile—so quiet, so good. Their eyes shimmered with unshed tears, but they did not fall. You could not tell if it was joy, serenity, or something far older than emotion. It pierced you either way. 

You broke. 

Not with a sound, but with the way your arms tightened instinctively around them. As if to shield them. As if that could still mean something. As if the ritual hadn’t already claimed them.  

Your knees nearly gave, but Fyodor caught you, steady, solid, eternal. His hands cradled your shoulders as he whispered into your ear, low and warm. “They are perfect, my love. You gave them the world. And now... now they will cleanse it.” 

You looked around at the congregation—so full of adoration, so full of fear. They would revere this child, but never hold their hand. Never run with them in the fields. Never laugh freely. Your heart ached. It bled. 

But Fyodor was unmoved. He watched the child like a man who had found his legacy in flesh. His smile was proud. Not just of the child, but of you. Of your devotion. Of your body, which had carried his design into the world. 

You heard the congregation’s final note. A swell. A sigh. 

And then, silence. 

As if something ancient had exhaled through all of them and was now sleeping again. 

They kissed his forehead with trembling reverence. Then stepped back. None dared to hold him again. 

Your child, this little miracle, was now the village’s sin eater. Sacred. Beloved. Alone. 

But not unloved. 

Never unloved. 

Then, one quiet evening, you found yourself walking beside Fyodor. The path was narrow, the fields open. The sun was lowering but hadn’t set, casting long, golden beams that stretched through the wheat. Your feet were bare, the earth still warm from the day. It clung softly to your skin, grounding you, reminding you that you were here. Alive. His. 

Children’s laughter rang out in the distance—sharp, high notes of joy as they chased one another through the tall grass. You paused, instinctively, and glanced toward the sound. For a moment, just a moment, you thought of yours. Likely nestled against his grandmother’s chest now, drowsy and warm with milk. Safe. Wanted. Whole. 

And then, strangely, you thought of your parents. 

Their faces blurred. You had last seen them a little over a year ago, and yet… you could no longer recall the exact curve of your mother’s cheek, nor the timbre of your father’s voice. Time had softened them in your memory, worn them down like river stones.  

Perhaps that was for the best. 

Fyodor’s fingers brushed yours. Then curled around them, slow and deliberate. 

From the open window of a weathered home, an old woman glanced out, her voice rasping as she passed the proverb down with an wry smile: 

"Муж и жена—одна Сатана." 

You blinked. The words rolled over your spine. You should have flinched. But instead, a strange warmth spread through you. 

It wasn’t a judgment. It wasn’t an insult. 

It was truth. Dressed in proverb. A sigh of knowing. 

One flesh. One soul. One sin. 

You didn’t laugh. You didn’t deny. 

You only nodded, as though you understood. And perhaps you did. 

Because the rhythm of your life had become inseparable from his—threaded through your breath, your blood, your being. 

It was a cycle. You had felt it humming beneath your skin for some time now, rooted deep beneath the bone. A rhythm you fell into without ever learning the steps. You would falter—doubt yourself, spiral inward, pick at your bleeding thoughts. And he would be there. Always. A hand on your back. A kiss to your temple. A voice like dusk, low and thick with calm, telling you that you were enough. That you were his. That he saw you, all of you, and still chose you. 

Maybe that was what undid you. That he chose you. 

Not once, not briefly. Not with hesitation. But over and over, with quiet conviction. 

You didn’t know when comfort became craving. When needing him became the only thing that made you feel safe. When his touch stopped soothing and started claiming. 

But perhaps… that was the point. 

If you ached, he would soothe. If you cried, he would hush. If you feared being too much, he would hold you like you were made of silk and sorrow and nothing more.  

You folded yourself into his shape, gave him your voice, your womb, your worth. And he took it, of course. With reverence, with tenderness, with quiet hunger. And in that, he was possessive. But softly so.   

You needed to be his. And he needed to be needed. So the circle held. The pattern repeated. You weren’t sure where he ended and you began anymore. But you didn’t want to know. Not if knowing meant undoing this.  

Not if it meant unraveling this—this fragile, necessary thing.  

Dividers: saradika-graphics