#they understood each other and trusted each other blindly

[thefreakymunson]

Bbno$ smut, anyone?

Not proofed or anything, just needed to get this out of my mind lol

A/N:  New obsession.  Sorry, not sorry.

Your hands slid down his exposed back, fingers splaying out as you moved them closer to his neck.  He sighed softly, relaxing into your touch.  Small kisses trailed the path your hand had taken, nuzzling and nipping along his spine, as your hand slid between his abdomen and the mattress.  He was sleepy warm, his body still waking up, coming back to life.�� Both the two of you were naked, stretched out in the comfort of your own bed finally.  You sat in on one of his interviews the week prior, watching as he joked back and forth with the flirty interviewer.  Everyone that come into Alex's contact seemed to be smitten by him, no interviewer was sparred.  "I could go for getting' pegged, ya know, once I've made that commitment to a woman and I trust them enough."  Was something along the lines of what Alex had said.  He laughed along as the woman interviewer acted too enthusiastically and shouted, "Let's go!" But it had been stuck in your mind since then. 

You were no stranger to the world of kink, but it was the first Alex had mentioned anything about it.  He was never one to really talk about his fantasies, but understood you were down for pretty much whatever he was.   He was always surprising you with new adventurous things to try…maybe it was your turn to return the favor.  A small groan escaped his throat as you slowly stroked his cock to life, feeling him harden in your hand.  Your nose nuzzled into the shell of his ear, peppering the exposed skin there with kisses as he fully woke up then.  He pressed himself back against you, seeking your warmth, and then froze when he felt an unfamiliar feeling poking in his back.  "The fuck is that?"  He asked groggily, reaching back and wrapping his hand around the silicone dildo placed in the strap on you had slipped into before returning to bed and waking him up.  "You know what it is…'I could go for getting' pegged'…sound familiar, Alex?" you quoted back to him, nuzzling into his ear as you stroked his cock, smirking as the realization hit him, and his cock only throbbed in response.  "I figured since, ya know, you did propose…maybe I'm that woman." 

He blindly ran his fingers over the toy and you felt him shudder just a bit before he wrapped his hand around it again.  "It feels big," was all he could seem to muster out, tugging on the strap, creating a delicious friction on your end.  You had lucked up and found a double sided option.  Each stroke he made of your fake cock, only pulled it out of you, and then pushed it back in as he stroked.   Your pussy had throbbed at the thought of this all week until you finally got home and found your moment.  "Want to try it out?"  You asked softly, your hand moving up to his chest, smearing his precum in a long trail.  "I'm sure we can make it fit."  He breathed as if your words knocked the breath out of him.  He pressed himself harder back against you, the tip of your cock getting pinned right against his hole.  He was so turned on he could barely muster words at that moment, so all he could do was swallow, hard, and whimper out a soft, "Yes, please." 

"That's my good boy," you whispered, "Get on your hands and knees for me." 

You watched as he quickly, almost embarrassingly quick, scrambled to the middle of the bed as you kneeled at the end, squirting a generous layer of lube all over your cock.  Two lubed fingers circled his hole, teasing and pressing.  He surprised you this time by laying his head down on the mattress, giving you ample exposure.  As you pressed your finger into his warm hole, your other hand slowly and teasingly jerked him off,  trying to ease any discomfort.  You took your time stretching him out, feeling his body relax further as any discomfort moved into strictly pleasure, and before you knew it, he was rocking himself back against your prying fingers.  You kept your fingers away from his prostate after locating the small nub nestled deep inside of him.  You weren't going to let him have that much fun before you even got to what you both were throbbing for…

He whimpered when you slid your fingers out of him, the disconnect immediate, but immediately tensed up when he felt the cool tip of your cock pressing against his hole.  "I've got you," you said softly, "Do you want me to sto-"

"No," he cut you off quickly, reaching back and gripping your thighs, "Do it…need it…you…"

You had seen Alex in many different states, but the neediness in his voice was foreign…and it only made you throb harder.  Your own arousal was dripping down the insides of your thighs as you lined your toy up with his entrance again and slowly inched into him.  You took your time, but soon, all six inches of your fake cock was buried in him to the hilt.  "Fuck me," he panted into the mattress, "Please…please." 

Your mouth watered at the desperation in his voice as you looked down and watched as you slid your cock out of him, almost entirely to the tip, and then watched as it disappeared inside of him.  The tightness of his ass created enough friction and suction that it pulled the toy out of your soaked pussy, and with each thrust into him, sent it driving into you, and the friction of the leather pressed right against your clit nearly sent you over the edge.  You kept your pace moderate, watching in the mirror beside your bed as he matched your thrusts and also fisted himself at the same time.  His jaw was slack, eyes glossed over, and there was a red tint across his cheeks as he watched the two of you in the mirror.  "You're being such a good boy for me," you moaned, already feeling your orgasm approaching.  He rocked himself back against you in rhythm, not ashamed of letting his whimpers and moans escape now.  He couldn't himself as you threaded your fingers into his hair and used it as leverage to fuck him harder.  The tip of your cock rammed into his prostate with the new angle and he had to bite his lips to keep himself from crying out as he came.  His entire body trembled underneath you as you kept your pace up, chasing your own orgasm, but continuously brushing the tip of yourself across his prostate.  "Cum for me," he rasped out, body too weak from the overwhelming sense of pleasure to do anything else,  And, as usual, that's all it took to send you over the edge, your orgasm ravaging you as you ground yourself against his ass.  Your pussy pulsed with each wave of pleasure, your hands moving to dig into his hips to stabilize yourself. 

Without being able to help yourself, you slumped against him, using your arms to prop yourself up.  You stayed in that position, admiring the way his body stretched around your cock and took all of you in on the first try.  You couldn't help the way you instinctively kept grinding against him, the feeling of your orgasm slipping away, before you had started to slowly pull out.  As you pulled the toy out of you, your mess only become greater, seeping further down the inside of your legs. 

His ass was covered in lube and your climax mixing together, leaving him soaked.  You'd clean him up later…but for now… With trembly legs, you walked up to where his head was and sat down in front of him, spreading your legs.   He immediately knew what you want and his warm mouth was on your pussy within seconds, licking and cleaning every inch, moaning at the taste of your orgasm coating his tongue.   Thick fingers parted your lips and his mouth attached to your clit, flicking his tongue back and forth as he slid two fingers inside of you, causing you to moan his name so loudly that it echoed in the quiet room. Tomorrow, you'd unpack and get things settled from tour.  But for now, you just laid back and enjoyed staring into those pretty brown eyes as he cleaned up the mess between your legs…

[captain-joongz]

Tits out

Pairing: best friend!Wooyoung x f!reader

Genre: bffs to ??, college au, pure smut, barely any plot, fluff, humour

Summary: When talking to your best friend about your nipple piercing during movie night backfires in the most spectacular way possible and Seonghwa's new couch gets caught in the crossfire

Word count: cca 7k

Warnings: reader is chubby, there's no discussion, they just jump into it, titty sucking, nipple and nipple piercing fixation, unprotected sex (this is pure fantasy, be careful in the real world), a little bit of body insecurity about body hair, fingering, doggy, squirting (let me know if i missed anything)

I had met Wooyoung back in the first year in uni and now four years later we were still going strong. The man that walked in confidently into a lecture hall, bee-lined straight for the empty space next to me and was sitting down before I even comprehended his question of “is this seat taken?”, who then proceeded to talk my ear off and invite himself for lunch with me, was quite easy to befriend, believe it or not. After sitting next to him a few times and going for lunch later, I’d managed to get out of my shell a little too and soon we were two merry extroverts steamrolling through university hip to hip. He’d become one of my best friends, one of my closest friends and a person that understood me almost perfectly. We knew we could count on each other completely and trusted each other blindly.

I was introduced into his friend group, and he was into mine and we often hung out together in huge groups of rowdy younglings, going dancing and spending weekends eating too much junk food and watching bad movies someone had put on, but no one really paid attention to besides the occasional joke about its stupidity. I couldn’t count how many times I’ve done something extremely stupid while hanging out with them and was heavily encouraged by both Wooyoung and San. It was the most fun I’ve had though, and that’s what really mattered.

Now I was already out of school, but Wooyoung and most of his friends were continuing with their studies. Due to this, we tried to hang out every Friday, but a lot of the time it ended up being just me and him or even just me sitting in their living room watching Netflix waiting who makes it home first. It was like my second home at this point, and no one was phased when I showed up out of the blue and sat on the couch like I owned it. Especially since Seonghwa bought the new one, that one was extremely comfortable.

Usually, Friday night was a hang out and movie night for me and Wooyoung anyway, but today I was a woman on a mission. A few months ago, I had gotten a nipple piercing. It wasn’t my first one (though it was definitely the most painful one) so I wasn’t extremely worried about it, but lately it has been acting up a little. It usually didn’t hurt but sometimes there would be this slight discomfort around it and I’ve even noticed some slight scabbing even months later. I knew realistically that it was most likely okay, but my anxious nervous little brain had managed to convince me that I’m going to lose my tit or something. That’s why I needed a second opinion. And that’s where Wooyoung came in.

Tonight, I was making my way towards their flat knowing I’m about to ask Wooyoung for the weirdest favour one ever could, but it should be okay, right? We were such close friends, it definitely wasn’t a big deal, right? You normally asked your friends to take a look at your tits and tell you whether there’s something weird about one of them, that was just a usual Friday, no?

I checked the group chat again and confirmed that it would be just me and Woo tonight and then made my way to their building’s door. They lived on the fourth floor without an elevator, which would normally be a minus, but since it was an old warehouse made into an apartment building, their flat was actually massive and housed all of them without a problem, so I graciously sacrificed myself and stomped up the stairs a few times a week to see their faces (and eat their food).

Upon arriving to the flat, I found Woo busy making something in the kitchen, humming lightly while whipping cream like a 50s housewife.

“What you up to?” I asked casually strolling into the room, making Wooyoung jump with shock. “Jesus fucking Christ, you sneak in all the time and yet I still get scared by you,” he said and put his hand over his heart. I slapped his shoulder and peeked at what he was making.

“You literally gave me the keys, Wooyoung, I’m hardly sneaking in,” I said and rolled my eyes at him. He just laughed and pushed me out of the kitchen. “Shut up and start choosing the movie or I know we’ll just end up scrolling through Netflix for hours like always,” he shouted over his shoulder and went back to whatever snack he was making.

As I sat on the couch, I was steeling myself for what I was about to ask him, trying to figure out how to bring it up. No time like the present, right. I mindlessly scrolled through the movies, but really I was waiting for Woo to join me in the living room. Then finally he came in through the door, a plate of little cheesy snacks in one hand and a bowl of popcorn in the other. I was just about to open my mouth, but he cheekily winked at me and made his way back to the kitchen. When he returned, he was holding a little tray with two cups of hot chocolate, the coke and two glasses.

He finally joined me on the couch and for a while we both just sat there, arguing about whether we want to watch a comedy or a thriller, while I was thinking how to broach the subject. But in the end, I didn’t even need to do that. In the middle of my sentence about how I’m not watching another stupid horror movie about nothing, Wooyoung suddenly turned to me and just gave me this look. And I knew I was done playing around. I stopped in the middle of talking and stared at him. He grinned.

“Okay, just spill it,” he said when I stayed silent for too long.

“What do you mean?” I attempted to stray away from the topic until I was ready, but he’d already saw through me. “Really?” he asked incredulously, “I’ve known you for years, you think I don’t recognise when you want to talk about something? Just spill the beans already.” I heaved a deep sigh and then turned on the couch to face him. He was still grinning.

“Okay, this might be really weird, but just bear with me for a while, okay?” I started. While I was slightly worried about the piercing, I also couldn’t help but fear Woo’s reaction, after all this wasn’t exactly a normal thing to ask your friend. I knew worst case scenario he’ll just say no and laugh it off, but still. He looked a little more serious for a moment, but then I continued talking. “I need you to look at my tits, okay?”

Wooyoung looked at me shocked for a moment and then bursted out laughing. I just glared at him annoyed. “Hear me out-“ I started but he cut me off. “Is this about like being insecure about them? You want me to look at them and say they’re okay? Y/N, you know your tits are amazing-“ he was going on and on, but this time it was me who cut him off.

“God, no, nothing like that,” I shut him up embarrassed. While it was true that I was slightly insecure about my plump figure, I loved my boobs, I knew they looked great. They were simply just right, it was one of the things I loved about my body. Wooyoung sensed that it must be something more serious and gestured for me to continue.

“You know I got the piercing, but lately it started to act up a little and I’m getting nervous and I just need you to look and tell me it looks fine,” I got out in one breath and he just stared at me. “Okay…? Why don’t you look into the mirror?” he asked, genuinely curious. “I have, but since I’m getting so nervous about it, I need a second opinion,” I explained, “Come on Woo, I know it’s a super weird and gross request, but help me out here.” Wooyoung laughed again and smirked at me.

“Gross and weird?” he repeated, “Not only I’ll see a nipple and a piercing, but I’ll also see a boob and a nipple with a piercing, that’s like some of the best things in this world combined together.” I slapped his shoulder again, but we both laughed this time.

“You’re the worst, god,” I said laughing, “I’m surprised you haven’t died over being such a fucking horndog all the time yet.” He laughed too and then gestured to my top.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, just shut up and pull your tits out,” he joked and made himself comfortable on one end of the couch. I wasn’t particularly shy about showing my body, so it wasn’t that hard to bare myself like this. Hell, me and Woo have probably seen each other naked a few times but just didn’t care enough.

I pulled the two straps of my top off my shoulders and bunched the fabric around my waist, then reached around to my back to take off my bra. When it hit the floor Wooyoung’s full attention was suddenly on my chest, and it flustered me a little. I fought the instinct to cover myself with my arms and instead just sat there, topless with my best friend intensely staring at my boobs.

“So?” I asked anxiously, “What do you think?” He suddenly straightened up and it brought us quite close to each other. “That you have really great tits,” he said absent-mindedly, his hands raising on instinct as if going to squish them. I flushed and swatted at them. “Yeah, I know,” I said annoyed, “that’s not what I asked though.” That seemed to break him out of it a little bit and he hunched down so his face was on level with my chest. I face-palmed and hoped no one would come home unannounced, cause this would be damn hard to explain.

“No, yeah I think it’s okay,” Woo said after a while, “I mean, the pierced one looks a little different, but that’s to be expected. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with it.” I relaxed at hearing him say so and felt the tension leave me at once. But I just needed a little more to feel completely at ease.

“Can you like… touch it to see if it’s weirdly warm or if there’s some weird texture or something?” I asked embarrassed and quickly looked to the side when Woo’s head whipped up to look at me. “You want me to what now?” he questioned me flabbergasted.

“I don’t know, dude! You’re the one that gets into contact with tits, you’ll know if there’s something wrong with it!” I started hurriedly explaining myself, growing more flustered by the minute. Wooyoung stayed quiet for a moment and then sighed. I thought this was finally the line that was too far for him, but then his hand suddenly flew up and stopped just millimetres from my nipple. We both just sat there, holding our breath, not knowing where to look, when he slowly brought his fingers in contact with my skin. I gasped quietly, but in the silence it was still audible. I flushed in embarrassment and refused to look anywhere else except for the wall by the TV.

Wooyoung’s fingers messed around a little, pressing down on the nipple and gently squeezing it, also lightly touching onto the piercing. Surprisingly enough, what I felt wasn’t pain like I feared. With every soft brush of his fingers over the sensitive skin, a little bolt of pleasure shot through me and I had to fight to keep myself from gasping more or arching into his touch. I felt the blush spreading over my face and completely mortified I noticed beginnings of a scorching wet heat between my legs.

Then suddenly his hand was gone and he was clearing his throat. The silence that set between us was broken and we both started shifting around, not knowing what to do with the situation we found ourselves in.

“I think it’s totally fine,” he said, his voice somewhat hoarse, but I was so embarrassed I barely even registered it.

“Oh thank god, I was really getting nervous,” I said and laughed a little awkwardly. Wooyoung wasn’t saying anything and just sat in front of me tensely, so I assumed it was good and he just needed a moment to shake off the sudden awkward atmosphere, and turned around to find my bra. That was a rookie mistake though. The moment my eyes left Wooyoung, he striked. As I was searching the floor with my eyes, suddenly what felt like a lightning strike went through my whole body. My back arched on instinct, and I toppled backwards onto the couch with a loud moan.

Wooyoung’s mouth has attached itself onto my pierced nipple and he sucked again, another shock pulsing through me and pleasure suddenly flooding my senses. My hands flew to his shoulders, but instead of pushing him away I just pulled him closer. I myself wasn’t sure of what was happening or what we were doing, but it felt too good to dwell on it and I definitely didn’t hate it.

Wooyoung moved closer and made himself comfortable between my spread thighs, his mouth busy sucking and licking around my piercing. I was letting out tiny breathy moans, my legs instinctively pulling him closer to my core, hoping for a little friction.

“What… what are you doing?” I finally gathered my wits and asked breathlessly. I looked down to see the top of his head moving around. He peaked up to look at me and smiled sheepishly. “Sorry, I’ve never been with a girl that has a nipple piercing, I couldn’t help myself,” he explained, and I rolled my eyes at him.

“You damn horndog,” I muttered, but didn’t push him away or stop him. That gave him confidence to continue, and he smirked at me, as one of his hands brushed down my front until he was slightly pushing on my clit through my clothes and I arched again. He moved to the other nipple and played with it a little, while his unoccupied hand moved to my other breast, touching it teasingly, squeezing it slightly and thumbing the piercing.

“It’s so sensitive,” he murmured and watched his hand completely fascinated. I was about to retort something, but he chose that moment to bite at my breast and move up to leave wet hot kisses on my neck and a loud moan came out instead. It’s been so long since I’ve been with someone, and I was starting to worry I might utterly embarrass myself. One of my hands sneaked down between our bodies, trying to encourage him to touch me properly instead of just gently pressing, but he caught it and pulled it up to my shoulder. Suddenly he was towering over me, smirking at me and just generally being a menace. I arched again, this time trying to push our lower halves together, but he avoided me with a laugh.

“God, please, Wooyoung just touch me,” I begged him as the desperation from the scorching heat cursing through my veins was taking over, throwing everything into the wind and fully committing to getting fucked by my best friend. He kept smirking and propped himself up over me on his elbow.

“Touch you, huh?” he said and suddenly his hand was back to teasing my clit, this time with more force. I keened and pushed up into him, suddenly embarrassedly realising just how wet I’d gotten from such small ministrations. He chuckled watching me, head diving to take my pierced nipple into his mouth again, gently playing with it with his tongue and scraping his teeth over it. I jerked and my hands flew into his hair, holding him in place so that he’d never stop, my mouth falling open on a silent moan, too overwhelmed by the sensation to properly function. He slowly moved up to my neck, peppering kisses and small bites along the way, while his fingers moved in little circles over my clothed clit.

I was so turned on I could die, I needed him to touch me properly – like stuff me full of his long beautiful fingers. And I told him as such. And he laughed at me.

“Aw, such a little desperate angel, aren’t you?” Wooyoung whispered into my skin. I whined his name, hoping it would speed him up. He scoffed at me playfully but moved away to pull my shorts off, grabbing them with one hand and pulling them down in one swoop; leaving me a little breathless and only in a bunched up top around my middle, while Wooyoung was still fully clothed. I started pulling his shirt off and he obliged, flinging it to the other side of the room eagerly.

Woo sat back on his heels between my spread thighs to take me in and I started to feel shy again, hands moving to grab onto him and pull him back onto me, but he pushed my arms back into the couch and held them there for a moment, before sitting back again.

“No, no, angel, I’m looking at your pretty pussy,” he teased me, hands grabbing at my full thighs to keep them spread wide. I looked down and suddenly an insecurity reared its head again. About two years ago I had stopped shaving in my intimate area, only trimming it a little, cause it irritated my skin too much and the last time I was about to get some, the guy called me disgusting. Wooyoung was currently watching me like a starved man in front of a feast, but still I nervously covered myself with my hands. His eyes flicked up to me, questioning, his eyebrows furrowed.

“Sorry,” was all I said, mad at myself that I couldn’t even properly get out why I was suddenly so uncomfortable, and he looked at me all confused. “What are you sorry for?” he asked, but then realisation lit up his eyes and he moved to stand up from the couch, “Did you change your mind? You know it’s okay to tell me.” I looped my legs around his waist to pull him back to me and he fell forward with an “oof”. This pressed his erect cock to my core as he held himself up with his hands right by my head and we both moaned at the contact. My legs kept encouraging him to grind into me and for a moment we both just breathlessly moved against each other, Woo releasing little moans and sighs into the heated air between us, and I watched his half-lidded eyes slowly become hazy with pleasure, utterly fascinated.

“So I guess no changing of minds,” he chuckled on a small groan as his hips started thrusting a little harsher against me, losing all rationality and just chasing pleasure. “No, nothing like that,” I whispered back and pulled him for a kiss for the first. As soon as our lips touched, we started hungrily devouring each other, moaning into each other’s mouths and our hands grabbing onto each other desperately. I ended up helplessly grabbing onto his back and most probably leaving red scratches in my wake.

After a moment Woo pulled away, sat back on his heels again and I whined and tried to pull him back, leading him to laugh at me once more; but his fingers went straight for my pussy, spreading it open and sliding through the wetness there. As if placated, I immediately stopped whining and arched my back more, begging for his touch.

“What was that about before?” he asked slightly breathless and I could see he was being serious, even though his finger started slowly circling my clit and playing around. I could barely concentrate on explaining as I was too busy drowning in the liquid pleasure spreading through my entire body.

“Just a little… hng- a little insecure about- about my hair,” I answered while writhing around, simultaneously wanting more and hoping he’d stop so that I could explain properly. His eyes immediately flicked down between my legs just as his finger slid down and slowly slipped into me. I moaned loudly, hands grabbing and squeezing the couch. His gaze was trained on my hole as he pumped his finger in a few times and then quickly slid in a second one.

“Fuck, you’re so wet..” he whispered, still watching his fingers slowly fucking into me, his other hand going to squeeze his erection still tenting his sweats. My mouth was hanging open, eyes unfocused, noises just pouring out as I was finally feeling full for the first time. But then suddenly he pulled his fingers out and focused on me again. I actually sobbed out, trying to close my legs to keep his hand from leaving, but they were still kept spread by his hips.

“Why would you be insecure about it?” Wooyoung whispered and it took me a moment to remember what we were talking about before. I propped myself up on my elbows and looked at him, sitting between my spread legs with an obvious erection in sweats stained by my wetness from our grinding before. I flushed again and tore my eyes away from his cock, only to catch his smug smirk. I schooled my expression and said: “The last guy I was with called it disgusting. Said he’s not Columbus to be exploring the rainforest.” Wooyoung scoffed.

“What a fucking asshole, who even comes up with shit like that?” he asked incredulously, “Well, clearly he’s a fucking coward, but thankfully… I’ve always liked a little bit of adventure.” He said the last bit all flirty, winking like an absolute sleaze and I just knew something awful was coming. “Besides,” he said while pressing himself into me again, “the rainforest is the perfect place for my anaconda.” I groaned, but this time from pure embarrassment at his jokes while he cackled like a madman. I pushed him away and started to turn around so that I could stand up.

“God, I changed my mind, get off of me,” I said morosely, but he just grabbed my hips and used the momentum to turn me around and get me on all fours, then pressed us together. A bolt of arousal shot through me, and my arms buckled under my weight, my face pressing into the couch while my ass stayed propped up by Wooyoung, pressed into his hips.

“Actually, this is quite a good idea,” he said grinding into me, “I always knew you’d love to be fucked like this.” He bent over me, his chest pressing into my back as he whispered straight into my ear. “Pressed down like this, taken from behind quick, rough and dirty,” he murmured, “Put nicely in your place…” I moaned unabashed, hips pushing back onto his cock on their own and lust making itself painfully known again; in response I could feel Wooyoung’s hands tightening on my skin and suddenly he pulled back to hurriedly tug his sweats down. His hands made their home on my hips, squeezing and pulling, keeping me pressed into him, his cock slotting between my thighs and sliding along my wet pussy. I keened and attempted to grind back, but he held me as his hips pulled back.

“God, please,” I begged, “Please, Wooyoung, give it to me…” He held himself with one hand and I heard him chuckle. “You want it?” he teased. I felt the head of his cock gently teasing around my hole, slightly pushing in and pulling out again. I sobbed exasperated and nodded, face mushed into the couch and hands grabbing onto the throw pillows, my whole body just fucking screaming for his cock to spear me through and through, cunt spasming and tightening around nothing.

“Yes! Yes, please!” I cried and he finally slid inside in one slow thrust. I moaned with relief and sagged into the couch a little, finally getting what I’ve been wanting this whole time. Wooyoung groaned behind me and his hands dug into the skin of my hips, pushing us impossibly together. The feeling of fullness satisfied something wild and primal in me and I found myself struggling to close my mouth, too blissed out to do anything.

He stilled for a moment to get us both accustomed to the feeling, but clearly both of us were too horny to wait even a little longer, because the second I pushed my hips back into him, he started slowly grinding in small circles and it wasn’t long before it shifted into shallow thrusts punching out little gasps out of me.

I only had to whine out “please!” once to get Wooyoung to speed up and pound into me in a much faster pace, to both of our reliefs. Woo’s cool had quickly melted away into a desperate quick pace that had tiny whiny moans spilling out of him. I wasn’t fairing much better, the slide of his cock along my walls from this angle was absolutely heavenly and within few moments had me absolutely losing my already frayed mind. With my head turned away from the cushions I found myself unable to close my mouth, moans freely slipping out and bouncing off of the walls of the living room. Embarrassingly enough I could feel a string of drool coming out of the corner of my mouth onto the couch, but I couldn’t force myself to care when Wooyoung was fucking me so good.

It quickly became obvious we were both too horny and turned on to keep any kind of decorum, so we descended into a messy filthy fucking, Woo eventually bending over me and plastering his chest to my back, mouthing and biting at my neck in between grunts and groans. Just thinking about how deliciously I was filled with his cock had me moaning loudly, Wooyoung chuckling as if he wasn’t the same, losing his mind over the tight wet heat enveloping him in a torturous hug.

I found myself quickly spiralling, the molten pleasure pumping through my body at an alarming speed. I reached back and pulled at Wooyoung’s hips, forcing him to shift his leg a little closer and putting his hips a little higher over mine, giving him perfect access to that one spot deep inside of me with every thrust. I lost all control over my body then, taken over by the all-consuming pleasure, the moans coming out higher and louder with every thrust.

“God- ah aah-“ I panted out, hands digging into the pillows looking for any kind of purchase to withstand the onslaught of sensations, “I- I’m cumming so-soon.” Wooyoung giggled breathlessly into my shoulder and his hips suddenly gained back a little more direction, aiming to hit the spot with every slam into me, slowly speeding up until he was railing me like a madman, the wet squelch of my cunt and slapping of skin on skin accompanying the cacophony of our joined pleasure. I wailed, unable to keep up with the mounting climax, almost screaming on every thrust inlaid with little gasps, groans and cut off gibberish pouring out of my mouth. It felt as if my entire body lit up, the bliss becoming a little too much for me to properly register beyond “Oh god! Oh yes!” ringing through every inch of my very being.

Then Wooyoung’s hand moved to my tit again and squeezed and pinched the pierced nipple few times, even giving it some light slaps. My whole body seized up on a lightning strike of pleasure and the orgasm hit me like an actual truck, getting thrown over the edge so unexpectedly and with such force that I gave one last wheezing cry, mind blanking out and all I could register was the white ecstasy pouring through me, out of me, as if my entire body was made out of it, every nerve screaming with it.

Distantly I registered Wooyoung’s startled cries and moans, his hips jerking against mine quickly and erratically, his hands back on my hips tightening until I could feel his nails biting into my skin and was sure I’d have a nice set of imprints for at least the rest of the day. Then he stilled over me, cock pushed as deep inside as it could go, pulsing and throbbing as the cum poured out in thick spurts. His deep groan of satisfaction reverberated through my whole body since he was still pressed into my back tightly, letting me enjoy the moment with him.

As if invisible strings were cut, we both collapsed into the couch and hazily I realised I only stayed upright because Wooyoung was holding me so he could fuck me harder. After few minutes my mind slowly started coming back, body tiredly catching up, registering the pleasurable ordeal it just went through. I could feel my pussy throbbing, hot and wet from being thoroughly fucked and filled with Woo’s release, my hips hurting from the pounding. I was almost expecting to see bruises all over me.

For a few moments only laboured breathing was heard through the room as we both recovered, the haze gradually lifting, allowing us to come to terms with what had just happened between us. Surprisingly, it didn’t feel awkward at all. It may have been because I was still lying boneless, unable to speak from the force of the orgasm with Wooyoung’s softening cock still wedged deep inside of my pussy, but I found myself quite comfortable squished into the couch, feeling his shallow breaths in the crook of my neck and his thumping heart against my back. I wondered if he could feel mine, as it was beating just as wildly.

But the comfy silence was broken by the man himself, when he whistled and said: “Wow, I had no idea you could do that.” There was a little teasing undertone to his statement, but mostly I could detect only giddy wonder and pride.

“Do what?” my words still a little slurred, because I was still recovering the functions of my brain and fighting sleep, so deeply sated I could barely hold a full thought.

“Squirt,” Woo stated matter-of-factly, his hands beginning to gently caress my sides to help me come down. “Huh?” I said eloquently and turned to look at him. He just gave me a soft grin, eyes squinting in joy as he took in my state. “I did what?” the question was more rhetorical and I wasn’t even really talking to Wooyoung, rather I started to squirm trying to look down as if my pussy held the answer. And in some way it did. When I managed to lift up my hips a little, my whole body protesting and Wooyoung behind me grunting at the jostling of his soft cock, hands digging into my hips to try and hold me still, I saw that the couch beneath us was absolutely soaked. Slight panic seized me, I didn’t even know why, it was just a natural reaction of my tired brain to the information that apparently Wooyoung, my best friend, had made me squirt for the first time in my life, all over Seonghwa’s lovely sofa. Well, at least it did explain why the orgasm had been so fucking intense, feeling as if the soul left my body and astral projected into a parallel universe.

The squirming dislodged Wooyoung from me and a splat of his cum joined the already huge stain on the furnishing. Now I winced, realising that there was no way either of us was surviving this. Unceremoniously I plopped back down into the mess and turned to Wooyoung, who was sweaty and rosy-cheeked, watching me with amusement.

“Seonghwa is going to fucking murder us,” I muttered tiredly, already back to fighting sleep off now that I was lying again. I let my eyes fall shut and only heard Wooyoung’s answering laugh, only felt him get up from the couch and gently roll me over on my back. There was shuffling, rustling of clothes and footsteps around the living room, but I couldn’t find the strength to look at what was Woo doing, letting myself drift on the high and the aftershocks that were still coursing through me.

Wooyoung was humming somewhere in the apartment and then there was a gentle touch on my hip. I whined but let him do what he needed. A warm wet towel was pressed onto my stomach lightly in lieu of warning and I slowly opened my legs again, feeling the strain and the burn that just hurt so good. Woo tenderly cleaned me up with soft unhurried strokes, then helped me sit up against the pillows to try and put some clothes back on me.

I blearily opened my eyes and blinked at him. Wooyoung was kneeling on the floor in front of me wearing only his sweats and holding his black tee. When he saw I was back in the land of living, he slowly pulled it over my head and helped my arms into the sleeves. I was feeling all warm and fuzzy from his sudden softness, thoroughly enjoying this after-care, suddenly found myself overtaken by the violent need to cuddle and sleep it off, so I was just about to suggest that, when he suddenly sprung to his feet and pulled me up with him. I let myself be man-handled with only a slight surprised yelp, but suddenly standing I realised my legs still weren’t in working order, if my shaking buckling knees were anything to go by, so I just grabbed onto his shoulders and hoped he wouldn’t let me fall.

He didn’t. Another nicely warm towel was now wiping my butt of anything I had been sitting in, his hand gently patting it before putting me back onto the couch in the area that was dry.

I wanted to sleep, but I was too amused by the picture of Wooyoung standing in front of the huge wet stain with a deep thinking expression on his face, wracking his brain for anything to do about it. When a giggle escaped me, suddenly his eyes were on me with a mischievous glint.

“You made the mess and now you laugh at me when I’m trying to save our lives?” he asked jokingly, amusement lacing his tone. I giggled again and curled around one of the pillows, fully committed to watching the comedy unfold. Wooyoung just sighed and looked at the couch as if it murdered his first-born.

“I gotta come up with something before-“ his voice was cut off by the door suddenly opening and a commotion coming in. There were three voices happily chattering something and I could recognise the guys from that. With terror I met Wooyoung’s eyes the moment we registered Seonghwa as one of the voices. Before any of us could even move a muscle, the three men walked into the room and promptly froze in their tracks.

“Holy shit!” It was San who shouted that, but we were focused on the cacophony of emotion going through Seonghwa’s face seconds before he cried out “MY COUCH!!” on the top of his lungs. There was genuine anguish and betrayal in his voice before his eyes redirected from the stain to us with pure fury.

“Okay! Time to take a shower!” Wooyoung shouted and pulled me up, but ended up supporting my entire body when my knees buckled and I was balancing on shaking legs like a new-born fawn. From this angle I could see the pure amusement and approval on San’s face right next to the disgusted traumatised Yeosang. I blushed furiously and let Wooyoung drag me off to a bathroom, where he sat me gently on the toilet.

“I’m going back out,” he whispered with determination as if he was about to walk into a battlefield, leaving his wounded comrade in the safety, knowing there was only death outside. I snickered at him and he theatrically waved at me from the door, before walking out and shutting it behind him.

I could still fairly clearly hear everything go down though, especially when only moments later Yeosang popped in to give me my clothes and stuff I left on the table and didn’t close the door fully after him. My phone was vibrating like crazy, which could only mean San was already blessing the group chat with all the piping hot tea. I unlocked it and clicked on the notifs.

Mountain man: lolol woo and y/n fucked on the couch and completely ruined it

Princess: ew fuck you wooyoung

Muscle baby: i’ll never fucking use the living room again

Brat: 🤷‍♂️🤷‍♂️

The situation unfolding in chat was interrupted by the scene that was going on in the living room in the real time.

“Calm down, I’ll think of something,” Wooyoung’s voice carried through, trying to console Hwa only to be followed by another shriek of “BUT MY COUCH!!”.

“Wow Wooyoung, I really thought better of you,” Sannie teased, adding oil to fire and I could clearly hear his laughs. No signs of Yeosang, but he was probably just standing there watching it all go down.

“I spent months picking it out!” the level of hysteria was steadily rising in Hwa’s voice and I really slowly started fearing for Woo’s life. “I’m gonna have it dry cleaned or something,” the said man offered only to be met with more shrieking.

“You better fucking throw that thing out, there’s no way I’m sitting on it after this,” San added very unhelpfully to the conversation, “especially since I saw the state of it.” There was a beat of silence during which I imagined Wooyoung was throwing daggers at San with his gaze for stirring more shit into it.

“I’ll buy a new one,” was his final plea and while it was met with some more grumbling and fake-crying, I could hear the situation calming down.

Captain: what the fuck is happening there when i’m not home

Mountain man: fornication

Demon angel: disgusting

M o t h e r: MY COUCH

M o t h e r: my amazing couch in the perfect shade of blue that i was looking for

M o t h e r: DEAD AND DEFILED

Puppy: i’ll help you look for a new one, hyung

Mountain man: wooyoung already agreed to buy a new one since he was the cause of the *suspiciously* large stain

Captain: no details

Captain: never any details

Captain: first rule of fight club

xoxo from hell: 🤔🤔

xoxo from hell: i think

Princess: oooh she breaks her silence

xoxo from hell: that a certain man here in this chat should rather shut up considering last week i walked in on him fucking a girl on the kitchen table

Brat: oop-

Mountain man: Y/N

Mountain man: NO

Demon angel: 🤮

Muscle baby: RIGHT WHERE WE EAT???!!!

Puppy: eat pussy apparently

Princess: nice

Captain: don’t encourage him

“MY KITCHEN TABLE?!” Seonghwa’s scream sounded through the flat just as Wooyoung slipped into the bathroom and closed the door behind him with a wide grin. Distantly I could hear San’s pleading and general chaos as Hwa no doubt started raining fury upon him.

“Nice save,” Wooyoung smirked at me and started ridding us of clothes so we could finally take the shower we both desperately needed. The feeling of the hot water hitting my spent and pleasantly aching body relaxed me and I sighed with content. I was basically ready to melt into a puddle right there, sleep slowly rearing its head back up, so I just went with the motion and let Woo soap us both up and rinse us, I let him dry me and put a fresh tee on me that I didn’t even notice he brought with him. I was just watching him with eyes half closed and a doped out smile on my face.

“You’re so cute like this,” Woo muttered as he led me through the hall to his room, amusement and fondness filling his voice with uncharacteristic gentle sweetness. Upon entering his room I immediately beelined for the bed and burrowed myself between the blankets and pillows. Woo rummaged around in his closet for a moment, but it was the only sound I could hear as the apartment suddenly fell almost eerily quiet.

“If I’m so cute now,” I finally mumbled out from underneath the cozy pile, “maybe you should fuck me more often then.” That had Wooyoung turning around to face me with a mischievous grin. “I fully intend to do that,” he said devilishly and jumped in with me. It took a bit of shuffling to get into a comfortable spooning position, but we were no strangers to cuddling each other, so it went rather smoothly.

Just as the sleep was claiming me and I felt myself getting pulled under, Woo suddenly perked up and said: “You don’t think the silence means hyung murdered San and now Yeosang’s helping him get rid of the body, right?” I snickered gently, but just swatted at him to lay back down.

“Well, he probably deserved it,” Woo muttered and snuggled in closer to me, letting the exhaustion finally lull us to sleep. And it was the most comfortable sleep I’ve had in a while, even if San potentially paid for it with his life.

Divider from the amazing @saradika-graphics 💜

A/N: hope you enjoyed yourself, don't be shy I'm always open to comments and asks!!

[cece693]

WHY SHOULD WE FOLLOW THEM BLINDLY?

pairing: percy jackson x male reader synopsis: Percy was conflicted, you were a traitor, siding with Luke to overthrow the Olympians, yet while the camp mourned the loss of the son of Hades, Percy was overcome with grief for the boy whom he liked. However, he will soon see you again—this time, persuading him to join Luke's side—and you're not above using petty tactics.

The campfire that had once blazed beside the amphitheater still smoldered in Percy’s dreams. Every night the wind off Long Island Sound swirled the ash into pale halos, refusing to let the embers die—refusing to let Camp Half-Blood forget that the son of Hades had stepped onto Luke Castellan’s ship of his own free will.

Chosen darkness over the gods.

Chosen to leave him behind.

Percy jolted awake, skin slick with sweat, sheets coiled around his legs like sea-wrack. Across the cabin, Annabeth slept in the other bunk, moonlight silvering the plane of her cheek. Guilt hummed beneath his ribs. She trusted him, believed his silence was grief—but each night his thoughts circled only to you. He saw again the Princess Andromeda easing away from the dock, you standing at the rail in borrowed armor, and that single backward glance: a flash of molten gold in your eyes before the darkness swallowed you.

The cabins had mourned in their own fashions. Chiron spoke of “lost potential”; Clarisse spat curses; Annabeth catalogued tactics Luke must have used to twist you. Percy said nothing. None of them understood the fissure running through him—how Sally’s death a month earlier had already splintered his faith, and how your absence levered the crack wider each day.

On the next night, you watched the camp from the treeline, wrapped in shadows and Hecate-wrought mist. Summer fireflies drifted above the strawberry fields; sentinel harpies glided in lazy spirals, blind to your presence. Luke’s final instructions pulsed behind your sternum: He’s the key. Show him the rot beneath the marble, the blood that oils Olympus’s gears. Break him, or win him.

Break Percy? No. You intended to free him.

You crossed the border unseen. The Poseidon cabin was cool, damp with the hush of distant tides. Seashell lamps cast a nacreous glow over driftwood beams. Percy lay restless, one hand still curved around Riptide even in sleep. When the cabin wards shimmered at your entry, his eyes snapped open, sea-green and stormy.

“You—” His voice fractured. “Gods, you can’t be here. If the harpies—”

You closed the door; your shadow elongated and slid across the latch until it clicked. “If they catch their golden boy harboring traitors?” Your smile tilts, half dare, half invitation. “They already believe you untouchable, Percy. Perhaps it’s time we let them choke on their illusions.”

He sat up, knuckles whitening on Riptide’s hilt. “Luke changed you.”

“Luke opened my eyes.” You correct him before stepping forward, lamplight revealing what months aboard the Titan’s fleet had carved you into—angular cheekbones, smoke-dark crescents beneath your eyes, a confidence plated like iron beneath skin. “He grieves you, Percy. Calls you the storm that could scour Olympus clean, if only you’d stop letting them shackle you to prophecy.”

Percy’s heartbeat flutters; you can almost taste the thunder-sharp jealousy sparking off him. “Luke’s no hero.”

“Oh, but he is, Percy.” Your tone drips honeyed mockery. “Brilliant, unstoppable—fighting for every camper Olympus tossed to the wolves. He sees the cracks in the gods’ marble thrones and dares to pry them wider.”

You let the words linger like expensive perfume, then study Percy as though deciding whether to pity or covet him. “Doesn’t it burn, knowing the gods would rather parade Luke as a cautionary tale than admit their own decay?”

Percy’s shoulders knot; salt wetness beads in the air, a brewing squall. “Luke betrayed everyone who loved him.”

“And Olympus betrays everyone it claims to love.” Your voice stayed velvet, blade hidden in the weave. “Tell me this: when your mother begged the gods for help—when she lay dying in that apartment while they debated non-interference—did your father lift a finger?”

The question lands like a blade. Percy flinches, sea-green eyes darkening like a storm. “Don’t talk about her.”

“She's the reason you fight,” you say softly, stepping close enough that his breath stirs the collar of your jacket. “But she’s also proof of how little they value you. Poseidon broke a centuries-old pact to claim you, but he couldn’t spare a fraction of that defiance to save the woman you loved most. The same council that hails you as their savior let her die—and then handed you a prophecy written in your own blood.”

You lift a hand, fingertips hovering near his jaw, not quite touching. “What loyalty do you owe them, Percy? To gods who dole out favor like drachmae at a rigged game, then call it destiny when mortals pay the price?”

Percy’s breath hitches when your fingers graze his jawline, but you don’t linger—you turn away, prowling the cabin as though inspecting a prize you might soon claim. Moonlight skims the fine leather of your jacket and catches on a nick at your throat, the faint crescent a blade left during one of Luke’s sparring sessions.

Percy’s gaze locks on that mark. “He did that?”

You hum, pleased by the edge in his voice. “Training leaves reminders. Luke likes to work close—hand on your shoulder, whispered corrections against your ear. He says I learn fast.”

The muscle beneath Percy’s eye twitches; the air thickens with brine. Good. Let him taste jealousy before he tastes freedom.

“You really trust him?” he asks, softer than the surf outside.

“I trust that he’d carve Olympus open if it meant keeping me alive.” You pivot, meeting Percy’s stare. “Can Annabeth say the same? Or will she kneel the moment Athena snaps her fingers?”

Her name breaks loose like a reflex. Guilt flashes across his face—memories of quests survived, promises traded in hushed midnight watches. You stride forward, cutting off the thought before it can shore him up.

“Annabeth loves you, yes, but she loves prophecy more. She loves the architecture of a heroic story—the boy who saves the world on schedule. The moment you step off that blueprint, she’ll love the blueprint more than the boy.”

The truth lands like salt in a fresh wound. Percy’s shoulders tense; guilt and anger knot in equal measure.

“Don’t,” he begins, defensive, but you press a finger to his lips.

You laugh, soft and cutting. “Annabeth,” you echo, as though tasting the word and finding it bland. “kneels at Athena’s feet, Percy. She’ll follow the owl wherever it roosts, even if it roosts on your grave. Her brilliance is a compass the gods forged for their own convenience. She’ll point you north toward their plan every time. And what does that plan promise you? A war you might win only by dying.”

Percy flinches, and in the tremor you hear the shatter of a belief sliding out of place. You press.

“Luke doesn’t want your devotion, Percy—he wants your rage. The part of you that watched your mother die and felt the sea tremble with it. The part of you that already knows prophecies are shackles disguised as glory.”

Riptide still lies forgotten on the floorboards. You toe the blade aside, then produce a slim drachma—all polished silver, stamped with Poseidon’s trident. “Heads,” you murmur, flipping it. The coin arcs between you, catching lamplight, flashing judgment. “Heads, you stay their dutiful champion. Tails, you carve your own destiny.”

The drachma lands on the back of your hand—trident up. Percy stares at it as though it’s mocking him. You catch his wrist, turn his palm upward, and drop the coin into it. “It’s rigged,” you whisper. “Every throw is heads to them. But with us?” You close his fingers around the drachma. “We melt the currency and mint new gods.”

Something in Percy breaks—not like glass, but like a tide-wall giving way. Jealousy, grief, and a bright, vicious hope collide in his eyes. When he exhales, the candleflames shudder; the briny tang of storm retreats, replaced by the ozone-sharp scent of a sea about to change course.

“What do I do?”

You smile, triumphant and tender all at once. “Meet me at the beach in one hour. Bring nothing that ties you to this place but your sword—Luke will be waiting offshore.”

He hesitates only long enough to glance at the bunk Annabeth has used yesterday. Guilt flickers, but you step into his line of sight, eclipsing it. “She’ll be safer believing you died a hero than watching you live a pawn.”

Percy nods—a single, decisive dip—and the cabin seems to sigh with the shift in fate. You lean in, brush your lips against the shell of his ear. “And, Percy? Luke may have taught me to fight…” Your fingers trail down his chest, claiming the steady drum of his heart. “…but I came back for you.” You turn, open the cabin door and walk away.

However, the cabin door is still whispering shut behind you when Percy’s fingers clamp around your wrist—salt-rough, decisive, impossible to mistake for the boy who once apologized every time he breathed too loud. He drags you back inside, wards sparking like struck flint as they reseal.

“Leaving already?” His voice is low, serrated at the edges. Moonlight cuts across his cheekbones, turning the sea-green of his eyes to deep, tidal jade. “You come here, rip my life in half, and think you can just…walk out?”

Before you can answer, Percy surges forward and kisses you, hard.

It is not the shy, sun-warm press of lips you envisioned long ago. This kiss tastes of riptides and broken oaths—of a storm surge pounding through a breach in the seawall. He brackets your jaw, thumbs digging just shy of bruising, and swallows the gasp he drags from your throat. Power hums under his skin; you feel it the way sailors feel depth in their bones—a pull that could drown or deliver, depending on his whim.

When he finally tears back, breath ragged, saltwater beads along his lashes like dew. “Luke’s name on your tongue,” he growls, “shouldn’t make me want to drown him. But it does.”

Your pulse spikes—part triumph, part danger. “Jealous, Sea Prince?”

“Possessive,” he corrects, voice dark as the trench beyond the continental shelf. “And tired of being the gods’ obedient weapon. You showed me that.” His grip shifts to the back of your neck, heat and claim in every fingertip. “Now you’ll show me everything else.”

A ripple of power answers the promise: seashell lamps flicker out, water condenses on the walls, and outside the breakers slam the shore in perfect rhythm with his pulse. The air smells of ozone and undertow, of something vast deciding to turn its teeth inland.

“Careful,” you murmur, though your own blood drums with fierce approval. “If you keep this up, they’ll call you the next great monster.”

“Let them.” Percy’s smile is a knife-flash. He reaches down—Riptide lies ready, bronze glinting—and snaps the pen into sword form with a practiced flick. But instead of angling the blade at you, he raises it to his own palm and scores a shallow line across the skin. Scarlet wells, bright against bronze. “Prophecies want my blood? Fine. I’ll spend it where I choose.”

He presses the cut to the nick at your throat—a mingling of salt and copper, oath and heresy—and you feel the cabin’s wards shudder as though something older than Olympus has been invited in.

[asumi2020202]

Everything has a Price to Pay

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x reader

Summary: Daemon's hired men, whilst trying to slay Aemond in his bed, accidentally harmed his wife and his son and Aemond blames his wife for it.

A/n: The 2nd episode of s2 broke my heart. The way Helaena clung to her son's blanket. But anyways, this is something which is somewhat based on the storyline of ep 1 and 2 of s2 but unlike the directors taking out Alys Rivers from the show, I'm including her. Thank you for reading!

______ฅ⁠^⁠•⁠ﻌ⁠•⁠^⁠ฅ___________________________

All throughout the kingdom, you were known to be the gentlest of souls much like your sister. Though she was naive and all too forgiving, you were a bit unlike her. You preferred knowledge but both of you were kind.

Your marriage to Aemond was exactly like Aegon and Helaena's. To keep the bloodline pure. Except the only difference was that both of you loved each other and that he was not like Aegon.

You always stayed with either your sister or your husband ever since a child. Or sometimes you would accompany your eldest brother, he only had you who understood him.

Unlike his brother and nephews, you didn't tease and harrass Aemond, for you too knew what it felt like to not be heard. He felt as if he could only seek comfort in you and his mother as a child and even now.

When he had claimed Vhagar, he had to pay the cost with his eye.

He realised he loved you when the maester and maids tried to usher you away saying the stitching and mending to his face would too horrific to see for your gentle soul yet you stood your ground and held his hand while your mother pleaded for justice.

You felt hate for your father. For he blindly trusted his daughter, disregard anyone else. If someone even asks him your name he probably would not be able to say.

After that incident in the Red Keep, your half-sister's family fled to Dragonstone.

_________________________________________

War had started. Your mother along with your grandsire, successfully installed Aegon on the throne. Your husband Aemond had took the life of your nephew.

You knew that the House of the Dragon would tear each other apart. With no literal escape.

It was only some days before your child would be born. Having your first child with your husband. The only happiness in this devastating time.

Your happiness has crashed down when you got a raven. Your husband was laying with some bastard whore in Harrehal. The only thoughts you would get were

Did he not love me? He always swore that he would never leave me and stay by my side, that he will be different than our father.

He looked happy when he got to know of our child yet he is laying with another woman.

What did I do wrong?

Why did he lie?

He left you right when the war had been declared and he finalized it by killing your nephew.

Your mother tried to help you. Completely disappointed in her son. She raised him better yet he still did this. Harming her daughter, hurting her emotions and dishonouring her.

You stayed with Helaena until the pressure of it all became too much to bear and ultimately pushing you towards your labor.

_________________________________________

You laid in your bed crying, sweating and panting, while your husband was who knows where.

You held tight onto your mother's hand as Helaena quietly said "A price must be paid for all that is done."

Soon enough your child was born. It was a son. Your little Aenor.

Moonfyre's roar were heard. She could sense a new presence. One familiar to her bonded sister.

You cried as you took your son in your arms, your mother kissing your head as your sister gently rubbed your arms.

_________________________________________

Moonfyre had laid her eggs 3 weeks before your son's birth.

It had been a week since you had Aenor. Since your husband, if you can even call him that now, had not returned. You took it upon yourself to get him his own dragon egg.

As you walked through the dragon pit, you saw some dragon keepers scared.

"Moonfyre iksos daor īlva jikagon va zyhōn. Nyke suggest ziry would sagon wise naejot daor jikagon va zyhōn nykeā zyhōn drōma sir." Said a dragon keeper.

Moonfyre is not letting us go near her. I suggest it would be wise to not go near her or eggs now.

"Dīnagon aside. Nyke shall ūndegon skoros nyke kostagon gaomagon." Came your reply.

Move aside. I shall see what I can do.

As you walked further in, you saw you dragon, guarding her precious eggs.

You walked towards her. She's let's out a small noise upon recognising you. You gently placed your hand on her snout and then your forehead. With her wings she gently pushed you towards her eggs, guarding you.

You chose an egg for your son. Before leaving, you patted her snout and scratched it a bit, giving her some comfort.

_________________________________________

Night had already fallen over kings landing. You were with your son in your shared chambers. He had fallen asleep to your gentle humming.

As you were cradling your son to your chest, you heard the door being opened. You thought it was perhaps a maid but as you turned around you saw the rat catcher that comes everyday.

He was smirking and held a knife. Soon after him, entered a muscular man who had a knife as well.

"A son .. for a son he said." Said the muscular man. "Oh but look there, thats his son." Replied the rat catcher to the other man.

As the other one looked at you, you felt dangered.

"I.. have a necklace. It.. is of great value.." you cradled your son closer to your chest with one arm while with the other hand you tried to open the necklace.

The muscular man simply tore it away from your neck. Fear was evident in your eyes. You took a step back as the rat catcher said

"Hand him over and you'll live. We only need him."

As he approached you, you placed your right hand over your right thigh where your own dagger was kept.

The rat catcher tried to forcefully take your son but before he could do so, you kicked him in his crotch. While writhing in pain, he slashed your arm. The other one was coming towards your son, but as he tried to slash him in your arms you turned around.

His blade dug through your back. Muscles getting slashed. Extreme pain courses through you. Yet you didn't give up. U took out your dagger and slashed his cheek and stabbed his chest. As he flinched away, you took your chance and ran out the room, you nightgown red with your blood.

You didn't know where to go. Time was limited. You could hear faint moaning noises. Cradling your son closer to your chest, with your jaw on his head, you followed the noise.

You came infront of your mother's chambers and entered without a second thought. You saw her with Ser Cole but you didn't care about that. Your energy was running out. A lot of blood was lost. You didn't even know if you would survive.

With your remaining strength you said "Mother". You shakily walked to her and somehow gave her your son as you collapsed beside her bed.

Alicent's scream could be heard from everywhere. She couldn't believe her eye. Her little sweet y/n was bleeding out in front of her. She put Aenor on her bed as he wailed out loudly.

Alicent kneeled before her daughter and hugged her to her chest. Her blanket and body getting bloodied. She cried and cried.

Aegon and Helaena had appeared as well. Helaena couldn't watch, tears flowing from her eyes. She took Aenor as a maid escorted them away to her room.

Aegon rushed beside his mother and sister. Gently taking her in his arms as maester Orwyle came through hurriedly, asking Aegon to put you on the bed.

Aegon very carefully laid you on your stomach on the bed. While maester Orwyle asked them to leave the room, both your brother and mother did not stop crying.

_________________________________________

Aemond had landed on the Red Keep. Getting off of Vhagar, he walked inside the castle. As he entered, he could see a man being dragged to the dungeon. Blood everywhere. Maids rushing around.

He saw his brother. But he wasn't as he usually was. He knew after becoming the king, Aegon had changed, but now he looked completely different.

His hair not brushed. Eyes red and tired. Blood. He was covered in blood.

As Aemond walked towards him, he heard Aegon say to a guard "kill every rat catcher you can find. Spare none."

Aegon looked away from the guard and saw Aemond. His eyes filled with fury. He marched towards him and grabbed his collar.

"Finally came back huh brother? It could've been avoided with you here yet you chose your whore over everything else." Aegon said, trying to keep his calm which is very unlikely of him.

Aemond felt ashamed and confused. Ashamed for being disloyal to you and dishonouring the family and confused thinking about what Aegon was saying.

"Look I'm sorry brother, that was a mistake. But do explain what you mean by it could've been avoided. What has happened?"

"Our sister had given birth to your son a week ago. And today she-" Aegon stopped. His tears flowing uncontrollably. "T-today she and my nephew were attacked. She is badly wounded. Maester Orwyle is with her but he said that she lost a lot of blood. That she was already weak from the birth and now this." With this Aegon completely broke down.

Aemond's breathing stopped. He chose his whore over you. The one who always stood up for him. He felt ashamed. So ashamed that he might sink and drown.

He ran towards his mother's room after Aegon told him where you were while he went down the dungeons to deal with the man who dare hurt you.

As Aemond reached, he saw his mother. Scared and fearful. He knew he fucked up bad. As she noticed him, she walked up towards him, looked him in the eyes and slapped him. He deserved it.

_________________________________________

You slowly opened your eyes, trying to take in your surroundings. You saw your husband pacing around the room.

He noticed that you were awake and spoke. "You're awake" you remained silent as you recalled the events of last night.

"Aenor.... My son.. my son Aenor! Is he okay?! Did he get hurt?!" Your enquired as you suddenly sat up, ignoring the pain in your body. Worried for your son.

"He only had a small cut on his feet. Nothing else. He is okay." Aemond replied helping you back down. You felt relieved and finally acknowledged your pain and groaned.

He didn't knew what came over him in an instance. He felt anger towards the ones who hurt you and his son. He was angry with himself but instead it got directed at you.

"If only you had taken better care of the security, none of this would've happened.." he muttered.

"What?" You sat up again, not believing your ears.

"If only you knew how to fight, this would've never happened! You can't fight, can't run, you can't even protect our child like a mother should!! You should have called more guards!!" He shouted while pointing his finger at you.

You got up from your mother's bed and stood as you held onto the bed.

"It is my fault now?! Huh?! You're the one who's irresponsible. You left me!! You left me and my child to fend for ourselves!! You left us for your whore whom you sought comfort in instead of your wife!! Where were you when we were attacked huh?! Were you fucking your whore?! Were you creating your bastards?!

You promised me that you were different. That you would treat me with respect unlike other husbands with their wives. You said you were different but...... You're just more of the same.." your voice raised and came down as tears flowed rapidly. Your would reopened because of how tensed your body was. Your nightgown was starting to get bloodied again.

Aemond was shocked. He yelled at his precious wife. His gentle lady wife. And she who never raised her voice no matter how angry or raged up she may be, shouted at him.

He fucked up greatly.

You winced as you fell to the ground. Blood getting everywhere as Aemond rushed to your side and gently tried to pick you up but you refused.

"Don't. Do not touch me with the hands that you used to hold her. I may be a woman. I may be the most vulnerable, but I have an honor. Neither my son nor do I need you. I will ask Aegon to annul our marriage. After that you may return to your whore and I will raise my son alone." You said, wincing as pain shot through you body.

Your lady in waiting came in and got you up on the bed and called maester Orwyle.

As Aemond got up from the floor, he was speechless. He never knew one mistake would cost him his everything. The words you spoke hurt more than when he lost his eye.

The entire day those words circled his thoughts.

_________________________________________

It had been a week since the last time Aemond met you. He had went to Harrehal and returned. Aemond walked inside your shared chambers after he got to know that you shifted back there. Aegon provided two guards infront of your door.

He watched as you cradle your son to your chest with your left hand which was fine and hummed a valyrian song to him.

You stopped as you as noticed him. You gently put Aenor in his crib and straightened your back.

"I'm sorry" he started.

"You sorry means nothing to me. You say your sorry now but next chance you get you'll run back in her arms." You spoke, gazing out the window.

"There will be no next time. I got rid of everything that would come in between us." He replied as your body stilled after hearing his words.

"Whatever do you mean?" You asked, turning back to face him.

"I got rid of her. All i now need is your forgiveness. For you to accept me again. To trust me again. Please avy jorrāelan. Forgive me this once." He begged as he got down on his knees and held your hand.

You were shocked. He killed her. He killed her without a second thought. You wanted to loathe him but deep down you loved him.

"I don't know..... I don't know anymore. I want to trust you Aemond. But I can't. I can't trust you. You've hurt me far too much.

It'll take a while to heal the scar you inflicted upon me but I will try. I will try to forgive you." You replied shakily.

He got up and hugged you lightly not to press on your wounds.

"Thank you my love. Thank you" he spoke as he kissed your head.

You gave in to his warm embrace. War has started. But right now you just want to be held.

You would think later of how to punish those who dare harm your family.

Those who hurt your son will pay. They will pay with their life. And you will see to it that they burn in flames. You will make sure that they rot in hell even if you too would have to.

After all nothing is for free....

Everything has a Price to Pay.......

[valenteal]

I think Dazai’s relationship with Atsushi is the only truly healthy one he’s ever had…

As much as Atsushi looks up to and feels like he owes Dazai, he doesn’t really put up with his shit. He doesn’t ignore or dismiss Dazai’s self destructive behavior but he also doesn’t judge or coddle him for it. He isn’t afraid to call Dazai out or acknowledge his flaws and he doesn’t listen and obey him blindly, unless he is in an immediately dangerous situation where hesitation could mean death. He doesn’t really let Dazai push him away either, he remains a stable source of comfort, someone Dazai can always rely on to help him.

All of Dazai’s other relationships, even Oda, had toxic aspects, some more than others certainly but still. Dazai can never trust Kunikida to accept him, Dazai’s entire being goes against his ideals no matter how much they may care about each other. Oda was always accepting and he was reliably there when Dazai needed him, but he’d also given up on Dazai to an extent, he didn’t actively try to help him at all until he was dying, he was kind of a passive person in general and even admitted that he wished he’d done more for Dazai. These relationships are not incredibly harmful, only damaging in subtle psychological ways that likely impacted Dazai’s self worth and his ability to feel comfortable or known. But still. Not healthy.

With Chuuya and Mori it’s quite a bit more obvious but I’ll explain how I see it anyway.

Dazai’s relationship with Chuuya, as much as it’s defined by mutual trust and respect, is poisoned by Dazai’s controlling behavior toward Chuuya. There are not one but TWO canonical instances where Dazai orchestrated the loss of Chuuya’s entire support network, during the 15 arc and in Storm Bringer. Neither instance was solely because he wanted Chuuya to himself but it was a motivating factor and the result was the same. Except of course Chuuya didn’t really blame him either time because he was able to deflect the blame onto Mori and Verlaine. But Chuuya isn’t unaware of Dazai’s role in either case, and he doesn’t forget. And Dazai doesn’t want to be so close to Chuuya. He doesn’t want someone to know him so well or to grow an attachment that he thinks will only end in pain, and he pushes Chuuya away violently when he remembers that. The thing that makes it toxic is that he forgets when he spends time with Chuuya because he just genuinely really likes him and enjoys his company. They are both each other’s only peers, in both rank and intellect. As much as they fights it, that means something to them both and it tied them together when Dazai was still in the mafia. And that’s not even touching on the rivalry between them, which isn’t inherently toxic but certainly has the potential to be, especially when paired with everything else.

And now we get to Mori. Dazai’s guardian, doctor, boss, and partner in crime. The man who saved his life more times than they can count. The man who gave him purpose and meaning in his life. Who brought him and Chuuya together. Who was responsible for Oda’s death. Who lied to him, used him, planned to kill him. Who trusted him, confided in him, shared his secrets with him. Their relationship is so complex, and in different circumstances it could have been very healthy. Mori truly cares about Dazai, and I think Dazai cared for Mori in return. It’s impossible to spend so much time with someone, share so much, without growing to care for them at all. And Mori and Dazai are so similar, they naturally understood each other and agreed with one another for a long time. One incident soured their relationship. But it still wasn’t healthy before that. Mori was using Dazai, putting him in a position no child or teenager should be in with little regard for his mental health. He still presumably gave Dazai drugs, though we don’t know what kind I think it safe to assume they weren’t regular antidepressants or anxiety prescriptions. Might have just been weed, but I doubt it. Anyway. Point is, Mori treated Dazai like an adult who was allowed to make their own terrible decisions, but took it a step further and pushed him towards those decisions for his own gain. Yes he cared about Dazai, and no he didn’t force him into anything, but he was irresponsible and manipulative all the same.

Anyway, I am once again writing an analysis on Dazai’s relationships in the middle of the night when I am supposed to be asleep. I have a Problem. Hope my sleep deprivation didn’t affect the quality lol

[vxnillabxn]

vannie!! hi!! can i request pre relationship/only recently dating zaynemc with zayne letting his guard down and sharing a bed with mc, like finally being able to trust himself to sleep around her? tyyy ❤️❤️

𐙚˙⋆.˚ zayne x gn!reader ꒰੭

𐙚˙⋆.˚ fluff! ꒰੭

𐙚˙⋆.˚ sfw! ꒰੭

𐙚˙⋆.˚ do not translate/copy/repost! ꒰੭

﹙♡﹚HI! i absolutely love this request! ♡ i finally pulled zayne this morning (i'm broke now) so i've been having the warmest and fluffiest thoughts about our doctor—husband zaynie! thank you so much for requesting, i hope you like it as much as i do! ( ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈)ഒ

after two months of dating, you finally had the confidence to ask if you could stay over.

sure, you've done it before, since you'd known each other for a while, but it always had a reason; you two had to work on something, it was too rainy outside for him to drive you home, or you fell asleep and he was too kind not to wake you up.

so now, when you quietly asked if you could stay over, it felt different.

it held a different meaning, a different tone, because you two were now a couple, and, unquestionably, things felt more intimate than before.

he felt the shift, too. he felt your uncertainty. he knew you didn't have ulterior motives or a hidden meaning behind your words; you truly just wanted to stay…

but he understood why it felt so unfamiliar, yet not unpleasant.

he nodded in response, fixing his glasses as he looked away.

after dinner, you felt a little bit more comfortable upon treating your taste buds with his delicious food. with a happy tummy, and a happy mind, you felt energized enough to wash the dishes and help him clean up.

the clock was ticking, and it kept getting later, and later.

until it was time to sleep.

zayne worked a little bit more, as you walked around his bedroom. same bed, same room, same everything.

different sensation.

he's never slept around you, but he graciously let you use his bed in those are occasions where you had to. would he sleep with you now, as your boyfriend? would he stay up because of work?

or rather, now that he actually has the choice, will he choose to sleep with you this time?

you felt nervous, and you approached him.

“zaynie?” you softly call out. when he turns around to acknowledge you, you smile. “can i borrow some clothes to sleep?”

he stares. he didn't expect to hear those words one day.

he averts his gaze, simply nodding once. it is a vague gesture, but nothing behind it screams “nonchalant”. in fact, his fingers slightly tremble over the keyboard.

you soon take the liberty to pick up one of his button-up shirts. you undress, you slip it on, and you get under the covers, looking at his back as he works.

he won't look. he can't. if he does, he'd forget about the world around him and just focus on you, which isn't bad, but… it's too soon.

you wait for him, until your eyelids grow heavy. inevitably, you fall asleep, inhaling the clean scent of his detergent and the clean pillowcase that your cheek nuzzles against.

an hour goes by, and he finally stands up. he takes a deep breath before looking at you, peacefully sleeping around everything that's his. you're surrounded by him.

and even then, all that you are missing is, ironically, him. in flesh and bone.

he won't say it out loud, but he is scared of hurting you. he is scared of having nightmares, scared of pushing you away or shutting you down.

he is scared of scaring you with his burdens.

and yet, you slept so peacefully, so trusting, so deeply. it's like your body knows to trust him blindly, knowing he would never attack you, not even in your most vulnerable state.

he undresses and puts on his sleepwear, and he doubts before pulling the sheets down, not wanting to take away the warmth from you.

his breath hitches when he finally takes your figure; his shirt engulfing you as you curled up.

he quietly settles in, still and tense, looking up at the ceiling.

he tries to force himself to sleep, but he can't. he's too scared still, too nervous, too doubtful.

but when you shift with furrowed brows, turning around to face him, you reach for him unconsciously. when your hands finally meet his chest, you comfortably cuddle him, falling back into deep slumber.

he freezes.

how can you be so trusting? how can you unconsciously look for him? how can you feel so relaxed while in your most weak state?

he lets out a shaky breath, before his arms surround you. he feels your warmth, your soft breaths, the way you slightly twitch now and then.

and finally, finally… it made sense.

if you could trust him enough to ask to stay, enough to sleep beside him so vulnerably, enough to willingly spend your time with him, —something he considers to be precious— then why can't he do the same?

it was illogical.

it was insane.

you had to be scared too, when you asked him if you could stay. yet, you still did it. you faced him, and nothing wrong happened.

he decided he'd face his fear too. he hoped nothing would go wrong, hoped tomorrow morning would be just as peaceful.

after all, how could anything go wrong when you were so comfortably nestled in his arms, and when he felt so warm holding you?

after a few more minutes, he finally closed his eyes. lulled by your calm breathing… he slept.

and it might seem like something small, something that should come naturally to a couple.

but, for both of you, it will forever be remembered as a moment of trust, of love.

of vulnerability.

three important things he'll only discover by being next to you.

[crimsonvictory]

something about having to teach simon to take it slow with you.

always used to quick fucks. teeth-clashing, bruising grips, and racing against the clock. never understood the need to take things slow. chasing his high from the moment he made contact.

you showed him. slowly. took a bit of coaxing. taking control of his hands on your body, unfurling his fingers and gliding them over your skin. grasping the back of his neck, nails scratching at his nape, guiding his mouth to follow your own.

plush lips slowly opening him up, sliding your tongue over his bottom lip. pulling the prettiest of sounds from him. sounds simon didn't even know he could make. something about the change of pace had him burning hot and aching - wanting more after you had pulled away.

ignited a damn wildfire inside. took everything in him not to devour you right then and there. jaw clenching, fingers aching to split you open. but you had asked for his trust and he gave it willingly. guided blindly into a new territory of pleasure.

this time, you were seated in his lap, arms draped lazily over his shoulders as you languidly allowed your hips to drop down. barely brushing, coaxing him to lean into the pleasure that was slowly building.

you enjoyed the trembling underneath your own, a sign simon was beginning to crack. a small hum of pleasure leaving your lips. the space between you nearly non-existent. slow mapping of each others bodies, tension building by the second. his eyes were blown wide, lust filling out all the way to his irises. looking at you through heavy lids, desperate to keep you close.

hot pants of breath into each other’s open mouths, the slow griiiiiiind of your clothed pussy against his tented cock. delicious. simon’s hands sliding up and under your shirt, nimble fingers unclasping your bra before burying his face in your neck. he rolls his hips upwards toward your own, soft moans falling from kiss-bitten lips.

“that's it,” you coo, voice sultry.

you shimmy just a bit in his grasp, lifting your own shirt and bra over your head and throwing them to the floor, forgotten. simon doesn't hesitate, pressing wet kisses along the curve of your shoulder and down your bare chest.

his lips leave a burning trail in their wake, setting your nerves alight. you arch into his touch, a moan of your own crawling its way up your throat. your hands slide down, grasping his biceps and giving them a squeeze.

simon lets out a grumble of pleasure. lips latching over your nipple before swirling it around his tongue.

“si-,” you moan, a soft laugh bubbling over your lips.

you feel him smirk against your skin, lips releasing before kissing up to the sweet spot underneath your ear.

“my sweet girl,” he murmurs, squeezing you tight before rolling his hips again.

“i’ve been good, don’tcha think?” he questions.

you know where he's going with this.

no, no, no.

you don't want it to be over just yet and let out a whine.

“i’ll be good, promise,” he sounds genuine.

maybe its the pleasure fogging your brain, but you find yourself nodding. simon’s large hand slides down your side, squeezing the fat of your hip and making you squeal. he chuckles softly, sliding himself out of his boxers and brushing the velvety head against your soaked folds.

the motion has you biting down on your lip, thighs trembling with anticipation.

“now who’s impatient?” he jokes, timbre of his voice going straight to your core.

you pout slightly, crossing your arms over your bare chest. simon pulls your panties to the side, slowly pushing inside. you gasp, simon’s gaze locked to where the two of you meet. your thighs tremble as he slowly bottoms out.

“feel tha’?” he groans softly, a small thrust of his hips pushing impossibly deeper.

you whine at the stretch, tears welling up in your eyes. simon pulls you close, large arms wrapping up and around your back. his fingers dig into your shoulders, pulling you down again and again and again. splitting you open on his cock.

“its fucking heaven,” you gasp, voice high and reedy.

to your surprise, simon’s movements are slow, calculated. milking every last drop of pleasure from your body. he lets go, relishing in the warmth of your joined bodies, losing himself in the divine that is your pussy.

babbles sweet nothings against your overheated skin. sweat dripping down the side of his temple. you're both gasping for air, mouths clumsily meeting momentarily before separating for the need of oxygen.

the stretch of his cock slowly splitting you open has you clenching around him, causing his hips to stutter.

“fuck, bunny,” he laughs, a gorgeous gorgeous sound you want to hear over and over again.

you slide your hands up his neck, framing his jaw before pulling him into a kiss. once. twice. stealing his breath over and over as he worships your body - and you his. simon never thought he could experience anything this heavenly in his short time on earth.

thought you must've been hand delivered by god himself. nothing ever could be as perfect as you. molded perfectly to fit his cock, his hands, his lips. all for him - all for the taking. the thought of you - pliable under his hands has him choking up, pleasure squeezing his throat - utter adoration.

“oh, si,” you moan, arching as he hits that most delicious spot - has you seein’ stars.

simon realizes in this moment that he yearns. yearns for all parts of you. no matter how small, how intimate. he wants every part of you. wants to ingrain your body to memory - to know by touch alone. every freckle, every scar, every whisper.

“i love you,” he praises, again and again, thrusting up into your warm heat.

“i-i love you,” you gasp into his mouth, fingers gripping both sides of his face.

your eyebrows scrunch in pleasure, mouth falling open slightly.

“y’gonna come for me?” he asks, so sweetly, honeyed voice making you melt.

“yes,” you nod furiously, pleasure licking hot up your spine as your orgasm spills over.

you tremble, limbs locking for a moment as your muscles clench. simon's not far behind you, languidly thrusting into you as his soft voice guides you back down.

“there we go, so good for me,” he praises again and again.

his hips falter after a few moments, you're slumped against his chest, letting him chase his own release. he doesn't, going as slow as when you first started, all the time in the world. his climbs slowly, the trembling in his limbs increasing as he curses under his breath.

a soft kiss to the top of your head and he’s coming, cock pumping you full of his release. you whine at the fullness, squeezing his shoulder. you pet his side, humming softly in contentment.

simon squeezes you tightly, resting his chin on the top of your head.

“thank you,” he sighs. “for being s’good to me.”

YEARNING SIMON

[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… по��алуйста—” 

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

[superbat-lmao]

League AU

Talia ran her fingers through his hair. It was starting to curl at its ends, and though it was no longer matted, it could easily tangle.

The boy was asleep, although she supposed it wouldn’t make much of a difference if he was awake.

When he had first stood in front of her he had looked through her. No focus or recognition in his eyes. When she had tried to touch him he had flinched, but nothing else.

Food was what moved him.

She had taken him out of the country by that means alone. And once they were safe within the confines of the compound, she set about cleaning him up.

That was two months ago.

Now she sat by his bedside and worked loose the strands of hair trying to tangle together after the servants had bathed him. He twitched at times, reacting to dreams, but was soothed by the motions of her hands. Much like his father.

There was a noise behind her and Talia smiled. When she stuck out her hand, a smaller one was placed into it. Warm and soft.

She turned away from the boy on the bed and wrapped her son in her arms, leaning back in the chair so the two of them could get a good look at the sleeping figure.

Damian settled quickly, always content to be held close. She ran her fingers through his hair as well, dry and soft.

She would have to be leaving soon, so she pressed her lips to her son’s forehead before tucking him next to his sleeping brother.

Jason’s arms moved reflexively to hold Damian, neither of them even opening their eyes at the position. Jason had taken to her son immediately, though Damian remained hesitant until about two weeks ago.

Jason’s unresponsiveness was confusing to him but he eventually realized that it meant to boy would do whatever he told him to. Then Damian was quite delighted to have Jason trailing after him.

But even being delighted at having someone to boss around didn’t equate to the level of trust her son had taken to displaying. That came from the incident with the bear.

The wildlife stayed away from the compound but with the recent weather, hunting must have been exceedingly difficult. Meaning that only the most desperate would venture near their territory.

She had seen the corpse as her shadows had dragged it away. A bear had ventured in from the snowy peaks, emaciated, but formidable.

It had spotted Damian, but not Jason, as they were on one of their daily walks.

Jason had grabbed his brother and taken off, getting Damian to safety before turning to face the beast.

There was a rather large scar forming across his chest, but the bear had been dealt a killing blow.

None of the shadows had moved to help, if the boy was able to prove himself against a creature so desperate, even if weakened, it would bode well for him.

Damian had refused to leave his side afterwards. And Talia acknowledged his full potential as a guard to her son.

But even that potential was limited, for a wild animal could be understood and immediately defended against. But more complex foes? They were beyond the boys grasp.

And he was just a boy. Perhaps 16 at the most.

She ran her hand through the hair of each of her sons one last time and stood. She had business to attend to and she trusted her boys would look after each other.

***

Damian awoke to a keening noise, like a dog, beside him. He turned towards it, slapping his hand blindly against Akhi.

The noise stopped suddenly and the gentle movement of the chest next to him stopped with it.

Grumbling, Damian opened his eyes and was met with Akhi looking at him with a presence he rarely saw. Damian sat up quickly and grabbed for his brother’s face, a small hand on each cheek.

Jason didn’t flinch, but his breaths did continue, shuddering at first and then evening out.

Damian removed a hand from Akhi’s face and set it on his own chest.

“Damian.”

Jason looked down at his hand and then back into his eyes. He swallowed.

“D-Dam-“

Damian believed in his Akhi. He had seen him kill the bear, sickly but fierce. He had survived. Saying one measly word was nothing in comparison.

“Damian.”

“Dam-in.”

He growled in the way only small children can express frustration and moved up to sit on his knees. Pushing his face closer.

“Dam-i-an.”

Jason took a breath.

“D-Dami-an.”

Akhi’s eyes struggled to maintain their focus and Damian could tell he was slipping. Something must have showed on his face because Jason bared his teeth and spat out,

“Damian.”

like it was killing him.

Damian smiled and Jason pressed his cheek to the top of his head.

“Damian, Damian, Damian,” he was whispering over and over.

“Akhi, Jason.”

Jason was shaking faintly and kept saying Damian’s name.

But that was okay. Damian could explain Akhi and Jason to him later. They had time.

There was a knock at their door and both brothers rose quickly. A shadow was waiting for them which they followed to the meal area.

Damian knew the way but was not allowed to traverse the compound without supervision. Jason did not count as supervision as he did not know the way.

When they were alone, Jason would often smooth his hands through Damian’s hair, just as Mother did. Damian tried not to think of this as they ate their morning meal.

Between one bite and the next, Jason went from unfocused to aware. Damian sat up, more alert, but relaxed when his Akhi merely smiled and said, “Damian,” before continuing.

Success felt like running through the sand in the spring and Damian flashed a quick there-and-gone-again grin before finishing his food.

Another shadow was waiting to collect them and take them to their morning training. Damian did not always know the way to their assigned training areas since he was not consulted on his training requirements.

Akhi had taken to following him to training once he has been well enough to walk around the compound unaided. He had been suffering from malnutrition when Mother found him which they quickly remedied.

The instructor was one of Damian’s preferred, she was older and strict, but did not make corrections unkindly. She moved like water and Damian did his best to copy her movements.

Jason sat on the ground behind him, tracking their motions.

The instructor extended her leg and when Damian went to do so, found he could not match the exact position.

Before the instructor could move to reprimand him, there was a light pressure on Damian’s back.

Akhi shifted Damian’s weight, and Damian felt he could extend his leg into the correct form.

The instructor narrowed her eyes, but did not otherwise react, instead continuing on the forms.

There was motion next to him and Damian did not turn to look, but was abruptly aware of Jason’s movements. He too began following the instructor. His limbs, longer than Damian’s, had no trouble copying the poses and stances. It was a routine meant to test rudimentary balance.

When the routine came to an end, the instructor appraised Jason, and began a new routine. She shook her head at Damian and he followed their movements.

Jason’s form was controlled, though weak. The malnutrition followed by the injury of the bear took their toll. But Akhi betrayed no discomfort. Just simple concentration.

Towards the end of the forms, Damian could see Akhi shaking faintly, lacking the endurance for the more advanced set of movements.

He completed the set and the instructor nodded to them both, motioning for them to follow another shadow to their next task.

Damian looked up towards Akhi as they traveled and realized he had been present for far longer than he’d managed in the last few weeks he’d been tailing him to his lessons.

There was a small grin on his brother’s face and Damian felt it reflected on his own.

Strength could be regained.

Akhi would fight alongside him and Damian would return his loyalty.

***

The pain lessened with time. His focus came and went, but he could track the boy more often than not.

Damian.

He could follow his movements, even if his words and their meaning remained far away.

They went to lessons and it burned. His legs and arms and chest.

There were many instructors and shadows, but only two who he watched.

The boy and the woman.

The animal had tried to kill the boy and Jason had suffered the pain of defending him.

After, the woman had smiled and he was rarely alone again.

She spoke to them softly, words flowing like water, and ran her fingers through their hair.

It was peaceful.

She sat with them at night and taught them to breathe. Under the stars.

Time passed and Jason tracked it only in the boy. In how his movements became smooth and where he once stood to Jason’s hip he soon reached his chest.

He learned more words.

Talia.

Akhi.

Damian often read to him and he got better at tracking the story. It served as practice for the boy’s English.

When Talia was free, she would go over the boy’s lessons with him. Questions and answers and arguments would fill their nights. Damian was bright and dutiful and inquisitive.

What Jason could not follow, he watched. Let their movements calm him. Let their tone wash over him.

Two weeks that Talia was free to be in their presence was a boon.

She trained them personally.

Damian had graduated to real swords and Jason had progressed to the final teachers contained within this compound.

To watch them was to view a masterpiece.

There was confidence and skill and humility in their actions. Damian learned as much as he demonstrated. Talia taught as much as she danced. Jason lead and followed and attacked and defended and felt alive.

He was part of something, a piece within a whole.

One the last day of the two weeks, in the middle of the night, Jason was awoken.

Talia led him through the corridors and hallways down a path with no light. They were alone and silent. And Jason tried not to think of Damian. How, when they were alone, the boy would let him run his fingers through his hair.

The came to a door and beyond it was a faint glow. Talia looked alert but said nothing.

As they approached, Jason saw what looked like water. There was a pool below them, glowing in the darkness.

Talia knelt in front of Jason when they stopped.

Her fingers were cool against his scalp but he did not close his eyes to the sensation.

Talia was crying.

There were voices behind them and Jason went taut, ready to fight but Talia stilled him with her hand. Wiped away her tears, and stood.

The voices were closer now and Talia’s eyes went hard. She placed her hands on his shoulders and suddenly Jason felt weightless.

When he hit the water, he screamed.

[cod-dump]

You’re written about eldritch Ghost before so may I submit this idea: Everyone else is a normal human, except for Graves. Graves might be a god or some being of immense power, it doesn’t really matter. What does matter is that his shadows are dead people he’s brought back (could be becouse he liked them or just needed bodies) and Shepherd held the one way to get rid of him. This would be at least Gravesprice, if not more.

But what ends up happening is one of the 141 is fatally shot, and Graves goes, “hey, if I bring him back, that’s a great courting gift.” So Graves brings back whoever also most perfectly. Almost. Their personality is the same and the look almost the same. It’s just that they still have the corpse parlor (that’s why the shadows always covered themselves up. So no one could see that), and Graves is preening as he presents whoever back to Price.

The Perfect Gift

PriceGraves

___

Death is forever... well, that’s something mortals believe. To Graves it’s business and easily bypassed.

It could be temporary if he chose to treat it as such. Humans were easy to work with, easy to manipulate in that manner. But still, they are unpredictable, it’s what he loves about them, why he chose to stay. 

To him, the ultimate show of his love is giving life again to the dead. His Shadows were given life again and he would never let them die as long as they remain loyal. This is their gift, their immortality. 

Shepherd was entertaining for the most part. He didn’t truly understand what Graves was or that Graves was some necromancer in a modern, southern twist. He just understood that Graves got things done and had fun doing it. He didn't know the how or why, he knew enough about Graves not to ask.

Shepherd just pointed and Graves followed. A dog with a bone, and each mission had a bone for him. 

Shepherd pointed and Hassan was on the other side and Graves was ready to hunt. But Shepherd felt it was necessary to get others involved. His Shadows failing once was his reason, never minding the fact those ‘dead’ Shadows were alive once. They were ashamed of their failure and Graves respected their desire to prove themselves. 

Shepherd involving others would get in the way of that. 

Graves found it insulting. He was more than capable of correcting this. His Shadows messed up? They can learn, they can do this. But Shepherd didn't listen and Graves debated on whether this relationship would work anymore. He did what Shepherd said for fun, entertainment, and to grow his Shadows. His army. His fucked up family.

But then he met 141 and decided it wasn’t an offense on Shepherd’s part. He found them entertaining, like he did Shepherd. And he liked their captain. Really liked him. Graves wasn’t going to step away now, so he agreed to play nice with them. He wanted to get to know Captain John Price. 

In a way, they were the same. He cared about his people. Viciously. Graves heavily respected that, admired it even. Price thought like him, moved like him. He was mortal, human, but he walked like he owned the streets, owned the battlefield. Graves was hypnotized and wanted to show Price that they were, indeed, the same.

But after Las Almas? Price refused to see any resemblance or humor any of Graves insanity.

Graves had regretted his actions, following Shepherd so blindly because he trusted the man to show the way to a fun time. It led to 141, to Price, but Graves found his bone in Los Vaqueros’ base. Now he had to build up 141’s trust again, piece by piece.

Graves had felt the power surge in the ground and couldn't resist. He gladly threw the colonel and his people out of the way in order to get to it. He hadn't considered 141's fierce loyalty, hadn't thought Alejandro had gained it in the relatively short period he had worked with them. That was Graves' mistake, the relationships he cherished suffered as a result.

So he ended his affiliation with Shepherd, his first start towards rebuilding what he had destroyed. 

It was a small start.  

He wanted things to go back to what it was, the warmness and familiarity. Price didn’t look at him the same. Firmly business. It was business before, of course, but Price was more relaxed, more trusting. He barely could contain his anger, his hate. It made Graves uneasy. He will fix this, make Price like him again. 

A gift, a perfect gift. The fix to it all. But where to get such a gift?

He couldn't purposely orchestrate this, it would result only false trust. If Price learned the truth, it would mean nothing. No Graves knew this was a game of patience. He had to wait, play nice, and try to win back Price. Graves was nothing if not patient.

"Go crawl back in the shadows, creepy bastard," Soap's glare was cold, colder than the arctic.

Fixing what he had broke wasn't simple, but he knew where to start. Ghost and Soap. Ghost wouldn't talk to him. Every time Graves approached the man would turn and ignore him. It was childish, somewhat adorable. Graves decided to leave small, material gifts for him.

Collector's knives, nice clothes, soft material for his mask repairs.

There wasn't any visible results, but Ghost never rejected the gifts. Graves could see a relationship form in the future. Maybe Ghost could be a Shadow? He would be perfect for it. Graves couldn't help himself, really, he loved growing his strange family.

Soap was... not as approachable.

He was snappy, already tried to throw punches at him despite knowing very well that Graves wasn't human. He blew up that tank he was in and witnessed him crawl out in a shadowy mass. Yet he still showed no fear. Of course, there was a possibility Soap didn't actually see him, or didn't see enough to believe it.

Graves can't help but like him and feel shame for throwing away his trust the way he did. This wasn't something easily repaired, Soap held onto the betrayal differently than the rest. It was personal, he took Graves' actions personally. He couldn't understand why Graves did what he did, would never understand the power Graves felt.

Soap believed Graves was lucky, disbelieved anything he saw that day.

Graves could set the record straight, but he didn't believe it would do any good on what he was trying to fix. Proving to Soap that he was a otherworldly being? One that played with death and things that the mere mortal human mind wasn't capable of seeing? It wouldn't help, so he left it be.

Gaz was the least of his concern. He acted aggressive because of what Graves did to his team, his friends. Ghost showing less aggression had a similar affect on the man, making Graves wonder if he would be willing to drop things if Soap did.

He already accepted Graves' gifts, the offers to pay for food and other expenses. Or he was just willing to drain Graves of money for the sake of using him as a way to get back at him for Soap's sake. If so Graves respected that.

Price saw his efforts, not saying anything on it. He was focused on business, on Makarov. Graves believed they had a connection before and wondered if he ached over it. Graves certainly did.

"I can find him. Bring you his head."

"Phillip."

A warning. He was allowed to assist, not turn this into Graves' chance to prove himself. Graves would bring Price Makarov's head on a silver platter with bouquet of the most expensive, gorgeous flowers this world could provide. But he wouldn't let him, or perhaps he, too, didn't think Graves was capable of it. That he also saw him as just an eccentric human.

Graves let Price have it his way. He'll be compliant, roll over when he told him to. He didn't like listening to Shepherd's every command if he didn't foresee a clear reward as a result. For Price he'll do whatever he wants for however long.

But... he wished he wasn't so quick to just submit. He would've been quick enough that way.

"This is my fault... fuck."

Makarov killed Soap. Shot him in the head. Graves felt strange staring at the man's corpse. He would comfort Price if he would allow him but he didn't want to cross any boundaries to see if he would.

Ghost was wrecked. Upset wasn't even close to describe what he was feeling. He reminded Graves of a bomb, unstable. A slight jostle and it would blow up. He would rip apart the stars to fix this, Graves could tell. A hole was in his heart and he was near feral because of it.

Gaz was in shock, denying it up until he saw Soap on the table. He's seen the dead before, been the reason why someone was dead. He's lost colleagues, this wasn't his first time losing someone close to him. But he acted like it was, like he just lost his best friend, someone he never expected to lose.

And Price? He blamed himself. He was dead on his feet, not really hearing anything anyone was saying to him. He was just staring at Soap, at his failure to protect him.

Graves knew then what he had to do.

They had left after seeing him. He was to be cremated and they wanted to be shitfaced that night. Graves knew it was the opportune moment. He'll fix things. He's already tried to kill Soap, so bringing him back as a Shadow would have to be the perfect apology. Right?

"May I have a moment alone, gentlemen?"

The morticians nodded and left. Just like that. Graves waited until the door shut before he approached Soap. He was grey, cold, and the hole in his head wasn't looking too good.

"We're good after this, yea?"

Graves breathed life back into his Shadows. He called their soul back to their body while also giving a piece of himself. They are reborn with past memories but new strengths. He was sure Soap would appreciate it.

Soap's eyes snapped open, the color of life returning to them as he sat up with a gasp. He was breathing heavily, surely reliving those final moments with Makarov. He scrambled off the metal table and fell to the floor, standing while being ready to fight.

Shadows always came back this way: Ready to kill.

"What- What the fuck!?"

"Easy, Soap. You're safe. You're alive."

Soap stared at Graves, trying to understand what he had said. He felt a connection to him, as he did all his Shadows. That piece he gave them, a sense of knowing who he was and what he did for them. And what had happened to them.

Soap stared at Graves in horror, arms dropping as he leaned on the table with a heavy breath.

"No... no fucking way..."

"It is, actually. I came prepared, have some nice clothes for ya."

Soap kept quiet, hand going up to his head. When his fingers found the hole he jerked his hand away and gagged. Graves would have to do something about that. He's stitched limbs together before, but what do you do about a hole in someone's head? He's normally torn skin and stitched over bullet wounds on other Shadows.

But the head? He's always avoided major head injuries for a reason.

He had to coax Soap to put the sweats on after convincing him to put on underwear. He felt like he was dressing a toddler considering he wasn't very cooperative. Soap managed to get the shirt on, at least, hugging his torso as he finished.

"Why?"

"Hm? You can't walk around naked, Soap. It's indecent."

He wasn't in the mood for jokes, didn't even have the energy to be angry at him for making one.

"Why did you bring me back?"

His voice was soft, cracked some as he spoke. He was so confused, like all Shadows are after their rebirth.

"Well, wouldn't be the same without you."

It was genuine and Soap broke some. Graves caught him as his knees gave out, holding the man in his arms as he cried. It would've been peaceful, Graves would've taken all the time needed to help Soap understand, to properly apologize. But the morticians returned and fucking screamed.

And now he had to explain everything to everyone, not in his own pace.

"Johnny!?"

Ghost had ran in first and froze when he saw Soap was alive but didn't completely look it. He stared at Soap in stunned silence, eyes so wide Graves thought they would pop. Gaz was no better, he ran in, skidded to a stop when he saw Soap, and had to grab onto Ghost for support.

Price came in and Graves was surprised that the man fainted at the sight of Soap standing, corpse-like but alive. Graves blamed the morticians for complicating things. They just had to run in and scream. Now Graves felt like things were messier than what they needed to be.

But he was confident. This was the right move to making things right.

[grapejuicestyless]

We Can Run Away

Harry Styles x fem!reader

Summery: She was everything he ever wanted, and she was clueless about everything he ever was. And somehow, they understood each other all because of the subway.

Harry usually wasn’t one to take the subway after a long night. Often, he was in some black van on his way to his bed minutes after he sang out the last note, the crowd still roaring with excitement from the set inside as he departed from the venue. But tonight, Harry was still wide awake after his set finished. Instead, he’d stayed behind, fixing things up backstage until the very last fan had left the arena, leaving Harry almost completely alone in the large space that was once filled with the love and laughter of anxious fans screaming his name.

So tonight, Harry decided to walk among the quiet folk and take the empty train back to where he was staying for the night. The subway only ran this late on nights like tonight. Nights where people were destined to be out late, living their young lives dancing in the pit and accompanying their children in the nosebleeds.

Harry hopped on the last train home, the emptiness of the car relaxing, his bag settled down beside him and a book on his lap. He found the atmosphere was a perfect place for him to wind down from his extended high, to tire him out and help him doze off peacefully tonight.

There was only one other person with him late at night. A young woman who wore frayed jeans shorts, boston clogs with bunched up socks, and the deepest red sweatshirt he’d ever seen. She looked like she wasn’t aware of the time, wide awake with a calm smile on her face as if the day was brand new.

The morning had just began to roll around, but darkness still covered the sky. Not even breaking three a.m. yet and still, she could have fooled him into believing it was nearly noon if not for the emptiness surrounding them.

She was no bother to Harry though, so he patiently flipped through his book, rereading some of the pages because his mind wandered off in the middle of the paragraphs and he couldn’t focus. But just before he decided to set the book down for the night and enjoy the rest of the ride, a soft voice spoke up.

“I love that book.”

Harry looked up to see the calm girl looking back at him. She had red lips and gentle eyes. The kind that pulled you in if you looked too deeply. The kind any person would trust blindly, and the kind that held a complex kind of innocence in them.

At first, he simply nodded, unaware of what he was supposed to say and not up for a conversation, but he couldn’t seem to pull his eyes from the captivating girl across from him.

“A Little Life, right?” The girl asked, persistently looking for a small conversation to fill the gaps of silence on the short ride across the city.

“Yeah.” Harry nodded, a small smile spreading across his face. “You have good taste.”

The girl simply shrugged.

“It’s a classic, right? I think everyone should read it at some point.”

“I don’t think everyone would enjoy it, it’s a little slow.” Harry commented, enjoying hearing the girls voice.

“Maybe.” The girl shrugged again, “But that’s what makes this one so good. It makes everything feel more real when it takes time for everything to crash down. The fall doesn’t happen overnight.” She defended.

“I take it you really love this book then.” Harry laughed quietly at the conversation.

“Yeah, you could say that.”

The train fell quiet again, but Harry couldn’t have gone back to reading if he tried. He placed the bookmark between the pages and instead took time to admire the way the book looked between his hands.

“I love the cover too. I wish I took that photo every day.”

Harry raised a brow, observing the cover more closely than he had before.

“I’m a photographer.” The girl added, and Harry hummed.

“What kinds of photos do you take?” He couldn’t help but ask.

“I mainly help with shoots for magazines. Vogue, Rolling Stone, Elle. I’ve been around the industry for as long as I can remember. Sometimes I help take photos for movies, which is cool, but mainly I just take photos for myself nowadays. You know, just letting my friends play dress up and creating the things I’ve been wanting to for a while.”

With the way she spoke about her job, Harry had not a single doubt that she held the most sincere love for the art she worked within. The kind girl talking quietly, but quickly about what she did and why she loved it, Harry wished she had kept rambling to him so he could have kept listening.

“What about you?” The girl asked suddenly, catching Harry off guard. He stumbled around for an answer before deciding on something vague.

“I work in music. I sing.” Harry nodded his head, watching how the girls eyes lit up in interest.

“That’s so cool, do you play shows ever?” The girl asked and Harry couldn’t help but bite back a laugh. He was sure he had glitter from his outfit he danced around stage in stuck to his face still and feathers from boas curled in his hair.

“Sometimes, yeah.” Harry smiled at the girls innocence.

“Do you play around here ever?”

“You ask a lot of questions.” Harry smiled.

“I’m just trying to pass time.” The girl responded quickly. “So do you?”

Harry nodded. “Yeah, sometimes.”

The girl hummed.

“I’m Y/n, by the way.” She extended her hand, and Harry mouthed her name back to her after she’d spoken it. Just to see how it would feel on his tongue.

“I’m Harry.” She repeated his name softly like an echo as he took her hand in his to shake it.

The robotic voice announced the final stop, and Harry watched as Y/n stood in a way that mirrored his movements. He figured he didn’t mind the fact that his walk home wouldn’t be as lonely as he thought, and in fact, he found himself silently praying that she would walk the same way as him as they stepped onto the platform.

“I hope you’re not following me, Harry.” Y/n joked as their footsteps fell into sync, sweaty palms shoved into their front pockets and their eyes adverting each others.

“Maybe I just want to know more about you.” Harry smiled. He decided he liked the way Y/n made him feel. Like he was desperate for the next sentence to come out of her mouth. Like he needed to know what she had to say. But maybe he was just getting tired.

“There’s not much else to know. I live a pretty boring life, I think you’ll find.”

“Well, there’s nothing wrong with that.”

“I didn’t say there was.” Y/n smiled, and Harry found himself blushing.

“I think the quiet can be good.” Y/n stated softly, looking at the way her feet fell between the large squares on the sidewalk. “It can be lonely, and that can be sad sometimes, but I don’t really mind it if I get to keep my peace.” She explained thoughtfully.

“Do you think about this often?” Harry couldn’t help but ask.

“When you live alone you have the time to think about a lot of things.” She responded, and Harry simply nodded.

“I like the quiet life too. It’s nice to step into the storm once in a while and see where you get dragged, but it’s nice to know where you’ll end up in the morning without a doubt.”

Y/n hummed at Harry’s response.

“I used to party a lot in college.” She laughed at herself. “Which is hard to believe now because I feel like my back was broken by a thousand bricks somewhere in my mid twenties but, I get what you mean. It was fun when it was cool, and when I had people I liked going out with. But I think I’d much rather prefer to know I’ll end up in my own bed in the morning.”

Harry couldn’t help but laugh at the girl beside him. Her toothy grin and her crinkles by her eyes. Harry imagined her a few years back, he imagined taking her to all the best spots in the city he could rack off in his mind. He figured she would be the life of the party. She made him feel like the subway was some first class plane ride and the trash rolling beneath his feet was golden.

“Are you always this talkative?” He laughed softly.

She shrugged.

“My mom would agree. She said when I was younger I would talk to anything that had ears. Sometimes she’d catch me pulling the grass outside because I liked to braid it, and she said I would be talking to myself. But I always told her I was talking to the butterflies.” She laughed at herself.

“What about you? Do you always entertain strangers on the subway?”

“Well, we aren’t really strangers anymore.” Harry argued. Y/n smiled at him.

“I guess not.” She shook her head thoughtfully.

“I don’t, usually, though.” Harry sighed. “But you’re nice enough. Easy to talk to, I guess.”

“Anyones easy to talk to when they can’t shut up.” She joked, and Harry simply laughed at her for the millionth time.

“I guess so.”

As their laughter fizzled out into giggles, a warm silence wrapped around them, the humidity of the summer air sticking to their skin like glue. Harry caught Y/n’s eye every few steps, swallowing repeatedly as if by doing so, he would think of something else to say.

“Are you from here?” She asked softly.

“Somewhat. What about you?”

She shook her head.

“I’m from the east coast. The United States.” She said softly.

“Why’d you leave?” Harry couldn’t help but ask.

“The city wasn’t for me. I wanted to live by a beach so I left to where I could find that. But then I guess that wasn’t what I wanted either. I think maybe I was made for the city, just not…that one.” She sighed in the middle of her sentence, like the memory of home was daunting to her.

“What about London? What drew you to it?” Harry asked softly.

Y/n shrugged, her eyes flickered to the ground.

“It reminded me of home without having to be there.”

Harry didn’t know what to say to that, but she didn’t really seem sad when she said it. Almost like it was some kind of relief.

“My mom said there was something really wrong with me when I was a kid, but I’ve always liked who I am.” She smiled up at Harry honestly, holding her hands in her palms.

“You know, I like that I can talk for hours, I like that I apologize all the time, I like that I’ve lived out my twenties the way I should have. I like when my bangs grow past my ears, and I like running because it reminds me of running in the park, and I’m not sorry because I love the girl who looks back at me in the mirror because she’s a collection of everything she’s ever loved and I think thats neat.” She ranted, a smile on her face the whole time, and breathy laughter escaping her lips.

Harry wanted to say something, to smile and agree that he also enjoyed her sticking around, but she had stopped a few feet back, her shoes wiping against a small brown doormat with no welcoming message painted on it.

“This is my stop.”

“Will I ever see you again?” Harry asked desperately from afar, like he couldn’t enter her space if he tried.

“Maybe.”

“Well, I really like the person you are too, I’d like to see you again.” He added, his words quick and desperate.

“You know where I live, Harry.” She stated simply, a smile on her face.

And it was true, he did. But she wasn’t on his way home. He’d passed his house a few blocks back, and somehow he hadn’t even noticed.

“What if you leave again?” He couldn’t help but ask.

She simply smiled.

“We can run away together.”

[kibble-2]

tw: angst (apparently that’s needed 💀)

trust is something simon never could fathom. yes, he trusted his team. but could he truly trust you? you were new and someone that price knew very well. if price could trust you, should he be able to?

when you first met, it was by accident. you were looking around the base, trying to get used to it. you seen him in the dark kitchen, his head in his hands, leaning over the countertop. he knew you were watching. he could hear your footsteps.

“it’s rude to stare,” he spoke, his deep british accent hit hard. he looked up at you, his piercing eyes sent a chill down your back.

“i didn’t know if you were dead”

“why the hell would i be dead?” he fully stood up this time, towering over you even if you were feet away from him.

you shrugged and walked away. his eyes continued to watch your movements.

the next time you spoke was during a training session. he fought against soap, while you fought against gaz. he watched the way you fought, it was obvious you knew what you were doing. he was so focused on you, he never noticed soap come behind him and kick his legs out, making him land on his ass. that earned a loud laugh from you and gaz.

after training, he walked up to you and tried to make small talk,

“how did you learn that one move you did?”

“it’s something price taught me a while back”

“how long have you known price?”

“long enough, probably 13 years”

“is hand to hand combat you skill?”

the questions continued, almost like he was fixated on you since he last talked to you, wanting to talk to you as long as possible.

your first mission proved that he could trust you. you had his back.

you followed him blindly into that building. he knew what he was doing. he lead you through the darkness while you kept both of you safe. that was your job.

watch his back.

why did you turn around?

why did you face him for three seconds?

how did the enemy move so quickly?

the first time you turned to look at each other, the enemy snuck behind you, and immediately fired a round into your back.

when you hit the ground, ghost had understood what had happened.

you were shot.

you were dead.

he dropped the enemy quickly and got to his knees, pulling your head to his lap. his gloved hand checked your pulse on your neck. it was gone.

your eyes had shut and the blood rushed out quickly. it was a hard sight to see.

he had only known you for two weeks, but he trusted you with his life.

[chairofchaos]

In the Silence of Exploding Stars

Azris Week Day 1: Creature Feature

A/N: In my dreams, they get to be soft.

It had been a long day. A trying meeting with Azriel’s brother never put Eris in a good mood, especially when treaty negotiations were this drawn out. Over a hundred years, they had been mated, and not once had Azriel missed a meeting between Eris and Rhysand. Which was good, Eris mused, given how terribly this one had gone without Azriel there.

Azriel had sent no word. Eris leaned back in his chair, reaching blindly behind him for the bottle of whiskey which sat on the table behind his desk. A glass was pointless; the bottle almost empty as he uncorked it with his teeth.

Rhysand (Eris refused to call him Rhys, just to spite him) had expected his presence and tactlessly implied Eris had done something wrong to cause Azriel not to show up. They weren’t perfect by any means, but as far as Eris knew, there was nothing he had done that would cause his mate to treat him so callously. Not that he didn’t deserve it on occasion.

Azriel would say he didn’t, that no one deserved something like that. Azriel was smart enough to see a mind healer. Eris still didn’t trust that as a safe avenue. He preferred his glasses of whiskey, a soft evening with his mate. Low conversations after they waved the faelights off in their bedroom; the stroke of Azriel’s hand along his arm, his back.

He deserved that much, he knew. It had taken them both time to adjust to caring openly about each other. He remembered their first months together, the fast, hard way they would interact, speak, hold each other. Like a collision between forces moving in opposite directions, rebounding again and again. Azriel on his doorstep, near feral with need, Eris winnowing to the heart of Velaris to track Azriel down only to hastily drag him out to an inn which had become their sanctuary. The innkeeper remained on Eris’ payroll all these years later, simply for the privacy he’d given the males in that time of desperate need and heavy reluctance.

Over two years, the time between collisions had lessened, the distance they moved apart before coming back together shortened, and the collisions became less forceful, less hasty. They circled each other with more and more gentleness, eventually collapsing together like the silent explosion of a star. Azriel quietly left Velaris, setting up the beginnings of a life in Eris’ home and heart.

His mate. Eris chuckled lightly at the thought. It hadn’t been possible, he thought, for someone to know what he had done and see him with love. He had been sixteen when his father had ordered him to kill for the first time, and he had done it, quietly and with a sneer, as he knew was expected. He hadn’t cried. He had long since lost the sweetness of youth, if he had had it to begin with. Yet, he thought that night about how the blood on his hands had felt, and wondered for the first time how someone could fall in love with someone who had been carved into a weapon held by another’s hand.

It had shaped his thinking over time, until he took lovers without loving, taking what they gave without giving more than physical pleasure in return. To be seen, to be known… one would not survive the rejection of a mate. And a mate would never want a person who was nothing more than a vicious shell.

Azriel had seen that. Azriel had understood that, in a way Eris suspected very few others could. The scars they both bore at the hands of family were not treated lightly in their home. They were worn unashamedly, reminders of survival in a life far harder than any fae deserved.

His distracted mind was drawn quickly back to the present as his office door opened, just a bit. A shadow darted playfully around the doorframe, but not for Eris’ benefit. A soft tumble and the scratch of small claws drew Eris’ attention to the floor.

A kitten mewled at the shadow, staring intently with head ducked and the twitch of its tail. The shadow stayed still a moment, then darted to the left, and the kitten lept. The shadow was faster, and Eris couldn’t help but laugh aloud at the devastated yowl the kitten let out as its playmate disappeared from view entirely.

“Eris?” Azriel called from down the hall.

“In the office,” Eris responded softly. The kitten took notice of him for the first time, and darted quickly from the room. Eris stood to follow, settling his glass down on the table by the door.

“Oh, there you are,” Azriel said, still in the hall. His mate stooped to scoop up the kitten in a scarred hand, and to Eris’ surprise, the kitten simply curled into Azriel’s chest. “You ran off.”

Eris bit his lip to hold back a laugh. “New friend?”

Az simply grinned at the kitten. “I may have rescued him from your infernal beasts.”

“They aren’t infernal. I’ll have you know, they’re a gift from the Mother.”

“Well, Midnight would disagree.”

“He has a name?”

“He does. He has to.”

“He’s staying, isn’t he,” Eris sighed, crossing his arms.

Azriel shrugged with a wry grin.

“He seems rather attached to you.”

“Well, I did save his life.”

Eris smiled at that. Azriel had a habit of finding creatures and bringing them home. They were surrounded by softness– Azriel’s motley crew of creatures followed him around like worshippers after a god. It wasn’t shocking to see him with a small sprite on his shoulder, a squirrel at his heels. It seemed he could whisper to them and be heard. Whether it was the shadows which gave him the ability or not, Eris had no clue. Whatever it was was unique to his mate.

Life. It was always the theme with Azriel. Wars, and torture were things of the past. This century was for life. This millennia, if Eris had it his way, would be for life.

“I can’t argue with that,” he faked a heavy sigh, knowing Azriel would meet his gaze with– that look, right there. He winked in response, and Az huffed a laugh.

“Cruel male,” Azriel mock whispered to the kitten, eyes darting up to Eris’ with amusement. “He doesn’t think you were in danger from his beasts.”

“Oh, I’m entirely sure he wasn’t. Their curiosity wouldn’t have gone beyond a little inquisitive nudge.”

“Well, Moony is far too little to put up with that. Aren’t you?”

The kitten just gazed up at Azriel, yawning.

“Seems like he’s sleepy, Az, and so am I.” Eris waved a hand over his shoulder, letting the faelights flicker out.

Azriel grinned, extending the hand not currently supporting the newest member of their family to Eris. “Come on, then. Home?”

Eris grabbed Azriel’s hand, pulled his arm around his shoulders and tucked himself under Azriel’s arm. “Home.”

[springdusk]

My analysis of Tamsand (Tamlin X Rhysand)

This is from someone who doesn't particularly ship them both together.

When they met both of their parents were in control of their respective court. They both hated/disliked their fathers who were the current HL for different reasons. Tamlin's father was cruel or crueler than Beron, enslaved humans and allied with the king of hybern who hated humans. During his rule humans suffered alongside his subjects who weren't nobles who supported him. Rhysand's father was similar but not as cruel, he continued the mistreatment of hewn city and Illyrians calling it a mask.

Both rhysand and Tamlin had similar backstories, both came from horrible high lord fathers whos mother supported them blindly. The main difference, rhysand was raised and expected to become HL, he was thought all the politics, trained by his father in magic and got Illyrian training thanks to his mother. Rhysand didn't have freedom, he was made to connect with hewn city, illyrians and velaris with his supporters. Tamlin was the opposite, the last child and the runt. Tamlin was ignored and if it weren't for his flourishing powers he'd be ignored by his brothers as well. Instead he made an effort to hide himself and join a warband allowing to connect to people who were different, allowing him to see his father's cruelty and connect with both high and lesser Fae.

Both were similar but rhysand didn't change much from his father while Tamlin was the opposite of his. One became a product of his surrounding the other became his father's worst nightmare.

We know rhysand seek Tamlin out, because they were similar but also because of connection. They were close enough for Rhysand to give Tamlin Illyrian daggers and teach him Illyrian techniques, for Tamlin to call him Rhys something that only the batboys call him. I however think there's another reason for this, why a relationship between them could bloom.

The night court was already known as the court of torture, abuse and evil. Rhys was from there, people don't trust them at best people tolerated him to gain some political upper hand or advantage. He wasn't a person to those people but a pawn, then came Tamlin who came from the court that accepted slavery and enforced cruelty. Tamlin and Rhys were likely distrusted by the other courts but found solace in each other.

For once rhysand found someone who wasn't from the night court who truly understood him and Tamlin the same. Rhysand didn't expect anything from Tamlin and Tamlin the same. They likely spoke about the future of their court, how'd they bring change and just enjoyed each other's company. I can imagine Rhys pushing Tamlin to act more rude and stop caring about others so much while Tamlin tries to get Rhys to befriend and be more friendly to try to understand people and not just assume.

Then the worst happened, the murder of their families which rhysand blames Tamlin for but still believes that Tamlin didn't do it purposely or was forced to do it. Rhys hates Tamlin for many things yet cannot stay away from him. Tamlin seems more content to be away from his former friend, something that Rhys hates considering he made Tamlin call him by his nickname. No matter how much he tries, some part of him yearns for that. True accepting love he will never see from others, lose his powers and the bat boys will scatter, Amren and morigan would have to find elsewhere to stay, feyre? She'd follow where it's safest for her family, he'd should be thankful the magic chose him or his little ic would perish.

On the other hand, Tamlin would be the only one to open his arms and court for him, he'd open it for anyone really. He'd accept them, try to make them have a happy life at the cost of himself. He'd give them everything he could give to make people happy and maybe that's why Rhys yearns for Tamlin so much. Tamlin lost a friend that day, Rhys lost someone who saw all his thorns and still chose to care for him.

In any different outcome, their love or friendship couldn't have work either. No matter what fate would tear them apart. Tamlin wouldn't stand for the horrible way hewn city and Illyrians functions and Rhys would not allow Tamlin to burn himself to keep others warm. A love story of friends or lovers that would always end in tragedy.

[481mclarg]

You're very talented!

Can you please write a story about gn reader x Fabio Quartararo? 🙏🏻🙏🏻 You're jealous because he likes a post from a pretty model on Instagram and you feel insecure

✶ You own my heart.

┈          don't ever get jealous. u own my heart. it's all yours.

★ Fabio Quartararo × GN Reader

☆ Established relationship. || WC: 653

Warning: Jelaous - insecure reader. Only at the beginning, the rest is just fluff.

« K » 🫶 Hope yall enjoy :)

          You were used to seeing posts talking about your boyfriend.

          You can also see your boyfriend, so you really understand all the comments of the people. "He's so handsome. Hot. Funny. Cute." You agree with all of them.

          You two built a relationship with a lot of trust, without rushing anything, taking your time to get to know each other well. It's not easy when one of you never stays still in just one country, but you two managed to make it work.

          He would blindly trust you, just like you trust him.

          ...at least like you try most of the time.

          Sometimes, it's hard. You know he wouldn't cheat on you, but... there are difficult days where insecurity and jealousy creep into your head, hitting you where it hurts the most: your relationship.

          There are times when you feel uncomfortable seeing how some people approach him or when he's with the grid girls or Yamaha/Monster models by his side on the track or in the garage.

          It was one of those long days when a post of a stunning model popped up on your Instagram timeline. It felt like a bucket of cold water falling on you when you saw that Fabio's user among the likes.

          Would he rather be with this model than you? He definitely could date a model if he wanted to.

          He wants to date this model? Is he tired of you? Was he starting to see other people behind your back?

          No, you knew he would never do that to you. He's not that kind of person.

          Then, why are you feeling insecure?

          Fabio noticed you were weird. Even if you didn't want or were unintentional, you were acting differently, more distant, something that was not usual when you traveled with him.

          He was worried, asking if you were okay. Maybe something happened to you while he was racing far away, or you get sick and didn't tell him? You weren't enjoying the trip, would you prefer to go somewhere else? Not travel at all?

          He was so sweet when asking you that you felt even worse for being insecure and distrusting him.

          You had to explain to him about those feelings. You were afraid of making him mad and starting an argument.

          Nothing further from the truth.

          He listened to you patiently, holding one of your hands like he always do.

          You weren't entirely sure about the plan, but you had nothing to lose by trying. Maybe getting to know this person will help you separate your ideas from the real people behind the photos.

"Why didn't you ever tell me you felt this way?"

"I didn't want to drain you with my insecurities, I guess."

"We can talk about it. That model is a friend; we can't stop talking or interacting on Instagram, but maybe if you two meet, you can feel better?"

          He actually let you read a bit of the conversation by texting right by your side. "You can bring your partner." You felt bad, and you understood that you had to work on this.

          It's not Fabio's fault that you feel this way, nor is it his duty to build your selfesteem, but you know that he will be by your side supporting you while you work on it, and that's more than enough.

          He's always by your side, accompanying you, supporting you. You can't ask for anything more.

          He was with you all day, reminding you how much he loves you, that in his heart, there's only room for you. And when you two went to sleep that night, you asked him a last thing.

          Being in his arms, feeling how he brings you closer to him in a hug, warms your heart, confirming that Fabio is the best boyfriend you could ask for.

"You still love me?"

"Of course I still love you, mon chou. With all my heart"

100 FOLLOWERS EVENT 481MCLARG | 02 . 04 . 2025 | CORREGIDO

[idonthavepurplehair]

Shadow and Bone had the potential to be a REVOLUTIONARY series but ended up falling short partly because of leigh bardugo's inexperience as a writer but also because of its target audience.

I think if it had been written for a slightly older demographic it could've explored some of its more mature/complicated themes without worrying about having to be like. So black-and-white with its morality. I'm mostly referring to Darklina but also the perspectives of both sides of the war

Putting the (potentially rambly and incoherent) post under a readmore bc spoilers

Like when I read the books the first time, I was really underwhelmed by the Darklina canon, because from what fan content I'd seen it looked like a much more deep, messy, complicated relationship than the barely-even-a-fling that it actually was. Alina and the Darkling had barely a handful of conversations before suddenly being physically attracted to each other and then alina almost immediately turned on him when baghra told her the truth. And even after that canon treats it like a lovers-to-enemies situation when it was more "we kissed twice and then decided to be obsessed with each other even though we had 0 chemistry and were barely even friends before that"

And writing a toxic/unhealthy/obsessive relationship is DIFFICULT, especially when you have to keep it clear to the readers that what is happening is BAD but also understandable and not idiot plot. Which is something you don't really have to do as much when your readers are older. You can really dive deep into the ugly fucked up things about the relationship while also trusting your readers to have the maturity + reading comprehension to understand that This Is Not Healthy without having to like. Spell it out for them.

Like give me codependent mutually destructive Darklina. "We are irreconcilably on different sides of this war but you are the only person who has ever really understood me." "You are the only person in this world I have ever cared about. I will not hesitate to destroy you." Give me Alina being on the Darkling's side, being his second in command, being blindly utterly loyal, not realising that he's using her because he doesn't realise it himself. Give me her slow, horrible realisation that no, he is actually the villain of this story. That turning on him is going to cost her everything, actually, her heart and her soul and her twin flame, but she has to do it because his actions are irredeemable.

It would make their dynamic after Alina's desertion of the Second Army so much more compelling, if they had this kind of intense connection already established and not just thrown in here and there for plot reasons with basically no foundation.

Because why did Alina run to the Darkling every time she fought with Mal? Or every time she faced tough situations? When she was feeling overwhelmed? When she finally defeats him why does she feel so protective of his legacy, his wishes for his last rites? I mean she barely knows this guy. Why does she care so much? What has this dude even really done for her to have this kind of attachment to him?

Also, the whole thing about "everyone is sorry but only the darkling is willing to do something about it" was so real??? Why was it just brushed over?? Like the Darkling and his supporters highkey made some points. And like. Forgive the older, seasoned Grisha for staying with him instead of defecting to this new kid with no plan and no army who abandoned them for apparently no reason and thrust them into another war when they were already stretched so thin??

And why is alina so sure of what side she's on. Why are we, as readers, supposed to believe that alina is right. Her only issue with the Darkling was his disregard for non-grisha life, but alina shows that same disregard for anyone on the Darkling's side. That's a really high horse for someone who spent her whole life trying to not have a personality to sit on. And it makes her rejection of the Sankta Alina title make even less sense because if she's going to be this holier-than-thou, she might as well commit to it

Basically s&b had so much to say and so many opportunities to say all of it but then it just. didn't. Because leigh wanted to play it safe. but only sometimes.