#the way its also the both of them being the (in)direct causes too

[emagios]

Something something P!Verso and Alicia never getting the chance to say goodbye to their true siblings, only to their mirrored counterparts something something

[luffington]

fur & feathers ♡

✧.* art credit!

➤ summary: You tried your hardest to stay out of their way this time. Unsurprisingly, you ended up sandwiched between them instead. (18+)

➤ pairing: sir crocodile x afab!reader x donquixote doflamingo, crocodile x doflamingo

➤ word count: 4.2k

➤ warnings: sub!reader, mean dom!croc & meaner dom!doffy, double penetration, anal sex, size kink, belly bulge, oral (m receiving), creampie, breeding kink, degradation, objectification, power play, she/her & 'girl' used

➤ notes: purely self-indulgent filth..... i am not seeing heaven's gates

NSFW under the break! minors dni thank uuu

Being Sir Crocodile’s personal secretary obviously had its benefits. Traveling to all sorts of conferences alongside him, meeting important and influential people, and always feeling protected. You lived a more lavish life than the vast majority of Alabastans, and all it took was looking the other way when documents with a winged Jolly Roger appeared on his desk. But it had some major downfalls, too, like putting up with whatever the hell was going on between your boss and that blonde feathery freak. 

You tried your hardest to stay out of their way this time. Unsurprisingly, you ended up sandwiched between them instead. 

Fragrant and flashy perfume clashed with the thick and heady scent of an expensive cigar, overwhelming your senses and making you dizzy. Crocodile’s lengthy cock was buried deep in your throat. You choked and sputtered around it, trying your hardest to use your mouth well and please your boss. Doflamingo’s harsh thrusts into your pussy from behind were making it difficult.

Your wrists had long lost their strength to support you, so you were positioned on your knees and elbows. The dark-haired man comfortably reclined on a stack of plush pillows, his ring-covered hand resting on the crown of your head. Doflamingo gripped your hips hard and repeatedly slammed his enormous dick inside you, practically penetrating your womb. You didn’t have to see him to know that he was maniacally grinning. 

You were fully naked and on display for the two men (to be fair, the blonde was already half-naked when he entered the room). Their perfectly sculpted and scarred bodies were also completely bare, but somehow they both still had their coats on. You would have laughed at the absurdity if it didn’t remind you of their high status and how far below them you were. Or maybe it just was an unspoken challenge between them – first one to take theirs off loses.

They had already made you cum three times before they even got their dicks out. Under the guise of being a gracious host, Crocodile had allowed Doflamingo the honor of your first orgasm of the night. He had made you straddle his thigh and get yourself off by rubbing your bare cunt on his leather pants, bouncing his leg up and down and cackling sadistically at your humiliated expression. Then Crocodile had eaten you out as the other man fondled your tits, and then Doflamingo had strung you up until you couldn’t move an inch while they worked together to torture your pussy. They were each menaces on their own, but somehow sharing your body like this didn’t make their egos clash – they cooperated. It was only a matter of time until they figured out something kinky to do with Crocodile’s sand powers, and then you’d be truly fucked.

You were losing yourself in the salty taste of Crocodile’s cock, the thickness of it stretching your mouth almost painfully while your nose repeatedly brushed against his neatly groomed pubes. Slowly forcing your head up and down, never giving you more than a second to breathe. He was barely sweating, looking down at you with cold eyes as he puffed at the cigar hanging from his lips. A direct contrast to Doflamingo bullying your poor cunt and shoving your body forwards onto the other man’s lap with every thrust. 

A dry finger suddenly prodded at your asshole, causing you to choke around your boss’s cock. Crocodile clicked his tongue. “Two holes at once? You’re being greedy, Doffy.” His words were teasing, a wicked smirk on his scarred face while he continued ignoring your obvious protests. 

“You get to use her whenever you want. I think that’s pretty greedy.” The blonde frowned, continuing to insistently circle his fingertip around your rim. “Besides, I’m trying to do something nice for you. You can have her pussy, so I’ll take her ass.”

The dark-haired man exhaled a cloud of smoke. Without his hand holding you down, you pulled off of his dick with a lewd wet noise and spun your head to face Doflamingo. “W-wait… both… at the, ahh, same ti-ime…?” Your muddled mind tried to express your fear, knowing full well that neither of them would care. “C-can’t fit…”

“You don’t know that until you try,” Doflamingo replied with a twisted grin. Actually, he wasn’t sure why the three of you hadn’t tried it yet. Perhaps it had something to do with your size difference. Both men were unnaturally tall – the blonde often made fun of Crocodile for only being 8’4 – and their cocks were more than proportional. Each was longer than your forearm and practically matched the thickness. Your stomach felt close to bursting from just one. 

Looking to your boss for help, you silently pleaded for some hint of kindness inside the man. His cold glare and cruel smile granted you none.

At first, you had assumed Crocodile was the nicer of the two, that he felt some kind of sympathy and held regard for human life. You quickly realized in horror that they were two sides of the same sadistic coin. The same need for dominance, longing for powerful positions, and lack of hesitation to step on anyone below them for their own benefit. Sure, Doflamingo used his strings very inappropriately in the bedroom. But Crocodile had never taken off his hook during sex, resulting in a few ‘accidental’ fading cuts on your back and thighs. Doflamingo was very open about his madness, while the other kept it neatly buttoned up under silk dress shirts.

“Don’t worry,” Crocodile rubbed your cheek, feigning gentleness, before saying, “We’ll make them fit.”

You gulped, feeling very much like prey caught in a fatal trap.

Doflamingo stopped his thrusts with his cock deep inside you and sucked his pointer and middle fingers in his mouth, coating them with enough spit to not rip your hole. He would never be generous enough to use actual lube. 

He snickered when he caught Crocodile watching his movements and swirled his tongue teasingly around his digits. “Enjoying the view, baby?”

“I’m enjoying a break from that ridiculous smile of yours.” The other man replied smoothly. “Maybe I’ll use my fingers to shut you up the next time you say something irritating.”

“Your fingers are too rough,” the blonde pouted and shoved a long finger inside your asshole in one go, making you cry out and clench your fists. Neither man acknowledged your pained reaction, though you felt Doflamingo’s cock twitch excitedly inside you. “My mouth feels all sandy afterwards.”

Crocodile smirked to himself — he controlled every grain of sand in his body, so any bits left behind in Doflamingo’s mouth (or in his clothes, or the crevices of his body) was intentional. His gaze flickered down to you, grasping the base of his cock and timidly licking at his tip. “You can do better than that, slut.” You instantly swallowed it halfway, not daring to upset your boss.

The dark haired man let out a content sigh as he watched the beautiful scene in front of him. Your back glistened with a thin sheen of sweat and a giant red Doffy-shaped handprint still burned on your ass. The blonde’s pace had slowed down slightly so he could focus on preparing your asshole with no gentleness whatsoever. He used two digits to spread your hole wide, then spat directly inside it. You whimpered at the filthy feeling, sending pleasant vibrations through Crocodile’s cock. 

“Fuck, that’s hot.” Doflamingo swore, watching his saliva disappear inside you. “What a good little whore.” You unconsciously wiggled your hips at his praise. 

The more he pushed and prodded deep inside you, the harder it was to focus on pleasuring the cock in your mouth. Wordlessly, Crocodile placed his hook on the back of your neck, the sharp edge dangerously close to your throat. The message was clear – you immediately got to work, cheeks hollowing and sloppily drooling around his dick. 

Doflamingo nodded his chin at the heavy gold object. “You ever finger anyone with that glorified fish hook?” 

Your entire body went cold. Hopefully that wasn’t a suggestion.

“No, but you can be the first to try it out.” 

“Aww, Croc, you’re making me blush.” He didn’t seem even a tiny bit flustered.

Ignoring you was part of their sick game. Making you feel so incredibly small and unimportant. Nothing but a fleshlight for two of the most powerful men in the world to share while they bickered among themselves. 

Trying to regain their focus, you clenched your holes and moaned loudly. “Shh, darling,” Crocodile cooed mockingly. “The adults are talking.”

You hated how much that humiliation turned you on and made your core ache with need. 

“Well, she seems about ready.” Doflamingo chuckled, unceremoniously pulling out of your swollen pussy, his cock angry and red and shining with your juices. You fought to keep your lower half from collapsing to the bed. “How do you wanna do this?”

You looked up at Crocodile questioningly, not daring to take his dick out of your mouth yet. Your boss gently tugged at your hair and you raised your head, coughing and sputtering for air. You suddenly felt a shameful sense of emptiness – you missed having your holes stuffed full.

He stroked the back of your head as if you were his pet. “Any ideas, doll?”

It was the first time all night that they asked for your opinion, that you weren’t passively taking every bit of pleasure and pain that they graciously gave you. You gulped nervously, looking between both men. Doflamingo seemed especially excited to hear you pick your poison. 

“M-maybe… I could… sit in your laps?” You replied timidly, unsure if your input even mattered. 

“Is that a question or an answer?” Crocodile raised an eyebrow.

As calm and collected as both men seemed, you could tell they were growing impatient. Their cocks dripped precum and subtly twitched with need. You were desperate for stimulation, too, so you steeled your hazy mind and nodded resolutely. “I want to sit in your laps. Feel you both so deep inside me. I… I might go crazy if you don’t fuck me.” You turned to Doflamingo, batted your eyes innocently, and added, “I’ll be good for you, I promise.”

The blonde threw his head back and moaned exaggeratedly. “Fuck, baby, you’re straight out of my wet dreams. Why don’t you visit Dressrosa sometime?”

“Don’t get any ideas,” Crocodile gave the man a hard glare, helping your shaky body into a sitting position. “She’s mine. The best secretary I’ve had in years.”

Doflamingo cackled. “I forgot she’s your fucking employee! There’s no way you two actually get any work done. I bet I can open any file cabinet in your office and find cum stains on those papers.”

“Open anything in my office and I’ll throw you in my Sea Prism Stone cell.”

You rolled your eyes as you maneuvered yourself into Crocodile’s lap, using his shoulders for support as you straddled his slightly spread thighs. Their twisted flirting was seemingly endless. Couldn’t they have picked a better time?

“Don’t get bratty, darling,” he snickered and quickly slapped your breast, making you yelp in surprise. “Unless you can’t survive another minute without our dicks inside you.”

You nodded and bit your lip, feeling your juices trickle out of your hole and drop down your leg. “Please, sir, I need you. Need you both.” Crocodile hummed in satisfaction – he had trained you so well. He pressed an intoxicating open-mouthed kiss to your jaw and simultaneously twisted your nipple. 

“Starting without me isn’t fair.” Doflamingo grumbled petulantly as he shuffled into place behind you. It took a few tries until he found a way to comfortably tangle his hairy legs around Crocodile’s, their pelvises almost pressed together and his massive cock smacking against your spine. The blonde bit your earlobe and laughed when you flinched.

Your fists clenched onto Crocodile’s smooth fur jacket, breasts flush against his muscular pecs, while soft and wispy feathers grazed your back and sent ticklish shivers down your spine. The air felt electric with anticipation and excitement and pure unadulterated lust. Your body might hate you the next morning for this — no, you’d feel the aftermath of their desire for at least a few days. But at that moment, you needed your holes stuffed full more than you needed oxygen. 

With a shaky breath, you stood on your knees, their long cocks still barely fitting underneath you. Doflamingo tapped the crown of his dick against your rim before holding it steady. They waited with bated breath for you to sink down.

Two Warlords were inside you.

You felt like your body was ripping in half. And yet the pain made you even wetter, a debauched moan spilling from your lips and eyes rolling back into your skull. Both men simultaneously groaned in satisfaction, an angelic choir of devils singing your praise. Being on top gave you a refreshing sense of control… one that didn’t last very long.

Crocodile’s hand settled on your hip to gently coax you down, while Doflamingo pressed hard on your shoulders. When it was finally too much and your body refused to take any more – not even halfway down their massive lengths – tight strings wound around your thighs and forced you down the rest of the way. You cried out in anguish, speared on their massive cocks.

Thankfully, the two men let you adjust once you had their entire lengths inside you and rested in their laps. You shuddered in their hold, trying your best to calm your rapid heartbeat. Perhaps there was a hint of kindness in their decision, but it was more likely for their own benefit. A broken toy was no fun to play with and they weren’t even close to being done with you. 

Crocodile reclined against the bed’s headboard and let out a low whistle. “Fuck,” he swore in a gravelly voice, eyes half-lidded and seemingly hypnotized. “You are so fucking full.” 

You looked down in perverted fascination to see your stomach bulging unnaturally, almost making you appear pregnant. He ran his hand over the well-defined outline of his cock and you felt it twitch inside you excitedly.

“What? No fair, you’re hogging the view. Let me see.” Doflamingo pouted, leaning over your shoulder. He giggled ferociously at the sight. “Oh, that’s sexy as hell.” The hand that wasn’t manipulating his strings joined Crocodile’s to rub over your bulging belly, applying pressure to your womb and making you keen. “That feels good, huh? You like when we force our way inside your tight little holes and rearrange your guts?”

Your face burned red at his filthy words but you nodded rapidly. Your boss frowned and pinched your clit, causing wetness to pool in your eyes. “I thought I taught you to use your words.”

“Y-Yes, sir, I love it.” Doflamingo’s long tongue snaked out to lap away the single teardrop running down your cheek. 

“So obedient.” He nuzzled into your neck almost affectionately. “So good for us.”

Moments like this made you question what your relationship with them was. Sure, you were definitely more of a prized possession than a romantic partner, but maybe you possessed them in a different way. You would never voice that thought aloud, but it’s what prevented you from quitting your job, getting the hell out of Alabasta, and finding an actual partner and decent life somewhere else. They could have anyone in the world they desired, but Crocodile hadn’t been with anyone besides Doflamingo and you since the first time he fucked you on his office desk, much too horny to try to seduce you back to his bedroom.

And while you didn’t know what the other Warlord got up to in his own kingdom, at the very least, he always came back for more. Doflamingo could tell vicious lies dripping with sugar like no one else, but part of you hoped there was some truth in calling you gorgeous and perfect and his good little whore. 

You knew you were probably deluding yourself, but Doflamingo’s warm mouth sucking marks into your throat and Crocodile’s palm rubbing over your stomach soothingly made your heart ache and veins burn.

“Alright, enough. Let’s get started.” The blonde used his powers to raise your body slowly, revealing their cocks glistening with your juices. 

“No strings,” Crocodile interrupted, but added with a smirk, “Yet. Let her do it herself for now.”

Doflamingo licked his lips and leaned back on his hands leisurely. His strings loosened but didn’t disappear. “Show me what you’ve got, puppet.” 

This was a test. There would be hell to pay if you failed, though you weren’t sure if passing was humanly possible. You continued to rise up at the pace Doflamingo’s strings had set, inch by delicious inch rubbing against your walls until only the tips were inside you. “You’re both so big,” you bit your lip seductively. “I feel so empty without your dicks.”

Then you quickly sank back down to the base, knocking the air out of your lungs. Head flying back to rest on the blonde man’s feather-coated shoulder. Crocodile’s cock kissed your cervix as Doflamingo’s bullied its way inside your asshole deeper than anything was meant to go. 

You repeated the motion again and again, doing your best to clench your holes tight and take their entire lengths every time. 

“This is getting boring,” the blonde rolled his eyes impatiently. A subtle twitch of his fingers forced you onto your knees then slammed you back down to their laps, their balls slapping against your sensitive skin. You were too overwhelmed to even comprehend what happened, but the man continued to manipulate your body at a brutal pace. 

“Much better.” Crocodile agreed, taking in your blank expression and glazed-over eyes. Your mind completely shut off, focused on receiving every bit of carnal pleasure that the two Warlords graciously gave you. You were completely under their control and at their mercy. Your boss cooed at you mockingly. “Poor girl. There’s not a thought in that pretty little head of yours, huh, doll?”

Your silence answered his question so perfectly that he didn’t even punish you for not responding. 

“She fucking loves it. Look at her drool.” Doflamingo grabbed your chin and forced you to face him. He delighted in your debauched expression, tongue lolling out of your mouth, before leaning back and slapping your ass. Your body spasmed around their cocks. 

The blonde used his strings to hold you down as far as possible, admiring the bulge in your stomach again with a sick grin. You hardly noticed it — you hardly noticed anything at this point. Then he ripped Crocodile’s lit cigar from the corner of his mouth and haphazardly threw it across the room. Miraculously, nothing caught on fire. 

“That was expensive.” Crocodile snarled. 

“I don’t care about your fucking tobacco.” Doflamingo grabbed the other man’s slicked-back hair and slammed their lips together in a hungry kiss that was all teeth and tongue. You watched dazedly as they licked at each other’s mouths like feral animals. Matching each other’s intensity and fighting to maintain their dominance. With his free hand, the blonde groped your breast, squeezing it in his large palm before rolling your nipple between his fingers. 

The men pulled away, panting heavily from the intense kiss. A thick string of saliva kept their lips connected. Doflamingo broke it by swiping his tongue across Crocodile’s reddened bottom lip. 

“Let’s get her pregnant, Croc. I want her tits swollen with milk so I can suck them dry.” You felt a shiver run through your entire body. What a terrifying, deranged, yet tempting thought. You didn’t dare voice your thoughts, but the blonde still felt your ass clench around his cock. He cackled and roughly tugged at your nipple. “I think our little girl likes that idea.”

Crocodile’s dark eyes turned to you. “Consider yourself lucky that he’s not in your pussy.” As if he was wearing a condom himself. As if he even owned condoms. 

Doflamingo suddenly leaned forward and knocked you down with his weight, causing you and Crocodile to fall like dominos. The dark-haired man was almost flat on his back and you were crushed between their bodies, breasts uncomfortably squished against your boss’s fleshy chest. A cloud of pink feathers suddenly encompassed you, hanging loosely from the blonde’s shoulders and fully caging you in. Now that he was on top, he released the strings from around your thighs. Doflamingo gave a particularly harsh thrust forward and you yelped, the change in angle hitting an extra sensitive part of you. Crocodile’s cock insistently pressed against your g-spot.

The blonde placed his hand softly on Crocodile’s cheek, caressing the sharp line of his jaw. Very out of place, very unlike Doffy. But when he pulled away, a single thin thread followed his fingertip like a spider weaving a web. 

“Get this fucking thing off of me.” The dark-haired man growled, grabbing at where it attached to his jaw in vain. Panic raced through your mind — you didn’t want to literally be in the middle of their fight. But Crocodile didn’t seem truly angry, more annoyed that this happened again. 

“I’ll be nice,” he chuckled menacingly. He slowly moved his pointer finger in a come-hither motion and Crocodile’s hips followed the same upwards path, pushing his cock even further inside you. “See? Just wanted to take the lead.”

Doflamingo immediately resumed his inhuman pace, pistoning in and out and making your ass cheeks jiggle from the impact. One hand mimicked marionette motions as he manipulated Crocodile into mirroring his speed and ferocity, and the other held your hip firmly in place. He perfectly timed their thrusts so they pulled out and pushed in at the same exact time, knocking the air out of your lungs and setting your core on fire.

As godly as both men appeared, they were still very much human and rapidly approaching their orgasms. Your boss’s chest heaved underneath you, eyelids fluttering shut and pink dusting his cheeks. Doflamingo panted like a wild beast, letting out breathy, excited giggles at the sight of his two pretty puppets. A few stray feathers had fallen off his coat which landed in Crocodile’s messy hair and clung to your sticky skin. The overwhelming need to possess and consume both of you made the blonde’s head spin. 

You raised your head from where it was buried in your Crocodile’s chest, now covered in a puddle of your drool. “Please, s-sirs, I need-“ You were interrupted by Doflamingo deftly rubbing your neglected clit in tight circles. You choked on your words, looking at your boss pleadingly. 

“You may cum, darling.” Crocodile offered you a merciful smile. 

Stars flashed before your eyes and you swore you ascended to heaven, every nerve in your body tingling and toes curling tightly as you cried out the names of your saviors, before you came crashing down to earth with an unabashed and sinful drawn-out moan. Moments after that bright white light washed over you, thick white cum exploded in both of your holes as the Warlords cried out simultaneously. Doflamingo kept Crocodile’s hips flush against your body as his heavy balls stuffed you full and only lowered them when he had let out his final spurts. 

“Fuck.” The blonde’s breath caught in his throat as he watched his cum spill out around his length, dripping out of your ass onto Crocodile’s dick underneath. You had never felt so used, so filthy, and fuck did it feel incredible. 

The dark-haired man felt your heart beating rapidly against him and noticed you slowly slip into darkness, your consciousness fading. “Stay with us, doll.” He stroked your hair and ran his rough thumb over your cheek. 

You smiled, dazed and dopey. “Th… thank you…”

“Taking everything we give you and thanking us after… absolutely fucking perfect.” Doflamingo breathed heavily. You wailed from sensitivity as he pulled his cock out of your abused hole and the man beneath you followed suit. More globs of cum dripped out of your pussy and ass and spilled onto Crocodile’s fur coat sprawled out beneath him. Doflamingo giggled in delight. “Better wash that for him tomorrow, little girl.”

“She’s a secretary, not a servant.” Crocodile rolled his eyes, knowing that anyone in a position lower than Doffy’s was interchangeable to him. He swiped two fingers down the cleft of your ass, collecting sticky strings of cum and making your oversensitive body jolt. “But good girls clean up their messes, right?”

You obediently sucked his fingers clean, swirling your tongue around his digits and moaning like a whore at the salty taste of their mixed semen. 

Doflamingo untangled his body from yours and reclined back with a satisfied sigh. “When’s round two?”

Your eyes nearly popped out of your skull, but Crocodile spoke before you could protest — his words held more weight than yours, after all. “That was round four for her. It’s a miracle that your dick hasn’t killed someone yet.”

“Fine, I’ll wait.” He pouted like a spoiled child. “But don’t go soft on me, Croc. You’re the only one who’s fun enough to share toys with.”

Crocodile rolled you off of his chest none too gently, but thankfully, you had a plush blanket and padded mattress to land upon. “If we’re both ready to go, why not do a round without her?” His predatory gaze met yours. “I’m sure she would love to watch.”

[faeiseavv]

gojo satoru as your annoyingly handsome deskmate !

He was a menace.

A schemer.

That Gojo Satoru.

You dislike loud people? Well good luck to you sister cause you're sitting next to a hybrid between a human and a speaker. He's the type of loud that wouldn't die down even if the teacher was throwing daggers at his way.

He devoted his class hours for chit-chat, most of them being directed to you— his “heaven sent deskmate” as Gojo would often say.

If Gojo wasn't complaining about the strawberry mochi he purchased tasting like cardboard shit, or filling you in with the shenanigans at last night's party, best believe there's a ninety-nine percent probability that he'll spend his morning attempting to flirt with you.

“Nice skirt pretty, you tryna match with me?”

Or rather

“Cute girls like you need a break too. Wanna go to the movies later?”

If you didn't want him to speak to you, that's fine, he's got other ways too.

In the never ending cycle of tedious classes and the monotonous voices of professors piercing through your skull, you find yourself being pulled closer to Gojo. Literally. His long muscular arm would teasingly ghost around your waist, only to drag you by your chair. Sometimes you'd notice him twirling small princess curls in the back of your hair.

Also, this motherfucker never listens during lessons, has zero notes, and yet, he managed to pass all of his classes. Hell, he even had exceptional grades.

One time, you offered him to borrow your notes after sensing the stressful storm of exam season nearing its days. It was a rare act of generosity and care. As much as you hated the man, the ounce of kindness left within you was begging your conscience to help him.

Wrong!

He should have never given it back. Why?

A plethora of mini and micro penises scattered across the back of your notebook with Gojo's signature and your name on the bottom. The worst part? One of the professors saw it after he accidentally left your belongings at one of his classes.

Imagine the regret in his eyes when you ignored him for days.

At this point, Gojo's only saving grace was his looks. You weren't a blind fool to deny him of his beauty. Except beauty comes with a price, and maybe that's why God made him so infuriating.

Annoying, yet handsomely so.

After a long time of battling his continuous poking and obnoxious snickering, you learned to associate him with a rather interesting creature after your biology lecture. A harp seal, an infant at that. The difference? just the eyes you guess. Both were known for their sense of curiosity and playful behavior—albeit Gojo's personality came off as a threat to the sliver patience that you hold.

Plus, the seal looked cute.

And Gojo Satoru waasss kinda cute.

〔 next ! 〕

[muletia]

my brain is literally fried because I’ve been sick with the flu for a few days, but I had to get this off my chest

as it turns out, tormenting your favorite scrimblos to make them feel even worse than you do has surprisingly therapeutic properties lmao

Thinking about obsessed!Optimus being utterly devastated by his own feelings. Withering away from love for you because it no longer allows him to function normally. About attempts at recharge that fail because your silhouette always flickers before his optics. About dreams that are always about you. About the way you constantly fill his processor. About his silent cries in your direction, begging you to free him from this hell, to accept all his flaws, perhaps even overlook them, so he could finally take a full, unburdened breath of relief, knowing he no longer has to suffer from loneliness.

But also about the boundless love he feels for you. About how much he would be willing to sacrifice to make you happy, even if it comes at the cost of his own well-being. About how he would offer you his spark on a silver platter, ripping it out with his bare servo, if you expressed the slightest desire to see it, asking for nothing in return—only to then ask if there’s anything else you might wish for. About how, for your happiness, he would spill hectoliters of his energon just to see the faintest hint of a smile on your face.

About how he would rather let himself be devoured alive by scraplets than cause you the slightest discomfort. How he would rather rust away than bring you pain. He tightens the chain wrapped around his own neck, struggling to protect you from himself and his wretched, impure feelings. Delirious. Haunted. Unworthy. And yet, still so full of love. Needing you more than energon itself, ready to give up everything for you.

About how you have complete control over his life, and yet he will never be able to tell you that. About his trembling frame when he hasn’t seen you in too long. About the incompetence he exhibits when you disappear from his life for even a few days. About the vacant look in his optics, the lack of reaction to anyone’s calls. About the frequent patrols, hoping to catch even the faintest glimpse of you. About the thousands of tears he sheds as his entire being howls with yearning, even though he can’t help himself.

He is indisputably and unconditionally devoted to you alone. Yours and only yours, even though you will likely never be his. Loyal as a dog, returning to you every time, seeking solace. Trapped in a cycle of madness, condemned to eternal torment no matter how sweet the suffering born from you might be. Consumed by love, love that has sunk its teeth into his metal and will never let go. Beautiful but merciless. Addictive and terrifying, yet sweet all the same.

Because despite the agony, the slow destruction of both body and soul, Optimus cannot give up your conversations, your shared drives and patrols. He cannot stop loving you, completely blinded by devotion, desperately clinging to the scraps of kindness you show him when your eyes meet.

Lost, certain that his love for you will ultimately kill him, yet still humble — for death by your hand would be the greatest honor he could ever receive.

[porcelainbirdss]

college au hcs with jock phainon and nerd reader?

cw: gen. neutral reader, nerd!reader, jock!Phainon, college/modern au, fluff, headcanon form+a short snippet || wc: 1.5k

truth be told, you can’t exactly pinpoint why Phainon decided to stick with you, but it happened.

and now, you, being a relentless nerd, was dating a jock.

he took interest in you — not because you were especially flashy, or anything. actually, you didn’t really stick out from the crowd, unlike Phainon.

your nose was constantly buried deep in textbooks, as your major was pretty demanding, and you had no time for genuine relations. all of your friendships were based on group works, or sending each other notes.

but, something made you appealing to Phainon, hence why he now practically clung to you wherever you went.

the man was a vivid contrast to you — an upbeat character, popular, utterly optimistic. people often perceived him as rather shallow, deeming his demeanor as a way of gathering a larger crowd around himself.

that wasn’t true, though. well. it’s a shame, but you could have considered yourself one of those judgmental people too — that is, until you saw who Phainon truly was.

aside from being the soul of the party, excelling at sports (football, specifically speaking), he was also kindhearted. unbearably so, you sometimes caught yourself thinking.

his major was physical therapy, because, as he himself stated, he wished to help others recover from their injuries.

in addition, he was a fierce volunteer. it was both admirable and concerning at the same time. how is it possible a single person can contain this much energy?

anyway, Phainon noticed you rather early on. at first, you were almost perplexed by his attitude towards you, because… well. aren’t jocks known for taking out their dismays on quiet, closed-off individuals like you?

it was raining, heavily at that. the downpour caused you to shiver at the mere thought of stepping out of the college’s library — you, being utterly intelligent as always, forgot to check the weather, so now you lacked in umbrella. before you manage to scramble yourself to the closest bus stop, you’ll be completely soaked.

still, you had bigger worries now — specifically speaking, your studies. for whatever reason, you had a hard time focusing today, your thoughts scrambled around the space of your seemingly empty brain. it was unlike you, so you gripped the textbook’s pages harder, trying your best to zero your vision on the long sentences. you’ve been sitting there, huddled in this corner for long enough, and the only thing you wished for is to finally leave.

as your mind seemed to placate itself, mercifully gracing you with the proper headspace, you heard a noise. it was rapid, and a few people turned their eyes towards the source with grimaces painted across their features. you, of course, followed in tow, scrutinizing the culprit who caused you to snap out of your focused state so violently.

a man of ivory locks, looking around himself with an abashed expression. you knew him. it would be hard not to, when majority of the girls fawned over him, sending buttery-eyed looks whenever he passed them by. truthfully, you don’t know why they found him appealing. right now, this person looked completely out of place, picking up the books he accidentally knocked over. you briefly heard him murmur some apologies, as if the inanimate objects actually possessed feelings of their own.

then, after he put everything back into its place, he straightened out, and started to drag his feet closer in your direction. what was his name again? Pha… Phainon? something of the sort. well, this Phainon guy right there surely appeared disoriented, his irises jumping across the shelves in search for something.

you decided to ignore him, going back to reading. you reached for your pen, but the tool rolled off the table’s corner, hitting the ground with a quiet noise. you sighed heavily, bending to pick it up — before your fingers could even grasp it, another hand came into view, startling you. your eyes flickered up, meeting with the bright twins of blue.

Phainon smiled at you kindly, gently placing the pen back on its desired spot. you blinked at him, suddenly not knowing what to say. you weren’t exactly shy — so why did you feel as your tongue was tied into a knot?

the man chuckled. "gods, i swear those things have a mind of their own. trust me, mine tries to escape me all the time."

you wanted to laugh at his joke, maybe offer another one in return — alas, all you could do was send him a meek smile, muttering a quiet: "thanks."

he shrugged nonchalantly, taking a step forward without pushing any further. then, he hesitated. “hey, uh… you’re in intro to anatomy, right? with professor Anaxa?"

you nodded slowly in response, mindlessly fumbling with your pen.

now, a grin split his face into two. "thought so. oh, by the way— i’m Phainon. y’know, the one who sits with the tall, blond guy in the back."

why did he think the first thing you’d recognize him from was his seat mate? you snickered lowly under your breath, recalling the scoldings he and his friend would receive for bickering in the middle of the class. to be honest, he irritated you back then — but now, perhaps, you realized your judgement of him was faulty.

upon your laughter, Phainon seemed to brighten up even further. "you always look like you know what’s actually going on, so…" the man paused, scratching his nape, "if you ever feel like saving my clueless self, i’ll owe you a coffee."

it appeared as if what he just said was a jest, however not entirely. you nodded tentatively, thinking you could help him out. "maybe. if you bring your own pen, that is.”

…and that’s how your first meeting went.

ever since then, you and Phainon shared studying sessions, with you tutoring him.

at first, you didn’t think you’d enjoy his company that much — after all, you were from two completely different worlds. he preferred sports, and you liked books better than anything.

still, you hit it off, and you realized Phainon (no matter how silly he may have appeared sometimes) actually possessed an intelligent insight on many stuff.

he was one of the few people who didn’t mind how quiet you were, his verbose tongue always leading the conversation. it made you happy, because most expected to 'fix' you, forcibly pulling you out of your comfort zone.

Phainon was different from the rest, using humor or simple kindness to coax you out of your shell.

as your friendship grew, you shared music, went to campus events together, and for the first time in your life you felt included.

then, of course, you developed an involuntary crush on him, and the rest was history.

now, you constantly got people looking at you with envy in their eyes. you try your best to ignore them.

as the relationship between you progressed, you learnt new things about Phainon.

…his love towards dogs, for example.

whenever the two of you hung out, he would show you a countless of dog videos, scrolling through the multitude of accounts he followed.

you had to nag him, telling him to focus on his studies instead of sitting on his phone. he always groaned in response, showing you yet another funny dog.

well. you usually caved in.

if not that, then watching goofy comedies.

you don’t know what you were expecting, but when he first offered you stay the night, you were forced to watch a long marathon of movies.

and you liked them. unfortunately.

you are also the first person Phainon invites to his games.

if you agree, he’s jumping around you excitedly (like a small puppy, you often thought), swearing he’ll do his best. and he always does.

then, after the game, he runs up to you, all sweaty and out of breath, and scoops you into his arms. no matter if his team won or lost.

however, if you don’t agree, well… congrats! now you have a sulky boyfriend, moping and whining.

you have to placate his dramatic sadness with your food, because as it turns out, Phainon cannot cook.

he is absolutely terrible at it. there was this one time when you invited him, and offered to bake something together.

and he almost burnt your kitchen.

how did he accidentally set the stove on fire? you still don’t know to this day.

anyway, Phainon loves you terribly. his friend — Mydei — always points out how unfocused he is, constantly daydreaming.

fortunately, the blame is never put on you. even when Phainon scored a faulty point, the ball gracefully falling into the opponents goal. you remember groaning in embarrassment then, watching as literally every single one of the teammates gathered around your boyfriend, scolding him.

you have to remind Phainon not to think of you when he’s playing, and surely not to ramble about you to his friends (because you’ve already received a few complaints).

well, summing up, you make a great duo. Phainon never told you, but he’s searching for an apartment to rent for the both of you. such a sweetheart.

[fanged-fanfics]

Hello! Could i request a wind archer cookie x reader if possible?

In which the reader is also another guardian of the millennial tree forest and they both work together often, with a bit of an old married vouple energy between the two. And if possible, could you also add millennial tree being a wingman and making the two date?

Thank you for reading this request, i hope its not too much. Have a great day/afternoon/evening/night!!!

☆ Blooming Affection — Wind Archer Cookie x Reader HCs ☆

Genre: Fluff || they/them pronouns for reader || No warnings needed

──────.𖥔 ݁ ˖˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ──────

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Wind Archer was known for his serious demeanor, the way he stuck so firmly to his job and hardly focused on anything else. You were a Cookie who, for the most part, managed to change that

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Through all your time working together, Wind Archer developed a deep trust in you, and the both of you remembered little things about the other that no other Cookie had even heard of before

ᯓᡣ𐭩 The way you two synced so well, understanding one another deeply and always being seen next to each other gave many Cookies the impression that you two had been married for ages at this point

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Wind Archer is very attentive to you, he pays close attention to your mood and can always tell when you need him. But for the absolute longest time, he was stubborn about admitting it

ᯓᡣ𐭩 What now feels like quite some time ago, Millennial Tree Cookie used to occasionally speak to the two of you for what felt like the oddest reasons. Why would he want you to know where Wind Archer was so much, or suggest the protector visit you so often?

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Millennial Tree was also the first to notice when Wind Archer developed feelings, before he could even admit it to himself. The old willow would do his best to keep gently nudging Wind Archer in your direction

ᯓᡣ𐭩 "You've been staring," he once calmly said, the voice causing Wind Archer to jump despite it's gentleness. He turned, seeing Millennial Tree behind him. "I- I don't know what you mean" the archer stammered. "I think you do" Millennial Tree hummed calmly, tilting his head to look before them. Wind Archer followed the gaze, seeing where you were gathering supplies for an oncoming storm. "It's not like that- you've misunderstood" Wind Archer mumbled, the words of weak conviction. Millennial Tree simply gave a kind smile "Maybe I have. I am just an old tree, after all. Or maybe, in time, you'll see something too"

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Needless to say he was the biggest supporter of you two when you began dating officially, though of course he told lightly embarrassing stories about how he could tell all along

[bravehyde]

Love your Tenna anatomy posts! If you could, could you explain what kind of circumstance would cause the classic 'bars of bright colors' sort of malfunction in a TV vs a screen full of static?

Of course! The easy answer is that neither of these are malfunctions, although we tend to think of them as such, and instead kind of like the "default" states of television. I'll do their purpose in general and then how we see them with Tenna.

Static (aka digital snow or white noise) is the shortest and easiest to explain. Your television gives this to you because whatever channel you picked doesn't have anything on it, but there is *something* being transmitted anyway that it can't make sense of. After all, not just television uses electromagnetic waves. So since there's no station playing something on the specific signal you tuned to, it's taking random signals from background radiation and trying its best to show it. This won't make a logical picture, though, so we get this random pattern of pixels and electronic noise.

Next, we have SMPTE Color Bars, or...just color bars. We don't need to say that it's the pattern standardized by the Society of Motion Picture and Television Engineers every time, after all. This was developed as a form of calibration for analog screens like Tenna, and nowadays is used to calibrate external monitors that we connect to cameras so multiple people can look at what's being recorded (such as the director and producers) without crowding around the camera operator. Every bar is a main color at 100% intensity, ordered in a specific way that makes sense if you go through every way to calibrate a screen and that is a lot to go over which I don't think is needed info, but you want it, looking for SMPTE calibration will get you where you're going. It also plays a really annoying sound that you may know as the censor noise, because you'll KNOW if it's too loud and adjust accordingly.

Also quick fun fact, the "technical difficulties" screen that Tenna flashes by is based on the old, black-and-white version of that. When we say technical difficulties with the color bars now, it's probably because your television is fine, but there's something wrong on the end of the people transmitting. If you're not calibrating the television and the colors pop up, it's an issue with the source signal.

Now, let's look at when this happens with Tenna. I found one major place where he has static, and one major place he has color bars.

In Tenna's final boss fight, he gets the static every time you select a minigame and he's using his own head as a transition to it. You could say that he's initially getting static because he's between channels, since that happens sometimes as little "blips" as you're changing them. It could also be that the signal he's turning to doesn't have anything broadcasted on it until he decides so by teleporting the gang into that area. I'm more of a fan of the latter, since that means that he has direct control over electronic signals, not just the ones he listens to, and that better explains how he transports the gang into the minigames: he transforms them into information that he decodes on his screen.

And of course, we have the prime example of him using the color bars...when he dies. I'd like to note that the stuff coming out of his arms looks a lot like static, although I don't have any reason for saying it other than I think it looks cool. So, this is often used as a modern "technical difficulties" screen, and it can easily just be that. It can also be Tenna trying to recalibrate himself. He realizes there's a problem and is running diagnostics instinctively. Obviously, there is nothing that checking color values can do for losing your arms, so this doesn't do anything to help him.

If he is theoretically both the receiver and transmitter of his own signal, this could also be him showing that he lost his source. Maybe his source signal is whatever keeps him alive as a Darkner, analogous to how we are kept alive by our hearts beating and electric activity in our brains? If he is making his own signal, that can also be how he physically moves the gang to the channel he broadcasts the minigames in, and him experiencing a large amount of pain/damage would be reason to conserve energy and not do it anymore.

[amomentsescape]

can you do any slasher X reader where the reader likes to bully others (emotionally) rude and has inflated self-esteem? sorry i use translate

Slashers with Rude & Arrogant! Reader

Slashers x Reader (Separate)

Includes: Freddy, Michael, Jason, Thomas, Bubba, Brahms, Norman, Billy, Stu, Vincent, & Bo

A/N: Thank you for the request!

Freddy Krueger

He too likes to bully others (clearly)

And he honestly likes that you both share this in common

He often has you join in on his "fun," having you break down his victims mentally before he gets to them physically

He likes your self-esteem too, always egging you on and complimenting you in order to inflate your ego more

And if your bullying behavior reels its ugly head towards Freddy, all he does is laugh

There isn't any way to belittle him; he's heard it all

Besides this, you two are a dangerous duo

Michael Myers

As with most things, Michael doesn't care

You can treat people however you want

You could gut someone out in public, and Michael will just give you a head nod

If anything, he likes that you act this way

It keeps you from having any close connections besides him

However, get too snarky with him, and he's got his hand on your throat and a warning glare staring back at you

If you try to put him down or argue against his word, he will not hesitate to put you in your place

He doesn't have time for disagreements

You either agree to him or he'll make you do so

Jason Voorhees

Poor Jason doesn't know any better

He's never been good with fitting in socially, so your snide remarks and high self-esteem don't stick out to him as red flags at all

However you want to act towards others is totally your call and he won't argue with it

With that being said, if that attitude comes towards Jason's way, he doesn't know what to do with himself

He'll never fight you or become upset with you, if anything, he'll agree and believe that he deserves it

His sad droop of his head is enough to even make you feel bad sometimes

He's still a broken child at heart, so please be gentle

Thomas Hewitt

He doesn't really know what to do

He feels like it's not ever his place to tell you how to act

He doesn't want you to feel like he's controlling you

But unless your bullying is directed to his family's next meal, he becomes quite irritated with your behavior

Has dragged you away from people and his own family before when he thought you were getting out of hand

And of course, you don't think you've done anything wrong

He doesn't have a good way of explaining to you why this upsets him

But you can see it in his eyes

Bubba Sawyer

Bubba is a sensitive one

If you want to lash out at his victims, go right ahead

But saying even the smallest thing to him will send him into a spiral

Your inflated ego and bullying behaviors really make him question whether you actually like him or if he even deserves you

He'll whine, pout his lips, and look at you with watery eyes whenever you pick on him too much

He doesn't really like that you act this way, but he also wants you to be happy

He'll be your punching bag if you want, but please just be kind to him right after so he knows that you do want to be with him

Brahms Heelshire

He honestly likes that you treat others the way that you do

Brahms would prefer you to not talk to anyone else, but if you have to, he'd rather it be rudely

However, he'll be happy to put you in your place if you try to raise that same attitude towards him

At the end of the day, you're there to take care of him, so you better follow the rules

He's broken a few walls due to you arguing with him before

He doesn't mess around

Treat others as badly as you want, sure

But not him, you're there for him so you better act like you enjoy it

Norman Bates

Oh, him and Mother are not fans of your behavior

He was raised to be humble and to treat everyone with respect

You do quite the opposite

Any mean words from you causes Norman to flush in embarrassment and to profusely apologize to whoever you targeted

Although Norman acts spineless on the outside, there's something brewing inside him that he's not even fully aware of

So being with him is like walking on eggshells

Upset him too much, and Norman may blackout

And you'll be in a bad situation if this ever occurs

Billy Loomis

He has a bit of a love-hate relationship with your personality

Subconsciously, he likes how you don't care about anyone else, and you always move with an aura of pride and confidence

He thinks it's hot, and he likes knowing that you're all his

But at the same time, he wishes you could tone down the bullying a notch

Your mean behavior has created a lot of enemies, and the last thing he wants is for you or him to look suspicious

Him and Stu have tried so hard to keep things under wraps

He'd be so pissed off if your ego is what gets them caught in the end

If he can finally get you two out of this town, then your behavior won't be a problem anymore

Stu Macher

It's a similar situation to Billy

He doesn't mind how you act with everyone else, but he doesn't want anyone to start pointing fingers at either of you when the police come knocking

With that being said, he can take things a little personally

Your high self esteem is all fine in Stu's book

In fact, he loves to see your confidence shine and will be your #1 fan through it all

However, if you poke too much fun at him rather than others, he'll begin to question things

He'll still put on a happy front, but he'll begin to wonder just how much you actually mean it

Just give him a compliment every once in a while and he'll be a happy camper

Vincent Sinclair

Social interactions aren't really his strong suit

And he won't ever leave to go anywhere public with you

So however you want to act when he's not around, go for it

It's not like he knows anyways

But he does become visibly upset if you let your ego take over in front of his brothers or himself

He doesn't need you to be all sweet or anything, but Vincent is sensitive, and his brothers are all that he has

He would hope that you'd understand this and at least try to be somewhat polite around everyone

He'd never act this way towards you

Bo Sinclair

It's like looking into a mirror with Bo

Your attitude is met with different reactions depending on his mood

If he's had a long day, then he will likely respond with a scowl and a "I'm gonna have to glue that big mouth of yours shut"

But if he's feeling light and playful, then he'll just smirk and quip right back to you

If you're out and about, your attitude and snarky remarks towards others really gets Bo going

He likes seeing your "confidence" and knowing that you won't give anyone but him the light of day

Just be careful, because even too much of a good thing can go sour

[kyri45]

✨ShadowPeach Bio Parents Bio AU Q&A! 23/10✨

I'm LIVE on my TWITCH page drawing Spicynoodle! Come and say hi!

Welcome to the Q&A! A space where I can answer related or similar question about the Shadowpeach Bio Parents AU! If you submitted your ask anonimously, then you’ll have to check the whole post if it’s answered here, if it’s not, worry not! Your asks might have been used for a future comic or just in the queue~

Anonimo ha chiesto: Ok so your Bio parent AU (loving it so much by the way) takes place after season 5 right? I thought it would be cool if you touched on Monkey Kings issues with Mk using the circuit on him. I eat that stuff up. if its already going in a different direction then that's ok, just a suggestion.

Aww in the end I don't think I can fit this in the story. It's absolutely an amazing idea, and I had thought of adding it for so long, but in the end the final part of the story will go differently.

Anonimo ha chiesto: How do Wukong and Macaque react that they have two grandchildren?? (Kai and Nya)

Will probably die of emotions. The fact that that's both their son's son/daughter, and that's their nephew/niece. It would blow them away. I'll never have children, but they completely change your prespective.

@shadowpeachera ha chiesto: AGHHHHHH XIAOTIANS WEAPON IS SOOO COOOOLLL AND THE WAY YOUR SHOWED HIM MAKING IT AGHHHHHH SO GOOD HOW LONG DID IT TAKE YOU TO COME UP WITH THE DESIGN? THE COLOURS? THE EVERYTHING UGHH I LOVE EVERYTHING ABOUT THIS COMIC AGHHH

I think I did a couple of sketches before the final design, but I went on pinterest quite a lot before to see some variations of magical staff

@beanspassin ha chiesto: Do you think Macaque and Wukong will ever find out about each other secretly checking the other out? Cause let’s face it, Wukong will get a MASSIVE ego boost when he finds out Macaque was staring at him. 🤭

I think Macaque can HEAR when Wukong is checking him out. Wukong probably would negate the fact that he's checking him out, bc my boy is just a mess of emotion

@tessthe-cheesecake ha chiesto: Hello! I just wanted to say I really love your Shadowpeach Bio Parent AU I just have two questions, one: how is MK handling four ears? I assume he doesn't like crowded places (if yes then me too bud me too) ok second question would MK ever go back to being Wukong's successor but in his own way instead? :)

I think MK doesn't want to be a successor bc he doesn't want to be the next Monkey King, but he still wants to be the Monkie Kid. Also, I think he might be starting to feel himself a little more like an heir then a successor

@minli-daughter-of-wukong ha chiesto: So, would you have changed MK’s weapon if you thought a staff wasn’t really his style anymore? Also how did you come up with the idea for the sunset staff and can you give tips on how to find the right kind of weapon you’d choose for a character? So this is so long lol

I aint real good with weapon/characters. This was my first time matching a weapon to a character to be honest. I wanted to create something that was similar to both Wukong's and Macaque's staff, but at the same time being something new. With a new color palette that could represent the kind of hero MK wants to be

@cavern-of-shenanigans ha chiesto: Ok ok ok this is kind of silly but MKs new staff kind of reminds me of a twirling baton So combined with Macaques showmanship and the scarf bit MK tied on, they could play around with it and do a joint shadow play/ribbon dance performance! Maybe add him into the hero warrior story? Nice mother son bonding activity because its cute

HA! true! they are performance duo!

@ashmeertheimp ha chiesto: Hi love your fan art, story,and art style! What if piggsy and Tang went on a long trip and lives in flower fruit Mountain

I don't think freenoodle could survive living so close to shadowpeach

@italian-wizarding-world ha chiesto: Duuude i love, Love, LOVE!!! your art, and your Mk, Wu and Mama it's just too sweet, just two question: 1 Why sunset and not dawn? is it because usually sunset are more impresive? or maybe the staff has two "forms" depending on him using more his shadow powers and if so can he change between them? 2 We need red son reaction to Mk essentially magical girl transformation even if it's just a sparkling staff, because i think it would be epic/hilarious. We need more moment about them and Mei lookin at how dumb both are

I liked sunset because in a way MK started more with Sun powers and he is now discovering more his Macaque side of powers, so he's approaching a little bit the shadows (so his journey was from day to slowly twilight)

Anonimo ha chiesto: Have you ever thought about drawing an adult MK? I love your drawing style, and I wanted to see what an adult MK would look like, as well as Mei and Red Son. Você já pensou em desenhar um MK adulto? Eu amo seu estilo de desenho, e eu queria ver como seria um MK adulto, assim como Mei e Red Son.(I'm Brazilian by the way and I love reading your Au)

Maybe in the future....?

Anonimo ha chiesto: I REALLY REALLY REALLY LOVE NO ..I ADORE YOUR DRAWINGS MAN!!!❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️ EVERY DAY I REREAD THE WHOLE LMK COMICS OF YOURS..!!!!!!❤️❤️ And hey l have a quition!!! What if mk interrupted wukong while his meditation and like wukong thinks he's in the past what is he gonna do when he see mac!?🌝❤️ Probably we will see a lot of hugs and kisses?🥹

Can you imagine since they are so cuddly even if they aren't together yet again in the AU, that because of this Macaque for a good moment DOESN'T notice the difference?

Anonimo ha chiesto: Can we get a character sheet for chiyou?

nope sorry, but he will come back no worry

Anonimo ha chiesto: Who else wants to see Pigsy and Tang show Monkey King and Macaque pictures of MK growing up?

Aww I think Wukong and Macaque would die from cuteness but at the same time feel a great remorse that they weren't there for their child when he was little. They are glad freenoodle was with them, but still, It's a big chunk of his life that they missed.

@itz-izzyart ha chiesto: So with the noise canceling headphones, does mk wear them so he (hopefully) doesn’t start hearing the past again or is it just something he wears to help him sleep at night?

Both. It helps him muffle the noise.

Anonimo ha chiesto: Would Wukong get ptsd if MK somehow got a circlet himself ?

He would probably loose all his immortalities rather than let MK have a circlet.

@loseranddummy ha chiesto: I have a ≈question≈ is Peng gonna be in your lmk bio parent comic by chance?

mmmm nope, sorry

@oddogoblino ha chiesto: Beeeeeg monke armmssss...meant for hug jail...

yessss..... and cudlleeeeeee...

Anonimo ha chiesto: :D was macaque grooming mk while they were waiting for the weapon to be forged

yup!

Anonimo ha chiesto: HI! Hope you're well and staying hydrated. Would we/could we see more Lilo and Stitch refs for your ShadowPeach bio parents au? I saw the last one and couldn't stop laughing. 😆 Maybe a beach scene or something?

I'll have to see the movie again and I'll see if new idea come in my mind

Anonimo ha chiesto: Have you ever thought about that because Macaque was gone from the living world for so long he doesn't know how use modern technology. Like Wukong's phone will go off when he isn't there and Macaque can't figure out how to get the stupid thing to be quiet

They are both gay boomers, your honor

Anonimo ha chiesto: In your shadowpeach au who is a morning person and who is a night owl Macaque or Wukong?

none of them. Wukong sleeps like 12 hours and Macaque like 5. (but now he's sleeping more thanks to Wukong but still wakes up earlier than Wukong)

[radicaldreemurrs]

very curious about your whole kris heart ideas, what do you make of it?

so i think the SOUL represents the "role" being played in deltarune.

deltarune is a role-playing game, but as has been demonstrated before the player is not quite playing as kris, but as kris's SOUL. i do not believe this to mean kris is being diegetically possessed though!! all humans have SOULs, and the nature of these SOULs is still not fully understood, so it feels far too early to take that for granted. what it means to me is that the avenues which the player is afforded in interfacing with the game are inherently limited by the established personality of the player character. this is not even something unique to deltarune, this statement is true of all role-playing games.

it is as inherent to the genre as its name — for the game to be played, there must be a role to fill, and for the role to have an acute narrative significance worthy of playing, the role must have compelling limits. those filling roles of heroism can't freely commit acts of heinous violence.... unless the context of the role dictates such acts to be just. this is a running theme in multiple entries in the final fantasy series (IV and VII come to mind), which are established intertext for deltarune in specific alongside other squaresoft RPGs of the time.

what deltarune seems to be interested in doing, in my understanding of it, is further subversion of the subversion of the player character as established by UNDERTALE.

what UNDERTALE was doing was providing a player character who was unlimited by role (read: did not have one), and through which we could interface with the fiction in any fashion the game could accommodate, with no real consequence aside from what the game itself would strive to condemn, which in practice was playing the game as you would a typical RPG. this is because the point UNDERTALE was making was that RPGs take a lot of things for granted that are ideologically very strange when you examine them beyond the abstractions.

the way it communicated this point was having the ghosts of two children killed by the very ideologies they each idolize — the ideologies that UNDERTALE itself poses in direct conflict with one another — haunt the narrative. the children looked to the player's actions to determine which of their ideologies was the correct one, but the prevalent theme is that life is simply more complicated than the binary of options they've both come to believe as the sole truth.

and if UNDERTALE was about the player impressing upon the narrative, then deltarune is about the opposite, narratives impressing upon players. but not just the player of deltarune, i mean the player characters of deltarune, who are themselves playing their own roles in their own games.

in the first two chapters, deltarune's main player character demonstrates an inscrutable ideological framework all of their own, but we are given hints as to where these ideas came from. the children of this narrative, too, play roles, not just within the diegetic RPGs they themselves play to escape the crushing weight of mundanity that looms in their futures, but also within the dark worlds themselves, and even in their day-to-day lives!

kris is set up to play a role of their own — the human whose SOUL is the only thing that can seal the dark fountains — and already it seems as though kris has struggled with their identity for much of their life. they are the only human in their entire town, and this clearly causes them distress from how much it alienates them from others innately. their dysphoria over their human identity combined with the yet-unknown traumas of their past and the looming threat of a terrifyingly normal future gives kris a lot of color immediately — color that informs their character, which informs the role, both theirs and ours.

deltarune has a relatively fixed narrative that is dead set on saying specific things, things which i believe it will find ways to say in any given approach to its narrative — there is only one ending. in order for it to be able to say these things effectively, it would be reasonable to assume that kris, as the primary catalyst through which to communicate the game's themes, must have a major stake in the thematic throughlines of the narrative as a whole. to this end, let me make a claim that is as polarizing as it is simple:

i do not think deltarune is at all interested in holding its player accountable as a culpable agent in the narrative.

it is my belief that the struggles kris undergoes with their SOUL have nothing to do with the abstractions of the game's narrative, but are instead indicative of a broader struggle they have with the role they are forced to play as a person in their own life, in the light and dark worlds.

i think their SOUL itself is more indicative of the role they play than the person they'd rather be — as a child with unhealthy relationships to their identity, their body, their mind, and reality itself, the brief freedom of being able to be someone else for a bit (out-of-character, so to speak) is a deeply liberating one. when the SOUL is out, they can take actions that go against their established role (why would the hero who seals dark fountains purposefully open another?), something the game chooses to represent as a lack of player control, at the cost of much of their strength — they need their assigned role to survive in this world, even if they feel like a slave to it.

it is through this greater logic of role-playing games that i can claim that all actions the player may take in deltarune are, without exception, filtered through kris — it is their SOUL — and yet it feels as though the limits of the role are constraining even on kris themself. this plays into why i think weird route is something that comes from them as well — if this is a world where no one can choose who they are, would it not be in their best interest to rip it apart at all costs? who would want to live like this?

(the irony in weird route, of course, is that the path to personal liberation through becoming stronger is inherently normative. but is this path not what kris and noelle themselves learned from their own role-playing games, which as mentioned before are most certainly not rife with political implication in the very basis of the genre? *sarcasm sarcasm*)

[plumipal]

Omg who is she?

She’s so pretty.

She has twice the wings Eden has. Idk what that means but it probably means something.

Also her name being Lilith… guys I’m sensing pattern here. Are you keeping another one named Adam locked in the basement?

Is she maybe his sister? I mean you can’t just drop a new bit of lore and run away. Explain yourself. Please? Pretty please with a cherry and cream on top? It would be much appreciated and desperately looked forward to.

Little side note who hurt my boy Eden in the second picture? Was it Lilith? If so her likability just dropped of dramatically.

Chat, meet Edens... Sister.

HER NAME IS LILITH!!!

So to even start this off, they are NOT human (I know, shocker). They're children of the stars, serving to protect and help the stars shine as bright as they do. Becasue of defects on both of them (the extra parts near their star core, making them unstable), they were cast out of the colony, cursed to wander the endless galaxies.

I know no one has wondered why Eden has a huge scar on his back or why he even got into the twst universe in the beginning, BUT LET ME TELL YOU ALL! It's her fault.

After a childish spat where it ended with Eden reaching for his weapon to strike her, she instead grabbed for hers and beat the ever living shir our of him, sending him flying to hopefully kill him. This resulted in him reaching the atmosphere of the twst world, crashing down (like a fallen star) into ramshackle around a week before the prefect arrived.

He was passed out for a week, motionless untill y/n, grim and crowley discover him in a vacant room in ramshackle, waking him up and tending to his wound.

So yeah this blond little bitch is the reason we have Eden in the twstverse mmm...

A look at the weapons, they both serve to be protection incase the star they serve gets attacked. The little vacant spot on the spear is for the core to be put in, aka their little star in their chest, the source of their power.

They can take it out, the spear acting as a magicpen sorta to help with their "magic" and being able to direction it. Don't take the core too far away from them tho, it serves as someone cutting off oxygen or blood flow ro us, easy kill on them.

Lilith has a few more wings on hers than a normal one does, just like her defect. This was becasue of a power imbalance, leading to her absorbing way too much power compared to the others during her creation, leading to her being very dangerous (basically a ticking timebomb).

Also a look again on Edens scar that Lilith caused. She foes not feel sorry for that, nor does she feel sorry for burning half of edens face off (first panel whre he is badly damaged, don't worry he will regenerate quickly).

You may also notice her wings being lighter, and that is becasue of their "purity" of other magical influences. Edens darkened quickly during his first week in twst, the blot around him forcing its way into the pigment. This also depends on how easily they adapt with other living beings, with Eden easily being able to copy and show humane emotions.

The love and devotion he feels for you is something he felt similar to his creator while he served the star, that love however turning more dark and twisted because of him copying the environment around him (aka the other twst men into you lol). He is also very heavily inspired by a raven, whish is why he has this "copying easily" ability.

Meanwhile Lilith is meant to resemble more of a dove, elegant and beautiful. Will she be romanceable? We will see...

One thing to make clear,

EDEN FUCKING HATES HER GUTS!! DO NOT PUT THEM IN THE SAME ROOM ONE OF THEM WILL DIE-

Thank you for coming to my Eden Ted talk I will be here all week.

[theonlyqualitytrash]

Gramen ante falcem - Fyodor x Reader

Synopsys: "Муж и жена—одна Сатана." 

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

This is not a redemption arc.

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

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

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

Word count: 21,000

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fyodor was magnetic, and he knew.

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

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

What began as curiosity quickly bloomed into infatuation.

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

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

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

He would save you. There was never any doubt. 

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

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

The easy part was courting you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His parents visited only once. 

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

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

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

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

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

He got down on one knee. 

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

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

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

This man. This wonderful man. He wanted you.

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

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

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

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

His beautiful bride to be. 

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

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

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

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

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

This wasn’t about running from loneliness. 

It couldn’t be. 

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

Even if he was the first who showed care. 

The first who stayed. 

…No. This was real. 

This was genuine. 

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

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

And then it was done. 

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

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

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

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

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

Distraction? 

Were you using Fyodor as a distraction? 

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

No. No. You loved him. You did. 

Truly. Wholly. 

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

You weren’t. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Was this how the honeymoon phase should feel like?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And now, they were waiting at the church steps.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That night, you slept apart. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because you couldn’t afford to lose it. 

You couldn’t afford to lose him. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You were being enshrined into it.  

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

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

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

“So you remember grief,” she whispered. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then it was his turn. 

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

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

He wasn’t yielding. He was tasting.

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

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

Then came the feast.

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

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

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

Then he came.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then he chuckled.

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

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

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

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

Your breath caught. Consummate.

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

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

Not a question. A prayer.

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

And that was all you needed.

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, how you put him to his knees. 

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

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

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

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

Then—a soft bite. Deliberate. Possessive. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You were his darling wife, after all. 

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

He smiled at your eagerness—warm, knowing. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you know why you’re important?”  

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

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

He would make sure of it.  

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

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

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

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

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

And so you did. 

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

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

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

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

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

Your breath hitched. 

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

“Eager,” he whispered. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To be good. To be worthy. 

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

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

No, it filled. 

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

But work. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Something purposeful. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It started with your breasts. 

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

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

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

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

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

But something cold settles in your gut. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So does he. 

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

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

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

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

But he doesn’t scold you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hate yourself for it. 

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

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

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

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

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

The child—your child—was gone. 

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

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

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

It broke something in you. 

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

Unclean. Unfit. Why was this happening?  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you found yourself wondering… 

“Mrs. Dostoe—” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I… Um…” 

Knock. Knock. Knock. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Still… your hand froze halfway to your lips. 

Black cohosh. 

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

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

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

And there it was. 

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

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

You’d been drinking that tea every day. 

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

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

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

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

Until the tea came. 

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

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

Fyodor noticed, of course he did. He always noticed. But he didn’t say anything. 

You reached for it, just enough for the scent to hit you—sharp, herbal and deceptively gentle. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad…To keep being filled, emptied, filled again. To stay desirable. Needed. Wanted. 

And then your hand snapped back. You couldn’t think that way. No. No, no, no, no, no. The guilt bloomed so fast it nearly choked you. You were sick for even letting the thought breathe. 

You stood abruptly, the teacup tipping in your movement. The hot liquid splashed onto your dress and the lace tablecloth. A gasp rippled around the table. 

“Are you unwell?” Fyodor’s father asked, eyes narrowing in mild concern. 

“I’m fine—” You bit your lip. You couldn’t lie. Not now. You were shaking. 

Fyodor’s hand slid to yours. His touch careful, protective. 

You met his eyes. 

And not long after, he led you out of the room. 

You were in a small hallway, the kind where sound carried too well and nothing felt truly private, but you didn’t care. You gripped his hand tightly, almost as if pleading with him to forgive you for something that you did not do.  

“Please tell them I can’t drink the tea,” you whispered, your voice cracking. “My—my... miscarriages, they were caused by the black cohosh in it.” 

He blinked once. Then again. The sort of blink a person makes when they’ve taken a bullet and are waiting to feel the pain. His gaze drifted briefly to the door, to the room beyond where his parents sat. You could almost hear the quiet shifting of their chairs, their breaths, their ears. It was too quiet.  

Then he looked back at you, and stepped closer. His free hand came to rest at the curve of your waist, protective. Possessive. His expression didn’t change much—his tone stayed level. But a frown pulled at his lips, tight and cold. He looked like something had just brushed too close to the edges of his control. 

“Are you certain?” he asked, quietly. 

You nodded, guilt and fear spilling from your eyes, you didn’t mean to put the guilt on his mother. “Yes, yes, but I know they meant well,” you said softly, eyes flickering to Fyodor’s as though begging him to soften what you already knew would hurt. “She meant well.”  

He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t lash out. He said nothing for a long moment. Just… watched you. And when he finally spoke, his voice was still even, measured—so very calm it scared you. “From now on, I will personally see to everything you eat. No more tea and no more surprises.” 

You were trembling as you nodded, your body already sagging into the relief of being held, of being told what to do. Something in your heart ached and curled at the edge of his authority. It wasn’t fear. It was… surrender coupled with an emotion you didn’t know if it was relief or shame. Maybe all three.  

He cupped your cheek, gently turning your face toward his. “I’m going to take care of you. Do you understand me?” He tilted his head and leaned in to press a kiss to your forehead. His voice was calm, but behind it—rage, grief, restraint. “We won’t let this happen again, my dear.” 

It isn’t a question. It’s a correction. 

He doesn’t mean to punish you. He is simply taking control again, because he has to. Because something got to you. The tea was not meant to harm you, but it did anyway, and that is unacceptable. He will fix it.  

The door creaked open and his mother stood in the threshold, face pale and trembling, eyes wide with something that looked like heartbreak. 

You knew the moment her hands reached for yours that she heard everything. She came to you not with excuses, not with defenses, but with sorrow that sat behind her eyes like a gathering storm. Her touch was careful, reverent. Like a mother to her child. 

“Dearie,” she whispered, “oh, my God...” 

Your breath caught in your throat. You looked to Fyodor. He hadn’t moved much, but his hand on your waist had tightened, just barely. You could see the frown in his eyebrows, but his lips were drawn in a neutral line, offering no judgment yet—only restraint. 

You felt small under their eyes, under the weight of everything unsaid. 

“You were trying to help me,” you whispered. Your voice was thin, nearly lost to the stillness. “I know that.” 

A nod from her. “I was,” she said, her voice cracking. “I swear to God I was. I never—I never thought…” 

Her words dissolved into a soft sob, but still she did not let go of your hands. Her fingers shook in yours, wringing gently like she could squeeze the horror out of what had been done. Her eyes held no deceit, only sorrow and guilt so think it could drown. 

“I’ve given that tea to women all my life. It’s what my mother gave me. What her mother gave her. I never knew it could…” She trailed off, lips parting, then pressing together again, like the rest of the sentence might poison the space between you if spoken aloud.  

Behind you, Fyodor exhaled. It was slow. Controlled. 

He stepped closer, if that was even possible, so your back lightly touched his chest, so his presence could bracket you, ground you. One hand moved from your waist to cradle your stomach. Not in desire, but in mourning.  

The emptiness was shared. 

A few days pass. Enough to let the silence settle and enough to let your hands shop shaking when you sipped your morning water. But not enough to erase the ache, and definetly not enough to make you forget the emptiness inside you.  

You told him you were ready. Even though you weren’t sure your body could bear it again. Even though something deep in you whispered to wait. Still, you pressed your hand on his chest one evening and insisted. Your voice was soft, meek, but your plea was clear.  

He tilted his head at you, watching in that way he always did; like he was peeling back your thoughts layer by layer, insecurity by insecurity. His silence didn’t stretch long, but it was long enough that you almost took it back.  

But then, a small nod. “Alright,” he said simply as he took your hand.  

And then you laid your back onto the bed. He joined you slowly, reverently, as though you were something a mere mortal could not look upon. His fingers brushed down your sternum, pausing low on your belly, as a silent question and a quiet promise.  

And then he entered you again.  

Your body immediately reacted. You gasped softly—your body still tender, pliant, open and waiting for him. His length filled you inch by inch, a slow splitting that made you cling to the sheets. And of course you welcomed it, you needed it, because you needed him to reach somewhere your grief and shame couldn’t.  

He moved inside you with aching control, each thrust deliberate and deep, slow enough to draw out the tension coiling low in your belly. You took him so completely that it made you ache, but the ache felt right. It felt earned. Like your body was remembering its purpose, made to hold him, made to house this sacred union. 

Fyodor leaned over you, breath hitching against your skin, lips brushing across your cheek, your collarbone, the hollow of your throat. You were caught, suspended, like a pressed flower between the pages of his body and the bed, delicate and flattened beneath devotion.  

And when it was done, you let out a soft sigh. He cradled you in his arms, and you clung to him with something close to faith—praying, whispering in your mind that maybe this time it would stick. 

Maybe this time, you would be full and whole again. 

But the fear crept back in like a shadow under the door. The tea was no longer a threat; Fyodor had taken control of everything you consumed. But it wasn’t your body you feared anymore. It was your mind. 

You’d read once that a woman could lose her child from stress alone. And you were not doing well in the relaxing department. So the fear of miscarrying fed into itself. A spiral of your own making. 

Until— 

It was one evening, deep into your second trimester, you almost felt proud of something your body had done. No more blood. No more grief. Or at least, that’s how it should have felt. 

You told yourself it was just the fear of losing it again. Not the ache to be needed. Not the gnawing want to be desired. To have purpose. 

It was fear. Nothing else. You would tell him, and he would soothe you—he always did. 

You kissed his cheek as you slipped into bed, folding your hands beneath your cheek as you watched his profile. He was staring up at the ceiling, eyes distant, unreadable. You wondered what lived behind those deep purple pools. 

“Fedya…” you murmured. His gaze snapped to you—not threatening, but in that startled reverence he always gave you when you said his name like that. And suddenly, you wanted to melt into the mattress, to disappear beneath your own guilt. 

It’s just fear. Just fear, nothing else. He’ll soothe you. 

“I’m afraid,” you whispered. “Afraid we’ll lose another child.” 

He looked at you, quiet, dissecting. His gaze softened, though the stillness behind it never changed. Fyodor never flinched at your fear, nor recoiled from your doubt. To him, it was proof that your unrest hadn’t found its final anchor. And he would be that anchor. He would soothe the tremors, not by silencing them, but by reclaiming them, because peace was precious only when it came from his hands.  

“And what do you propose we do,” he asked gently, “to dampen this fear?” 

Your heart lurched. Heat flushed your chest. Words turned to blades behind your tongue. 

“Just… to be sure it stays, Fedya…” You trailed off, eyes stinging. 

Say it. Use your words. Come on. 

“Please…” 

Fear. Fear. Fear. 

“Please put it in me again…”  

You weren’t sure you’d spoken it aloud until you saw his expression shift. Slowly. His eyes dropped to your lips, then to your stomach and stayed there. He sat up, just slightly, resting his weight on one elbow as he looked at you—no, through you. His hand moved, slow and warm, settling over the gentle swell of your belly. You weren’t showing much, not yet, but to him, it was already sacred. 

“You’re trembling,” he murmured, thumb brushing across your skin, light and slow. 

You nodded faintly, only now realizing you were crying. You didn’t know when it started. He never chastised you for tears. He never told you to stop. 

“You poor thing. This body is mine to care for, my dear. You only needed to ask.” 

Your breath hitched as his fingers slipped beneath the hem of your nightgown with the kind of patience that made your chest ache. He never rushed. He devoured gently, so slow you didn’t even feel the sharp teeth until they were already spilling blood from you. 

Then, he dipped his head and kissed your stomach. Not sweetly. Devoutly. His hair tickled your skin; and you gulped hard, fingers twitching with the urge to reach for him. To thread through his hair. But you stayed still. Let him love you. Let him take care of you. 

His hand slid between your thighs—patient, searching. He checked you. Shame bloomed in your chest when his fingers came back wet. You wanted to hide.  He hadn’t even touched you properly and still, you were open, aching, ready. 

But he only smiled.  

You did not wait long. He parted your legs with quiet authority. One to the side. One resting on his shoulder. Then he filled you, deliberate and inevitable. Again and again. In and out. His brooding eyes never leaving yours. 

His pace, as always, was restrained. Controlled. Like he was preserving energy. But he never left you empty. No, he couldn't. He had to fix you. 

And when he finished, he did not leave. No, he closed his eyes and pressed a lingering kiss on your ankle. His seed was warm and thick, claiming. Your breath stuttered. You reached for him, skin slick with devotion, hair tousled, skin flushed. He looked like a statue, carved from the rarest quartz on earth. Or maybe not from this earth at all.  

But then there it was again, that stupid ache. A want. Your body clenched around him. A silent plea. 

You turned your face, ashamed. Would he let you finish? This wasn’t meant for indulgence. It was duty. Obedience. A sacred offering. How could you want more? 

Fyodor never saw a need for your climax. It felt too worldly to him—unnecessary. He saw your restraint as holy. Your ache, your suffering and your denial were your form of worship. 

But still—your voice, small and trembling, broke the silence. 

“Can I... please...?” 

He opened his eyes and stilled. That strange, quiet stillness he gets when something doesn’t match the script in his head. His gaze dropped to your belly. To your helpless, trembling form. He touched your stomach absently, considering. Then, slowly, he pulled out. 

The emptiness was unbearable. 

“You want to climax, my dear? Is that what you think you deserve?” 

His voice wasn’t mocking. It was curious. Indulgent. Like a parent humoring a child’s strange request. 

He kissed your belly again. Soft. Calculating. 

“But you’ve already received your reward. You carry it inside you.” 

Yes. Yes, of course. He was right. You should have been content. You were content. Greedy, greedy, ungrateful thing. How could you ask for more? 

But then— 

“But I could not deny you this,” he whispered, his voice velvet. “It is my duty as your husband to make you comfortable. To make you feel loved. Especially when you’re carrying something so precious.” 

Relief broke over you in a quiet wave. 

He shifted down. His fingers returned, so patient, so precise. He knew your body like scripture, like something studied in silence. And he didn’t dive in. He listened: to breath, to shiver, to the subtle trembling of your thighs beneath his hands. 

His lips brushed over your cheek; the contact was barely there before trailing down to your throat. He kissed once. Just once. And then his mouth stilled, his breath soft and steady against your skin as his fingers slipped between your legs and found you open and warm.

Then, with quiet intent, his fingers pushed inside—gathering what had dared to spill, returning it to its rightful place, as if it had never been meant to leave. He stayed like that a moment. Still and silent as though sealing something. As though reminding your body of its purpose. His purpose. 

Then he moved. 

He stroked you lightly, so lightly it felt like a question or a prayer. Your body arched into it before your mind caught up, gasping, legs spreading further on instinct. You tried to speak, to plead, but only a whimper came out, breath broken and wordless. 

That pleased him. His fingers moved with unbearable patience, pressing deeper, spreading heat through your belly like honey left too long in the sun. Your thighs trembled. Your mouth parted. Still, you said nothing.  

Circling, pressing, gliding just beneath the edge of bliss without letting you tip. Keeping you suspended. He didn’t let you come.  

Of course not. 

Cruel man, cruel husband, cruel seer—so gentle it almost felt like kindness. But it wasn’t kindness. It was mercy. He was letting you ache. Letting you feel what it meant to want something holy. 

“It’s remarkable,” he said, his tone quiet, musing, not gloating. “How we pretend desire is a thing we choose. But yours…” His thumb brushed lightly across your clit, just once, and your body flinched. “Yours is instinct. Pure and obedient.” 

He lowered his head again, kissed your throat—again, only once. You whimpered softly. Your hips shifted, chasing his touch. But he stilled. 

“I think,” he whispered, more to himself than to you, “we’re always closest to God when we deny ourselves. But there’s another kind of grace… the kind that slips through even when we try to contain it. A trembling. A gasp. The way your breath stutters against my fingers.”  

Your hands were lost, twisting in the sheets. You didn’t even trust your voice. You didn’t trust your mouth. You were afraid that if you spoke, you would scream. 

And he loved that. The restraint. The devotion. The trembling effort to be good. It was the kind of worship he valued most. 

He pressed his thumb against your clit again—finally—and circled it in time with his thrusts. Just enough to make you shudder. Not enough to let you break. 

Your chest was heaving. He watched the way your lips parted around soundless pleas and held you there, on the edge of your undoing. That’s when the tears came. Not from frustration. But from grace. From the unbearable sweetness of being seen in your silence, undone by mercy, loved so thoroughly you’d forgotten yourself entirely.  

And when he finally let you fall— 

When his fingers shifted just slightly, just enough to let your body cascade into release. It wasn’t like breaking. It was like communion. It was like taking the host at the altar. A private blessing. A holy indulgence offered from his hand to your body. 

“Beautiful,” he whispered against your ear. You were shivering, so weak, so precious, and so entirely his. 

He didn’t move for a long time. 

One hand splayed over your thigh, the other resting on your belly. His body wrapped yours with the calm of someone who just offered prayer. You felt his breath cooling the sheen of sweat along your shoulder. 

The field was quiet, touched only by the wind and the occasional sway of tall grasses bending to its will. A blanket had been laid out beneath you, soft against the earth, and you rested with your head in Fyodor’s lap, cradled by the gentle slope of his thigh. 

He had peeled a pomegranate with the same reverence he reserved for scripture. Its skin cracked open with a soft, fleshy resistance, revealing glistening seeds like rubies packed tight in a jeweled chalice.

Pomegranates were said to hold a single paradisal seed from heaven, a relic of Eden that had never withered. And yet, it was the same fruit Hades offered Persephone in the underworld. The same fruit that sealed her fate. 

And now Fyodor was feeding them to you. 

One by one. 

To share it with you was beautiful. To feed it to you, one seed at a time, between the soft parting of your lips was something more: it was a kind of quiet binding. You received each offering with the docility of a bride in worship, head tilted back slightly, lips glistening from the juice. 

There was something almost holy in the act. Or something quietly damning. The fruit of paradise… and the chain that kept you his. The tips of his fingers and your mouth both gleamed with the same red—like a sacrament dressed in the color of sin. You let him press the seeds to your lips like communion. And with each one, you accepted that paradise and captivity could share a taste. 

He watched the way your throat moved when you swallowed, how you breathed more softly as his hand slid to your belly, cupping the gentle swell with a control so tender it bordered on holy. You wore white, of course. A thin, gauzy dress that caught the light and curved over your body like the linen of a saint’s burial shroud. 

You looked like sacrifice incarnate, like an icon—the Virgin in linen, a vision sanctified by the weight of her duty. 

And to him, that was love. 

“My little prophet,” he murmured—not to you, but to the child nested in your womb. His voice, a breath of incense against your skin. “Grow as you must, and grow strong. Know that you are already loved beyond measure." 

His head bowed over you. He pressed a kiss to your forehead. He spoke in hushed russian—too soft to catch, the cadence of prayer wrapping around your unborn child like a lullaby only the soul could hear. 

His breath a hush against your skin. “They feel your warmth, my love. How could they not rest easy?” His hand brushed slowly over your belly, and his voice dropped, reverent. “The world you’ve given them is gentle. Sheltering and simply perfect.” 

You didn’t speak. You only closed your eyes and let the warmth of his hand ground you. 

He fed you another seed, red staining the corners of your mouth. He wiped it away with his thumb—slowly, carefully—then sucked the juice from his own fingertip, eyes never leaving your peaceful features. 

And in that moment, it didn’t matter that you were bound. That you had long ago given up autonomy in exchange for peace. In his hands, you felt seen.

Even if that love was a cage, you had long since chosen it. You did not reach for more. You did not resist. 

You simply opened your mouth again, and let yourself be filled. 

A few weeks. Some kicks from your unborn and quiet days of being taken care of pass. Then, one evening, contractions: a slow tide of tension that lapped at your spine and thighs, a rhythm you couldn’t quite breathe through but didn’t yet fear. Fyodor had kissed your forehead, pressed your hand to his chest, then left the room when his mother beckoned him away with a look you didn’t understand. 

Weirdly, he didn’t fight her on it. He only bowed his head. As if conceding to a greater law.  

And now you were surrownded by only women in the low amber light of the birthing room, or what was your bathroom turned into a birthing chamber. 

They had undressed you gently, washed you in warm water, combed out your hair and pinned it back with a hairpin that once belonged to a grandmother you had never met. They called it tradition. They called it care. 

Steam rose from a copper pot in the corner. 

The blind sister stood near it, stirring slowly with a long-handled spoon, as if she were divining something. Her clouded eyes blinked softly, her lips moving in silent prayer.

They sat you down in the water. It was warm, welcoming.

The deaf one kneeled beside the tub, her hands were stained from oils and roots, but they were sure and kind as they guided your legs apart. And the mute one was closest of all. She held your hand. 

Fyodor’s mother knelt behind you in the water, one arm steady around your ribs, the other splayed protectively across your stomach. You could feel her heartbeat thudding against your back, calm, ancient, like a second pulse inside your bones. She was solid when everything else inside you was slipping, stretching, tearing open.  

The first real pain came low and deep, molten and grinding. A swell inside you that no breath could soften. No prayer could unmake. Another woman brought a half-cut lemon to your lips, pressing it there—its sharpness slicing through the heavy sweetness of the air, grounding you, distracting you from the agony.  It helped. Barely.  

They did not rush you. No barking orders. No surgical steel or bright lights. Just warm hands and whispered prayers and cloths soaked in rosewater.  

“Breathe,” Fyodor’s mother murmured behind you. Her voice felt old. Like a bell rung deep in a mountain. 

You breathed. You bled. You bore down, again and again, clutching the mute sister’s hand so tightly your nails left crescent moons in her skin—but she never pulled away. She smiled at you. A knowing, ancient smile. 

This pain was sacred. This was the passage all women in the sect passed through. And now you were walking it too. Barefoot and broken but beloved and never alone. They were right there, guiding you, holding you through this pain, as if it were their own.  

You weren't sure when your voice left you—whether it had been dragged out in a scream or swallowed whole by the pressure, but now there was only breath. Water. And the soft rustle of fabric as the women moved around you like priestesses tending to the altar of your body. 

The pressure shifted lower. Deeper. Hotter. The pain no longer flared, it opened. Like a gate being torn off its hinges. Like something ancient pushing through the thinnest membrane of your humanity. 

“There,” Fyodor’s mother whispered, her fingers firm on your shaking thigh. “They are ready. One more, dearie. Just one.” 

You gritted your teeth so hard your jaw ached, the citrus juice dripping from your chin. You pushed. 

And then came the crown. The swell of the head, rigid and slick, stretching you wide, too wide, until the skin between your thighs burned, splitting at the edges, searing like hot metal pressed into flesh. There was no dignity in it, only rawness, wet and wild. The slow violence wrapped in purpose made you feel it: the delicate skin of your perineum straining to hold, fighting not to split beneath the raw demand of life.  

Water sloshed. Blood clouded the surface. 

There was a sound: a pop, wet and awful, as the head slipped forward another inch. Your hips bucked against the pain. It felt like your bones might break in half, your pelvis splitting like bark beneath the force of it. 

You cried out. Not a scream—something lower. A groan pulled from the pit of your stomach, old and animal and holy. 

“Good,” whispered Fyodor’s mother. Her breath ghosted the shell of your ear. “Very good, keep going.” 

You shook. Your vision blurred. The mute sister wiped your brow. The deaf one adjusted your legs again, pressing her palm low into your belly. 

You bore down once more, and the pain tore through you—a ring of fire igniting along the rim of your body, scalding and all-consuming. You felt it all: the slide of damp skin, the forced stretch of muscle, the way the world narrowed to a single unbearable point where your child was forcing you to open wider than you ever thought possible. 

And then—release. 

The head passed with a sudden wetness, like flesh sloughing from bone, and your breath shattered in your throat. Shoulders came next—twisting sideways, brutal and slow, like something carved from you with a dull blade. 

And then, finally— 

The child left you. 

A slithering relief. A slick, grotesque blessing. Your body emptied all at once with a low splash and the awful, perfect sound of new flesh hitting water. 

The room held its breath. 

Steam curled through the air, fragrant and heavy with sweat, milk, and copper. For one unbearable second, there was only silence—no cries, no cooing. Just the soft ripple of blood-stained water around your thighs. 

And then— 

A thin, reedy cry pierced the stillness. Soft at first. Then louder. Demanding. Alive. 

The mute sister caught them in her arms without flinching, lifting the tiny, blood-slicked body with sacred precision. The child was slippery, smeared with vernix and birth, their skin flushed in blue and pink marbling. One eye opened, not fully, and then clenched shut again as their mouth opened wide to wail. 

The cord pulsed between you—a thick, glistening tether, red and white like sacrificial silk. The blind sister held it delicately between two fingers, reverent as Fyodor’s mother reached for a curved blade. 

Snip. 

And still—it was not over. Not yet. 

A second wave built in your gut. Less urgent. Deeper. You whimpered as your body clenched again. The afterbirth. 

It came slower, heavier. There was no stretch now—just pressure. A dull, thick ache. And then it passed through you: a slop of deep red, warm and slick and strangely solid. You felt it slide from you like a second child—heavier than expected, less alive, more holy. The air changed when it left your body.  

Your muscles gave out. You nearly slumped beneath the surface, but warm hands steadied you—held you up as your child was finally swaddled and brought to your chest. 

Their skin against yours was hot and fragile, their breathing quick and uneven, mouth nuzzling blindly at your breast. You couldn’t see clearly. Couldn’t move your fingers. But your arms curved around them anyway. 

The bathwater was pink now. A soft halo of blood was drifting in whorls around your hips. 

The women whispered to one another in words you couldn’t follow. A final blessing, maybe. Or a warning. Then, one by one, they stood. They kissed your forehead, touched your shoulder. The mute one squeezed your hand. Fyodor’s mother murmured something as she pressed her lips to your temple, too soft to catch.  

And then they left you. Alone. Changed. Split open and whole. 

Silence settled over the room like gauze. 

Until— 

The door creaked. 

Bare feet on tile. A pause. He was here. 

Fyodor knelt at the edge of the tub, his white shirt open at the throat, his sleeves pushed restlessly up. His eyes raked over you—slow and disbelieving—as if you were some rare relic pulled from the earth, dirt-stained and priceless. 

You watched him through half-lidded eyes, your body too heavy, too hollow to move. Still, you offered him a weak smile: small, cracked at the edges, but real. The best you could give. 

His hand entered the water first, unhesitating. His fingers brushed your thigh beneath the surface—warm despite the cooling water, tender despite the ruin of you. You shuddered at the touch. 

His voice was too steady, too calm for what burned behind his eyes. “Look at what you’ve made for me.” 

He said me and not us. 

He reached forward, hands trembling from the unbearable weight of awe, and tucked a wet lock of hair behind your ear. His knuckles skimmed your cheekbone with heartbreaking care, as if he thought you might shatter if he pressed too hard. 

"You were brave," he murmured. "You were good." His voice was soft, reverent, like a man speaking to a chalice just after lifting it from the altar. 

You thought you heard more—another whisper shaped against your hairline—but your mind, dulled with exhaustion, couldn’t catch the words. They dissolved into the blood-heavy air like incense. 

Something about belonging. 

Something about forever. 

You closed your eyes, tears slipping hot and silent down your cheeks. It was too much. All of it. 

The baby stirred faintly against your chest: tiny, blind, perfect. Fyodor’s gaze dropped to the child, and the smallest, most fragile smile ghosted over his mouth. Something in him broke then, you thought. Something silent and secret. 

Without a word, he rose. 

You barely registered him undoing the buttons of his shirt, pulling it over his head with slow, careful movements. His pale chest caught the candlelight, sharp bones, translucent skin, and then he stepped into the water without hesitation. 

It didn’t matter that his white pants soaked up the blood tinted bathwater, turning pink around his thighs. It didn’t matter that the air reeked of sweat and iron and birth. It didn’t matter that the water was no longer clean. It was holy. And he wanted to be closer. 

Fyodor sank down behind you, one arm sliding carefully around your ribs, the other cradling the child to your chest. He drew you back against him with infinite patience, letting you rest your weight entirely on him. 

You felt his breath on your temple. Slow. Steady. Holding you both together. 

He pressed his forehead to your damp hair and stayed like that for a long, long time. 

At some point, you heard him whisper—not to you, but into the hollow space between your bodies: 

“All things must be broken open before they are made sacred.” 

You were too far gone to answer. But you felt it. Felt the truth of it seep into your skin, the same way the water seeped into your bones. 

He held you until your breathing evened out, until the shivering in your muscles dulled to a low, exhausted ache.  

Then, a gentle knock. 

The door opened just a fraction, candlelight catching on Fyodor’s mother’s shawl. She didn’t speak, but her eyes flicked to the child nestled between your chests—small, silent, sacred. 

Fyodor didn’t look at her when he spoke. 

“You may take him, mama.” 

No hesitation. She stepped forward and lifted the child from your chest with careful hands, as if cradling something anointed. You whimpered faintly at the absence, your arms twitching with the instinct to hold on—but Fyodor’s voice found you again, softer than before. 

“Shh. It’s alright. He’s safe. He is not away from us… only watched over.” 

You nodded—or thought you did. Your body didn’t feel quite yours yet. It had been a vessel, then an altar, and now it was just… heavy. 

Fyodor helped you up, not with force, but with patience. His hand under your arm, his other at your back. You didn’t walk so much as lean, let yourself be steered. Slumped forward. Bare feet finding cold tile with unsure steps. You were trembling. He didn’t comment. 

He wrapped you in linen and whispered something in Russian against your ear that you didn’t catch. Your mind floated somewhere outside your skin. 

The hallway was quiet as he led you to your bedroom.

He helped you sit. Then lie. Then breathe. 

You leaned back into the pillows, fingers curled loosely in the folds of the robe, too spent to speak. The pain was receding, but the echo of it still clung to your thighs, your spine, the base of your skull. 

Fyodor didn’t leave. He sat beside you, silent. One hand on the back of your neck, the other resting on your knee through the linen. He didn’t touch only to comfort, but to anchor as well. To remind you that you were still here, and still his. 

Time passed. Maybe an hour. Maybe more. 

At some point, you closed your eyes. When you opened them again, there was a knock, heavier this time. 

Fyodor’s father stepped halfway into the room. His face was unreadable, but his voice was soft. 

“It’s time. The meal is ready.” 

Fyodor nodded. No ceremony. Just fact. 

Your home felt warmer than before. Gentler. And when you stepped into the main room, the fire was bright. The table set.  

Your son, swaddled now, lay cradled in Fyodor’s mother’s arms. Eyes deep and fathomless. Mute. Watchful. Already his father’s child. 

And when you were led to the table, you let yourself be guided like a doll. A low chair, cushioned, a wool shawl tucked over your shoulders. Fyodor was beside you in an instant. 

Someone brought you warm water to rinse your hands. You blinked slowly, unsure whether you were awake or still inside some dream haze of labor. Then, Fyodor’s hand reached for yours, and when your fingers barely closed around his, he pressed a kiss to your knuckles. Cold lips. Warm breath. 

“You have given me something eternal,” he said, voice low and clear. “And still, you remain here, breathing. Beautiful. Enduring. I could not have asked for anything more.” 

A plate was set before you then: rich, earthen vegetables—carrots roasted in honey, soft bread torn by hand. A dark, tender cut of meat glistened in the center. You blinked at it, unsure. It smelled… warm, familiar, but you couldn’t place it. The tea beside it steamed faintly, rooibos mixed with lemon balm; meant to soothe the womb, they had said. 

Fyodor picked up your fork before you could. 

He cut into the meat with practiced elegance, slicing a modest piece and blowing on it. Then he brought it to your lips, cradling your chin in his free hand. “Eat,” he said softly. Not quite a request. 

You parted your lips. 

He watched as you accepted the bite. You chewed slowly. The meat was tender, perfumed with herbs, coated in honey and something metallic. Sweet, but not cloying. Strange, but not wrong.  

“You must take your strength back into you… for the child, and for me.” 

You hummed in response.

A pause.

“What meat is this?” You ask quietly after swallowing the first bite.  

He didn’t answer at first. His smile lingered, soft at the edges, unreadable. Then, gently, like a secret passed in a chapel he said. “It was part of you that you gave freely. And now… returned to you with care.” 

You trembled. Did he mean— 

“Would you prefer I lie?” he asked, almost fondly. “No… you would not. You would rather suffer in truth than live in soft deception. That is why I chose you.” 

He fed you again, slow and precise. Each bite coaxed from your lips like an offering. You leaned toward him without meaning to, a quiet tilt of your body seeking the steadiness of his. He noticed, of course.  

In the corner, Fyodor’s parents hummed as they cradled your son. The boy was asleep. Quiet and perfect. 

Fyodor leaned close as he gently wiped the corner of your mouth, careful and ceremonial, like a priest cleaning a chalice. “You have done beautifully,” he whispered, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “To bleed for me. To break yourself open for this cause we now cradle in our arms.” 

You closed your eyes. And though your limbs still trembled, you obeyed. Each bite was devotion. Each swallow, a promise whispered into the marrow of your being. You were carrying his blood in two forms now—in your arms… and on your tongue. 

You had given yourself wholly. And for that, he was pleased. 

Exactly three days later, the baptism took place. 

By then, your body had begun to mend. People came bearing flowers, offerings, prayers. They looked at you with awe, with trembling hands and wet eyes, as though divinity had passed through your womb. As though you had birthed not a child, but the second coming of Christ. 

And perhaps, for them, you had. 

The sin eater. Born from a bond that defied flesh and surpassed the small, trembling understanding of ordinary hearts. A child to carry the weight of sin on their back. A child to cleanse, to devour transgression not with wrath, but with quiet love, holy devotion, and willing sacrifice. 

You had been broken open to bring them this salvation. You had swallowed your own pain. Your own blood. And now they knelt before you, revering what you had made. 

The church was colder that morning. Not in temperature, but in breath, in time. As if the stone walls had drawn in the chill from the surrounding peaks and held it tight like a sacred truth. You stood in silence, your child bundled in white linen against your chest, their warmth the only thing tethering you to your body. The sky outside was slate grey, and the mist clung to the church windows like sighs trying to get in. 

The congregation was already inside. Rows upon rows of villagers, heads bowed, hands clasped, whispering. You didn’t understand the words—only the tone. Reverent. Awed. And maybe... afraid. 

At the altar, the three sisters waited. The same who had guided your wedding, veiled now in black. The blind one’s eyes were hidden beneath a shroud of muslin, tight around her skull. The deaf one’s ears were wrapped in woven wool, thick and solemn. The mute one’s lips—still sewn, the white thread now stained faintly crimson from old attempts at speech. Still, they stood tall. 

Your child did not cry. You had not heard him cry since he left your body. 

You stepped forward with Fyodor at your side, each step echoing on the stone floor. Behind the altar, a basin had been carved into the earth itself, a deep bowl. The water shimmered faintly with silver flecks—ashes, you realized. 

The blind sister reached for your child. 

You hesitated, but Fyodor’s hand pressed gently at the small of your back. “It is alright,” he murmured, soft and unhurried. “They will only bless what we’ve given.” 

You let go. Your heart beat like a warning. Not because you doubted him, but because part of you still feared exile. You had been welcomed. Anointed. Touched by holy hands. And still… something inside you whispered: do not get too comfortable. Love does not mean you belong.  

The sister’s hands, despite her blindness, were sure. She took the child in her arms, cradled like something fragile, divine, already mourned. 

Then came the immersion. 

Once—for the soul. 

Twice—for the flesh. 

Thrice—for the sins not yet committed. 

Each time, the child slipped beneath the surface like a falling star—disappearing into the water’s hush, only to rise again, eyes open, untouched by the cold. You clutched Fyodor’s sleeve, heart thudding like a warning bell against your ribs. 

The deaf sister approached with a small glass vessel wrapped in cloth. When she uncorked it, the sharp, resinous scent of myrrh unfurled into the air. Dipping her fingers in, she anointed the child’s temples, chest, and wrists. 

“So you will carry both burden and balm,” she said, breath thin as incense smoke. 

Then she rubbed a pinch gently along the baby's heels. 

“So you will be preserved,” she murmured. “So rot will not find you.” 

Then came the oil—dark, pressed from olives and mixed with herbs. She traced a spiral at the navel, then the throat. 

“So your voice will be guarded. And your hunger holy.” 

The mute sister approached. 

She said nothing—could say nothing. She pulled, from her robe, a small knife. 

You gasped—but Fyodor placed a calm hand on yours. 

“She opens her voice,” he whispered. 

With a swift cut, the stitches at the mute sister’s lips split. Blood dripped slow onto the floor. And then she began to sing. 

No words. Just sound. A low hum, aching with generations of sorrow and rebirth. The entire congregation joined in. A thousand voices, some cracked with age, others clear and melodic—singing without language. Just sound. Just devotion. 

You began to cry. You didn’t even know when. 

The sisters laid the baby in your arms once more. A wreath had been placed on their head made of sage, rue and pressed violets, all bound in red string. Around their waist, a small sash, mirroring your wedding one, looped thrice and knotted once. 

You looked down. 

Your child was smiling. 

That small, tender smile—so quiet, so good. Their eyes shimmered with unshed tears, but they did not fall. You could not tell if it was joy, serenity, or something far older than emotion. It pierced you either way. 

You broke. 

Not with a sound, but with the way your arms tightened instinctively around them. As if to shield them. As if that could still mean something. As if the ritual hadn’t already claimed them.  

Your knees nearly gave, but Fyodor caught you, steady, solid, eternal. His hands cradled your shoulders as he whispered into your ear, low and warm. “They are perfect, my love. You gave them the world. And now... now they will cleanse it.” 

You looked around at the congregation—so full of adoration, so full of fear. They would revere this child, but never hold their hand. Never run with them in the fields. Never laugh freely. Your heart ached. It bled. 

But Fyodor was unmoved. He watched the child like a man who had found his legacy in flesh. His smile was proud. Not just of the child, but of you. Of your devotion. Of your body, which had carried his design into the world. 

You heard the congregation’s final note. A swell. A sigh. 

And then, silence. 

As if something ancient had exhaled through all of them and was now sleeping again. 

They kissed his forehead with trembling reverence. Then stepped back. None dared to hold him again. 

Your child, this little miracle, was now the village’s sin eater. Sacred. Beloved. Alone. 

But not unloved. 

Never unloved. 

Then, one quiet evening, you found yourself walking beside Fyodor. The path was narrow, the fields open. The sun was lowering but hadn’t set, casting long, golden beams that stretched through the wheat. Your feet were bare, the earth still warm from the day. It clung softly to your skin, grounding you, reminding you that you were here. Alive. His. 

Children’s laughter rang out in the distance—sharp, high notes of joy as they chased one another through the tall grass. You paused, instinctively, and glanced toward the sound. For a moment, just a moment, you thought of yours. Likely nestled against his grandmother’s chest now, drowsy and warm with milk. Safe. Wanted. Whole. 

And then, strangely, you thought of your parents. 

Their faces blurred. You had last seen them a little over a year ago, and yet… you could no longer recall the exact curve of your mother’s cheek, nor the timbre of your father’s voice. Time had softened them in your memory, worn them down like river stones.  

Perhaps that was for the best. 

Fyodor’s fingers brushed yours. Then curled around them, slow and deliberate. 

From the open window of a weathered home, an old woman glanced out, her voice rasping as she passed the proverb down with an wry smile: 

"Муж и жена—одна Сатана." 

You blinked. The words rolled over your spine. You should have flinched. But instead, a strange warmth spread through you. 

It wasn’t a judgment. It wasn’t an insult. 

It was truth. Dressed in proverb. A sigh of knowing. 

One flesh. One soul. One sin. 

You didn’t laugh. You didn’t deny. 

You only nodded, as though you understood. And perhaps you did. 

Because the rhythm of your life had become inseparable from his—threaded through your breath, your blood, your being. 

It was a cycle. You had felt it humming beneath your skin for some time now, rooted deep beneath the bone. A rhythm you fell into without ever learning the steps. You would falter—doubt yourself, spiral inward, pick at your bleeding thoughts. And he would be there. Always. A hand on your back. A kiss to your temple. A voice like dusk, low and thick with calm, telling you that you were enough. That you were his. That he saw you, all of you, and still chose you. 

Maybe that was what undid you. That he chose you. 

Not once, not briefly. Not with hesitation. But over and over, with quiet conviction. 

You didn’t know when comfort became craving. When needing him became the only thing that made you feel safe. When his touch stopped soothing and started claiming. 

But perhaps… that was the point. 

If you ached, he would soothe. If you cried, he would hush. If you feared being too much, he would hold you like you were made of silk and sorrow and nothing more.  

You folded yourself into his shape, gave him your voice, your womb, your worth. And he took it, of course. With reverence, with tenderness, with quiet hunger. And in that, he was possessive. But softly so.   

You needed to be his. And he needed to be needed. So the circle held. The pattern repeated. You weren’t sure where he ended and you began anymore. But you didn’t want to know. Not if knowing meant undoing this.  

Not if it meant unraveling this—this fragile, necessary thing.  

Dividers: saradika-graphics

[nerak-01]

Just...Pissed off Bestfriend!Ghost who can't get outta the friendzone...

TW: no direct smut ig, but its teasing and build up to smut. Ghost pinning over an oblivious reader.

This might get a second part if it does well, but who knows.

Imagine Ghost who prides himself in being subtle, unfazed, and mysterious. Except, he isn't around you. He'd been one of your closest friends since you both practically grew up together. Even when he joined to military, you made it a point to send letters and stay in touch. Ugh, that made it so much harder to not grow attached.

Ghost, or Simon, as you know him, would never out right tell you he was interested. Instead, he chose to drop hints. Maybe warding off any guy who looked at you too long wasn't the best hint, but it was crucial. Simon made an effort to keep his hands on you whenever he could. Whether that was a hug; a hand on your hips when he brushed passed you; or full blown cuddles on the couch when you guys watched movies.

Oh, he loved the cuddles. He had your whole body pressed against him as he occupied most of your attention. You were always so soft and warm. He always had to take a bathroom break half way through to relieve himself of a harder problem.

If you noticed how Simon began to change, you never mentioned it. This was now approaching your sixth month of this friends with cuddles non-sense. It wasn't like he wasn't your type! On a boring mission break, he might or might not have gone through your search history to find some enlightening Onlyfans subscriptions. He was both unimpressed and flattered when he saw how his body matched many of your most visited sites. Why pay to see other men's bodies when you could run your dainty hands over his? Simon Riley didn't get it.

Simon also couldn't fathom how you still hadn't taken the hint. He'd agreed to go clubbing with you as you chose to parade around in the sluttiest two piece he'd ever seen. Fuck. Why was your skirt so short anyway? Your top was basically lingerie with the mesh pieces and thin straps. Were you trying to grab his attention on purpose? Cause it...was kind of working... a little too well for his liking.

He hated how his eyes ghosted between your thighs before pulling away to look at the cock block who had you exhale an airy laugh. Your sounds were always angelic. He'd be lying to himself if he hadn't fantasized about the more sinister sounds he could draw out of you when you'd finally gotten the hint. Nevertheless, hearing it directed to someone else made his blood boil. Perhaps the other predicament was the fact that he knew that his eyes weren't the only ones lingering on you.

"Hey, darling, I think it's time we head out." Simon wasted no time, in two strides he was at your side with his arms wrapped protectively around you. He gazed down at the moron who looked a bit paler before the guy made an effort to wrap up your conversation. The idiot quickly scurried off into the tight crowd.

"No, I wanna dance more~" Your voice drew Simon's attention. You were being such a brat by subtly grinding your hips against him. Sure, you were wasted, but you had to know how riled up he was. You should be able to feel his hard on poking your back by now. He gripped your hips, forcing them to still.

"Baby, you're drunk, and I'm the one who's responsible for getting you home," he growled in your ear. There was a thick rasp in his voice as he tried to repress the urge to grind back. This wasn't fair to him at all. How could you expect a man to resist you? Simon had plenty of trouble doing that already, but this gave blue balls a whole new meaning.

[skookyumi]

Lets calm down

Ran x Reader x Sevika You and your partner Ran work hard to stand beside your girlfriend and support her standing at the council. After a rough meeting Sevika and you can't seem to stop fighting with each other. It gets to a point where no one can go to sleep so Ran decides to take care of the situation themselves. WC: 8,495 AFAB reader They/them pronouns ! MINORS DNI !! NSFW WRITING Contains : Slapping , hair pulling , restraints , toys Realized i can post my works on here too not just AO3 haha! Enjoy ~! __________

This day could’ve gone ten thousand times better if Sevika wasn’t such a fucking control freak. She was the one who asked you to go to her meeting in Piltover for your ‘Direct Opinions’ on the matter of Enforces in Zaun’s neighborhoods. Your passion for the increase of policing and brutality against the poorer people was fiery and consistent. 

Bringing it up to both of your partners when political talk was amongst the house. With Sevikas newer position as the chairholder in Piltover for Zaun , You and Ran were often helping your partner in her endeavors. All three of you being politically adept with the time spent with the Late Silco and the time spent away from him cleaning up his messes.

It was rare that either of you got to go to Piltover and speak, Ran had been a few times and you only once. Here you were being asked again to speak on something you're passionate about and you wouldn’t give anyone of these rich fucks time to dismiss your grievances. Starting pleasantly, you stood beside Sevika in her chair that saddled in the middle of a large gear shaped table. Many familiar faces appear to take their own seats , some you’ve never seen before. 

Pleasantries are exchanged as seats are taken and Caitlyn stays standing as she announces your presence and the topic of discussion. When Sevika speaks it only takes minutes for the conversation to get a bit heated. Many of the older chairs stated that with Zaun’s new independence that heavy policing was necessary; with more freedom comes more problems. Sevika harshly disagreed, palm slapping forcefully on the table, Caitlyn agreeing with her with stern words. 

She brought up her time forcefully controlling Zaun and how it made the people bitter and hateful, how the reprimandation for those actions will take longer to heal and cause more outrage against Piltover. Counselor Shoova also added that with the recovery from the Arcane incident over a year ago, that resources were still spread thinly and little was available for the shadowed city. “If i may-” you move closer to the table from behind Sevikas chair. She doesn’t look at you , silver eyes dancing across the counselors, daring them to not let you speak.  Caitlyn raises her hand to you to speak. “ A year after Zauns ‘Independence’ the people still fear the wrath that Enforcers bring, they still hold prejudice against our people. Falsely arresting citizens, Frequent stop and frisks, Unlawful entry and confiscation of money and items. Surely Piltover has no need for such things when wealth flows generously here-”

A older man with long white locks cuts you off “ Surely the enforces are just doing their job, Zaun is known for its crime you can’t expect us to think after a year of new leadership that those people have changed” 

“ Those people haven’t changed, but you have never thought of us anything more than roaches, Is it us that really need to change?”

He sneers and a short older woman pipes up “ I have lived many years girl and I must say those people have never changed, and we do not want that sort of violence stemming its way up here.”

Your hands grip tightly behind your back trying to keep it together “ You’ve lived many years over an oppressed city who could only survive on violence and whatever scrap you threw to them. You all are talking about things that were projected onto the lower class because you are to involved in your own well being then that of others”

They don’t say anything giving you squinted looks of disgust, so Sevika speaks “ So, that's why we want to discuss creating our own law enforcement” she spits gruffly. 

The table erupts into discussion making your body prickle with anxiety, Cait cuts in with a stern voice “ I have already offered my services to Councilor Sevika , Her partner Ran and I would only need three to four months to train an eligible force” 

Small old woman brings a small fist down on the slab of cold marble “ Are you seriously thinking about this Caitlyn? Putting power into the hands of the people that killed your mother? Who produced that ‘Scientist’ , who I will say corrupted Jayce and took him from us?!”

Cait snaps her head to retort but you speak up faster “ None of those things would have happened if you people would shut the fuck up and listen” both of your hands are on the table as you lean to scream at her “ You’ve sat back lavishly while our people have suffered , seven year olds DYING ON THE STREET because you want to sit up here and complain about how horrible we are.” 

Sevika has her organic hand on yours , and she's looking up at you from her seat and warning in her eyes. She wants you to calm down, but you rip your hand from hers with and snarl in your lip. Looking back to icy stares you point around the table “ You fear improvement because you know your time is numbered, Brilliance lies in the dark and you know you're nothing more than diamond colored coal” 

‘That's enough’ you hear Sevika whisper.

“Watch your tongue !” the white haired man hisses 

“See Caitlyn?! Rabid dogs in waiting ! Waiting to come here and take over our livelihoods!” the older woman shifted in her seat to look at the eyepatched one. 

Caitlyn shakes her head and sends you a firm look then takes her eyes back to the older woman “ They do not want that , they want a stable form of protection without the intervention of a different city”

“More like  keeping the filthy hands of their oppressors far away from the political power they used to hold on our city” you say after her “Our people crave normalcy, and having officers that don't understand our neighborhoods only insights violence and prejudice. Giving people the leg they need to take charge of their own communities is all we are asking for” Sevikas hand touches your wrist and you step back as the council bicker over your words. You back up and jiggle your leg anxiously, watching as Sevika takes charge of the conversation. 

You're mellowed by her firm and decisive vision, explaining it thoroughly to the others, they seem to settle a bit with her steady voice. She was always good at holding a room's attention, her speech tranquil where yours was filled with passion and spite. This is exactly why she held this seat, combing through the political decorum like she was almost born a Piltie. She knew how to work them, after many trial and error periods she figured out how to get them to hear her. 

The meeting was adjourned about an hour later, most voted for the training of Zauns own task force , even the old women voted yes. Though she didn’t leave without a stern glance at Sevika “ You should learn to train your tyke better, acting like a hound in a room full of bulls “ 

Sevika stiffens beside you and opens her mouth beside you brow’s pinched in fury, but you beat her to the punch “ I’d watch my mouth you fucking fossil” 

She blanches and storms over to you poking a ridged finger into your gut “ You’re nothing but a mongrel, I don't even know why Sevika brought you here, you’re a sorry excuse for a representative and a disgusting example for your ‘People’ ” 

Sev finally stand up behind her placing a firm hand on the older woman's shoulder “ They are here because they have an incredible understanding of the political workings of Zaun, and because they are my partner and i asked them to come support me” she says smoothly, but you can tell from the strain in her neck she's trying not to lash out. 

You’re fuming that she’s not , but you don't say anything else as she deescalates the situation. The two women walk out together and you follow behind a few feet thinking about how you want to take the granny out. How dare she?! She's been spoon fed her whole life and she has the audacity to look at you like you just stole her kid. Caught in thought you don’t see her walk away and you also don't see the furious look Sevika lands on you.  You follow her shoes all the way to her office still thinking, you're finally out of your head when she slams her door closed. 

Looking up you meet angry silver eyes “What?” “What?! Really ?? I brought you here to speak about the task force, not start fights or embarrass me !”

Your face heated as she spoke, watching her as she collected all of your things and some paperwork. Pulling your lips down you could feel your eye twitch at the last word. “ Oh so sticking up for our people is embarrassing okay” “No, you losing your cool and not taking the hint you should shut up and stop talking to them like that is”

“Sorry i haven't started talking like a proper piltie like you”

She turns to you teeth bared and angry “ To get what we need for Zaun certain things are required “

“Like letting that old bitch walk all over me? I’m not going to sit back and just take it, I'm going to defend myself!”  

She slides her bag over her shoulder and walks over to you angrily “ Just stop being so fucking sensitive you almost ruined this for us” she bites out, head tilted down to you “ That ‘old bitch’ almost revoked her vote because of you”

Your heart squeezes with an ache and you look away from her, tears sting threateningly at your eyes but you bite your cheek to stop them. Guilt made a heavy blanket on your shoulders and sadness settled in your gut from Sevika’s words. 

She took a deep breath rubbing her fingers on the bridge of her nose “ Look babe I-” she moved to put a hand on your arm, but you moved out of its range and cut her off. “ Let's just go before I embarrass you anymore” you say under your breath, turning to the door and making your way out of her office. Walking down the hall before she comes out it doesn’t take her much time to catch up with you. She grabs your wrist and you yank it from her “What?!” 

“Let’s just talk babe” 

“No, fuck off” 

She groans in frustration as you take off again.

The trip back home is tense and quiet, you refuse to look at her and she keeps looking at you. The whole forty-five minutes you sit and stew. She was right about you being out of line, these were snobs who liked prim and proper manners even if they didn’t give you them back. It pissed you off more that she was right and then followed her correctness with words that triggered the fuck out of you.  You had always been a loud and passionate person, often driving off others with your vigor. Your feelings were bold and you had to be deaf and blind to not be extremely aware of them. 

Most of the time you kept a happy demeanor encouraging joy through your actions and the people around you. When you were upset though it sapped the light out of the room, the poor disposition was a palpable force around you often making people uncomfortable. Your extreme emotions were cause for many fights and lost relationships in your youth, but now you usually had them under control. The sting of the past though was harsh and made you want to run around and scream. 

Sevika knew of your insecurities about your high emotions, you had been dating for years for Janna’s sake, but she still threw the sensitive knife at you. On top of that she said you embarrassed her, what the fuck , you had been a bitch but you didn’t do anything wrong. Standing up for what you thought was right without backing down shouldn’t be something she's embarrassed about.  A cold wave of anger ran over your body and you crossed your arms tightly. You weren’t a child having a tantrum ! You were a tired mid-thirty year old who was exhausted of seeing people beg for food and shelter then being beaten for it.

When you both finally make it back to your house Sevika opens the door for you , you storm in without saying anything to her. Ran’s laid back on the couch , peeking at the both of you as you walk in. They wear just an oversized shirt with a cute Cerberus on the front, hair choppy and spiked from where they were laying. They watch as you stormily take off your shoes, looking back to a Sevika who watched you warily. “So… it didn’t go well?” they ask as they made their way to the both of you. 

You feel your eye twitch and your fists clench harder “ It went great , I’m taking a shower” You state making your way past them. Ran gapes a bit, casting a glance to Sev who is rubbing her face with her hands and groaning. She makes her way to the kitchen dropping a small kiss on Ran’s head “We got the votes, Caitlyn should be here in the next couple of weeks”

She grabs her whiskey and a cup out of the cupboard, Ran follows wrapping their arms around her middle as she pours. They bring their cool metal hand to her tummy and trail it in small circles “ So what's with grumpy?” 

Sevika grimaces and downs her first drink, silence filled with the soft sounds of the shower. She turns to face her partner rubbing the back of her neck “They got really angry today, which is fine and warranted, but wouldn’t stop picking fights with that old hag” 

Ran nods and pours her another drink.

“ They put the goal at risk and i got mad, so i said they were sensitive “ ran raises their eyebrows “ And that they… embarrassed me” 

Ran frowns at that, slapping a judgemental hand on sevika’s shoulder “ Why the fuck would you say that?”

Sev sneers hand gripping her cup hard “I was pissed off! And there's a certain way we have to talk to those shit heads to even get them to look our way” 

“ I'm sure there was a better way to say that to them”

“I was trying, but they don’t want to even look at me” the large woman slumps against the counter sighing. Ran puts their hand on her cheek rubbing soothingly with their thumb “ Well after their shower talk to them okay? They shouldn’t have blown up and you shouldn’t have talked to them that way”

She nods stiffly and Ran tips their head to kiss her softly. They share a soft smooch before dipping away towards the bathroom. Opening the door Ran peeks their head in, the room is steamy with the lack of a fan , smells of cedar and balsam are heavy in the air. 

They slide the shower curtain open watching you as you angrily scrub your curls. 

“Hi baby” they say sweetly 

“Hello lover” you reply coldy keeping your eyes closed.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No, why would i? I’m just being too sensitive ” the word curls out of your mouth like venom.

Ran’s full lips pout “ You know she didn’t mean that baby”

“Well SHE can go fuck herself, I don’t know why she even fucking asked me to go. I’m not going to apologize for being myself and she’s not going to get me to sit like a good little dog as those Pilties spit on us!” You slam the shower off, sliding the curtain all the way open.

“No one’s asking you to do that-”

“No, but she wants me to be someone else. I'm too much of an embarrassment for her” the words are sour on your tongue and Ran looks sad “ She should’ve just taken you, You're the one working with the goddamn task force anyways”

“But I'm not a talker, not a passionate one like you anyways”

You wrap your towel around your body “ Well I’m obviously not the right kind, Maybe i should just shut up like she says-” you walk past Ran into the hall “ Or maybe i should roll over and bark too” you say louder glaring at Sevika as you walk to your room. 

As you dress in a big shirt yourself you hear stomping coming to the room and a small ‘sev’ from Ran as she blunders into your space. Sliding on your briefs you pull your arms to your chest to cross them defensively, staring up into those angry silver eyes challenging her. 

“Are you ready to talk now? Or are you just going to bitch around the house all night?” 

Ran sighs and holds their head in their hand as you explode into action. Pushing your hands against Sevikas firm chest, she stumbles back surprised by your sudden action and spilling her liquor all over her shirt. Which was still her nice work shirt you thought ,pleased.

“I'm not talking to you if you’re going to treat me like that , which i KNEW you would because you have the emotional capacity of a ROCK ” you yell. 

“Treat you like what?!  Should treat you like a fucking tyke since you’re acting like one?”

You want to hit her, you’re close to doing it but you know it won't solve anything “ If you like hearing that old bitches words so much, go fuck her and sleep in her bed instead” you spit lowly. Whipping away from her you crawl to your side of the bed and curl under the covers, slamming your head on your pillow facing away from them. Watching the wall as you listen to your partners talk. “ See “ sev hisses directing her hand to your covered shape. 

Ran looks at her incredulously “ Oh yeah they’re really gonna open up and tell you how they feel when you call them a child “ 

They slide in beside you and move some of your wet curls out of your face, warm body pressing up behind yours “ It’d be better to talk it out now, it's not good to go to sleep angry with each other”

You grit your teeth knowing they are right and your shoulders hunch in agitation. Their arm wraps around your midsection as they get closer to your face with theirs. Kissing your temple to your nose they wrapped a hand around your own clenched ones. Tilting your head to look at them they stared back with loving dark eyes squinting with a small smile. For the first time that night warmth filled your heart replacing some of the anger with love. 

They brought their lips to yours with the softening of your eyes. Soft lips caressed yours gently, hand leaving yours to cup your jaw delicately. A breath you didn’t know you were holding left through your nose as you moved closer to them. They departed from you, kissing down your jaw in a way that made your tummy burn. “You can have more once you guys talk” they griped departing your space. 

Huffing you sit up in your spot and glare at Sevika “Say what you need to say Oaf” 

She starts stomping over to the bed and reaches like she's going to choke you but is stopped by Ran’s firm hand in her chest. Ran points at you with their other hand “Stop, both of you” 

Squinting your eyes at her until she settles into a criss-cross, as she does you reach and snatch the cup out of her hands downing the rest of the harsh liquid. Smiling impishly at her as she growls and Ran leans back with an irritable look  your way. 

“You should know by now that you can’t talk to them like that! Don’t get all fucking beat up cause i called you out on it “ Sevika says angrily eyes narrowed.

“Call me out on all you want, but you’re the one who brought me there and you know I don’t back down! Why bring me there so I could act like myself all for you to turn around and say you're ashamed of me !”

You’re shaking a little bit with anger, crawling a little in front of Ran to get closer to Sevika’s face. Unwillingly angry tears crept from your eyes but you refused to blink meeting Sevika’s , now wavering, angry stare with your own. “ I’ve worked so fucking hard to stand up straight and fight for what I believe in, and for you my fucking girlfriend , to turn around and play my insecurities to get me to stand back down is fucked up. I know i should’ve simmered down but you can tell me that without making me feel like shit” 

Tears fell hard now and you back up wiping your hand roughly across your face “ I’m sorry for almost fucking it up, but my feelings are valid and i won’t feel bad about those” 

Ran looks horrified as you start to cry and Sevika blinks awkwardly, mouth opening and closing not knowing what to say first. After a moment she moves across the bed on all fours, raising her organic hand to capture your face “ I have never been ashamed of you, I shouldn’t have said what i said or how i said it” her tone is soft like velvet. She wipes your tears away and you swat her hand with a pout. 

“No you shouldn’t ‘ve” you mumble, holding your head low and away from your partners. 

She dips back onto her haunches with a sigh “ How can i make it better sweetpea?” 

“Have an actual discussion with me instead of being a mean prick” you throw at her. Ran elbows you as Sevika throws you a look.

With gritted teeth she exclaims “ that's what i'm trying to do” 

You two talk for a little with Ran sitting in the middle making sure neither of you lunge. Sev lights a cigar and you roll a joint while Ran turns on some shows for all of you to watch. Things settle , but you and Sev sleep on either side of Ran on account of them knowing that both of you were stubborn assholes. They laid with the hand draped in Sev’s hair playing with the dark locks languidly as their other rubbed cool circles in your thigh. The repetitive movement starts making you sleepy , so you get up on the bed standing to reach the dangling clicker on the light. 

A large foot tapped the back of your knee hard, making your legs bend automatically. You let out a small wail as you lost balance and tipped over, basically somersaulting off the bed, knees hitting the ground hard. Chuffing of laughter made you whip your head in anger to a pair of glittering silver eyes. She held her mouth in a bubble, smoke puffing out as she tried not to laugh at you. Standing you jumped into her lap at an alarming rate and snatched the cigar out of her hand “ You are such a BITCH ” you hiss throwing the whole cigar in a lone cup of old water on the side table.

“Guys can we just-” Ran started

You looked sternly at them “ Guys?! Shes the one who fucking started it”

Your sentence is finished with a large hand gripping your throat and a low growl in your ear. It sent a chill down the side of your neck, but it didn’t hinder your anger. You and Sevika rarely physically fought anymore especially since all three of you had started committing to each other. The itch was still there though to bruise and maim each other, one that both of you seemingly needed to scratch. 

Ran and Sevika both opened their mouths at the same time to speak, Sev to curse you and Ran to stop you seeing the fire in your brown eyes. Taking your planted knee you  harshly into the side of your girlfriend making air leave her lungs and her hand leave your neck.  You move your fist to jab at the area again but she catches it throwing it to the side. She bucks you off of her with ease making you bounce on your ass, she captures the sides of your face with one hand caging you in with the rest of her body

 “ Sure you wanna do this babe? ”

You answer with a puppy dog face , feigning defeat , when she leans in with a smile you take the chance to practice a move she showed you. Canting your head back a bit then meeting hers harshly with a crack, a sharp ‘fuck’ rings out and you cackle pointing and laughing at her. She bares her teeth and moves to hit you back, organic fist clenched and aimed at your gut. “That's enough.” Ran states harshly besides both of you. It makes you both stop, it's rare Ran ever spoke out of a pleasant tone even when they were upset. 

“Sevika, hands up on the headboard please” they cast their dark glance to the large woman. She balks and tries to say something but falters when Ran’s lips pull in a thinner line and their brows raise.  Rolling her eyes she throws your held head back harshly, moving to her upper back against the headboard and raising her hands above her head. 

“And you, between her legs now” they direct towards you moving themselves off the bed. 

“Ran-” 

“If you insist on pushing my buttons I promise you-” their threat trails off as you shuffle hurriedly between your girlfriend's thighs. Propping  yourself on your haunches and crossing your arms, you and Sevika glare daggers at each other. Ran makes their way back to the bed placing some things down then moving to stand beside Sev and tying her wrists with a thick opalescent  ribbon. 

Their hands move with such precision it makes you watch them instead of the silver orbs below. After a second they bend down and ask “How does that feel darling?”

She just grunts and nods.

“Now, I can see we have some building tension. We are going to solve this here and now and then go to sleep Peacefully ” they say, tucking a stray hair out of sev’s face then turning to look at you. 

The two of you weren’t new to Ran’s ‘lets calm down’ sessions, but it was something they were very good at and a thing they only did when both of you needed to be ‘punished’. The sessions did work well, but you hated to admit it. You draw your lips up in anger and furrow your brow as your partner rounds behind you taking in your folded arms harshly. They wrap another silky ribbon around your own wrists tuting as you flip the bird from behind. 

“What are our safe words, cuties?”

“Poison” Sev answers.

You glower and say nothing. Ran waits a beat and after a minute they straddle Sev to face you, taking their metal hand to caress your face. Leaning in to brush their plush lips against your quickening pulse point, hovering and letting soft breathes make their way up to your ear. A small baby whispers in your ear and Sevika’s eyes are burning into yours, bottom lip being furled between teeth. 

You let out a small breath is resignation “ Snake” 

They kiss below your ear gently and you can feel their smile. Leaning back onto a taut tummy they catch your eyes, looking for a second before they bring their flesh hand back and slap you harshly across the cheek. The sting in your eye makes it water and the impact makes you suck in a shaky breath “ Apologize” 

You sneer “ For what?!” 

Another smack has you reeling, heat starting to prickle down your limbs , hands flexing in their binds as the pain leaves. A whine leaves your lips as their hand soothes the area gently. They move from atop Sevika and behind you , grabbing your hair with their metal fingers tightly. They hold your head steady, dipping your body with the force of your hair hold , so you're face to face with Sev. 

She's smirking at you, with a shit eating glint in her eyes and raising her eyebrows as if to say ‘Go ahead’ 

Anger and heat roll around in your stomach, being intertwined with embarrassment as a groan leaves your lips. Ran’s hand clenching and tugging your hair painfully “Apologize” 

Their hips are pressed against your bottom , breasts hugging your back softly while their head dips to your ear. Organic hand moving to your front to glide over your plump belly , dipping softly into the front of your underwear. Sevika watched their movements like a hawk, eyes flicking back up to yours as they expanded. A small pink tip darting between dark lips, want starting to seep through her features. 

Warm fingers dip below your clothing, brushing your pubes softly making your breath hitch. Shaking your head you refused to submit, fuck Sev and her stupid stupid face. With a sharp tug of your hair and a tantalizing brush against your clit, your thighs clench with a shaky moan.

“ I - I’m sorry Sev” you say shakily. She nods slowly, trying to lean closer to you but being held tightly by the headboard. It wouldn’t be hard to break out of, but she respected Ran’s actions and only strained slightly against the restraints. 

Ran rewarded you with slow circling motion, gathering slick that started to pool onto your folds. You sucked your bottom lip in your mouth, brows pinching at the stimulation. Moving their fingers lower to shallowly dip into your entrance, only to quickly move back to their ministrations, now gliding quickly with extra wetness.  

“Now you Sevi” their voice sends chills through your brain. 

The older woman twitches below you , anticipation making her hands clench and unclench. Your eyes are half lidded now, mouth opened slightly as soft puffs of air make their way out of you. She was looking at you like she wanted to eat you, it made you crave her rough touch. 

 “I’m sorry baby” comes out like a purr, making you close your eyes, getting overstimulated by her gaze.

Your hair is released and you're pushed down into Sevikas body, cheek resting on her chest as Ran lifts your ass up. Their fingers leaving your clit make you gasp, their hands pulling your briefs down make you wriggle. Sevika is looking down at you taking in all of the small movements your face makes. You're both in a position where you can’t touch or kiss each other and with the building heat it gets increasingly frustrating. 

Her breath tickles your forehead, you can hear her heart beating faster as Ran moves behind you. Fingers dancing between your folds pushes a harsh breath from your lungs, face scrubbing against the rough material of Sevikas shirt. Your hips cant up higher trying to follow the soft touch, wanting more, and you cry out softly as the fingers leave. You're pushed up, knees going weak as a sharp crack of hand lands on your ass making you moan.  “Be patient , you’ll get what you want” Ran warns from behind, smoothing over the searing skin with a cool metal palm. 

Their strong hands move to either side of your hips, lifting you so you straddled Sevi’s midsection. Your face tucked closely to her neck where you began leaving soft bites and kitten licks. Sevika hissed turning her head to capture your lips only to be stopped by a fierce hand in her hair “ No ma’am” 

She grunts at the force in which she's pulled, neck straining and giving you more room for your lips. You look up to Ran who is looking back at you, dark eyes heavy lidded and a smirk playing sweetly on their lips, they nod for you to continue. You start by biting the taunt tendon of her neck harshly, licking over the tender spot when she bucks against you. The rub of her abdomen against your desire has your head spinning and you thank her for the stimulation by sucking a dark hickey over her collarbone.

The devouring of her neck has her squirming under you, you want to kiss her but know Ran won’t hesitate to punish you. “Behave” they say sweetly to Sev, kissing her lips gently. She follows after theirs when they leave to take position behind you again now sitting between Sevikas legs. They grab her boxers and slide them off, taking in her glistening pussy with delight. She loves watching you get punished and touched, she wouldn’t admit it outloud but she also loved when Ran took charge. They always did even when they bottomed but they were a calculated and amiable dom where sev was sporadic and sadistic. Making her bow easily to their will knowing they’d take it from her one way or another. 

Ran places a single finger gently on Sevikas cunt, teasing the dripping hole before bringing their thumb to smoosh her clit harshly. Her head hits the back of the headboard hard, a groan leaving her mouth. You bite your lip and nuzzle your way down her chest, biting the edge of her tank top to bring it under her breast. As you took her perked nipple into your mouth Ran started pushing two slender fingers into her easily. She opened beautifully for them, hips stuttering down on the intrusion. 

“F-fuck” she moaned head leaning back between her arms. You nibbled the pebbled flesh , sucking and licking the dark skin while Ran pumped into her lazily watching as your arousal dribbled onto sev’s hard ab’s. Watching you move to her other breast with hurried grace then bringing their eyes to dark irises plated with a ring of silver. They smile sweetly, pushing their fingers to the back of her cunt and rubbing with deep pressure against spongy nerves, thumb gliding cooly over her clit.

Her moan reverberated through her chest making you close your eyes and grind against the tensing muscle below.  Your cry out, unlatching from Sevika’s chest, as a warm tongue dives between your folds. A cold nose dipping into your entrance as Ran’s mouth suckels your pleasure between their lips. Their metal hand holding your thigh bruisingly makes it hard for you to push back onto them, their tongue flattening against your clit in a flick upwards . 

Your forehead sits between two warm breasts as you try and steady yourself, breathing harshly as heat collects in your core.

“S’feel good?” you hear sev ask from above you. You nod pathetically , sweat starting to build on your temple.   

“Answer properly” Ran takes their mouth from you and you whine loudly.

“Yes sir, it feels really good” you mutter looking up at her face. 

Her eyes keep yours, pulling you into some kind of spell, your head feels lighter and your eyelashes flutter. She smiles wickedly, eyebrows scrunched in pleasure as your other partner fingers her thoroughly. 

Ran makes you cum like that, slowly eating your pussy until you're shaking on top of Sevika. Their name leaving your mouth in a long moan, they hum digging their face into you as your thighs shutter against their hand. Their tongue doesn't stop though making you grit your teeth in over-stimulation , sharp pain combined with pleasure making you scramble to get away.  They finally release you with a sultry pop making you collapse wholly onto Sevikas chest. 

Sev makes a long groaning sound as they remove their fingers from her, moving to your sides “Open up” they say politely.  You turn to them and open your mouth taking in Sevika’s musky slick , the taste making your tongue happily swirl between their digits.  After a few moments they turn their wet coated face to Sevika and smile “ Clean me please” 

You watch them eyes burning into the sides of their faces as Sevika takes her time to lick and kiss all of your remnants off your partner's face. The sight makes you hungry for more, the concern of oversensitiveness from your orgasm being thrown out the window. 

They back away pleased with both of your actions, stepping away to round the bed to get something they placed there earlier. Watching them you see them work leather strips around their hips, tightening them and adjusting the ring that sits in the middle. They trade it out with a much larger one, it holds a new toy they bought not too long ago.  The piece is huge , holding two phallices instead of one, the base spreading widely covering most of the leather that shaded their pelvis. You noted the wetness that bloomed onto their underwear as the leather straps pushed against their lips tightly. 

Gathering a pillow they tucked in neatly under Sevikas hips, kiting you both higher on the bed.  They moved you back onto here until your clits brushed gently , making you moan softly into Sev’s chest. She tipped her hips to grind against you more, seeking the wet glide of your heats together. A metal hand pushes your back down so you're completely flush with Sevika, thighs spread more as Ran moves Sev's legs up, bending her knees in a way that lifts you higher. 

Your arms strain as Ran takes hold of your binds from behind, gliding one tip through  your fold gathering their spit and your release. Your head jumps just as Sevika does and you assume that Ran is doing the same to her with the other cock . The back of Ran’s knuckles brush your thighs as they grab Sevika’s, knees positioning themselves under her. They don't give either of you a warning before they start breaching your entrance with a firm snap of their hips.

The girthly length is taken greedily by you, walls constricting tightly as it has no problem reaching your end point at this angle. Your breath leaves you like you’ve been punched in the gut being quickly replaced with cut off moans as Ran doesn't hesitate to start pistioning their hips. Sevikas mouth hangs open with her eyes closed and dark brow furrowed deeply, soft fucks and Rans leaving her lips, wrists straining hard against her restraints. 

As they pound into both of you the friction from the movement sets a steady rhythm between your bodies, clits rubbing between each other. Your arms bend in pain as they push down to lean over you two better, their heavy breath cooling the sweat on the back of your neck. Wet slapping makes a rhythm timed with your high moans and Sevika’s grunting making Ran smile with effort. 

“You two look so beautiful” they state shakily “ Taking my cocks so well, so well behaved” 

The praise has you invigorated and pushing against their wicked thrust. You tilt your hips up just a little higher so you could get them to fuck you right where you wanted it. Noticing, their hand slips from your binding to the supple flesh of your hip guiding it up the way you wanted. Their sharp thrust has you seeing stars behind your eyelids, making you pant and drool “ Yes! Just like that , please!” crying as small tears leave the tips of your eyes. 

Sevika lets out a guttural groan at your words, you turn your head to catch dark eyes “Harder please, fuck me harder” 

Ran smiles, dropping your hip, grabbing both of Sevika’s legs and throwing them over their shoulder, both of you moaning at the change of position with the cocks still inside you both. She's almost folded in half with you perched on her lap, Ran wraps their arms around either outer side of her thighs gathering in the middle to hold onto your restraints tightly with both hands. Your nose is touching Sevika’s, eyes staring deeply into each other. Her eyes were lidded beautifully , scar shining making the sweat that dripped down that side glisten with a blue hue. 

“Go ahead darlings” ran says sweetly then begins to fuck into the both of you with the ferociousty of a starved man.  

“Oh f-uck” you yell the assault on your insides making your body quiver. Sevika captures your lips with a hard bite and you whine as she moans into your mouth. “I’m sorry baby, I love you so much” 

“I- ah- i love you too sevvy “ you groan into her mouth. Your tongues dance until you have to back off to take some stuttering breaths.

Ran watches the both of you, head tilting to one side in excretion , eyes dropping to your connected sexes. The image makes them groan and fuck both of you with as much as they could muster. The way both of your course hairs intertwine in curls soaked with both of your juices, the wide stretch of you both around their cocks. Sticky lines of cum and spit starting to build between all of you. Sevika’s head falls back between her arms with moans being punched out of her, the glide of your clit over hers building a hard weight in her back. 

Her legs shake fiercely on Ran’s shoulders as her orgasm is fucked out of her, making their hips stutter from the tightness of which she constricts herself around their length. “ God- fuck Ran” she growls back bending to a tight arch against you. Her hair cascades infront of her face as she puts her forehead against yours, her hot breath meeting your lips. You bite your lip and try not scream as Ran’s organic hand releases your silk to  place a now buzzing wand between your cunts. 

They fuck both of you sloppier but its more than enough as the vibrations shake your core. Sevika thrashes with the sensory overload, teeth bared as she looks into your eyes. 

Deep pressure sizzles in the base of your gut , building into something more than an orgasm. Shaking your head, small tear fall onto sev “ I - ran please , im gonna-” All they do is hum, adjusting their hips so they could push into both of you slower and focus on the position of the toy.  With one last deep push from them and a high pitched noise leaves your mouth. A white hot flash ripples down your spine, your clit being buzzed into numbness as they pull out quickly. They curse softly as your cunt flutters now empty of them, clenching around nothing as you start squirting. “That's it”  they whisper watching the hot liquid spill from you onto the wand and sevika’s own pulsing cunt. 

When they finally pull away your muscles finally release the ridged hold they had on your body, your head hangs low on Sevikas shoulder. You both settle lower as Ran removes themselves, the clinking of buckles let you know they’re taking off their strap. “Up baby” they grab your wrist and you hiss with soreness but get onto your knees and move. Taking in deep breaths between sev’s knees you watch your lovers kiss. It makes your soul thrum vividly with burning light, you wished you could crawl between them and seep into their pores.

Sevika leans in hungrily at the others touch, while delicate fingers run a small trail down her abs.

 “I'm going to untie you, and you're going to put this on okay?” they point to the discarded strap, which now you’ve noticed they have switched the toy with Sevika’s favorite. It was an average size, but the girth was almost too much. Even though you felt spent heat bubbled up into your core as you wondered if she was going to fuck you or Ran with it.  They start untying the pearly strip, casting a glance your way. They stopped and moved their finger around in a circle, indicating that you should turn around. 

Huffing you do as they say turning to face the wall that held the T.V.  , its staticy glass reflecting your disheveled state. The bowing of the bed made you jump in anticipation, eyes being caught by a now standing Ran. They walked in front of you cupping your cheek with one hand gently brushing through thick locks with the other. Strong arms wrap around your middle and pick you up making you yelp, Sev chuckles as she settles you above her lap. Perked breast press hard against your back,her head dipping down into the crook of your neck to give you a rough bite. 

Whimpering as her cock slips clumsily between your labia as she settles her knees, kissing the indentations she left. The hand in your hair tightens, turning your attention back to Ran’s cool gaze. Their mouth is hung open slightly, wet and darkened by bites, and though their face was schooled you could see the restlessness behind their eyes. With their free hand they finally pull their underwear down, a low groan leaving your mouth as built up secretion spiderwebs from their trimmed mound to their soiled briefs. 

“That's all for you baby” Sev rumbles in your ear, grinding against you “What do you say?”

She shifts you in her grasp, the tip of her cock pressing deliciously against you, while Ran guides your mouth closer to their rigid bud. Licking your lips you gaze up haughtly into their eyes “ Thank you sir”

Their lips tug in a lopsided smirk “You’re welcome baby” 

Moaning loudly as they drag you roughly by your hair and affixing your mouth to their clit. You gladly opened up, licking a hot line from their core to swirl with expertise , taking in their heady taste committing it to memory. They grunt gripping your hair tighter, pulling you until your nose is flush with coarse dark hairs. You get lost in the rhythm of their stuttered breaths, pursing your lips to better suck on their desire, preening as they let a quiet moan leave their lips. 

You forgot sevika held you until your walls tensed as she started to enter you, a startled groan making Ran’s thighs quiver from titillation. Sevika kissed and bit the span of your shoulders, slowly stretching you out on her cock , whispering dirty nothings into your ear. When she bottoms out Ran spreads their legs more, planting their feet firmly into your comforter. You hum into them feeling raw and used , but  also feeling held and worshiped. The way they look at you makes your heart stutter, your eyelashes fanning down as you nuzzle your face as close as you can.

Seeing you ravage their sex passionately Sevika growls, squeezing her arms around you and balancing her knees, she fucks into you. The impact of her vicious thrust causes your face to grind against Ran's heat at a brutal pace. They start letting out consistent moans of pleasure and your scalp feels like it's on fire as they double down on their grip. 

“God- you take cock like a slut” Sevi hissed. Bringing her organic hand down to spread your lips and rub against the sensitive bud that awaited her. Her pace is brutal and sloppy ,but it's no less effective and you sob shallowly into Ran’s cunt. Their smooth composure cracking as they closed in on their own release, mouth whispering praise. ‘So good’ 

‘Just like that’

‘Taking us so well’

“Look at me” they growl. With lots of effort you opened your scrunched eyes meeting dark orbs that almost vibrated from your attention. You look pitiful below them, most of your face glistening from the powerful face riding Sevika is pummeling you into.  Her eyes are on theirs too, breath almost whistling through gapped teeth from effort . Her large frame covering your back, shoulders jumping as she hugs you down onto her thrust. When tears start brimming your eyes Ran’s face grimaced exquisitely, their hair falling in their face as they arched into you. A beautiful chime of a moan rolls through them, and you worship their clit as their orgasm ripped through their body.

They pull you off of them a sultry snicker leaving them as your sounds become unmuffled by them. Loud and punctuated ‘ahs’ and ‘fucks’ floundering out of a gaping mouth, your head hanging low as they released your hair. Dropping to their knees they cup your moist face smiling at your unfocused eyes, placing a tender kiss to your swollen lips. You let out a small hiccup of a sob, all of your nerves on fire , tears dripping onto the sheets as Sevika doesn’t let up. 

You break the kiss suddenly, head slamming on to  Ran’s shoulder shaking it back and forth as your third orgasm is pulled out of you.  Shoulders shaking with meager wail as Sevika slows and helps you ride out the final tremors of pleasure. When she finally stops, she's fully seated inside you kissing softly down your jaw and back to your forehead. Ran rubs soothing circles into your tear stained cheek smoothly and brings your head to their chest. 

After a minute of catching your breath Sev rubs your tummy “ I'm gonna pull out now okay?” 

Nodding your head as it's held you whine as the large piece slips out of you. Sliding back now that your free Ran pulls you down so your face lays on the bed and they start untying your wrist, massaging the worked flesh as they go. Grumbling a thank you against the sheets as you roll your wrists in freedom , thankful for the final relaxation of your muscle. You Are rotated and gathered in one swift motion by them, being held in a princess fashion as they scoot of the bed. 

Your head is feeling heavier by the second, sleep calling your name, but you resist as they walk both of you into the bathroom, Sevika following behind. You all shower together, it's intimate and slow, taking the time to properly clean and take care of each other. Afterwards Sevika stands, arms wrapped around you as you make the three of you a post orgasm snack while Ran finishes changing the sheets. 

They make grabby hands at the two of you when you walk back in, making your heart flutter and a blush touch your cheeks. It was easy for your limbs to intermingle as the three of you cuddled close to each other. Now taking the middle spot of the bed you doze quickly off laying your head on Sevika’s lap. She plays with your hair lazily  as her and Ran share the final cigarillo of the night.  Ran’s hand lays intertwined with yours as their arms stretches over your side, small kisses being placed on your temple. 

“Love you” you mumble sleepily 

“I love you too” they smile against your skin. 

The smell of sweet smoke and the embrace of your lovers quickly coax you into gentle sleep. 

[alicentsgf]

i think people tend to stumble into investing emotionally in tragedies without being fully prepared for it because an important element is that they dont start off tragic. Obviously. so you can be in too deep before you realise how bad its gonna get

the core element of tragedy is that it gradually reveals the inability of flawed characters to escape causing their own inevitable downfall. Yellowjackets is a tragedy and it always has been. more people will die, probably most of the survivors, if not all of them. and they will commit some truly heinous crimes along the way. i need everyone to be okay with this because i love the fan culture thats been built around this show (like fuck you guys are so funny and creative??), and i really dont want to see this become another space full of people who are angry and jaded because they refuse to accept the genre of the thing they love. if you love the characters and the tragic element becomes too much thats absolutely fine i totally get it and everyones allowed their own space to vent and share their opinions, but just remember its a feature of the genre, not a fault.

Van is probably also going to die this season, and if not that soon then probably in season 4. sorry i love her too, but the stage is set for it, there are so many signs. when that happens i need fans of the show to remember the genre of the story they're invested in and accept it as part of the journey. please believe me, i also very much wish we'd got more adult lottie and i totally feel for simone wanting to stay, but her death was not "just for shock value". i called it ages ago and so did others because it makes sense. Lotties individual arc in the story (to bring the other characters back together, back to the wilderness, and spark callies curiosity) has come to a natural end. and now we can begin to see the potential her death has to change the trajectory of every other main characters season. it could also propel callie (who is due some major character evolution imo) in some really interesting directions.

Besides. even if it hadnt happened right now, eventually it had to. this always had to be lotties ending because its what this story holds for every single character. every death confronts the audience with the idea of testing your faith and it failing you - for most their faith is in a friend or a belief system, or both (in travis' case). so yes, lottie dying like this was pretty inevitable.

[i-cant-sing]

Just thinking about Yandere Todoroki clan and reader's random moments.

Reader coming home after a particularly bad day, but poor girl cant even cry or complain without everyone immediately overreacting and pulling you out of school/college or even keeping you from going out at all. So now, reader has to either cry in self pity before she enters her home, wipe her tears and fix herself just enough to show that she hadnt just bawled her eyes out moments ago. That, or do the more risky thing and go home, go to your room and cry under the covers, but then theres always the chance of Rei or the others walking in on you any moment.

Also thinking about baby/toddler reader being sick, just a common cold or flu, nothing major. But with reader whining and being so young, the family's infantalisation goes through the roof and theyd treat you as if you were immunocompromised. I wont lie, but I think Rei is almost kinda... glad when you get sick? She enjoys you being dependant on her for the most things, even when you grow up and are able to handle a cold, she still deludes herself into thinking that you need mommy to come and help you.

I think the one person who is most affected by reader getting sick, no matter what age, is Enji. The man just cant help but view you as a fragile, starving Victorian child the moment you fall ill. In his eyes, even a harsh blow of air is too much for a fragile thing like you, let alone something as bad as the flu. He just- he's holding toddler reader in his arms, who snuggles into his warm body, your tiny nose pink and he cant get the image of you crying and vomiting and being oh so feverish- thats just way too much for your small body. Oh how he almost cried when he took you to the doctor for a shot and you clung to him, trying to bury yourself into him as you begged him to make you feel better, cried to him that you didnt want to get the "big scary needle!" He just had to hold you there in his firm grip as you writhed, had to look away when you looked at him and he saw the feeling of betrayal in your eyes, had to keep himself from not strangling the fucking doctor for not being careful, had to walk out of the clinic and hand you to Rei because he couldnt hear you cry anymore, had to have Rei console both you and Enji (assuring him that "no, Enji. Y/n doesnt resent you for making her get a shot.") and he couldnt even sleep a wink that night because he was standing by your bed, holding your tiny hand with his pinky as a tear finally slipped out of his eye.

ALSO thinking about adult reader going out of the house to meet up with friends, except shes meeting up with them at a club instead of at their house like she told Enji and Rei, and now shes standing outside, abandoned by said friends, and shes now running because a group of pervy men are chasing her and she doesnt know who to call, so she just speed dials Shotou, except someone just changed all your speed dials to one number, and you think youre doomed when Shotou doesnt say a word to you and just hangs up when within minutes, someone comes in front of you-

"Dabi?" He tells you to cover your ears and look away, and you know well by know what that means, so you obey, feeling a bit regretful as those men begin to scream in agony. You dont know how long its been until Dabi pulls your hands away and examines your wounds. He lets you crash into his chest as you sob, and this time, Dabi simply decides to take you home quietly without a lecture.

Hmmm, also thinking about Natsuo who is usually cool as a cucumber, the most normal being in the family, except for his very rare episodes of unbridled rage where he suddenly becomes the Hulk. Good thing for you is that this anger is never directed towards you, rather towards people who actively threaten your life (except Rei cause she gets to play "Im your mom who became mentally unstable because of your abusive dad") The only time NAtsuo is stern with you is when it comes to your health. He's just looking at you with those strict eyes when you refuse to take your multivitamins, or dont want to get a flu shot, or try to make up an excuse so that he cant check your vitals. And when he just grabs your wrist and pulls you to sit down so that he can do his checkup, its in those moments that you realise just how strong your brother is... and how easy it may be for him to overpower you and sedate you if he ever followed through Rei's threats.