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theonlyqualitytrash · 1 month ago

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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

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