#Also Soviet is blushing

[zstartrixxx]

𝕻𝐈𝐄𝐑𝐑𝐎𝐓&𝕬𝐑𝐋𝐄𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐍𝐎

ᵖᶦᵉʳʳᵒᵗꜝʳᵉᵐᵐᶦᶜᵏ ˣ ᶠᵉᵐꜝʳᵉᵃᵈᵉʳꜝᵃʳˡᵉᵏᵏᶦⁿᵒ

𝐑𝐄𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐒𝐓: 𝐘𝐄𝐒 | 𝐍𝐎

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: Russia, 1918. As the proletarian revolution rages outside, life inside a traveling circus pulses with its own rhythm. For Remmick, a vampire who arrived there because of you, this moment is thick with anticipation before their Moscow performance. Meanwhile, you find yourself caught in a spiral of small events pushing you toward an irreversible decision. In your customs, you are more than just people—well, at least one human and one vampire—playing roles. He is Pierrot, and you are his Arlekinno. 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒: i just wanted to write and i listened to myself and wrote this nonsense. this is my trashy-fun-fanfiction in celebration of 300 million followers, so thank you from the bottom of my heart to everything. there is a lot of love involved in it because i have been passionate about russian history (especially the soviet union) since i studied contemporary history I and II in my history course, so… yk lol 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: +18 ADULT CONTENT. very alternative universe, sorry if it doesn't follow the original character-script of the movie. angst, hurt/comfort, lil bit of fluffy, established relationship, circus, all be in family, historical quotes, soviet union mentioned (as hours are set in that time), terms in russian and gaelic (google translator + google itself required), pierrot!remmick, arlekinno!fem!reader; smut (pussy rubbing e p in v), dirty languague. cry-for-this-pussy!remmick, cry-for-the-reader!remmick. i think here i pictured a almost melancholic-sonofabitch-needy millennial vampire but it's makes some sense. there is the use of two different aesthetic font formats: for the theatrical scenes, the typerwrite/chat font was used and for the rest of the text, the regular font. 𝐖𝐂: +10k for whoever is going to read it, a great read! <3 likes, reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated :) and if you liked this type of fanfic and want me to write something in another type of more historical setting, just give me the coordinates and i'll do it for the next celebration, i hope!!! <3

𝖱𝖤𝖬𝖬𝖨𝖢𝖪 𝖯𝖫𝖠𝖸𝖫𝖨𝖲𝖳 | 𝖬𝖠𝖲𝖳𝖤𝖱𝖫𝖨𝖲𝖳 | 𝖯𝖨𝖤𝖱𝖱𝖮𝖳 & 𝖧𝖨𝖲 𝖠𝖱𝖫𝖤𝖪𝖨𝖭𝖭𝖮 𝖯𝖫𝖠𝖸𝖫𝖨𝖲𝖳

“it gets harder for me to make you laugh with years, i'm not a jester at the king's throne! i'm hamlet in the madness of passions. which god plays for himself, everything seems—i'll take off the mask! but my tears are invisible to anyone... well, what, i'm arlekkino, apparently not bad!" (arlekino, alla pugacheva)

𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐈𝐍 𝐑𝐔𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐀, 𝐂𝐔𝐑𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐋𝐘 𝐒𝐎𝐕𝐈𝐄𝐓 𝐔𝐍𝐈𝐎𝐍.

THE REVOLUTION ACCORDING TO PIERROT

Drama. Three acts. 66 pages.

CHARACTERS:

PIERROT: His makeup consists of a face painted white, with thick eyebrows nearly meeting in an expression of deep sorrow, painted black; his mouth may also be painted black. There are two variations of his costume: either a silk set with a wide blouse adorned with pom-poms on the front and a collar around the neck made of white tulle with black details, paired with loose-fitting pants and black shoes — or the inverse variation.

ARLEKINNO: Wears lighter makeup, the face painted white with a contrasting blush on the cheeks; lips painted red. His costume consists of a jumpsuit with stitched diamond patterns, ballet pointe shoes, and a red balaclava with two tips like horns, with bells attached to their ends. The alternate costume is a red ballet outfit.

KOLOMBINA: She is a metaphor. Pierrot’s projection of freedom, union, the communion of human beings with himself.

ACT I

EXT. FOREST OF FOOLS. DUSK.

PIERROT sits atop a small rock, one hand cradling his face in an expression of desolation, while the other holds his small banjo, staring into nothingness (audience).

SOUND: Behind him, small bells chime as the rustling of dry leaves grows louder, accompanied by a playful symphony of violins and accordion.

PIERROT

(sad)

Who dares disturb my sorrow?

UNKNOWN

(sarcastic)

And you still ask, Pierrot!?

PIERROT

(startled, looking over his shoulder, sharp gaze)

(stunned, PIERROT stands, pointing the banjo at the figure now beside him)

You!? How dare you show your shameless face after stealing my Kolombina from me!?

PIERROT

(shouting)

Arlekinno, either you leave me alone or I—

ARLEKINNO

(sarcastic, arms behind his shoulders, leaning forward)

Or I might just volunteer to take a beating from you! Pierrot, you know you couldn't even hit a fly... let alone little ol' me!?

PIERROT recoils, pulling the banjo to his chest, his expression growing even more mournful. ARLEKINNO begins to laugh, raises his hands to reveal the staff he carries, and starts hopping forward, brandishing it at PIERROT who...

"Stop! Stop! Wait..."

"Hmm, what did I do wrong now, Remmick!?" You immediately drop Arlekinno's mischievous posture, your sly expression shifting to one of confusion, frustration leaking from the corners of your eyes that squinted in the warm light of the small tent you shared through nights and dawns for rehearsals. The scent of earth mixed with rice powder, Remmick's cinnamon-and-copper perfume dulling your senses, provoking a certain ecstasy with its comforting aroma, while you sweated under the vibrant red velvet jumpsuit of the rogue clown, from the tips of the forked cap like two fallen horns, the small bells tinkling softly as you stood, clutching the staff to your chest. Strands of hair escaped the cap, stuck to your sweaty skin in contrast to the austere neatness of the man who pursed his lips, his thick eyebrows painted like two broken twigs giving him the saddest possible expression as they furrowed while he paced restlessly, dust rising around his feet clad in those clown shoes with little black pom-poms. He wore only Pierrot's pants and a simple shirt on his torso.

Your eyes followed the man's movements—the ripple of back muscles, biceps flexing as he raised his arms above his head, the gold chain gleaming faintly under that light, twisting at his nape. You stood there, frozen in place, trying to read him through your sleep-heavy eyes, wondering if perhaps your lethargy displeased him, only to be met with his outburst, a twist of his feet, spinning toward you, his voice now calmer for you:

"My Záyka (Little Rabbit), you were perfect as always... The problem is with me," he gave you a bitter smile, holding his banjo as if it were an extension of his body: "I just can't find the right voice for my Pierrot."

"I don't understand, Remmy—" you began with a gentle smile, approaching him with ballerina steps: on the tips of your red-painted pointe shoes, your movements as soft as a feather in the air, your right hand rising to cup his chin, tilting it up to meet his gaze, those dilated pupils consuming the turbulent anise sea of his eyes. "—I'm absolutely certain we'll crush this play, because if there's one thing you're good at, it's creating and telling stories like no one else. Don't fear the Reds or even our comrades, everyone will embrace this play..." You offered a tight smile, your fingers pressing into his chin, feeling the velvety texture of the paint mixed with rice powder. "...besides, you're an exceptional actor. You are Pierrot."

Remmick seemed deeply moved, almost exalted by these words of affirmation—especially when they came from your lips, painted cherry-red, highlighting the slight yellowing of his teeth from too much coffee and tobacco—yet still beautiful in his eyes. If I could breathe, I'd be sighing for her, he often thought when warmed by your smiles—even the most mischievous ones, Arlekinno in flesh and blood before him. Smirking, his canine slowly exposed, a crimson spark flashing through his eyes:

"My dear, you are the perfect Arlekinno for me!"

He joked affectionately.

He returned the gesture, his hand still on your chin: his palm was larger, somewhat calloused and cold against your warm, sweat-damp skin, a brush of skin against skin that sent shivers down your spine. Your eyes spoke to each other—your soul a vibrant red against his opaque blue. The ghost of a man who existed centuries ago in contact with the emerging pulse of a fresh, living soul. Your breath grew almost impossible to catch, your lips parting subtly in reflex, your bodies drawn together as if by magnetism or fate, your eyes closing for a pleasurable slumber where the dream would be to kiss him—

"Hey, hope I'm not interrupting you two—" A noisy interruption tore you apart as you both turned to face Bo in the tent's flap-door, a cigarette tucked behind his ear, a near-smug smile on his lips: "—but Dym (Smoke) says the caravans leave for Moscow at sunrise, so we'd better pack up unless we want three days and two nights of pure hunger." He clicked his tongue, winked at you, then shot Remmick a luminous amber-pearl glance before vanishing like a shadow from the tent.

When you were alone again, the harmony that had connected you slipped through the seams of the canvas, carried down the road, leaving you with that hollow feeling that something might have happened. Turning to face Remmick, you couldn't suppress a smirk at how ironic it was that this dramatic, pitiful makeup suited the nature of this creature, who didn't even need to exaggerately arch his brows to plead or lament. When he looked at you this time, it was with resignation—almost a blue tinge at the edges of the crimson rising in his irises, a sadness he swallowed, his murmured words filling you:

"That's my cue, Záyka (Little Rabbit). Now I must bid farewell to this performance, for duty calls!" In a theatrical tone, he bowed deeply: legs bent, arm muscles rippling across his torso, lifting his head to cast you one last lamenting glance. You smiled, nodding, listening to the familiar voices growing behind you.

"Remmick, don't dawdle, you tormoz (slowpoke)! We're starving!" came Stack’'s bold, gruff voice, followed by a chorus of giggles. Remmick rolled his eyes, handing you his beloved banjo:

"Keep it for me, my angel. I'll return when the moon sets and the sun rises..." He began walking slowly, as if forced, a weight in his steps as he left the tent, followed by your tired eyes and pale face, every subtle movement of your head making the bells chime a farewell song. He turned back to you, his smile sincere, full of sharp fangs that protruded—but you weren't afraid of them; on the contrary, it was a kind of admiration, like coveting a beautiful ceramic game piece, always seeing him with eyes full of mischief—asking:

"Wish me a good hunt?"

"Good hunt, Rem."

You winked at him, raising the banjo.

Almost like a secret sign between you two—because it meant a part of him was in your hands.

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The naturalness of things sometimes frightened you.

How on earth had you grown so accustomed to living not just with one, but several vampires, in a state of complete community and communion? Well, admittedly, it had all started because of you—once, it was your voice, your art, that caught the attention of the vampire creator—which led to this exact moment where, restless, between sleeplessness and racing thoughts, you found yourself pondering. Staring at the dark ceiling of your tent, listening to the canvas flapping in the night wind, your feet aching from hours of rehearsals wouldn't stop throbbing and shifting under the blanket, your hands clasped as if in prayer, your lips trembling with reflections flashing before your eyes:

'Remmick appeared like a shadow in the audience and stayed. Then that shadow grew, made a blood pact, and possessed those who wanted to join his cause... And so the community emerged—The Family—and I was so immersed that before I knew it, I was dancing with the vampire who promised me the kiss of eternity... If I wanted it. And we live off plays, dances, music... The sex is very good, but sometimes I feel he's afraid of hurting me—Stack seemed to grow braver after dying and wandering as one of them; Mary too. Now Bo was seduced by eternity, while Grace, like me, refused the offer. And what an offer! The temptation I live with every day... Nights without him are colder, even sleeping beside a body that doesn't even sweat. But he always weeps his love for me... Oh, God, if You exist, let this performance in Moscow be a success. For us, for the poor creature You condemned, for The Family!'

A stream of thoughts that collided and diverged, stealing precious sleep.

Your words were muffled by the growing noises outside—intertwining with the wind's song and the hoots of owls or wolves in the distance— swelling into a symphony. Laughter crossed with disjointed phrases, someone imitating a wolf's howl, bursts of guffaws, shadows projecting around your tent. The footsteps grew heavier, gradually fading. Your heart raced frantically knowing they had arrived. Closing your eyes, you could visualize Remmick returning to his tent, bathing in his wooden tub with prepared water, scrubbing away dried blood, submerging in that icy water for minutes, then dressing and slipping into his resting place: a trunk large enough to serve as a coffin—easy to carry and inconspicuous when boarding trains. It was padded inside with cotton stuffing and silk, even had a genuine goose-down pillow, and always carried the pleasant scent of wild jasmine mixed with talcum powder and whiskey, an eccentric combination that pleased the vampire's olfactory senses.

When imagining him undressed, your memories took you back to that first night when Remmick in his Pierrot costume made you an offer: 'Come sleep in my tent.' Simple, polished, with no frills to his desires. He was euphoric after the successful performance for a small audience in Omsk, his red eyes glowing at you; that night as you presented yourself nude to the man, shedding your Arlekinno persona to give yourself wholly to him, you swore with all the fear in your being that he would devour you immediately. Yet Remmick restrained himself, even as he lay atop you, inside you, filling you completely with legitimate carnality, the chill of his body contrasting with your warmth, making you shiver and ache with pleasure, slowly entangled on his narrow single mattress, sheets tangled at your feet, his movements so agonizingly slow it was torture—your arms pulling him closer, feeling his gold chain lightly brush your neck—when he stopped. He looked at you, the smeared makeup of the sad clown still on his face, the arched eyebrows now blurred, his lips messy from your kisses; he laughed, a trickle of saliva escaping the corner of his mouth which you caught with your fingers, your breath ragged under his weight—'What?', 'I'm just admiring you.', 'Fool!', 'I am...' He laughed deeply, kissing your cheek with a primal tenderness, then dragged the tip of his nose down to your neck where he kissed you lazily before resuming the slow roll of his hips, filling you completely in that rhythmic sway of bodies, groaning hoarsely against the pulse of blood beneath your skin, murmuring almost tearfully: 'Just a little drop, my Arlekinno! Just a little drop of red to color this blue Pierrot!' he teased.

When suddenly you felt an icy breeze touch your face, the creak of metal, warmth radiating toward you... Opening your eyelids, there he stood in sleepwear—black cotton pants, a button-up silk shirt stolen from Bo, feet clad in white slippers—holding an iron lamp that cast a fragile pale yellow-orange glow on your faces. His remained more immersed in shadow, except for the gleam of his bat-like eyes in the night—a dull, almost sanguine red—smiling. You could see the little creases in his cheeks.

“What is it, Rem”' you whispered, feigning a yawn, rubbing an eye, sitting up slightly, propping your back against the two pillows behind you. The man approached, crouching to face you directly, finally revealing his clean-shaven face under the light, without a single trace of dried blood, his voice a murmur:

“Can I sleep with you tonight?”

“Here...?” you furrowed your brows, gesturing to the bed, then glancing at the still-dark blue sky through the tent flap—perhaps three in the morning—before returning your attention to the man who nodded:

“Of course. Where else would I sleep with you? Unless you join me in my coffin—”

“'Not a chance!” you snapped. He opened his mouth in that nearly explosive laugh, stood up in one motion leaving the lamp atop some of your books piled at the foot of the bed before casually swinging his legs over your body, settling into the space between you and the canvas, curling up against you like a frightened child. You lay immersed in the orchestra of that cold night: the dew, the owls' calls, a pack's howling, distant voices... As if reading your mind, with his head resting on your shoulder, Remmick said:

“While we were hunting... Stack let slip that Smoke wants to expand the company's operations, perhaps secure some Party sponsorship to tour the country, maybe even go abroad…”

“And that's what's frightening you? I mean, you have that shared mind thing, right? So you already knew…” you whispered back, still staring at the ceiling. You felt weight on your hand—the vampire's hand covering yours, squeezing lightly:

“Yes, yes... But it's not that simple. I'm just afraid this civil war will continue and they'll end up discovering us.”

“You mean you vampires?” you finally looked at him, now nose to nose, his icy breath enveloping your warmth. Remmick's eyes were teary, the blue of his sadness expanding as he began tracing random patterns on your hand:

“Am I wrong to fear for our existence!? I've seen so much in my time as a vampire, wandering through revolutions and transgressions, changes and progress—man is capable of anything, my love. Anything. I wouldn't be surprised if this proletarian revolution fractures and we end up screwed…”

“Remmy…” your voice was an arrow that struck him, the vampire raising his brows almost helplessly at you:

“None of that will happen. No matter what, I'm by your side. Always.” You winked at him, nestling better into the bed, fitting yourself even closer against him:

“Until I die…”

Your voice faded as the vampire clutched your hand with a strange dread creeping over him—strange because for him, a monster who had learned to wear human disguise to live comfortably, feeling too small knowing that sooner or later your life would end while he remained rooted to that earth, waiting. For what? The end of an existence perhaps, a sudden death, or a miracle that would place you eternally by his side. Can a heart that no longer beats weep tears of blood and anguish for a mortal love—so fragile, so finite?

A silent crimson tear stained his pale cheek as he watched you succumb to the mortal sleep he had long forgotten.

🃜🃚🃖🃁🂭🂺 🃜🃚🃖🃁🂭🂺 🃜🃚🃖🃁🂭🂺 🃜🃚🃖🃁🂭🂺

��𝟒 𝐎𝐂𝐓𝐎𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝟏𝟗𝟏𝟖.

People queued as drum music echoed through Moscow's spacious streets, waving red flags excitedly alongside the itinerant circus parade promoting its arrival with colorful blue, red and yellow posters. Among civilians, Red Army soldiers in military-green coats, black galoshes and communist-insignia caps watched curiously as the procession passed—like a Venetian Carnival with nobles and clowns jumping about. Grace and Lisa handed out leaflets, spotting fellow countrymen, while Smoke puffed his pipe proudly at the crowd's reception, Annie carrying their daughter nearby, ever vigilant.

You, dressed as Arlekinno, performed small acrobatics with your staff, the bells on your cap tinkling with each movement, rising en pointe to pirouette, enchanting children who reached for you like an idol. The caravan of cars and wagons rolled past the Kremlin toward a green area to set up camp—with important members hidden from the sun; almost comical knowing that beneath one horse-drawn wagon pulled by Delta, Remmick and Bo Chow slept deeply in their coffins, while in another pulled by cousin Samuel, cousin Elias slept with Mary, the two like Shakespearean lovers in premature death, united even in slumber.

Elijah suddenly stopped, signaling the procession to halt. Turning with the arrogance of one anticipating great success, he announced loudly:

“Dorogiye zriteli, ot mala do velika! (Dear audience, young and old!), I present to you the Circus Fumo&Fuliggine! (Circus Smoke&Stack) Russia's finest traveling circus! All are welcome at our opening tomorrow at dusk!”

Amid applause, Smoke gestured and the parade resumed through Moscow's streets toward their encampment. The winds whispered to you that this would be a magnificent beginning. And with each heartbeat, you willed the sleeping vampire to feel your exhilaration radiating toward him.

In his deathlike sleep, rocked gently by the wagon's motion, Remmick smiled faintly.

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Crates were being unloaded, family members coming and going, Annie tending to her daughter while Elijah observed everything with an analytical gaze. They were in a green area, a small hill about thirty minutes from the big city—Moscow rose in a colossal panorama, the splendid towers of the Moscow Kremlin visible, the massive concrete buildings like a stone jungle contrasting with the liberating feeling of that field, far from the clamor of people. In that small cosmos, you sat atop Remmick's bed-coffin-box, the clown cap in your hands, lost in thought. Kicking lightly at the grass with the tip of your ballet slipper, one leg propped on the surface, when you placed your hand to support your body on the polished wood, you felt a faint vibration beneath your palm—almost as if the vampire sensed you and pressed his hand against the lid from inside. Breathing that pure air, you heard Delta's excited shouts to Samuel as they hauled the upright piano up the ramp to the main tent, already set up in its slightly yellowed white and red colors. Atop the three peaks, a golden star glimmered under the sun.

Looking up, you felt a pang of anguish... The same sun that warmed you harmlessly was malignant to those weakened by its light—poor murderous creatures thirsting for human blood, condemned to a life in darkness.

It was almost ironic—you under the sun with that vampire hidden in his sun-proof box, both sharing the same space. You breathing pure, fresh air, grass and upturned earth while he, with his sensitive olfactory sense, was immersed in the scent of his own confinement. Life was sometimes so bittersweet. Sugar atop a lemon slice, dissolving beneath your tongue. Unconsciously, your hand slid across the wood, caressing the surface as if stroking Remmick himself.

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"I've witnessed every kind of popular revolt," Remmick's deep voice filled the room where the entire family was gathered around the large table used for meals. "Wars between kingdoms, monarchs losing their heads... Literally." Seated in a blue velvet armchair that served as both his favorite seat and a stage prop, Remmick had his arms possessively around you as you sat on the chair's armrest. He stroked your dark hair while smiling affectionately, his blue eyes flashing as memories assailed him.

"And what good was witnessing the Bastille's fall or the English Revolution if you never picked up a carbine to fight alongside humans, man?" Elias's sharp voice came from across the room, briefly silencing the overlapping chatter and Samuel's guitar playing in the corner, where Pearline sat at his feet admiring him. Sparks flew as Remmick stared intensely at Smoke, the air between them growing thick enough to slice with a knife. The vampires exchanged glances. You studied Remmick's profile—his prominent features expressing something beyond human comprehension. Or rather, beyond your ability to read. But why worry about vampiric matters when such morbid beauty sat beside you? His nose was perfectly curved, his forehead lined with expressions immortalized in his immortality, fine wrinkles revealing the age at which he'd been turned—you'd never discussed it, but he'd clearly been transformed in his late twenties or early thirties. Full yet narrow lips, a thin stubble that grew daily—just as he kept his thick, soft hair trimmed short, dark between deep brown and near-black.

And his eyes... The epitome of that sad clown: so blue that all the sorrow he needed for his Pierrot character was already there whenever he raised them to pale stage lights.

Remmick licked his lips, breaking the silence between humans and vampires after several seconds:

"You think you can read me completely, Elias, but don't forget I was the one who made you. There are things so hidden within me they're impossible to access... But regarding this—" His smile widened, nearly diabolical, a feral glint flashing across his typically passive expression: "—I've tasted the dried blood of Marie Antoinette on my fingertips and tongue; I've walked English fields with great pleasure, I might add, while men perished for the futile breaking of absolutism. I followed all those philosophers, from Robespierre and the Jacobins to the rise of Durkheim, Hegel, Kant... Marx and Engels... Don't presume to tell me what I did or didn't do on this vampiric road."

"Hey man, I was just messing with you! Where's your sense of humor, huh? Did the Reds steal it?" Elias raised his hands sarcastically. Mary giggled, as did you—she sat beside her partner, her eyes gleaming that same opaque blue as Remmick's returned to their natural color. Your hand now stroked his back, Stackhing him:

"I'm perfectly calm, Dym. You just don't realize how... inspired this makes me."

"Inspired how, Remmick? By civil war chaos?" Annie's voice held disbelief as she judged him. You knew she'd been the first to vehemently oppose the vampire's presence in their troupe, claiming her tarot cards didn't lie—until Remmick offered rubles and glory, and the twins immediately made their deal with the devil.

And so you sat in this strange communion—vampires alongside humans drinking beer and vodka while the undead quenched their thirst with animal blood, tobacco, and mulled wine. The vampire stared at Annie, lips parting slightly, some unspoken hostility clearly agitating him:

"Look, I want no discord among us, moya sem'ya (my family). What I mean—" He raised an index finger, eyes wide: "—is that this growing communal spirit in the fields inspires me. I understand these people, your people, wanting to return to an absolute primordial communion—what our ancestors knew before human selfishness corrupted everything. As a wandering vampire, I only ever wanted family." He clasped his hands together emphatically: "Friendship. Family. Love. Everything this new revolution preaches."

"Preaches," Elijah muttered from his corner, rolling a cigarette. Remmick arched a brow at him as you studied the circus owner curiously:

"It's easy to promise mountains and rivers from a podium. But making it work? An economy needs capital. A business needs money... If we bring these liberal ideas without material foundations into our family, Remmick, we'll end up on the streets."

"That won't happen, Smoke," Remmick clicked his tongue, leaning back with a roguish smile as he crossed his legs: "I've already secured more than enough for our success."

"Good."

Elijah exhaled sharply, lighting his cigarette. Your fingernail traced a line from Remmick's right shoulder to his left, leaving a faint crimson scratch on his marble-pale skin. Though smiling, the vampire had been genuinely affected by the exchange. The mood had soured, that metallic stench of curdled wine clinging to the air—the scent of a vampire restraining his rage.

🃜🃚🃖🃁🂭🂺 🃜🃚🃖🃁🂭🂺 🃜🃚🃖🃁🂭🂺 🃜🃚🃖🃁🂭🂺

That night, Remmick retreated straight to his tent. He sealed himself inside his coffin, ignoring calls to feed properly. Bo stood with you before the closed lid, trying to reason:

"Come on, friend... If you don't hunt tonight, you'll be unstable by tomorrow's performance—"

"I fed today," came the muffled, curt reply. You rolled your eyes at Bo's pleading look. With an exasperated sigh, you tried:

"Remmy, listen to him. Animal blood won't sustain you through—"

"No."

"Well Bo, he's a big boy," you snapped, Arlekinno's devil-may-care tone slipping out. "If he wants to starve, let him." Bo chuckled incredulously as silence answered from the coffin.

With a shrug, Bo turned away:

"Your funeral, comrade. I'm heading out."

"Me too." Yet you lingered, staring at the dark polished wood as if will alone might open it. The black-and-white checkered tent flapped in the icy wind, revealing Remmick's spartan quarters—just the coffin, two suitcases, and the wooden soaking tub in the corner, its soapy water covered with cloth.

Nothing stirred. Not a whisper. Only that terrible silence between you.

Giving up, you stomped to your own tent and threw yourself onto the squeaky bed, squeezing your eyes shut against the strange sorrow weighing your heart.

🃜🃚🃖🃁🂭🂺 🃜🃚🃖🃁🂭🂺 🃜🃚🃖🃁🂭🂺 🃜🃚🃖🃁🂭🂺

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐀𝐘 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐖. 𝐎𝐂𝐓𝐎𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝟐𝟓, 𝟏𝟗𝟏𝟖.

The noise of the gathering crowd outside mixed with the frantic backstage activity. You tried to keep up with everything happening around you, but exhaustion weighed heavily on your shoulders—you hadn't slept a wink, haunted by that strange melancholy that had followed you from Remmick's coffin to your own bed.

He stood in his corner now, in the makeshift dressing area near the stage, surrounded by vanity tables with fixed bulbs illuminating foggy mirrors. Grace and Lisa moved between performers, helping with costumes and makeup. Your face was already painted white with rosy cheeks, wearing the diamond-patterned Pierrot jumpsuit—its black silk details perfectly fitted to your body. All that remained was to tie the worn ballet slippers around your already bandaged feet and put on the cap.

Remmick couldn't see himself in a traditional mirror. The solution had been to polish a chrome surface until it provided enough reflection for him to apply his own makeup, albeit blurry. Yet he still asked for your help to outline his eyebrows and paint the solitary tear on his cheek, always whispering: "The left side, where the heart resides", as if your hands hadn't traced that teardrop shape a thousand times before, like a painter perfecting the same brushstroke until it becomes instinct.

When you caught his gaze over your shoulder, Remmick shot you an intensely serious look. He held the brush loaded with black paint, carefully outlining Pierrot's sorrowful expression. Now a nervous, troubled Pierrot stared back at you, while you stood there merely dressed as a masked Arlekinno.

Bo appeared like a shadow beside Samuel, who already wore his Phantom of the Opera costume—elegant black tailcoat and white mask pushed up on his forehead—his black guitar in hand as he announced excitedly:

"Sold out, everyone! Tonight we make history in Moscovo!" His shout through cupped hands was met with cheers from the troupe. Pearline, beautiful in her Christine costume, fluttered her fan; Mary and Smoke prepared their "magic" act. You and Remmick? Just two clowns in the middle of it all.

Bo glanced at his creator:

"You're opening the show."

As he turned to leave, he suddenly remembered something, his yellowish eyes gleaming:

"Oh, and Remmy? We've got Party comrades in the audience. Smoke's nervous as hell."

A wink.

You looked at the vampire. Behind Pierrot's black-and-white tragic mask, a smile emerged - Remmick showing through. Without realizing it, you felt the tension leave your shoulders.

He was back.

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ACT I

EXT. FOREST OF FOOLS. DUSK

PIERROT stands before a full audience.

(in a resonant voice)

"Menya zovut P'ero, i segodnya ya pokazhu vam komediyu. Menya budet bit' kuskom doski... Ved' segodnya ya budu oplakivat' svoyu pechal', Kolumbina. Eto budet ochen' smeshnaya komediya." (My name is Pierrot, and today I present you a comedy. I shall be beaten with a wooden plank... For today I mourn my sorrow, Kolumbina. It will be a very funny comedy!)

PIERROT raises his banjo as if to sing—but violins and giggles interrupt. Hopping from side to side, ARLEKINNO appears with his devilish grin, staff in hand, making faces at a row of children who burst into laughter.

ARLEKINNO

(mocking)

"If it isn't Pierrot, crying in corners over this so-called Kolumbina..."

PIERROT

(offended, clutching his banjo)

"You have no right to reject me like this, not after stealing my beloved, precious Kolumbina!"

ARLEKINNO

(rough voice, standing in en dehors position-feet and knees turned out, heels together, hands forward)

"What's so special about this Kolumbina that has you so emotional? I saw nothing remarkable about her."

Instead of getting angry, PIERROT approaches the edge of the stage. The spotlight highlights his pale face with its black-painted features as he holds the banjo close, looking up with pity.

(his voice projects to the entire audience)

"Ah, Kolumbina represents the freedom of my being. Something I envy in all of you... This freedom to walk beneath the sun, to hold warm hands, to celebrate life's union! Kolumbina is the object of my past affections, the poetry I play daily on my banjo, the blood that warms my tears... Oh, how can you be so selfish, Arlekinno?! You judge me for desiring what Kolumbina represents, while you enjoy your privileged position. Of course you wouldn't understand me from your high pedestal."

ARLEKINNO

(rolling his eyes, crosses his feet before executing a soft plié, rising to pointe as he walks toward Pierrot)

"Don't be so hopeful or dreamy, Pierrot!"

Arlekinno slaps PIERROT, who curls into himself, crying Kolumbina's name as the audience—children and adults alike—laugh at the gratuitous violence.

RED CURTAIN FALLS.

END OF ACT I.

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“My little brother, you all were amazing in that opening! I hope the rubles pour into our hands after this—" Elijah exhaled along with a thick cloud of pipe smoke in their faces. You were already sweating beneath that costume, while Remmick remained untouched. He gave the other a once-over before nodding curtly and marching into the tent with his banjo. Smoke looked at you, eyebrows raised.

"Don't bother him now, Dym. Let him forget about yesterday and do his job—"

"But I am! Boosting this old vampire’s morale—he’s just too stubborn for business!" he defended. You let out a sarcastic chuckle, shaking your head so the little bells rang louder, stepping aside to let Samuel and Pearline climb onto the stage. You walked down the narrow corridor of canvas and wooden slats framed with iron, the grass crushed under your slippers, passing Grace and Bo in an open annex, then Mary and Stack practicing one of their tricks, following the man.

Your feet led you to the end of the hallway, where, around a turn, there was an exit to the back of the tent. Through the opening, you glimpsed Remmick’s back, a wisp of white smoke rising beside his face, pirouetting in the sharp wind around his pointed hat. As you approached slowly, the sweet scent of tobacco filled your lungs.

Remmick turned to you—Pierrot with a sorrowful gaze, casting a melancholic stare. You smiled, pressing your lips together, countering the sad clown’s look with the mischievous grin of your restless Arlekinno. He extended the cigarette holder to you:

"Here, take a smoke, it’ll help you relax."

"You’re the one who needs it more, Rem—" you teased, amused by the way he looked at you.

Remmick had bat-like eyes, dilated black pupils with a red glow overtaking his irises. In the background, Sammie and Pearl’s voices intertwined in an emotional rendition of "The Phantom of the Opera", while the chilly autumn breeze made your sweat—sweet with a salty edge, mixed with the acrid rice powder used to set the makeup—taste like strawberry jelly and whiskey, causing the vampire to falter for seconds. You knew that languid gaze was hunger. Slowly, almost as if choreographing your own movements, you brought the rolled cigarette to your lips, sucking in the sweet, strong notes, diverting your attention from the vampire to a part of Moscow you’d never seen, mesmerized by the candlelit city, enchanted by the dazzling view of the vast metropolis. You stood side by side in the scandalous silence of an audience screaming in emotional rapture, each lost in their own thoughts, Remmick’s fallen gaze watching you with masked sadness, silent, feeling your blood pulse beneath the warm, vibrant, intoxicating fabric... He swallowed dryly.

"You must be starving, hmm?" Your voice cut through the cold air between you, snapping his attention back. He looked at you abruptly, as if caught red-handed—if he could, he would’ve blushed. Your eyes pierced him like spears, your playful smile blending your real self with the character, leaving him entranced, his hunger sharpening his sensitive senses: he could hear the steady beat of your heart beneath the costume, smell your bittersweet sweat... the texture of your skin as your fingers brushed lightly when you handed back the cigarette, the taste of your saliva as he took another drag.

"A dose of krov (blood) wouldn’t hurt right now, my Záyka..." He grinned, fangs already sharp, eyes gleaming red-opaque-bright, thick, almost milky saliva gathering at the corner of his mouth, drooling for you. Something inside you stirred—you weren’t sure if it was the autumn breeze that always energized you, the almost romantic panorama of Moscow before you, the angelic voices of Pearline and Sammie behind you, or simply your flirtation with the vampire—but something pulsed within you, making you want to throw yourself into his arms again, melt into his mouth, bare yourself in fresh blood and passion, offering the drink that would sate him.

You turned on your heels, fingers already slipping under your balaclava, the little bells chiming shrilly around your ears, while Remmick turned to you, wiping away the saliva that had smeared a streak of makeup with his fingertip—but in that moment, the last thing on his mind was his disheveled Pierrot. He only had eyes for you, his carnivorous, sharp-toothed grin demanding passage to your blood.

There was a time, long ago, when he had knelt before you, weeping like a creature who no longer cried—at least not the way you did, drowning in tears; streaks of blood running from his eyes as he sobbed, disbelieving: "My Záyka, my Arlekinno, do you condemn me to such misery!? H-how can you refuse my blood!? My salvation? W-why won’t you share eternity with me, a ghrá (uh ghraw | my love), a-am I not good enough for you!? Haven’t I proven how good I can be for you!?" The two of you were in your tent late at night, naked, your wrist slit thinly by his sharp nail, dried blood around the wound, as he clutched your wrist like the most precious thing in the world, begging for your mercy, your yes. But you were resolute—no matter how much you loved him with all your being, you knew that if he turned you, you’d have to surrender so much of what you cherished in your humanity. You saw how Stack, Mary, and Bo had fallen to temptation—they were enough. But Remmick wanted you—from the moment he saw you perform as a ballerina long ago in Sochi, he had an epiphany, something he hadn’t felt in centuries, beginning an anguished obsession, spending night after night, even starving himself just to watch you.

He had starved himself sick for you.

He followed the tour of that decaying circus, still under its old owner, while the twins scrambled to raise money to buy it. Remmick traveled even in daylight, through city shadows, chasing you. Starving. And with each performance you gave, he moved one row closer.

And so it went: seven different cities, seven rows forward, weeks of following you like his own shadow. Until the day he finally made himself seen by you—who, all that time, had been suffering a strange mental disturbance, as if something was draining your energy daily—smiling wide, sapphire-blue eyes, arms behind his back, dressed simply: high-waisted trousers, suspenders, a loose striped shirt with a white collar, a gold chain around his neck. He bowed, took your hand—the temperature shock between you made you shiver—his voice smooth: "Pleasure to meet you... Záyka. You danced beautifully, as always." You laughed at the silly nickname, dressed in a ridiculous rabbit costume that night.

"And what should I call you?"

"My name is Remmick." He winked at you, still holding your hand.

A cold but firm grip.

A voice almost angelic yet with a predatory gaze that stalked you.

Blood flowing with carnal desires, intentions hidden behind the guise of a man... Now before you, like a Pierrot suffering for a Kolumbina who left him, an allegory of the freedom and humanity he once had. He was already gripping your hand, nails sharpening to tear into your flesh, drink your warmth, eyes glowing so brightly they nearly blinded you, ready to devour you.

"Pierrot! Arlekinno! Where are you!? The second act calls!"

"Damn it," the vampire growled, frustrated by the interruption of his little feast, giving you that same apathetic melancholy look that made him oddly endearing, forcing you both to abandon the moment for now. Returning to your Arlekinno stance, baton firmly in hand, you flashed him a wide grin.

"Showtime."

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RED CURTAINS OPEN.

ACT II

EXT. FOREST OF FOOLS. DUSK.

PIERROT emerges first, banjo at his side, the light following him as he lifts his blue eyes upward, glowing under the amber spotlight. Behind him, bells jingling, AELEKINNO appears, twirling the baton between fingers, a half-mischievous smile as if plotting against the sad clown. PIERROT positions himself at the edge of the stage, hands clasped as if in prayer, eyebrows raised in a contorted expression.

(sadly)

"All these years I’ve searched for something like Kolumbina in my life! All these years in misery, starving and scorned by those who once thought they owned me… They condemned me to damnation! But you know what… Even as I still write poems for my beloved bride who will never come, even as I weep blood for her frozen soul… I endure. I remain. I am. The revolution of those who came before me, perishing in this eternal glory."

ARLEKINNO

(mocking, behind Pierrot)

"How adorable, this whole speech full of passion, Pierrot. Hard to believe it’s the same crybaby who was just lamenting his lost bride. Fool."

PIERROT

(suddenly emboldened, turns to Arlekinno, pointing the banjo at them)

"You! You! The curse upon my path! It’s you, the court jester who whispered poison to my beloved! And since you’re the guiltiest one here, I believe you owe me laughter. Go on, rise on your tiptoes and make me die laughing…"

ARLEKINNO

(feigning outrage, hops back, looks at the audience, raising the baton toward Pierrot)

"Me!? You’re the one who makes everyone laugh with your tears! I’m no court jester—I owe you nothing."

PIERROT

(smirking defiantly, crosses arms, sharp gaze fixed on the figure before him)

"We’ll see about that, oh Arlekinno! We’ll see!"

PIERROT turns to the audience with a triumphant grin, raises a clenched fist, and cries out in a rough voice;

"Deti i yunoshi, stariki i damy! Ob"yedinyaytes' — i da zaberyom my vsyo schast'ye u Arlekinno!" (Children and youths, old men and ladies! Unite—and let us take all happiness from Arlekinno!)

He spun back toward Arlekinno abruptly, raising the banjo in a sudden movement—so unconscious it caught you off guard—landing a sharp slap with the metal back against the side of your face. The impact was sudden and hard against your skull, a gash splitting open immediately, blood trickling like a spring. Your eyes widened in shock, hand flying to the wound, staring frozen at Remmick, who stopped. Locked in place. The chorus of laughter erupted as if it were part of the act, threatening to distract you from the starving vampire before you, whose expression had shifted in a blink—even in Pierrot’s makeup, his face twisted into something almost demonic. It was primal—thirst turned him into a beast, senses and reason lost in seconds, eyes blazing like fire, a fanged grin aimed at you.

He was a blur.

CURTAINS CLOSE.

END OF ACT II.

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By the time you realized it, you were being yanked back, pulled away from Remmick, who had raised his claws toward you, his disturbing black-and-white face twisted in murderous hunger. Elijah held you in his arms while his twin dragged the vampire away—drooling and completely lost to your intoxicating scent. Bo and Delta had to intervene, restraining him as you were taken away. But you knew deep down that this was Remmick’s beastly side, the one he couldn’t fully control—starving, even a drop of blood turned him into a shark that could smell wounded prey miles away.

And it was no surprise, even to yourself, that your blood was the vampire’s greatest weakness.

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"I don’t understand your reluctance to become like me. It’s almost as if you’re afraid. I’ve told you—everything becomes better when you’re on my side, sharing moments and memories as one." Remmick’s voice reverberated through your chest to your ear, pressed where your heart should, in theory, beat. He held you in his single bed, in the time between him becoming a partner and artistic producer of the circus under the twins’ management and the first night he invited you to sleep with him. It was a time of transition and change. By then, Remmick had already made his blood pact with the twins and brought two others into the fold, who in turn brought another. But his bat-like eyes were always on you, his greatest muse—the one who kept him awake late into the night, writing long plays with you as the lead. Well, that was when he wasn’t hunting or on top of you, growing increasingly possessive, craving your blood.

You smiled lethargically from pleasure, tilting your head to look at him:

"I’m not as committed to life as you, Rem... I have this thought that life is so much more than carnal love or anything like that—" He gave you an incredulous look, and you laughed: "—I want to die. But to die for real."

"Even if I wanted to, I wouldn’t let that happen to you." He frowned, hating when you said those words. He took the hand caressing his chest, lifting your fragile wrist to his mouth, pressing a kiss there:

"Let me turn you tonight..."

"No, I’ve told you." You pulled back. Remmick raised an eyebrow as a breeze slipped under the tent, making you shiver. You slowly sat up to stare deeply at him. Remmick still held your wrist—your blood, your pulse, throbbing under his fingers. His eyes bore into your soul, scarlet, as his fangs and nails lengthened slowly.

Then, with his thumb’s nail, he pierced your flesh effortlessly, drawing a whiff of pain, bringing the now-stained skin to his lips, sucking your blood. It was always like this: he never bit you, afraid of losing control and injecting his venom—so he always cut you. It hurt, but it was worth it because you felt a strange pleasure in feeding him.

This was how things worked between you.

This was how you learned to love him.

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With a blood-soaked cloth pressed to your temple, Annie looked at you with concern, occasionally lifting it to check if the wound had stopped bleeding. You sat on a table, legs swinging, watching her sheepishly. She applied an herbal ointment to the gash and now waited to stitch it. The woman’s hands were those of a true healer—everything she touched seemed blessed, renewed, cured. Even when she touched the vampires, there was some enchantment that calmed them. She, Elijah, and their daughter wore protective amulets around their necks, and she recommended them to everyone else, fearing a vampire might turn on them.

Seeing her up close, smelling of milk and golden rosemary, her caring eyes focused as she threaded the needle to sew your torn skin, you felt a strange comfort. Behind you, Elijah exhaled smoke like restless thoughts, the circus noise alternating between laughter and emotional cheers. Your gaze shifted between the couple, your balaclava in your now-clean hands, wondering where Remmick was...

"Perfect! Perfect! Just what we needed..."

"Smoke, it was just a little cut..." you said over Annie’s shoulder, who stifled an ironic chuckle.

"This 'little cut' nearly ruined an entire premiere, Arlekinno," she pointed out, pressing the needle’s tip into your skin—a sharp sting, then a burning sensation making you wince. Smoke rolled his eyes before glaring at you:

"Annie’s right. If not for this little mishap, everything would’ve gone smoothly, and we wouldn’t have to deal with a starving vampire about to pounce on one of our lead actresses—"

"Should I remind you that the reason said vampire is dying of thirst has a name, nickname, and surname, Smoke?" Your voice came out raspy, eyes narrowing as Annie stitched, tugging lightly, the thread scraping between flesh. Elijah froze at your audacity, raising a finger, but Annie’s calm, firm voice cut in:

"No use crying over spilled milk. You both know very well this is everyone’s fault... Long before yesterday’s stupid fight—it started when you let him into your tent. And then with you and your brother making a pact with the devil. We all share the blame." Silence.

Annie finished the suture with a snip of the scissors. The metallic sound made you think—she’s right... If not for me, for my curiosity with that stranger, maybe none of this would’ve happened... She had been the first to oppose, even suggesting they either drive the vampire out with garlic and silver or stake him through the heart. But the twins’ morbid ambition, seeing proof of the vampire’s special services, was fed when the old owner’s body was found dead, floating in the Volga River. Her words were drowned out. The ambition of men breeds that kind of friction—even with Elijah being madly in love with his wife, there seemed to be something greater between him and Elias.

Clutching the balaclava tightly, your reaction was to burst into tears.

It was as if the weight of a guilt you hadn’t felt before now crushed you, making you tremble with sobs, feeling like the most wretched person in the entire country. Elijah moved to say something, probably to calm you in his own way, but Annie stopped him with a gesture. Silently, they exchanged a look—let me handle her. Footsteps faded as the main tent’s drums and accordion grew louder. They were halfway through the band’s performance, soon there’d be a brief intermission, then Stack and Mary’s act—before you and Remmick closed the entire show.

"Hey, look at me... Look at me, my love—" Her voice was so maternal it made you crumble further into desperate weeping. You lifted tear-blurred eyes to the woman, opening your arms to be held. Annie embraced you firmly yet gently, a balance of her being, hands rubbing your back as if rocking you in that kitchen tent.

"Shhh... Shhh... Easy, easy. The last thing that’ll solve our problems is crying and panicking. Look at me—" She cupped your face, a small smile playing on her angelic lips, your guardian angel: "—only you and I know what we’ve been through in this family, all these years as wanderers. A vampire won’t destabilize us now, hm? My words are harsh, but time is too short for anguish—sometimes the best thing is to face the truth."

"W-what truth?" you hiccuped, wiping the tears that had smudged your makeup. Annie pinched your chin:

"That we invited the devil to dance with us. So now we hold his hand and watch his next steps."

She winked, patting your cheek like a child who’d just learned a life lesson. Then she walked away with her first-aid kit, leaving you alone with thoughts louder than the circus—but not loud enough to drown out that strange feeling nesting in your heart.

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There are things that need not be vocalized, for there exists a mutual understanding between people—a communication that precedes speech in human comprehension. A contained glance, a twist of lips, a hand gesture—even the void at the beginning of silence are all forms of communication. And you were a master at interpreting these subtle signals because something within always warned you that the greatest truths were embedded in details. You knew what Smoke wanted you to do, what Annie had told you, even Remmick's desperate urge to make you like him.

Your hurried steps led you to the dressing room - a tent crammed with costume trunks, makeup vanities, and an ever-helpful Grace and Lisa ready to assist with wardrobe changes. For the third and final act, you changed into a leotard and tutu, the leotard's thin straps bearing the same diamond patterns as your jumpsuit, the tutu red. The balaclava and pointe shoes remained. Your feet ached, crushed in those rigid shoes that even after years of use still made their presence known against your toes. Compressed bones, bruised flesh, nerves raw beneath skin. You opened the tent expecting the Chow sisters, but were met instead by the sight of a Pierrot undoing his blouse, his back to you as he faced his chrome-plated mirror where his blurred reflection stared back—Remmick watching you through the glass.

Your eyes met in silence.

"Where's Gracie or Lisa?" was all that left your lips as you tied the tent flap shut behind you. Remmick shrugged, continuing to undress: now shirtless, he sat on the bench, took a clean towel, soaked it in an aluminum basin of water and milk to better dissolve the face paint, dragging it across his chin. As you approached and watched him dip the paint-stained cloth, you glimpsed scarlet blooming in soft waves through the liquid's whiteness. Oh. The realization struck like a whipcrack.

You stopped an arm's length away, observing how muscles rippled beneath that pale skin, darker hair contrasting with his cadaverous frame, the gold chain at his throat. A deep breath, then you turned toward your trunk and vanity, assessing your own state: your makeup too had deteriorated, tear-tracks revealing skin beneath layers of paint and powder, like an ugly sketch someone had plastered over. There lay your truth. You touched the stitched wound with fingertips, counting:

"One, two, three..."

"Four and five."

Suddenly you felt his presence behind you. Instinct made you check the mirror - but it held no reflection. When you glanced over your shoulder, Remmick stood there with a melancholy smile, his smeared mouth exposed to you while half the sad clown's makeup still framed his face. You smiled faintly, turning back to the vanity where you resumed fussing with the wound, commenting:

"It's nothing Rem, don't worr—"

"How the hell can I not worry when I could hurt you badly at any moment, even kill you if I lose control?" His voice tore out, dry and wretched. You turned to see him with that cornered-animal look, fists clenched, milky water trails dripping from mouth to neck, collarbone to pectorals, translucent lines on already-pale skin. Remmick, Pierrot, Pierrot, Remmick, Remmick-Pierrot, Pierrot-Remmick. One and the same. Slowly he approached, arms enveloping you in a rough, desperate embrace, his face buried in your neck's curve, drowning in your warmth, your pulsing blood singing directly to where he hungered for you: inside him, through all his damned being. Remmick choked open-mouthed, thick drool on your skin, a sob—but couldn't suppress the fragile weeping. You stood motionless, arms limp at your sides, processing everything unfolding.

Some things need not be said—and one was how the vampire sought affection through flesh, how he buried his bitterness against you, stealing measured drops of your precious blood as respite. Before you knew it, your hands gripped his waist firmly, palms against icy skin as you listened to him whimper against your shoulder.

"Remmy... Remmy..." you began whispering in his ear. You felt him shift, reluctant, pulling away from your warm shelter to give you a pitiful look, those painted brows arched dramatically, the white face streaked with dried blood-tears. A masterpiece of melancholy, death's sweet eyes staring at you with immortal passion. Something you couldn't comprehend—only feel. Your smile tightened; the vampire twisted his lips, frowned, then sank to his knees, hugging your hips fiercely, nuzzling your lower belly. Again that ragged weeping:

"Y-you know how I s-suffer, my love? Only y-you know my damnation... And only you c-can give me what I w-want..." His nose slid from your navel downward, slow, shoulders shaking. You watched with mingled desire and sorrow; Remmick raised eyes—deepest blue, showing the bitter abyss of his soul, or what remained, in that moment. Tears framing the portrait of a clown who bled for you. Into you. His voice came low and muffled against your skin:

"I want you now."

"Wanting isn't getting, Remmy," you said thinly, eyelids fluttering shut, hands gripping the vanity behind you for strength. Outside, the crowd roared, oblivious to what transpired in this tent grown too small for you both. Remmick curled his lips, that anguish melting into something slick, lewd:

"I promise just the tip, my Záyka... Just the head—" He let the words exhale against your cunt, upturned nose nudging your pubis through fabric, inhaling your scent. A guttural sound escaped him. With a lethargic blink, his irises had bled to deep red; he continued his lament, seeing even this failed to sway you... Not explicitly.

"Come on, don't deny me. Just the head and I'll be satisfied..." he murmured, eyes shifting back from blood-red, rubbing his nose against you again, leaving white paint streaks on red fabric. You sighed deeply, one hand finding his hair, fingers tangling in straight strands, already pliant with adrenaline—this wouldn't be your first hidden act between performances—mentally calculating how long you had for costume and makeup changes.

Remmick opened his saliva-filled mouth to devour your cunt through fabric, staring up with provocation dancing in red-ringed eyes, tongue dragging along your cleft, making you yield with just a whisper:

"Fuck, yes, hurry up you bastard—Just the tip."

"Knew you wouldn't deny me some cunt-tea to cheer me up, my Arlekinno..." he teased, rising in one motion, hands firm on your body, squeezing flesh tenderly, letting you feel the delicious shock of his cold skin against your warm costume. Frenzied, Remmick seemed to transform into a beast in heat: his hands tore the jumpsuit's side seams ruthlessly, wooden buttons scattering. He laughed as you gasped his name in warning, yanking the top down to expose your breasts, skin pebbling, feeling his wet mouth surround one—velvet tongue, venomous saliva leaving everything slick and obscene, sucking your stiff nipple until whimpers escaped. Watching to memorize every detail, attuned to your sounds, his other hand trailed down your belly to where fabric still covered you.

With one motion, icy fingers found your clit, your soaked cunt awaiting him, index and middle fingers circling that throbbing spot. Chin tilting up, your voice strained:

"Fuck Remmick, you make me so wet... Shit..."

"Such a dirty mouth, my Záyka... Soon the whole audience will hear you." He pulled away just to taunt, amused by how your body responded to simple teasing: fingers rubbing your clit through fabric in slow drags, making you arch back, craving more, eyes squeezing shut, biting your lip to stifle louder moans. Remmick, patient as the ancient vampire he was, knew speed was essential now. Salivating with need, he withdrew, drawing a whine from you as you watched through half-lidded eyes while he shoved his costume pants down, his thick, veined cock springing free, head glistening with precum. He brought cunt-slicked fingers to his lips, tasting you with closed eyes, then used the same hand to spread your wetness over his length, gripping the base as he stepped closer:

"Spread those legs for me, my love." he ordered, already brushing the tip against your slit, drawing a sharp breath as you obeyed, perching halfway on the vanity for better access. His mouth found your ear, teeth grazing the lobe while his cockhead teased your clit in firm strokes, sending shocks through you - you clung to him like you might fall, head thrown back offering your neck, sweet sweaty temptation. Remmick restrained himself, grinding between rough groans:

"This feels so good Rem— "

"I know, I know... What if I just put the head in, hmn?" he murmured slyly against your ear, kissing your cheek. Eyes shut tight, torn between surrender and maintaining control. Remmick laughed darkly; with one hip roll, his cock slid from your clit to entrance, giving just the head, drawing a desperate whine.

"Just the head, little angel, and you're already crying on my cock, hm?" he taunted, resuming clit strokes. One hand gripped his shaft, feeling veins under your touch, guiding him as you rubbed yourself against him, trembling, laughing:

"That's it my love, fuck yourself on my cock so nice... Take it and I'll fill you up right here— "His free hand found your slit alongside his cock, thumb pressing your soaked flesh. Your moan stretched, lost between distant cheers and this growing moment, legs spreading wider as he pushed you toward the edge. Remmick grinned through lust, thick drool dripping, makeup intact save for blood-streaks smeared on your costume—that perfect mix of sorrow and desire in purest form.

"S-so beautiful..." you crushed the words between heavy breaths. Fire in your lung–Remmick clicked his tongue, predator-instinct surfacing, grabbing your right leg to hook around his waist, gripping his base to grind against your clit, sending pleasure radiating to your fingertips. Sweat-slick, vision blurring with tears that briefly washed away doubts, you felt him slide his tip inside again; you allowed it.

"Can I fuck this tight cunt, Záyka? Just to stretch it a little..." he near-wept, desperate, burying just the head. You hugged him tight, meeting those stormy red-brown eyes, lips brushing his to whisper:

"Fuck me Rem, fuck me good and let these people remember your damn name." You pulled him into a wet kiss as he sheathed fully inside, filling you like no other, drawing a ragged groan as your walls clenched him, giving that human, carnal pleasure so intense it felt unreal, hands fisting his hair as your tongues tangled, Remmick thrusting hard enough to shake the vanity, making you float outside yourself.

You arched back when pleasure crested, eyes squeezing shut, breath catching. Remmick drove you through this lascivious, profane dance, the sound of skin on skin merging with distant applause—as if you fucked onstage; one hand gripped your waist, bringing you back to the moment, your eyes meeting in wordless frenzy where only broken moans remained, his other hand finding your throat. You thanked him with a blink, lips parting to gasp his name as you melted into him:

"Remmick."

Legs trembling, spine arched, toes curling, your whole body spasmed as breath caught in your nose. Everything turned sweet and easy, sweat warming you, the moment's glow embracing you, the vampire's cold frame shuddering through his own release inside you, burning where he came. When you opened tear-streaked eyes, you saw with satisfaction that he too had wept through climax, as if purged.

Remmick stood like a Pierrot in rapture: makeup framing that pitiful image mid-carnal delirium. Fresh blood-tears streaked his face, which you licked away without thought, the ferrous tang of vampiric tears on your tongue. Meeting his gaze, euphoric, you saw such sincere immortal love that it nearly made you reconsider—to offer your life. So easy, with his fangs already bared, needing only your "yes" to seal this marriage. His hand cradled your face as he whispered proudly:

"Mne nravitsya, kak ty raskryvayesh'sya, kak tsvetok, kogda ya dozhozu tebya do orgazma...a ghrá mo chroí." ("I love watching you bloom like a flower when I make you come, my love.")

Your heart exploded between ribs—for this was what it meant to love an ancient being like him, immortal, so desperate for you he deified you madly, terrified of loss. You knew behind that dazed smile, that gentler gaze, even beneath the sad clown's guise, Remmick—that monstrous creature with trails of blood and horror, yet also memories and history, emotions no longer human—behind it all lay something primal, between soul and what remained of his humanity, simply loving you. Wanting you. Feeling you. Waiting with desolate core for your "yes."

Tears welled and spilled like springs of the Volga, born in Valdai's hills—vast, expansive, flooding outward. Your soul torn between immortal love for the vampire and passion for your humanity. And Remmick just pulled you close, still inside you, fused to your warmth, breathing your sweat mingled with his crimson torment. He hugged you with his entire being, for you were his world.

"Help me here, please?" He turned so you could button his final act's large black silk shirt. Remmick radiated melancholy beauty as a freshly made-up Pierrot, now in the black-and-white costume version; you too stood ready in ballet attire, pointe shoe ribbons loose, smiling as you fastened each button.

A quick cleanup—scattered wooden buttons, your ruined jumpsuit tossed carelessly into the trunk. You wiped yourself with a towel left soaking in the milk-water basin now streaked with black and white. The tent smelled of your sweet-sour sweat, sex, grass, and makeup-setting powder. You'd repainted his tear; your cheeks now bore brighter rouge contrasting with white base, lips a vibrant red heart-shape, one diamond on your right cheekbone. The balaclava hid your wound.

Your eyes met, silent promises exchanged.

"Let's go my Arlekinno, we've got a finale to kill." He winked.

🃜🃚🃖🃁🂭🂺 🃜🃚🃖🃁🂭🂺 🃜🃚🃖🃁🂭🂺 🃜🃚🃖🃁🂭🂺

RED CURTAINS OPEN.

ACT III

EXT. FOREST OF FOOLS. NIGHT.

ARLEKINNO takes the stage, striding center where spotlight captures her altruistic figure, baton twirling. Behind appears PIERROT with banjo, face mournful yet hopeful. The band strikes up circus chords as ARLEKINNO's voice erupts, dabcing about while recounting her mischiefs and life wuth PIERROT. At chorus, she's joined by THE RED BAND and fellow performers, PIERROT moving to her side, and banjo stumming as they sing joyfully unisson;

ARLEKINNO, PIERROT & THE RED BAND:

(all in unison)

Pripev (Chorus)

Akh, Arlekinno, Arlekinno! (Ah, Arlekinno, Arlekinno!)

Nuzhno byt' smeshnym dlia vsekh! (You must amuse them all!)

Arlekinno, Arlekinno (Arlekinno, Arlekinno)

Est' odna nagrada — smekh (Your only reward is laughter)

Smeshit' vas mne s godami vse trudnej (Growing harder each year to make you laugh)

Ved' ia ne shut u trona korolia (For I'm no king's court jester)

Ia Gamleta v bezumii strastej (I'm Hamlet in passionate madness)

Kotoryj God igraiu dlia sebia (Playing God a year for myself)

Vse kazhetsia — vot masku ia snimu (It seems I'll remove my mask)

I ehtot mir izmenitsia so mnoj (And this world will change with me)

No slez moikh ne vidno nikomu (Yet none see my tears)

Nu chto zh, Arlekin ia, vidno, neplokhoj! (Well then, I'm Arlekinno, apparently not bad!)

Kha-kha-kha, kha-kha-kha (Ha ha ha, ha ha ha)

CURTAINS CLOSE.

END OF ACT III.

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"HUZZAH! For this triumphant opening night in Moscow!" Smoke raised his vodka glass, grinning ear to ear as the company mirrored his toast. His gaze locked onto Remmick beside him—both still in performance garb—"Thanks to our Centennial Lord too. Without his theatrical genius, we'd be nothing. Spasibo for the rubles, dear man!" He winked, gratitude laced with provocation. Laughter erupted as the circus owner downed his firewater, the chorus of "Huzzah!" shaking the tent before glasses shattered against the earth.

The cacophony of splintering crystal fused with Delta's harmonica wail and Pearline's powerhouse vocals as Sammie's guitar sparked a raucous chorus. This celebration thrummed with such vitality it made you feel alive, woven into the circus' very fabric. When you glanced sideways, the flickering lamplight caught the man's clown paint in chiaroscuro.

Remmick's eyes met yours with that same... gentleness.

Your mind spiraled through dichotomies:

Life and death.

Blood and brine.

Sacrifice and sovereignty. Love and loathing.

The world dissolved into a watercolor bleed—crimson to azure blossoms, sun-warmed breezes caressing your cheeks while your palm registered the coffin's glacial wood beneath your fingers. The ferrous tang of blood—pungent yet cloying—stained your lips. Tears of anguish became rivers. Humanity evaporated like morning mist. And through it all, you drowned willingly in death's saccharine gaze. Outside, the revolution raged. Within you, war raged fiercer: the temptation to live versus the siren call of his crimson embrace. Oh, this exquisite, cruel crossroads.

🃜🃚🃖🃁🂭🂺 🃜🃚🃖🃁🂭🂺 🃜🃚🃖🃁🂭🂺 🃜🃚🃖🃁🂭🂺

That night, you melted into one being.

Saliva, blood, whispers—the pale moonlight piercing your tent, resonant murmurs, tears of pleasure, moans building into a carnal symphony. Bodies moved in perfect rhythm, Remmick devouring you with the roughness of a starved lover, taking you from behind with precise thrusts, hands gripping your waist before flipping you over, pulling you onto his lap to watch you tremble around his cock. Gasping his name, sweating out your passions, warming him with your blood.

When he finally drank from you, it was voracious - mouth wet with saliva and hunger, fangs buried in your flesh as you wept in unison. Naked and clinging, your blood spilled across the bedsheets, life flashing before your eyes: childhood memories blurring with tonight’s performance. Alive. Yet here you were, embracing his death—whispering as the vampire groaned around your blood:

"Drink from me... drink my blood... Take all of me."

Remmick tore away from your left breast (where your heart pounded) with a wet snap. He admired your morbid beauty, lips curling into a smug smile, face streaked with your scarlet essence. Thick droplets fell from his mouth onto your skin as he watched you, pupils blown wide.

"Wake, my love... for the night has only just begun."

🃜🃚🃖🃁🂭🂺 🃜🃚🃖🃁🂭🂺 🃜🃚🃖🃁🂭🂺 🃜🃚🃖🃁🂭🂺

𝐀𝐔𝐆𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝟐𝟗𝐭𝐡 𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓.

Annie eyed you sideways as you prepared for your final night in Moscow—the twins’ plan was to head to Petrograd next, maybe even make it to the Winter Palace, as they put it, "to share a cup of vodka with Mr. Lenin himself." A notion Remmick found absurd.

You stood in your Harlequin costume, staring at your distorted reflection in the dull mirror, Remmick bent over your shoulder, putting the final touches on your makeup. Suddenly, the tent flaps rustled, and the brothers burst in, eyes gleaming—especially Elijah’s, who clapped his hands together with enough force to snap all attention his way.

"We’ve got fucking fantastic news, people. News that’ll knock your socks off!"

"What is it this time?" Annie asked, skeptical. You flicked your gaze to Remmick, reading the slow easing of his posture as he locked eyes with Stack, who winked at the two of you. Elijah pulled a letter from inside his coat, brandishing it like a revolutionary decree:

"Behold—the holy writ of our absolute triumph!" He paused for dramatic effect. "We’ve been personally invited by the revolutionary himself to perform at the Winter Palace—"

"Bullshit," Remmick spat, lips curling in disbelief as he strode over and snatched the letter, scanning it intently. His eyes darkened to crimson as he read. "But... this says the performance is during the day."

"Yes..." Smoke plucked the letter back from the vampire’s grip, exchanging stunned looks with his brothers.

"Look, I’ll try to negotiate, get something changed—but don’t get your hopes up..." Smoke turned on his heel, leaving Remmick standing there slack-jawed before following Stack and Annie out.

Remmick turned to you, voice a low, furious rasp:

"But the damn letter explicitly says they want us there. You and me. Pierrot and Harlequin... How the hell can they do this to us? We’re the goddamn stars of this whole circus!"

You stepped closer, movements soft, and cradled his face—twisted in a uniquely vampiric anguish—smiling warmly.

"We’ll figure it out, Rem... Even if we have to spill some blood to get what we want."

𝐅𝐎𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒: it was a hassle to edit this fanfic but it was worth it. i enjoyed writing this crazy little thing, ngl. and i hope to return with this story in the near future. idk, i think there are more things to be explored… anyway, thanks for getting here!!! (and if you have an idea with remmy in some historical context, i'm at your disposal to use my knowledge and studies in favor of fanfics ;)

[ceasarslegion]

Whenever I see pro-censorship arguments on this site that essentially say "these properties are so vile that no one should remember them, so we should scrub them from the record altogether. There's no reason why anyone should see birth of a nation and there's no value it has to society" i think of my cinematic political history course from when I did my cinema major. There was a classmate of mine who was REALLY mad at the professor, accusing him of all sorts of things, left right and centre, for showing us what she deemed "problematic material." She ended up dropping the course and, in the process, her film degree, because cinematic political history was a required course to get your major done at our uni, after the class where our prof had us watch birth of a nation and read a lot of materials where historical pioneers in the world of cinema said some pretty heinous shit about black people. In her eyes, this was completely unforgivable, there was no excuse for why anyone should be watching that or reading these materials riddled with racial slurs and comparisons to animals. Showing this at all was proof, to her, that the prof himself either endorsed or was indifferent to the historical and current systemic oppression of black people.

This was also the week we were being taught that the modern day American blockbuster was built on, specifically, anti-black racism. And this was a 300-level uni course where the average age of the class was 21.

No one ever denied that that week was one of the most uncomfortable and difficult weeks we did in that class. A lot of our previous perceptions of these cinematic pioneers were shattered when we read their own words about how much they wished to return to the days of slavery. A lot of us had to watch birth of a nation in chunks because it gave people stomach aches they didn't get while watching Soviet and nazi propaganda films in previous weeks, because it hits harder when it's closer to home. It's easy to disconnect yourself when it's abroad and far away and you know that those dictatorships no longer exist, but that week we had to confront how much of the modern day film industry was built on anti-black racism and look at it head on for everything it was and still continues to be.

He could've just told us about it, he could've said "most of United Artists founding members would've made the KKK blush" or "this movie was about how much DW Griffith loved the confederacy." But that doesn't really get the point across like actually seeing it.

I think of that whenever I see someone say that materials created by legitimately horrible people are too dangerous to be kept accessible. And then I think about how, on a purely critical level, ignoring all the vile racism in birth of a nation for a second (stay with me), it was boring as fuck and I nearly fell asleep trying to finish it.

[nutzgunray-lvt]

Alexei Headcanons (SFW & NSFW)

So I've been in a Stranger Things mood and have been obsessed with the Russian characters. I'm a ride or die Dmitri girl, but Alexei has also been pretty fascinating to me. I sent some headcanons to @charmin-lil-russian and they said I should also post them on my blog (especially since my inbox makes it to where I can't see any responses that they send me). Parts of these headcanons are inspired by their headcanons, so I can't take credit for some of these. So without further ado:

He is the second oldest of four siblings - one older sister and two younger brothers

His paternal grandfather is from Belarus and came to Russia for work as a young man

His family was/is quite poor and lives in St. Petersburg (aka Leningrad), so when they saw how well he performed in school, they put all of their eggs in his basket, so to speak. He was going to be their ticket out of poverty and into a better standard of living

He always had an aptitude for science, so when his parents decided that he would be a doctor, he wasn't too upset (even if he wanted to be an astronaut)

But when he was in university getting his medical degree, he decided to bite the bullet and study engineering instead. When his parents found out, they didn't hide their disappointment, but he was quickly forgiven once the Soviet government tapped him for a top secret project (the Keys)

That's not to say his parents didn't love him. Of course they did, they just put a LOT of pride and pressure on him to succeed and help his family

When he met you, he followed you around like a puppy dog, but was respectful towards you and got to know you before you got together, and he LOVED how you didn't really care that he was a scientist and that he had some medical know-how. All you cared about was how he loved to take you stargazing and could tell you about every galaxy in the known universe. All you cared about was how he would blush every time he saw you.

All of this pressure led him to take a submissive role in relationships, one where he could turn his brain off and let you take the reins

1010% has a mommy kink and will spend nights with his head buried in your chest, sucking your nipples. If you wind up lactating, he'll be the happiest man alive

He loves it when you ride him, ESPECIALLY if you're riding his face. Seeing how beautiful and assured you are as he looks up at you and you stroke his face has him quivering. It makes him feel safe

He loves being denied and told when cum, especially if he's still clothed

Will sometimes wear your panties for fun, but will practically bust a nut if you pick out a pair for him to wear for a date. If you whisper in his ear about how good he looks in them, and how he's such a good boy for wearing them, he'll be begging for you to have sex with him on the spot

That being said, he definitely takes initiative when it comes to teasing. He's INCREDIBLY handsy with you in public, even if there's a risk of you both getting caught

He LOVES finishing on your breasts, especially if they're big enough for him to pleasure himself with

If you wear anything lowcut, he can't take his eyes off your cleavage

His favorite fruit is cherries, and he loves anything cherry flavored

He HATES the cold with a violent passion

As stated above, he loves anything to do with space, and will spend hours telling you about the planets and constellations

Twins run in his family (his maternal grandmother is an identical twin) as do big babies, so if you and him have kids, at the very least they'll be 9 lb fraternal twins

[stirringwinds]

do you like rochu?

sorry anon, but it's personally in the notp corner for me. presently, i find his relationships with other asians like kiku, yong-soo, taiwan, india/aditya, vietnam/lien, hk, singapore etc—or rome, alfred and arthur more interesting to explore. as a chinese person, i'm a little burned out on ro//chu mainly because when i first joined the fandom there were a lot of orientalist depictions reducing yao to this delicate, blushing and sexually-inexperienced character next to ivan. another issue i had generally was the tendency to simplify or completely sever yao's far more deep and important relationships with people like yong-soo, kiku and india to prioritise whiteness, rather than like, inserting russia-china into that context of intra-asian histories.

i think the fandom has improved somewhat in this regard in that I do see more realistic Yao depictions, and i definitely wouldn't generalise all shippers, but that's the reason i couldn't quite 'get' into this ship. also because the perspective i take is the fact that china and the soviet union were competing for leadership of the communist bloc, so yeah, ro//chu as romantic communists for me is kind of...overblown and if anything my take on it is a fairly calculating and at times antagonistic relationship that can be interesting to dig into, but isn't very sentimental. no offense if you ship it; i will be honest that my blog just wouldn't be the right place for that.

[i-am-the-doctor]

This is Maxim Ivanov!

He/They/It

Pansexual 💗💛💙

Cis Male

Russian 🇷🇺

Maxim is a demon, Former Soviet soldier and a Gopnik from the former Soviet Union (now Russia), and he lives in a tank that he modified into both a usable tank and a home, and usually lives in highly irridiated places, like Chernobyl, three mile island, fukushima, and other places! He listens to hardbass on the daily and does the S L A V  S Q U A T a lot. His favorite “foods” are radium rods, cheese, sunflower seeds, and potato chips. He has blue blood, so he blushes blue. He is also HIGHLY RADIOACTIVE, but he can control his body’s radiation, so its fine. He was made out of radioactive materials by his mother- so he’s kinda like a golem in a way.

He is the son of Avidita, the leader of the greed ring, and is next in line to inherit it- but he doesn't really want to.

[madstronaut]

Reading: Cold Embrace by @obsidiangravity

- first off shoutout to my fellow niktosimps and general rarepair/not-so-popular character lovers, we out here campin happily (gripping our thighs till we bleed) and patiently in rarepair hell

- let me start my saying this fic basically scratches the itch for me in my ideal slowburn romance story and IT IS NOT EVEN FINISHED YET??? HELLO? 911 I’D LIKE TO REPORT A FUCKIN MASTERPIECE???

- I like to believe there’s a little unhinged perv in all of us simping for standoffish highly trained spetsnaz masked stonecold killers who slowly warm up and show their tender soft gooey heart but OH MY GOD obsy’s version of nikto is so well-written i can savor a re-read like this personal comfortfic many, many times and still feel the same giddiness, tenderness, tension, and anticipation I did the first time I read it through

- accidental bump into each other is also a fave meet-cute scenario of mine ❤️

- absolutely savored the awkward tension of reader and nikto wordlessly cleaning up the spilled beef stroganoff, very kevins-famous-chilli-esque iykyk

- every moment of eye contact, nikto noticing reader’s lips, reader picking up on his emotions through his eyes, noticing his BARE FOREARMS, omg cover them up slut???, SHARING COFFEE, the unsexy PTSD choking incident and his THUMB TRACING HER COLLARBONES afterwards while checking on her, touching her neck and then basically spooning and INTERLOCKING FINGERS because hypothermia - has me pulsing and blushing redder than reading the most explicit rawdogging scene PLEASE THE LEVEL OF EMOTIONAL ATTACHMENT I HAVE TO THESE TWO GETTING INTIMATE IN EVERY WAY EXCEPT FOR ACTUAL SEX IS REACHING ‘I NEED TO BE MEDICATED’ LEVELS

- I love the reader’s journey in gradually learning how to pick up the tells/emotions from nikto through their eyes, as someone who’s learned and is still learning to do same I feel very seen, no pun intended lol

- also generally speaking, I am so drawn to the sense of compassion and understanding the reader has for someone like nikto and how easily she gives both in respecting his space and going out of her way to make him feel comfortable and included - buying him the dinner she ruined immediately, leaving his mask on even if it cost her the sparring match, offering to eat in her room so he can eat at a reasonable time with her, taking note of his habits and working around them, her thinking of his absence when the whole group is sharing meals - it reminds me of the people in my life who’ve been so patient, considerate, persevering, and kind with me and reminds me to strive to do the same for the people around me. <3 anyway I love fanfic and it’s made me a better human (sorry did I say better? one sec I think I misspelled hornier)

- did not realize nikto is wearing a flight suit til I read this fic which sent me down a rabbit hole of researching and googling soviet flight suits for a good hour or two (also shoutout to For All Mankind, obsessed with that show)

- me, taking notes on how to flirt with/recognize being flirted with spetsnaz masked men: “spill…their food, check…save them from sniper, check…gaze longingly at their lips, check…give pointers on how to improve by unwittingly insulting them, check…run them through training courses relentlessly at 3am, check…lend them your personal gun, still warm from your touch, check…get crush alone, respond to questions with terse 1-2 word answers, check…”

- “"You're quiet, I like that." His tone has a slight cheery lilt to it. The corners of his eyes relax.” NIKTO YOU ABSOLUTE HORNDOG YOU THAT IS SOME SOME HARDCORE NIKTO FLIRTING©️ IF I SAY SO

- dmitry bale is canonically an excellent chef who loves spilling tea™️ while cooking, you cannot change my mind. also canon, he is my babygirl malewife

- i love multiple unresolved threads fleshing out a good plot and the ??? that is nikolai and nikto’s relationship or lack thereof keeps me up at night speculating sometimes lol

- please dmitry’s dimpled smile comment <3 i would commit tax evasion to see his face - i see a lot of speculation online about what he may look like as it’s canon that he’s fraternal twins (so not identical) with maxim/minotaur. Sidenote i know a pair of fraternal twin sisters and they just look like straight up one copy of the mom, and one copy of the dad to me lol

- it is my sincere belief nikto has rubbed one or two or three out recalling sparring with reader ❤️ (and esp. her choosing not to unmask him) ok but to put my horniness aside briefly - nikto and reader don’t converse much until a little later in the story but the way their body language and actions to each other speak VOLUMES is so loud, their crushing on each other is literally screeching in my ear mansplaining baseball to me like that one meme

picturing from Nikto’s POV, I can’t imagine the emotions that must course through him when he realizes reader, well within her rights to rip his mask off, not only chooses not to but is close enough to her to feel her physically relaxing under him so he can win? nikto is apparently also a budding part-time magician for hiding that boner which was 10000% there in my head

- please god i want to see rodion find out about The Hypothermia Incident and eventually gloat (and get his ass beat) and attempt to take credit for wingmanning for nikto to get with reader

- chess as flirting is honestly the most russian thing i can think of tbh. on that note if you’re a fan of this pairing I highly recommend the movie Man From U.N.C.L.E. starring henry cavill/armie “cannibal” hammer/alicia vikander, I used to be a huuuuuge ilya/gaby fan (love me some classic spetsnaz spy x working class mechanic girl/enemies to lovers/pretend engagement❤️)

- sleepy nikto with a skewed mask hastily thrown on has me both incredibly tender and horny for him at the same time, i cannot explain it it’s just science

- ahem as a bonafide current dmitry simp, also daydreaming of an AU where reader went on this undercover mission with him instead; fanfic is simply the gift that keeps on giving when a good story can sprout endless AUs of AUs of AUs 

- also yes nikolai my feminist queen, empowering reader to take lead on the mission? or did he just say that so she could shut up and go on the mission? he may not be as close to nikto anymore but what else does he know of him (and nitko’s budding relationship with reader) to be pairing them together? *conspiracy theorizing intensifies*

- the minute i read about how cold the apartment was my lizard brain screamed SHAREBODYHEAT SHAREBED SHARECLOTHES YES YES YES YES and would not shut up and the absolute disappointment I felt when first reading that there were two separate beds had me laughing my ass off at myself till i cried

- i can physically feel the hearts bubbling out of reader’s eyes seeing nikto in normal clothes, tis a beautiful thing to witness

- when i tell you my soul left my body, fully died and had to call up my dnd party to use up some costly diamonds to cast resurrection on me to return to life when i read nikto calling reader “darling” tO mAiNtAiN cOvEr while talking to the babushka and the cackle that left my lungs after she retaliated by HOLDING HIS HAND? WHO FUCKING NEEDS SMUT WHEN SHIT LIKE THIS IS WRITTEN

- nikto’s snark and the emotional pain he feels hearing reader attempt to speak russian is what gets me out of bed these days

- “You roll your eyes but stiffly walk beside him, you can’t remember the last time a man, or anyone, held you this close. Eventually, you relaxed into his warmth, your body leaning into his. It’s starting to get colder so you’re secretly grateful for the heat.

And if you are going to be honest with yourself, it makes you feel protected.” i smile like an idiot every time i read these lines. again, smut who? i can run for days without food or water with this kind of fluff

- i like to imagine there is a little angel and devil on nikto’s shoulders shaking hands/highfiving whenever reader does/says shit like “You’re the first to head to bed again, but not before asking if he would like to join you” and record the memory in their book of Things Nikto Jerks Off To

- same as above, but for reader when Nikto proclaims her clothing is “pathetic, remove it” and then he takes off his own sweater telling her to “use mine later”

- i inhaled a metaphorical tub of popcorn while also holding my breath when reader found/went through nikto’s pills lol the absolute fear i felt at her being found out!! 

- once again the ease with which reader & nikto slips into the domesticity of shopping for clothes together speaks volumes to me <3 and yes, tell me ur single without telling me ur single, men with very limited wardrobes 

- I would like to advocate for a cash bonus and stock options for the activision writer who pitched giving Sputnik the Hyena as a companion to Nikto 

- I have also gone in search of strawberry scent/shampoo IRL only to discover it’s not really a popular scent; i sniffed some The Body Shop shower gel at a local store near my office and it wasn’t as appealing as I hoped it would be :/ truly tho i love when writers work in smellsnbells and scents into their stories in some way (must be the ABO fan/candle girlie in me)

anyway in conclusion: NIKTO SUPREMACY

The Challenge: Comment on every fanfic you read and enjoy in the month of January.

Every chapter. Every one shot. Every drabble. Every ficlet. Whether it’s on a personal website, a blog, or an archive. Whether you’ve read it a hundred times before or you’re reading it for the first time. Whether the fic was posted years ago or minutes ago. Whether you sign your name or leave your thoughts anonymously. Whether your comment is paragraphs in length or a few short words. Comment on every fanfic you read and enjoy in the month of January.

The Philosophy: Comments are what keep a fandom thriving and growing.

We don’t see comments as a transaction. They’re not a price paid for reading a fic. We see comments as an interaction, a way of building relationships. Comments are a courtesy, not a currency. [x]

Fandom is a relationship between dozens,hundreds, thousands, maybe millions of fans, and the only way for the greater fandom relationship to function, is for those fans to interact. One way to interact is by writing and reading fanfic. A writer prompts an interaction by posting their work; it is up to the reader to then acknowledge (or not acknowledge).

As one of our favorite blogs, @ao3commentoftheday​, said: [x]

“Comment if you can, but don’t be bullied or pressured into it. A comment should be written in the same spirit as the fic itself: wanting to reach out to other people who love the same fandom as you do. It’s not easy to do that, I know, and I don’t hold it against you at all if you can’t.”

The Only Rule: Be kind.

Be kind to your fandoms’ writers.

Please note that this challenge is to “comment on every fanfic you read and enjoy in the month of January.” As our fandom forebears were fond of saying, “Don’t like, don’t read.” For FaFiCoWriMo, we have taken that one step further by saying, “Don’t like, don’t comment.”

No matter how well-intentioned, critique is useless unless it comes from a place of trust. Unless you know an author personally and they have specifically asked for your critique, please keep it to yourself.

It costs zero of your currency and zero of your time to not be a jerk.

Be kind to yourself.

If you do find yourself unable to comment on every fic (for whatever reason), remember this: we forgive you, zero judgement. [x]

[rauhauser]

Frequent Fractal Frustrations

The arrow of time points just one way, and my flight is at least two thirds done, or perhaps nine tenths, or maybe that bird on my shoulder that asks if today is the day will be right on the money tomorrow.

I am constrained, my inability to take it all in at once, combined with my shaky ability to keep all that I see and hear, as I imagine I did as a younger man, it vexes me.

If you were to poke around in my playlists you'd find that every single Fleetwood Mac album is there, with the year of release as the first four digits in every title. There's a playlist with every Tommy James & Shondells tune that qualified as a psychedelic shuffle, also date ordered. I often return to FIsh's first album, Vigil In A Wilderness Of Mirrors, because it matters, right here, right now, even more than it did in the two years between its release and the final dissolution of the Soviet Union. Beth Orton all but disavows her freshman release, Superpinkymandy, but the hints of what was to come are there, teasing me every time I listen. It's 2025 and I'm still listening to Wicked Lester, hearing a path untaken by a band whose name every Gen-Xer knows. And don't get me started about Beautiful People ...

The brightest pain among them all? Perhaps the small collection of Blaze Foley I gathered after seeing Lucinda Williams live some years ago.

The last time I looked there were about 1,600 MP3s in my collection, almost all of which are YouTube finds.

The most recent addition ... the 24 tracks of The Basement Tapes, with Bob Dylan and The Band. I am ... this is music I fear ... it's an audio chautaqua to make Pirsig blush, a trailhead to a path that branches like California dry lightning, when you're in Napa and it's almost to the Sierra.

There's only one artist that ever got me to open up a graph tool and start mapping songs and concepts. If you're at all familiar with my typical music tastes you will never, ever guess ...

Ozzy Osbourne.

I am ... contemplating things now, what I might do next. Netwar Irregulars Bulletin remains extant, but dramatically changed. I'm not really wired to be a grief counselor, but that's what the arrow of time has delivered.

The first cause for this site is still right there, that seventh son of a seventh son, years of following one branching lightning strike. I've been looking at ChatGPT, Claude, Copilot. Evernote changed their licensing terms; those years of work are now frozen, unless I'm willing to pay them, which I am not. Obsidian teases, it might do what I need ... but what I SHOULD do is find a way to funnel what I already have into a Retrieval Augmented Generation system. I don't think the machine can do what I do ... yet ... but the new options within ChatGPT show a steady progression.

And if the machine should match, or even worse best me ... what then?

[wndaswife]

hi there x

I'm a new anon, I will use the same emoji that I use in hopelesslygaymess's blog <3

First of all, your writing is amazing, and your drabbles earn a small blush every single time I reload my page

Second of all, when it comes to the topic of war, I too found World War 2 to be incredibly interesting. Some people's hyperfixations are shark species or astrology, and there are quite a lot of people who have hyperfixations on history and that mostly revolves around war. There's something about it and the psychology around it that truly is very intriguing to go down a rabbit hole to learn all about it

Anyways, I'm sure this is quite a boring anon to recieve, I apologize :)

Your writing is perfect, and I love the colours and aura you have around your blog, it's very pretty and I always look forward to new posts

- 🌀

thanks!!!! i love writing drabbles they’re the best to get some little creative ideas out :3

yeah i suppose that’s true, i actually read all of wind up bird’s war story part last night it was really interesting to learn more ab that history with japan and the soviets and mongolia, but i think it’s just usa history that really is just boring to me

idk i can’t really sympathize or take the american man and his journey in the world seriously i realized yesterday, i had fun reading gatsby i guess tho it was for school, but i can’t take it seriously

probably the closest i’d get to being interested in any theme of that is catcher in the rye, it’s my favourite book and probably annoyingly critical and naive about the american dream and men finding their place, always just calling those people phonies and stuff

i was very interested in wind up bird’s war story it’s just a crazy way to see the world and to know what happened, but i think to me the takeaway is cultural and historical and usa history and culture is so dull to me, it’s almost pretentious to read these men struggle so much in literature about war and their american dreams idk how she can stand it

but i totally see why war is an interesting topic in general, there’s a lot to take away from it

thank you 😃😃😃😃 i also really love the blog colours at the moment and this lizzie look in my pfp has to be one of my favs :3

[silverslipstream]

Happy STS!

Give me the latest gossip in your story! What’s the rumour mill talking about? Are there whispers behind your characters’ backs? Just how true are the rumours?

Happy Storyteller Satur-tuesday Sam, and thank you for the ask! I've not got much for this, but there's a few rumours, both personal and setting-wide, that exist in White Sky:

Kat is attracted to Harry: This one's starting to become a running gag amongst the crew of the Dowager Caroline; there's a constant suspicion the Kat and Harry are hooking up or dating on the sly, which is emphatically untrue. She stresses him out and she thinks he's too flippant and ignorant. For some reason, random people they vaguely know will always comment or assume they're a couple, which drives both of them even crazier.

Stan was a spy/has seen secret war atrocities: It's not something the crew would EVER bring up to Stan himself (who, depending on his mood, would either laugh in their face or mutter at them to fuck off), but they're starting to suspect he saw and did a lot more during his 'war days' than he let on. He wears a lot of military surplus gear, for one. While it's true that he's an accomplished engineer, he's also an expert on explosives, knows the minutiae of killing human beings and occasionally mumbles nightmarish, disconnected ramblings in his sleep. When questioned, he simply states he was 'deployed as a combat pilot' and 'needed a change' upon shifting to the debris hauling industry. Whatever the answers are, the crew aren't getting them from him.

Jack is hooking up with Kaz: At first glance, it seems like this one is just a prank/joke circulated by the crew to piss Jack off, and in most cases, you'd be right. However, Kaz is infamous for blushing and clamming-up whenever it's mentioned, and Harry swears he catches them throwing sneaky glances at each other now and then. Add that to that fact that both are single (Kaz due to his obsessive work ethic and working on Mars for most of his adult life, Jack due to her messy divorce from her wife back on Earth and long hours spent in deep space) and there may be more truth to this rumour that meets the eye...

This doesn't even count the speculation around Kat being forced on the run, which is included but not limited to:

assassinating a political figure (no)

dealing hardcore drugs (absolutely not)

inventing illegal weaponry of some kind (no)

having a sexual relationship with a professor (this one almost got Harry a bulkhead-related concussion)

The United States's 'diplomatic intervention' in Latin America is secretly a preparation for invasion: During the story, an alliance between the US and Mexico enters Venezuela, Bolivia and Ecuador to 'keep the peace' following civil unrest and warfare. Some characters believe it's a genuine offer of peacekeeping in the region, others think it's not those countries' place to interfere, and others think it's a ploy to take advantage of the fighting to declare war, overpower said countries and use their land and equatorial access for spaceports. The latter theory is initially mocked as a conspiracy theory, but as things deteriorate it looks more and more likely...

The former Soviet Union landed on the Moon first: Despite the fact that the US still landed on the Moon first in this timeline (14th July, 1969 vs June 25th, 1970), there's still a rumour and urban legend that Soviet cosmonauts landed on the Moon first, only to suffer an accident or become stranded, hence why their fate(s) were covered up by the USSR. Massive exploration of the Moon in the century since can't find any evidence of unregistered Soviet rockets, and Russia has maintained that the allegations were false ever since the former USSR collapsed in the early 2000s. Still, for a mere rumour, it's a pretty persistent one...

ELTO forces inequality on the lunar surface: This view is purported by Menzies, Cho and the other 'stateless' workers of the Lunar Independence Alliance, who claim their visas were deliberately revoked in order to force migrant workers to stay on the Moon and keep up the status quo. Judging by the way ELTO runs things on Luna, this is probably (and sadly) true.

The Konstantin Tsiolkovsky is a global money-laundering scheme: detractors of ELTO's Saturn mission point out that the Tsiolkovsky has been in development for nearly a decade without much to show for it. Rumour has it, it's an expensive ploy to drive up space investment while secretly bolstering the economies of ELTO member nations. Proven false when the Tsiolkovsky's engine is fired for the first time, and later on when it's "commandeered"

[buttercup-barf]

Running out of stuff in the scheduled posts- My laptop's screen and keyboard got fucky-wuckied, and I hope we can fix them by the end of the week, because otherwise random doodles is all I've got.

So now, time to present the other Wizard Of Oz-inspired OC's.

Here's Ian (he/him, masculine terminology), Shilo/Strizh (he/they, masculine and androgynous terminology) and Ronna (she/they, feminine terminology).

I believe I only mentioned Ronna so far, but now you can see The Rest Of Them, so there's that. More info will be under the cut, so that people browsing the Wizard Of Oz tag won't have to scroll for five hours. "X-)

As you can probably tell, Shilo, Ian, and Ronna are the Scarwcrow, Tin Man, and Lion stand-ins respectively. There's no Dorothy or Toto stand-ins, rather their traits are distributed among the three. Although calling them "stand-ins" is a little dishonest, as they only share some backstory and aesthetic elements with the Brain-Heart-Courage Trio from the books.

Their world is more inspired by slavic fairytales and Soviet cartoon depictions of them, the "human" species of their world is called "lud", and they all have grey features, it's not just a filter, shit's different. Also these three are explicitly a polycule, rather than just buddies. A triad specifically, as they all date each other. Yay!

The obligatory human "AU" has them all living in the actual human world, and their Tragic Backstories are tweaked a little, but the general gist of them as a trio is: Local twig smartass and his two beanpole partners that could bench-press an elephant get into wacky scenarios. And yeah, Strizh's little patch of fabric is vitiligo in his human form. Sue me.

Side note, in the "canon", Ronna's left eye is just. Gone. It's a hole. But in the human "AU" they got a glass one that is just pitch black to look cool. The scar over that one, as well as the one under her right eye, and some other ones all over her body are also black in "canon" and da human "AU" because of dark gor blood and sick tattoo wishes respectively.

And two still-alive Ians for comparison between lud and humans. Lud are just People but with grey skin, eyes, hair, etc. Their blood is a bright #ff0000 kind of red, but it's not like you can really see it, can you. If a lud were to blush, the blood rushing to their cheeks would just make them darker. There's also some wacky shit (by human standards) with their chromosomes and reproductive organs, but I'll cut it here.

Also. "Canonically" he got Tin Man'd, but in the human "AU" he ended up mauled in a far less "OH SHIT HE IS LITERALLY JUST A BLOODY PILE OF MEAT WE NEED A MIRACLE FOR HIM TO BE BROUGHT BACK" way, so he just needed some prosthetics. He's fine.

[earlgreydream]

professor barnes.

| professor!bucky barnes x reader | smut | fluff |

don’t mind me, I’m fantasizing about bucky being my hot professor ✨

cw: this is obviously a professor au, so there’s that (please don’t hook up with your profs irl) and also like, slight innocent kink? but not really, mild degradation (not meant)

You were tapping your pen against your lips.

You were deep in thought, hanging off of every word your professor spoke. You listened intently, taking in everything Professor Barnes had to say about World War II history.

History fascinated you, but not near as much as your sexy professor did. James Buchanan Barnes was nothing if not criminally gorgeous. It was distracting.

You really did try to focus on history, but it was so hard when you were watching his soft, full lips move. Occasionally, he would run his fingers through his dark hair, his muscles flexing under the white button downs he always wore.

“Miss Y/N!”

You were snapped out of your thoughts, your pen falling from your fingers and clattering against your desk. It seemed to echo as all of the other students looked at you. Silver eyes bore into you, and you swallowed thickly.

“Professor? I’m sorry, could you repeat the question?” You asked shyly. He looked at you for a moment before sighing.

“I asked who the leader of the Soviet Union was during World War II.”

“Joseph Stalin,” you answered, feeling sick to your stomach at his irritated tone.

“Thank you. Let’s try to pay attention for the rest of the lesson, yeah?”

Your face burned in shame, and a few of the girls smirked at his scolding.

“Yes, sir,” you nodded before he went back to his lecture.

You took notes and kept your head down the rest of the lecture, your penmanship a bit messy from your shaking hands. You closed your notebook and put it away as he ended the lecture, and students rushed out, eager to get to their lunch breaks.

You realized you were the last one left, and you stood, making your way through the empty desks.

“Y/N,” Professor Barnes said your name, and you stopped.

“I’m sorry-” both of you said at the same time, and you bit your lip, letting him continue.

“It wasn’t my intention to shame you.” He finished, and you looked into his silver eyes.

“I’m sorry that I got distracted. I’ll pay better attention next time... I usually do.”

“I know, you’re exceptionally intelligent, Y/N.”

You blushed at the praise, and he offered a small smile, putting you at ease. You thanked him before leaving, thoughts of him filling your mind the rest of the afternoon.

James couldn’t stop watching you. He was lecturing on the USSR, but part of his mind was on you. The way you listened to him, careful not to let yourself get called out again for being distracted. He noticed how you tapped your pen against your pink lips whenever you were in thought.

His mind wandered to your lips around him, though he caught himself and cleared his throat, letting a student speak about their research on Soviet Russia.

When you stood up, you smoothed our your miniskirt that drove him crazy. He imagined yanking it down your legs and bending you over his desk, teaching you to pay attention.

He was drawn back to reality by your sweet smile as you said goodbye as you headed out for the day. The image of your smile stuck in his head, and he couldn’t get you off his mind.

Professor Barnes was the subject of your dreams. You woke up in the middle of the night, after your subconscious had imagined him with his head between your legs, eating you out on top of your desk before class. Your cheeks heated furiously, and you took a cold shower, scrubbing your fantasies away.

You fidgeted in your seat, second guessing your choice of wearing a tight v-neck shirt. You felt silly. You had paired it with a short skirt, all in the hopes that your hot professor would notice you.

But why would he? You were just one of many students attempting to grab a few extra seconds of attention. You were running over your choice of outfit in your head as your professor passed papers back to all of the students.

He laid yours on your desk, and you noticed the lack of letter circled at the top. You were about to stop him when you realized there was a sticky note on the second page.

Please see me in my office after class. JBB

You looked up at him, but he didn’t glance at you as he handed other students their papers. You noticed nothing was marked on your paper, and you suddenly felt nervous.

Your heart was racing in your chest as you walked to his office, stopping by the bathroom to give yourself a pep talk in the mirror. You were sure it was fine, you would’ve gotten an email if you’d truly fucked up, alerting you ahead of time, you tried to convince yourself.

You knocked softly on the doorframe, leaning into his office. It was small and warm, filled with well-loved books and scattered notes of a chaotic mind. It smelled like coffee and books and leather, and everything about the small space seemed inviting.

“Y/N, come in.” Professor Barnes stood up, waving me inside. I stepped in anxiously, pushing the door shut behind me before taking a seat in the chair opposite his desk.

“I saw your note, in my paper. Is something wrong? There was no grade on it, and I’ve been worried...” you confessed, looking up into his silver gaze. He walked around and leaned against the desk in front of you, his hands gripping the edge.

“No, nothing is wrong. In fact, your paper is practically perfect. It’s incredibly written.” His words surprised you.

As he praised you, he looked down at your chest, shown off in your tight, low cut shirt. He wondered if you knew what you did to him, the effect you had. He acted as if he were deep in thought, covering up the fact he accidentally looked at your body a little too long.

“Thank you, sir. I don’t know what to say, I had no idea,” you spoke, and calling him sir made his cock twitch, and his breath catch in his throat.

“Of course. I wanted to talk to you to see if you were interested in publishing it in the school’s academic journal.”

“Oh? I mean, if that’s an option, then yes.”

“I can submit it for you, you’d just need to sign off saying that you grant permission for publication.” He explained to you, and you nodded, signing the form he placed in front of you.

You blushed, thinking about how he was directly in front of you, his body stretched out, muscles on display with his sleeves pushed up to his elbows. Your entire body grew hot with embarrassment when he caught you staring. 

“What’s on your mind, Y/N?” His voice was low and smooth, and you could’ve sworn he read your mind. 

“Nothing, I’m...” You stammered, unsure of what to say. 

“You’re what, fantasizing?”

Your eyes snapped up to him, and his confidence grew as he saw your thighs squeeze together, giving away your thoughts.

“Professor...” You must have misheard him, and he smirked at how flustered you were getting.

“Is that a yes?”

“I can’t stop thinking about you. Wearing these little outfits and teasing me.” 

He knew. 

James knew he won when he saw realization flood your face. 

“I wear them for you,” you admitted shyly, trying to ignore the throbbing ache between your legs as he gazed down at you.

“That’s what I thought, doll.” 

You bit your lip, looking down at your fingers.

“What do you imagine me doing to you, pretty girl? Do you think about me taking off these little skirts?” He asked you, trailing his fingers along the hem, brushing against your thigh. You inhaled sharply, your head spinning at the touch. You nodded, making him smile as he leaned over you. His lips brushed against your cheekbone, and you felt him smirk against your skin.

“Tell me what you dream about, doll,” he whispered, and by now you were practically shaking.

“Now you’re going to be shy?” James teased, amused by how easily he made you nervous.

He stood abruptly when a knock sounded on the door, and he leaned back on the desk. Your eyes were wide, and you sat frozen, in shock.

“I’m finishing up with a student!” He called through the door.

“I’ll see you soon, then?” He asked, and you nodded, your breath hitching as he gently touched your face. You stood, and he opened the door for the other student.

“I’m sorry, I was just hoping to talk about my grade?” A girl asked, in tears, and he looked like he wanted to harm her for interrupting.

“Yes, come in then.” His tone was impatient, and you lingered in the doorway. James said your name, holding eye contact with you for a moment before going back to work, and you walked down the hallway in a daze.

You couldn’t believe what had just happened. You felt like you were dreaming, your erotic fantasies coming true. You weren’t able to focus on your work, and you went home for the remainder of the day.

When it came time for his class again, you wore a short dress with little straps, wanting to show off as much as possible for him.

Your heart and mind raced as you entered his classroom, and you smiled innocently when his eyes fell on you. The silver darkened, and he watched you move to your seat, and you squirmed under the heavy gaze.

James watched as you uncrossed your legs, catching a flash of the lace beneath your dress. He sat down behind his desk, trying to collect himself and tear his focus off of you.

He was thankful that there was no lecture today, only a short quiz before he sent everybody home. You bit the top of your pen as you thought about the answers on the sheet below you, and Bucky studied your mouth. Your cheeks warmed, feeling the heat of his intense stare, adjusting slightly under the pressure.

Finally, you looked up at him, and leaned forward on your desk so more of your chest was visible. On purpose. He cleared his throat, making several students glance at him, and you had to make yourself bite back a smirk.

Everyone dropped their quizzes on his desk, leaving once they finished. You were the last one done, and you set yours on top of the pile.

“Would you like to finish our conversation from Monday in my office?” Professor Barnes asked you calmly, and you nodded.

He walked behind you, making you lead the way to his office. You knew he was staring at your ass, barely covered by the dress you wore, and you turned as you heard the office door close behind you.

You dropped your bag and hopped up to sit on top of his desk. He tossed his own bag aside and clicked the lock on his door, letting his eyes slowly move over your body.

“Y/N, what am I going to do to you? You wore this slutty little dress to distract me, didn’t you?” He teased, walking to stand in front of you.

“Yes, professor. Do you like it?” You looked up at him for approval, and his small laugh graced your ears.

His fingers went to the thin straps resting on top of your shoulders, grazing down over your breasts before tweaking your nipples through the thin fabric.

You squealed softly, feeling chills throughout your body as he lightly pinched you, toying with you through the dress.

“Are you sensitive, doll?” He asked, and you nodded, your cheeks rosy at your eagerness.

“I’ve been thinking about you, and not been able to do anything about it, and I’m all pent up.” You offered an explanation for your sensitivity, and his eyes nearly rolled back from the innocent way you spoke to him. He wanted to absolutely tear you up and ruin you, and make you fall apart at his touch.

“Let’s see if I can help then,” he slipped the straps off of your shoulders, the dress falling down around your waist.

At the sight of your bare chest in front of him, an audible noise of need left his throat. Your professor knelt down in front of you, wrapping his lips around your sensitive skin. Your chest rose and fell quickly with your heavy breathing, and his hand squeezed and fondled the side that wasn’t in his mouth.

“Please!” You were nearly desperate, feeling your arousal begin to drip down your thighs as you grew more and more needy.

“Tell me what you want, doll.”

“I need you to fuck me,” you didn’t care about the embarrassment anymore, and he smiled as he left heavy kisses down the column of your throat.

He couldn’t draw out the teasing anymore. He was painfully hard and the sight of you alone and your filthy words were driving him wild.

You had managed to undo the buttons of his shirt, revealing an incredibly toned chest, and he undid his belt, pulling it easily from the loops. He snapped it as he tossed it aside, and you jumped at the noise, making him smirk.

“Maybe we can try that another time,” he watched an anticipatory shudder ripple down your spine.

“Do I get an A for this?” You teased, undoing the button and zip on his pants, tugging them down along with his underwear.

“Very cute,” he smacked your thigh lightly in response, making you jerk at the touch.

He slipped the dress over your head, discarding it along with his own clothing, leaving you in just lace panties on his desk.

He traced his fingertips over the damp lace, making you squirm on the desktop. You rolled your hips forward, eager for stimulation. He hummed disapprovingly at the action, pulling his touch away.

His hands held your waist as he carefully laid you down on the cleared wooden desktop, and you looked up at the stunning man above you.

“Please don’t tease me anymore, professor. I want you to fuck my pussy, please,” you begged, and he removed the lace in one quick movement.

“Relax, doll, I’m going to take care of you,” James answered gently, kissing down your body.

He hands wrapped around your thighs and he pulled you so that you were at the edge of the desk, your feet on top of the surface so you were spread open for him.

He leaned down and connected your lips, consuming you in a deep kiss. You moaned into his mouth as his fingers lightly began to rub at your clit, making sure you were relaxed enough to take him in.

“I need you to be quiet beautiful, so all the students outside don’t hear those pretty screams for me.” He warned, kissing a line down your jaw.

“Yes, sir.”

“Fuck.”

You felt him brush his tip against your entrance before thrusting into you, and you struggled to adjust around him as he bottomed out. You held in a loud cry, arching your back, and pushing your chest up into his face as you did so.

Your breath hitched as he rocked into you, and he thrusted a bit faster, hitting all the deep places inside of you. He watched you struggle to ground yourself, your hands eventually holding his thick arms as he slammed into you repeatedly. You were smooth and tight around him, squeezing and contracting as he hit your g-spot.

“James, fuck,” the profanity tumbled from your pretty lips as his hips connected with yours. He wrapped a hand around your throat, keeping you down but not quite choking you.

The action caused you to spasm around him, and your hands wrapped around his wrist, keeping his hand around your neck.

“Do you like that? Do you like me holding you down by your throat? You dirty girl.”

“Yes,” you breathed softly under his grip, your thighs trembling weakly around his waist. You started to shake as waves of pleasure overwhelmed your body. 

“Are you close?” He knew the answer, but he enjoyed seeing you fight to try to form words through the fucked-out haze that had settled in your mind.

“Answer me doll, or I’m going to stop,” James threatened, and you nodded.

“Yes, I’m so close!” Your soft whine was like music to him, and he dropped his free hand between the two of you.

He kept up his thrusts while playing with your clit, trying to pull your orgasm from you. He could feel your muscles tighten and threaten to snap around him, and you just needed a little help letting go. You were begging him softly, your eyes bleary as you cried for release. James wanted to feel you come around him, and was more than happy to help, squeezing lightly around your throat and pinching your nerves, the combination causing the pressure to snap. Your vision sparkled with color, electricity shooting through every nerve ending in your body. You threw your head back from the pleasure, and a hard thrust into your g-spot sent you spiraling into euphoria.

You came around him with a silent scream, and he struggled not to follow suit, and fill up your warm pussy. He released you as he felt you ride out the end of your orgasm, and he pulled out, coming all over your torso in several white ribbons.

You watched him in a daze, and once he finished, he gave you another quick kiss. You sighed softly, exhaustion starting to set in. His gentle smile made warmth spread over your body, and for a moment you forgot that you were lying naked on top of his desk.

He cleaned himself before cleaning you up, being gentle with you.

“Y’alright?” James asked, smiling at your soft yawn. You nodded, pulling the lace back up your legs and reaching for your dress. He handed it to you once you sat up, and helped you fix it.

Your fingers slipped the buttons of his shirt back in their holes, despite the fact that your hands were still a bit shaky. You felt all worn out, feeling like you could sleep for days and ride the dreamy feeling that was left in your mind.

He couldn’t help the smirk that pulled at his lips as you held his arm when you stood up, trying to steady yourself. You looked up at him shyly, and he placed his hand on your lower back.

“For the next time.” Professor Barnes said, putting his number in your phone before giving you a kiss. 

[blackknight95857669]

Atomic Heart review

I recently acquired an Xbox Series X off eBay (new but with shipping damage to the housing, fully functional, $450 after taxes, wee) so naturally the first thing I did was download 600GB (oops, Comcast gonna scold me) of Game Pass games to it, including Atomic Heart which I decided to play first.

So to start off, as a first effort from a studio AH is fairly well put together. Didn't experience any crashes, game breaking bugs etc. The world is certainly well realized and quite pretty, despite the large numbers of dead Soviets laying around everywhere. Sound design is better than average for the most part, though I did notice that it was hard to exactly pinpoint enemies by sound, their SFX didn't seem to be 3D optimized.

While it looks pretty and for the most part controls well (more on that shortly), once you start playing it rapidly becomes apparent that this game was written by/for tween-teen edgelords. There so much unnecessary swearing and over-sexualized content shoved into this game it would almost make Duke Nukem blush. For ex: the upgrade kiosk being an eager to please, begging to be dominated Sub was certainly a choice. I will give them credit for having P-3 be repulsed by it, Duke Nukem probably would have fucked it. The story is also so cookie cutter obvious and ripped from BioShock I expected my glove to keep asking me "would you kindly" (it actually did say this at one point, lol). I did like most of of the "side" story text/audiologs/NPCs etc, it almost felt like a different team was writing that stuff, heh. **END GAME SPOILER-ISH ALERT** I will say it was a novel idea to give me a binary choice near the end that boiled down to "go get revenge on the real big bad" or " if you've had enough of this game, just quit". I actually picked the quit just to see what it did. Very anticlimactic possible sequel teasing 1 min end cinematic.

About those controls.. while the shooting is good, on par with most of the games in this genre, the melee combat left a lot to be desired for me. No target lock makes old man gamer get cranky. I thought it wouldn't be a big deal as they aren't shy about funneling you plenty of ammo, but there's mini-bosses that you can't harm with anything but melee/elemental damage. Even with some tweaks to the controls I had a hard time keeping up with fast dodging enemies, so I ended up dropping the difficulty from the standard the game starts with to "story mode" just so I could get through it. I liked the rest of the gameplay, especially the crafting loop, enough to keep playing through to the credits.

Overall, I'd say this game is worth a look if you have an itch to play another BioShock and you have Game Pass. I'd wait for at least a 50% off sale anywhere else, and if you haven't played it by the time it's 75% off it's a no brainer.

[edengarden]

What do you think is the one thing someone could say to Nanami, Haru, Toji and Getou that would get them to immediately blush? ╰(*´︶`*)╯

Nanami

I'm gonna be real, i'm trying to think of something and,, i seriously can't.

you'd have to be creative as FUCK in your praise. it has to be something sweet, either the way you word it, or just the thing you praise him for, it has to be original, never heard of before. but not weird

maybe something about the way he looks so gorgeous when the sun hits him in the morning, or how hardworking he is, that he's someone you look up to; your own personal idol

saying he'd blush is a little far-fetched, but his heart definitely skips a beat. especially since it's coming from you

Haru

anything suggestive. he's a virgin after all

but also soft praises.

"you're such a pretty boy" and "you're my little angel, you know that?" they did a number on him the first time you used it

buddy hasn't gotten affection since his parents (did he even have any? any good ones? we dont know dude), so it catches him off-guard and he's very much flustered by it

Toji

in soviet russia (and everywhere else) you don't fluster toji, toji flusters you

compliment anything that isn't physical appearance or potential

mention his mind, how beautiful you think it is and how the way it works intrigues you. mention how you love when he does this specific thing (that most likely just ends up being a little quirk of his he's never noticed until you pointed it out)

he's red, but will still try to get you back by flustering you so you don't notice him slippin

Geto

oh man, oh man, oh man.

confess your devotion to him. show him that you'd follow him to the ends of the world. the image of having you by his side unconditionally makes him blush because it comes hand in hand with the idea of marrying you

big ass softie, he smiles so sweetly at you when you say things like that

"no matter what you choose, i'll be by your side honey" that gets his heart racing so much, he's ready to just melt into a puddle for you right about now

[axvoter]

Blatantly Partisan Party Review IX (NSW 2023): Group K (Oscar Grenfell / Socialist Equality Party)

Prior reviews of the Socialist Equality Party: federal 2013, federal 2016, federal 2019, federal 2022

What I said before: “Simply put, the SEP are the cranks of the Australian socialist space. That’s saying a lot given some of the weird units out there too. The SEP are still ranting that all other left-wing parties and trade unions, including other socialist parties, are on the ‘pseudo-left’. It’s tedious and childish. Just because you have minor ideological disagreements does not mean everyone else is some stooge of global capital.” (federal 2022)

What I think this year: The SEP failed to retain federal registration when parliament raised the membership threshold from 500 to 1,500 members, leading to a comical sequence of events detailed in my federal 2022 review. They did, nonetheless, run grouped independents at the federal election: in NSW, these were Max Boddy and Oscar Grenfell. Both of them are back for the NSW state election. Boddy is standing as an SEP-endorsed independent in the seat of Bankstown, while Grenfell leads a two-candidate SEP-endorsed ticket in the upper house. You need 15 candidates in a group to get a square above the line, so obviously this SEP tilt at office (like all their tilts at office) is a non-starter. They are whinging that they don’t get the SEP name on the ballot because of NSW’s “anti-democratic electoral laws”, when if they simply had 13 more friends they’d get an unlabelled square above the line and if they could sign up 750 members they would be able to get their name on the ballot. If they truly were a party of the workers, 750 would be no problem.

Anyway, the SEP is the most disagreeable wing of socialism in Australia. If you’ve been following this blog for any length of time, you know I think they are petty and narrowminded, habitually condemning everyone else for even the slightest disagreement. The hubris of their rhetoric is in inverse proportion to its persuasiveness. If you want a socialist option in NSW, go with the Socialist Alliance rather than this bilious not-a-party.

Also, predictably, the SEP’s rhetoric about the war in Ukraine is “look what you made me do” bullshit sympathising with Russia. Indeed, Grenfell claims in the above-linked article that this is a “US-NATO war against Russia”, which is so comical even the most craven Putin apologist would surely blush. It seems strange to me to need to reiterate to some on the left that sovereign states can freely choose their memberships of international organisations, and these choices do not justify military assaults, not even from Russia. But it seems some remain wedded to “the enemy of my enemy is my friend, and my enemy is always the US”, or to blindly supporting Russia as if the Soviet Union never collapsed. Yawn.

Recommendation: Give Group K (Oscar Grenfell / Socialist Equality Party) a weak or no preference.

Website: https://www.wsws.org/en/special/pages/sep/australia/home.html

[joyfulmagic]

@heldheart continued from [here] // Sophia Rogers & Illya Kuryakin

Illya had met Sophia years after the Snap, after he'd returned to Eastern Europe and the former Soviet Union for nearly twenty years to help them rebuild rather than serve as an Avenger. To him, she was another adult born after him due to his immortality and decelerated aging. Hell, he'd thought about stopping aging around 33 and he looked in his late 20s, early 30s, so it worked for him. He'd known her father back during WWII and during some of the events following the 2012 attack on New York City, but was never close with Steve - in truth, he'd grown closer to Bucky Barnes.

Illya had feelings for Sophia very gradually, seeing her father's admirable traits in her, along with her mother's. He'd even trained with her, teaching her hand to hand combat that her mother hadn't and mental techniques to block out magical intrusion. Eventually, they'd kissed during sparring once she was closer to the age he was staying at.

He'd never looked at her before she hit twenty-five, not in the way he was starting to. Hell, he'd asked her out when she hit 26 on her birthday as he was daring. She'd said yes, and they'd been dating a little less than a year at this point. This was their first Valentine's Day together, and he'd decided to take her to a fair in one of the warmer states.

"I'm also very competitive," Illya reminded her with a cheeky smile, his fair cheeks showing a blush at Sophia's words of affection. He wasn't accustomed to praise or words of affection, yet he craved them.

The bear he'd won her at a supposedly rigged game was nearly her size, which entertained the giant super soldier. The kiss on his cheek made his smile more sincere, him dipping down to kiss Sophia's cheek chastely. He was courting her slowly, like the proper gentleman he'd been raised to be.

"I thought a bear was fitting with me being, well, Russian and giant,, so he'd remind you of me when I'm away," he chuckled sheepishly, then raised a brow at the fact she may have gotten him something as well.