#everything is a pattern there is no bottom

[uhnosav]

Plumbing Problems?

pairing: bidet!sukuna x girly girl!reader

synopsis: you just wanted a pink bidet to be a perfect addition to your already girly home. but buying from a sketchy website to get the expensive toilet at a cheaper price does have its consequences… and oh so good benefits in the form of a 6’5 muscular demon that has pink hair, red eyes, and is littered with tattoos.

mdni cw: crack, cursing, sukuna is absolutely a little shit, explicit smut, masturbation (f!), fingering, oral sex (f!receiving), tit worship, overstimulation, degradation. (small toji cameo of him being a pervert)

THIS IS ALL @yenayaps FAULT SO BLAME THEM.

( @angelscriptures ily )

You really are just a girly girl! You can’t help it that you love the color pink. But in turn your brain, in an OCD kind of way, pieces together you need everything else you own to be pink as well. Your home looks similar to a barbie dream house on crack with how much the rosy color permeates the place. You have pink cooking utensils, rugs and blankets in all shades of that beloved color, honestly anything you could find that you needed in pink you owned it, and now you just couldn’t resist buying a bidet that is also pink. Why? Because obviously your ass needs to be sat upon your favorite color instead of some boring white toilet like a basic bitch. The toilet was specially ordered from a website you could hardly understand but you needed it… it was an almost 2k toilet that was only 600 bucks on this site, a steal truly. You figured it was because it was from a foreign country instead of where you live, so you made the purchase as fast as possible, not risking it getting sold out. Since you were not paying for the very fucking real pink tax if you bought it from where it is actually sold.

So two weeks later it arrives and yeah you realize you didn’t fucking think this through. How the fuck are you supposed to put this shit together? You could call up a plumber, but god knows how much they would charge you for installing your stupid pink toilet. So that leaves one option, beg your pervert upstairs neighbor to do it for you, because he's already fixed your sink once... he should definitely not have a problem with putting in your toilet. You hope.

“Tojiii pretty please” you whine batting your eyelashes up at him, with a pout forming on your bottom lip. You wore your tightest tank top and denim booty shorts hoping that will be enough to make him give in, since that was what worked last time.

“You have got to be fuckin’ kidding me doll.” he mutters, eyes flicking over your tits and how well they sit in the tank top. “Can’t you hire a plumber like a normal person. Why do you always have to bother me? I am not your daddy or your boyfriend.” but despite his words his tongue licks over the scar on his lip. You aren’t stupid you knew he already gave in as soon as your perky ass knocked on his apartment door but of course he has to act like the usual asshole he is.

“I can pay you… I promise.” you bite your bottom lip, fidgeting a little as you look up at the unit of a man. Sweatpants hanging low and his always too tight stretched out black compression shirt making his muscles look even bigger as he keeps them folded along his chest. The smirk he sports when you mention paying him doesn’t go unnoticed.

“Fine, goddamn brat.”

Two hours later your toilet is finally all set up and toji leaves your apartment obviously a little pissy that not only did you not pay him like you promised, but you also didn’t at least give him head as compensation like he hoped you would :(. Oh well.

The bidet felt like perfection, honestly you could sit here for hours. It has such a nice heated seat and it wasn't making your ass cramp, which made it become your favorite place to relax. In more ways than one. Fingers dance along your clit as you begin your newly formed nightly routine on the toilet seat. An ongoing pattern for the past week that always made you feel more satisfied than when you would do it laying down in bed. This wasn’t the case before, but you just chalked it up to the bidet's heated seats and how relaxing it felt. Finally you were getting into a steady rhythm of rolling your fingers on your clit almost about to ease a finger inside yourself when. The fuck? Water sprays up against you. I didn’t fucking press the button is all you think to yourself but sigh and go back to it since you were already feeling close. Another spritz of fucking water.

“Oh you have got to be fucking kidding me.” you grimace standing up as once again a spray of water emerges from inside the bidet. “How can you be fucking broken… I just got you, you stupid fucking toilet.” Ah, the words you will come to regret because little did you know, sukuna didn’t like that whatsofuckingever. He is not some ‘stupid fucking toilet’ he is an expensive and very high end japanese bidet, thank you very fucking much. With a huff you slide your panties and pants back on already making your way to the front door so that toji can fix this stupid fucking bidet, when you hear some thrumming noise coming from your bathroom. You disregard it, thinking it's just your broken bidet when suddenly big muscular arms encircle you. A scream begins to leave your lips when a huge thick hand covers it, a man's shushing filling your ears. A stupid desperate attempt to shut you up by whoever the fuck this man is. But then… he speaks.

“I am fucking not some ‘stupid fucking toilet’, you little fucking brat” the gruff yet oh so delicious voice hisses against your ear. You genuinely think you are insane and begin thrashing in this mans arms, when you realize he is fucking naked. What the actual fuck is happening is blaring in your mind as you scream into his palm, wishing your purse was closer so maybe you could tase and get this lunatic off you. “Calm down you fucking brat, it’s not like you haven’t sat on my face before. What's so different now.” his voice and words confuse the fuck out of you. You haven’t fucked anyone in months… sitting on this dude's face? And then it dawns on what he said before, “not some stupid fucking toilet”... no. It can’t fucking be. You stop trashing and trying to scream, which leads to him slowly taking his hand off your mouth.

“A-are… you my bidet… how is that even fucking possible. I must have hit my head. I am dreaming or I am batshit insane.” your words are rushed and slurred together as your thoughts race a thousand miles a minute trying to figure out what is happening.

“Yes I am your bidet. I am a demon, that's how this is possible dumbass. And no you didn’t hit your head or are dreaming. What happened is that I got fucking offended that you called me a broken toilet, when all I was doing was helping your needy ass cum better than what your tiny ass fingers were doing.” his tone bored as he answers your rambling questions like you asked if the sky was fucking blue instead of why your bidet is now a naked man that’s 6’5, with his rock hard cock pressed up against your back.

When he finally fully releases you, assuming that you had calmed down, which news flash you had obviously not, you immediately reach for your bag that is still by the front door. The unsuspecting demon, as he claims to be, is completely unaware of the taser you keep within it at all times. Grabbing it with a quickness of practiced ease you turn it on and tase him directly by his balls… by accident… totally.

“WHAT IN THE ACTUAL FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU WOMAN.” his voice booms but he remains unflinched, just audibly annoyed, like the 50,000 volts were only an annoying bug buzzing by his ear. “You just tased my fucking balls you psychotic brat. I was being fucking nice to you, and you fucking tased me.” You slump to the ground still shakily holding onto your taser just wide eyed at the huge muscular man with pink hair, red eyes, and tattoos, and begin sobbing. You aren’t even sure why, maybe it's cause the adrenaline wore off or the fact that this 6’5 man is yelling at you but tears flow down your cheeks. The tears make sukuna freeze. “Shit… are you ok, brat?” the octave of his voice becoming softer at the sight of your tears, despite his confusion as to why the fuck you are crying. Especially when not even a minute prior you just basically tased his balls with your taser.

“I don’t even know who the fuck you are or what your name is, other than the fact that you are supposedly my fucking bidet?!” you sob out your chest heaving slightly with your words. “I really am insane… I just wanted to finger myself before I went to sleep and I couldn’t even fucking get to do that.”

“My name is Sukuna, and I was a demon cursed to be a toilet after fucking with the wrong witch.” he huffs out. “I think she was just a bitch cause I wouldn’t fuck her… now you on the other hand, I would in a heartbeat. And show you how much better I am than your fingers.” his voice becoming a purr. You sniffle looking up at him assessing him.

“I guess you do have the hair color of my bidet… this is also so fucking weird to me though… what even broke your curse?” you mumble wiping your lingering tears off your face.

“You pissing me the fuck off gave me enough ability to transform back to my initial form.” he says rather matter of factly. “Which reminds me again brat, I was not some ‘stupid fucking toilet’ especially with you fingering yourself on my seat or should I say my face. Yeah surprise, the toilet seat, was my face.” he barks out a laugh at his own words like the egotistical little shit Sukuna is. He is an asshole and he knows it better than anyone else.

“Your face?” your eyes widen, your thigh shitting nervously and honestly because the thought that you have been sitting on this sexy specimen's face technically every single day the past week, arouses the inner pervert within you.

“Yeah, my face, you dirty perverted girl. Oh fuck, you like that huh.” He smirks watching your thighs squeeze together and how your eyes are glued to him. Sukuna knows that look like the back of his hand, you are eye fucking him with your mind. A chuckle with a growl escapes his smirked mouth as he sees that you are unable to resist gawking at his thick long cock, the reddened tip leaking precum. He watches you like a predator would a prey, and oh how pretty of a prey you are. Naive girl, he thinks, if only you google translated that website you bought, bidet him, off of, you would have known that by buying the bidet you are now tied to him forever. You are never getting rid of him.

In minutes he has your clothes off and you laid in your bed, which is full of plushies, a range of silky and fluffy pink blankets and so many fucking pillows, in your princess style bed, much to his disgust but it’s so very much so you that he will let it slide. Your bare skin is lit up with the pink string lights that are hung up around your room as you look up at him needily. He leans his head down, his mouth latching onto your nipple, his tongue swirling around the sensitive bud.

“Such pretty perfect tits.” he rasps against your breasts pressing kisses on them before he moves to the other nipple, one of his hands gripping your hip possessively, holding you in place. His other gropes the flesh of your tit that isn’t receiving attention with his mouth. His mouth and tongue are working their magic on your breast, sending waves of pleasure coursing through you.

“Oh fuck Sukuna… more.” your voice a needy purrlike moan. He unlatches from your perked nipple to grin like the cheshire cat.

“Needy brat can’t even let me take my time and savor your pretty body.” he murmurs but he is just as impatient as you, even moreso honestly, since he has not properly fucked anything for years. The hand gripping the flesh of your tit trails down your body slowly gliding against your skin. He slowly pushed your legs apart, earning your soft moan as he eyes your glistening cunt.

“Oh you are dripping, look at you.” he growls as his fingers graze against your wet slit. He groaned at how wet you are, his fingers almost immediately getting covered with your honeyed arousal. His fingers slowly circling your clit as he takes in the pleasure on your face, playing with your pussy like an instrument, figuring out what brings you the most pleasure. He smirks, applying the knowledge he has learned from you, fingering yourself on his face (toilet seat) to bring you closer to cumming as quickly as possible, the ego of him oozing out, with everything he does.

“All this just from me toying with your nipples? What a desperate slut you are. Come on, cum for me sweetheart I know you need too. And then I'll eat your sweet pretty pussy before I even determine if you are worthy of my cock.” His words are a mocking coo that pulls you in and threatens to send you over the edge so quickly. His fingers are so skilled and his voice just devours you, honestly how could you resist when this demon commands you to cum for him. Your pretty gasps and moans are like a symphony to his ears and he relishes when you whimper and cum all over his fingers. “There you fucking go. Much better than your tiny ass fingers ever could do. Pathetic honestly.” the mocking yet still sweet purr of his tone has you nodding unable to form proper words, but his words are true, his fingers worked you far better than your own could and you came far faster than you usually do, embarrassingly so.

He spends what feels like hours devouring your pussy much to your whines and protests to bury his cock inside you already. But all he did was mockingly laugh and pull your lower half closer to his face to drink your juices more.

“S’kuna pleaseee just put it in already..” your whines are delirious as he drives you closer to yet another unrelenting orgasm. “This is too much.. ngh..” but your whimpers fall to deaf ears. You can’t even grasp the sheets or his hair anymore as one of his hands holds them in an iron grip. His other hand gripping your hips almost to the point of a delicious bruise to prevent you from squirming or pushing away from him feasting on your cunt.

“Awe poor baby said please..” he scoffs in a mock coo against your pussy before humming against your clit again to make you scream. The vibration from him speaking and humming, sends an overwhelming current of pleasure straight to your core. You immediately nod your head at Sukuna about ready to moan those words out again but he cuts you off with more of his own. “Well maybe you should have thought of that before tasing my balls and calling me a ‘stupid fucking toilet’.”

“I’m sorry I didn't know.. how was I supposed to even know you weren’t a toilet.. pleaseee.” your sobs are combined with loud moans as he absolutely devours you like no one has before.

He lifts his head just a little from your core, breath still fanning on it and making it twitch just to chuckle a little. “Well too fucking bad. I have allll night sweetheart.” he drawls. “And we are just getting fucking started.”

[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.

🃜🃚🃖🃁🂭🂺 🃜🃚🃖���🂭🂺 🃜🃚🃖🃁🂭🂺 🃜🃚🃖🃁🂭🂺

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.

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𝟐𝟒 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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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."

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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 ;)

[tinyshyteacup]

Taglist: @kellynickelsgirl00 @dixonsbridexx @yikes-myguy @blackwidownat2814 @euqsia @lliteratii @imadisneyprincessiswear @satata @smashleywow @misspendragonsworld @captain-shannon-becker @i-doutt-it @bookies16 @brianna-merlim @staley83 @oceanticspace @insaneintheemembranev2 @dummylovewp @xmiaacxio @meyukoo @grilka @itsgivingdepression @timebomb1101 @inejghafasdagger @koshkahhh @juliperezsilveira @pandaofsilentdeath @straw--b3rry @nynxtea

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TW: Cussing, Walkers (Zombies), fluff, kissing, cuddling, hurt/comfort, angst, Negan is a Villan, SA (Implied, offscreen), PTSD symptoms, threats of violence.

Part 48

Dead Weight - Part 49

The morning light filters through the heavy curtains of your shared room, casting golden patterns across the walls. You're warm, cocooned in blankets and the familiar comfort of Daryl's arms around you. His chest rises and falls steadily against your back, and for the frist time you feel truly safe.

Daryl's face is buried in your hair. The relief of you washes over him - that you haven't pulled away, that your seeking comfort in his presence even after everything.

His flannel hangs loose on your frame, having shifted during the night to expose your shoulder. Without fully waking, Daryl nuzzles into the revealed skin, breathing in your scent. He trails his nose softly across your shoulder blade, the gesture so tender and unconscious that it makes your heart ache in the best way.

When he presses a unconscious feather-light kiss there, you startle slightly, a reflexive tension that he immediately feels.

"S'me," he whispers against your skin, his voice rough with sleep. "Jus' me."

You relax back into him, turning to face him. This is the first time he's slept without a shirt with you and you can see the uncertainty in his eyes - the vulnerability of being exposed.

"Y'okay?" he asks quietly, searching your face.

You nod, understanding the silent request, he leans down to kiss you softly. It's careful, gentle and slow.

Your fingertips trace along a scar on his shoulder, one of many that mark his skin like a roadmap of old pain. He tenses slightly under your touch, still unused to being seen so clearly, but he doesn't pull away.

"So handsome," you whisper a sleepy smile ghosting across your face, the words make him duck his head shyly, wonder and disbelief warring in his chest.

Your fingers drift across his collarbone, following another raised line of scar tissue. When you reach the one that cuts across his ribs - jagged and cruel - your touch becomes even more gentle. Daryl's breathing hitches, not from desire but from memory.

You notice the tension that suddenly grips him, the way his muscles go rigid under your touch. "Daryl?"

"It's... s'nothin'," he mutters, but his eyes have gone distant.

The ghost of his father's voice echoes in his mind - "Quit your snivelin', boy, or I'll give you somethin' to really cry about."

"Hey," you whisper, cupping his face gently. "You're safe. We're safe."

The tenderness in your voice brings him back, grounds him. He leans into your touch, closing his eyes.

When you start to get up to go change from his flannel, Daryl immediately turns away. He starts chewing on his thumbnail, a nervous habit from childhood, his hair falling forward to hide his face like a curtain.

Can't let her think I'm just waitin' to take advantage. She trusts me, and I ain't gonna...

"Daryl," you say softly, and when he risks a glance back through his hair, you're smiling at him - the first genuine smile he's seen since before the Sanctuary.

"I wouldn't sleep so soundly if i didn't feel safe." You say stepping behind the screen in the corner of the room to change.

The words hit him like a punch to the gut - in the best possible way. But he still shakes his head quickly, turning away again. He brings his bottom lip between his teeth to worry it stubly.

Look at ya, Merle familiar voice jeers. Darylina, you sound like some lovesick schoolgirl. You want to bend her over and make her scream your name, admit it.

The crude image makes Daryl's face burn with shame, not because he doesn't want you - God, he does, desperately - but because Merle's voice makes it sound dirty, quick and wrong.

But the wanting is there, has been there for so long it's become part of him. He wants to touch every inch of your skin, wants to show you with his hands and mouth how precious you are, wants to love you so completely you forget every hurt that's ever been done to you.

The thought makes heat pool low in his belly, makes his breathing shallow.

When he finally turns around, you've stepped back out adjusting the laces of the medieval gown, and the soft smile you give him is worth every second of his internal struggle.

Still shy, you think fondly, watching the way he ducks his head, still not quite meeting your eyes. Even now, under everything he's just shy, sweet Daryl.

"You know the one person you dont have to protect me from yourself," you tell him gently, stepping closer. "I know who you are, Daryl. And I know who you're not."

Breakfast in the great hall is a marvel of medieval pageantry. Long wooden tables with simple food, and the Kingdom's residents eat with obvious enjoyment despite their circumstances. You find yourself studying everything - the way they've set up their kitchens, the foods they're serving, the gaps in their nutritional planning.

"This place is somethin' else," Daryl murmurs.

"It's like a living museum," you agree, reaching for a bowl "They've really committed to it, kinda reminds me of home."

After breakfast, Carol suggests exploring the gardens, and you can see Daryl's immediate reluctance to let you out of his sight.

"I'll be with Carol," you promise, and something in your voice - maybe the fact that you're making the choice yourself instead of being told what to do - makes him nod.

"Alright. But Y'need anything, you just holler."

In the gardens, you walk slowly beside Carol, the dress moving naturally with your steps. The dress fits like it was made for you, the fabric rich and well-crafted, and you find yourself automatically adjusting to its weight and flow.

"You move like you've worn clothes like this before," Carol observes, watching as you kneel carefully beside a struggling patch of vegetables, your skirts arranged with practiced ease.

"Kinda" you admit, then fall quiet, focusing on the plants. "Some of these crops aren't doing too hot."

You move along the garden borders, noting the various plants growing wild. "Look at this," you say, pointing to what most would consider weeds. "That's millet. I didn't know you could grow it in America."

"Is it useful?"

"Incredibly. It grows in poor soil, its can be its own version of oats or flour, tends to grow where other grains fail."

Carol crouches beside you, watching as you examine the plants with obvious expertise. "You know a lot about this."

"I guess" You're quiet for a moment, then you stand slowly brushing dirt off your palm.

As you continue walking, Carol's expression grows more thoughtful. Eventually, she leads you to a quiet spot near what looks like an old workshop.

"Can I tell you something?" she asks, settling on a wooden bench.

You nod, settling beside her.

"You know I was married to Ed before all this." Her voice is steady, but you can hear the old pain underneath as you nod.

"He was... he was a shitty excuse for a man. He hurt me. For years. Controlled everything I did, everything I said. Made me feel like I was nothing."

She pauses, her fingers fidgeting with the edge of her sleeve.

"I have a pretty good idea what Negan would have been like," she continues quietly. "Men like that... they use the same playbook. They take your power, your choices."

You feel tears prick at your eyes, and Carol reaches over to squeeze your hand.

"What I'm trying to say is - it's okay if things are hard for a while. If you don't feel like yourself. If you're angry or scared or confused. That's normal. That's your mind trying to heal from something it was never supposed to endure."

The understanding in her voice breaks something open in your chest, and suddenly the words are tumbling out.

"I am angry," you admit, your voice thick with emotion. "But not just about what he did to me. I'm furious about what he did to Daryl. The torture, the psychological games, the way he used me to hurt him." Your hands clench into fists. "I keep thinking about how Daryl probably blames himself, how he thinks it's somehow his fault that I protected him in the first place."

Carol nods, her own eyes bright with unshed tears.

"And I feel so guilty," you continue, the words coming faster now. Your voice drops to barely a whisper. "Because I can still feel his hands on me sometimes. When I'm trying to sleep, or when someone moves too quickly..." You wrap your arms around yourself unconsciously.

"He didn't threaten me, Carol. He... he made sure I knew exactly what would happen to Daryl if I didn't ... comply."

Your voice cracks as you try to scoff on the last word, and Carol's face hardens with a fury that's rarely seen but unmistakably ever present.

"I want to kill him for it," you continue, the admission torn from somewhere deep inside. "I want him dead for what he did to Daryl, for how he leveraged me against him. For all of it."

"That's not something to feel guilty about," Carol says firmly. "Wanting to protect the people you love, wanting justice for what was done to them - to you - that's human."

"But he's a person," you whisper, your body trembling slightly. "Not a walker. He's a living, breathing person, and I want him dead. Sometimes I can still smell his cologne, still feel..." you shudder, unable to finish the sentence. "What does that make me?"

Carol is quiet for a long moment, and when she speaks, her voice is gentle but sure.

"It makes you someone who loves deeply," she says. "Someone who's been hurt and traumatized and is trying to make sense of it all. Ed was a person too, but that didn't make what he did to me any less wrong. And when he died, I felt... relief. Not guilt. Relief."

She turns to face you fully, her expression serious.

"You don't have to forgive him. You don't have to feel bad for wanting him to pay for what he did. Some people... some people forfeit their right to mercy when they choose to hurt others the way they did."

Tears are streaming down your face now, and Carol pulls you into a gentle hug.

"You're not bad for feeling this way. You're just human, trying to heal from something inhuman." she whispers.

"Thank you," you whisper against her shoulder. "For understanding. For not making me feel like a monster."

"Never," Carol says firmly. "You're one of the strongest people I know. And you have people who love you - Daryl especially. That love, that connection - it's going to help you heal. It's going to help you both heal."

Later that afternoon, the arrival of Rick, Glen, and several others from Alexandria shifts the entire atmosphere of the Kingdom. There are careful embraces - everyone has learned to approach you gently, to let you initiate contact.

Glen's hug is warm and familiar, and you don't flinch away from him this time.

Progress.

"God, I've missed you," he says, holding you at arm's length to study your face. "How are you doing? Really?"

"Better," you say, and mean it. "Getting there."

"Maggie's at Hilltop," Glen says, his face lighting up the way it always does when he talks about his wife. "She's doing well, and the baby... you can see the tiniest bump now. It's so small, but it's there." His hand unconsciously moves to his stomach, as if he can feel the life growing inside his wife. "I miss her so much it hurts, but knowing she's safe, that the baby's healthy..."

"I'm so happy for you both," you say, and the joy in your voice is genuine despite everything you've been through.

When you're done talking with Glen, Daryl finds himself in his own conversation with him.

"She looks better," Glen observes, watching you laugh at something Rick is saying. "Still fragile, but... stronger maybe?"

"Yeah," Daryl agrees, though his jaw tightens. "What that bastard did to her... m'gonna kill him. I'm gonna kill Negan for what he did to her."

Glen studies his face, noting the rage barely contained beneath the surface. "Daryl—"

"Nah, don't try to talk me out of it. You didn't see her after. You didn't see how she was breakin' apart." Daryl's hands clench into fists. "Ain't somethin' that can be forgiven."

"I'm not trying to talk you out of wanting him dead," Glen says quietly. "I want him dead too. We all do. But don't let that rage consume you. Don't let it take away from what she needs right now."

Daryl nods, but Glen can see the promise of violence burning in his eyes.

The war council takes place in Ezekiel's throne room, with Shiva lounging regally beside the King's chair. You find yourself studying the great cat with fascination rather than fear - there's something about being in Kingdom that makes even the most fantastic elements feel natural.

Rick makes his case with passionate intensity, explaining about the Saviors, about Negan's brutality, about the need for the communities to stand together.

"Your Majesty," Rick says, his voice carrying the weight of leadership and desperation, "we can't do this alone. We need allies. We need Kingdom."

Ezekiel listens with the gravity of a true king, but his response is measured and cautious. "I understand your desire for justice, Rick Grimes. And I am deeply sympathetic to what your people have suffered." His eyes find you briefly, a flash of understanding passing between you. "But my first responsibility is to my people. To their safety and wellbeing."

"The Saviors will come for you eventually," Michonne points out. "They always do."

"Perhaps. But for now, they honor our arrangement. They take their tribute and leave us in peace." Ezekiel's voice carries the weight of difficult decisions. "I cannot risk my people's lives on the possibility of future conflict."

The discussion continues, growing more heated as Rick presses his case. You find yourself shrinking back slightly, the raised voices triggering your anxiety even though you know these people would never hurt you.

Daryl notices immediately, moving subtly closer until his shoulder brushes yours. The contact is grounding, reminding you that you're safe.

"There is, however, something I can offer," Ezekiel says eventually. "The Saviors do not enter Kingdom proper. If you need sanctuary - if Daryl and his lady need a place to hide - my doors are open to you."

It's not the alliance Rick hoped for, but it's something.

During a break in the discussions, you find yourself studying the Kingdom's approach to food distribution. The great hall serves as both dining room and community gathering space, and you can see the strain in their food stores.

"They're struggling more than they're letting on," you murmur to Carol.

"What do you mean?"

"Look at the portions, the types of food they're serving. They're stretching everything as far as it will go." You point to various details that others might miss. "But they have a resource they're not using."

When the group reconvenes, you find yourself speaking up despite your usual reluctance to draw attention.

"Your Majesty, if I may... I noticed you're having some food security issues."

Ezekiel nods gravely. "Our crops have not been as successful as we hoped. The soil, perhaps, or the weather..."

"But you have millet growing everywhere," you say, gaining confidence as you speak. "It's incredibly nutritious and versatile. You could make porridge from it, which would be filling and provide good energy. There's also pottage - that's a thick stew made with whatever vegetables and grains you have available."

Everyone is listening now, and you can feel their attention like a physical weight.

"You could make frumenty, which is a sweet kinda porridge thing. And if you have any ale or wine, caudle is both nutritious and warming. There's also blancmange, which can be made with available ingredients, and various gruels that provide maximum nutrition with minimal resources..."

You realize you're rambling and stop abruptly, heat flooding your cheeks. "Sorry, I just... I know these things because I used to..." You take a breath.

"Before everything happened, I was part of a living history group back home. We studied medieval life, cooking, farming, all of it. I'm not from here originally, obviously," you add with a self-conscious gesture to yourself, "but we were very serious about historical accuracy."

The room is quiet for a moment, then Rick speaks up. "That's incredible. That knowledge could save lives."

"Indeed," Ezekiel agrees, his theatrical voice warm with genuine interest. "Perhaps you would be willing to share more of this wisdom with our cooks and farmers?"

You nod "of course, as long as its a shared resource" you state, still blushing but pleased to be able to contribute something meaningful.

"Always knew you were smart." Glen says quietly, his voice full of pride.

"I just ... figured it was nerdy" you whisper back.

The Kingdom's kitchens are spacious and well-equipped, with large hearths and sturdy wooden tables that have clearly seen years of use. You stand at the center of it all, wearing your 15th-century cotehardie like you were born to it, sleeves pushed up to your elbows as you examine the pile of millet Jerry has brought in.

"Right," you say, feeling more confident in this element than you have in weeks. "First thing we need to understand is that millet isn't just animal feed. It's been sustaining human populations for thousands of years."

Carol, Glen, and Jerry gather around the table, along with several of the Kingdom's cooks. Daryl leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching everything through his hair.

"The key is proper processing," you continue, running the small golden grains through your fingers. "We need to clean it first, remove any chaff or debris. Then we can hull it or use it whole, depending on what we're making."

"What's the difference?" Glen asks, genuinely curious.

"Hulled millet cooks faster and has a softer texture - better for porridge or adding to stews. Whole millet takes longer but has more nutritional value and, its kinda nuttier."

You pick up a wooden bowl, demonstrating the winnowing process. "In medieval times, they'd do this outside, let the wind carry away the chaff. Since we're indoors, and dont have ... hours ...we'll do it manually."

Jerry watches with fascination as you work. "You really know this stuff."

"I studied historical cooking methods," you say, then pause as that familiar shadow crosses your face.

But you shake it off and continue. "Carol, can you help me set up a couple of different cooking stations? We're going to make several dishes so everyone can see the versatility."

As you begin organizing the workspace, you reach up to push your hair back from your face, but it keeps falling forward. You pat down your pockets, looking for something to tie it back with.

"Damn," you mutter. "I don't have anything to—"

Without thinking, Daryl pushes off from the doorframe and moves behind you.

"Lemme" he murmurs as his hands come up to your hair, fingers threading through as he gathers it at the nape of your neck.

His calloused fingers surprisingly gentle as they comb through your hair.

His hands trail up your neck as he smooths back the loose pieces, and he can feel the delicate curve where your neck meets your skull. The intimacy of the gesture hits him suddenly - how natural it feels, how right.

He pulls a piece of string from his vest pocket, the same kind he uses for his crossbow, and carefully ties your hair back. His fingers brush against your neck as he secures it, and he can feel your slight shiver at the contact.

Hell ... am I pushin' too hard? he wonders, suddenly worried.

But when he steps back, Carol catches sight of your face - and the small, almost girlish smile playing at your lips. It's the first genuinely happy expression she's seen from you since the Sanctuary.

Daryl, unable to see your face from behind you, starts to feel flustered. Shit, that was... that was real intimate. Did it in front of everyone too. What if she didn't want me touchin' her? What if—

"Thanks," you say softly, reaching up to touch the makeshift ponytail. "That's perfect."

"S'nothin" he mumbles, trying to brush it off as relief floods through him.

"Right," you say, turning back to the group with renewed energy. "Let's get cooking."

The next hour is filled with activity as you guide everyone through different preparations. You show Jerry how to make basic millet porridge, adding honey and dried fruits when available.

"This is frumenty," you explain to Glen as you help him prepare a sweet version with ale and spices. "Knights used to eat this before battle - gives sustained energy."

"Knights, huh?" Glen grins. "Think it'll work for fighting Saviors?"

The word hangs in the air between you both, and suddenly the warmth of the kitchen feels cold. Glen's smile fades as the reality hits - it won't just be walkers. It'll be people. Living, breathing people who will fight back, who will scream, who will bleed, your people too.

You both pause, hands stilling over the wooden bowls, the weight of what's coming settling heavy on your shoulders. The medieval fantasy of Kingdom and there reluctance to help suddenly feels naive, childish, in the face of what you'll actually have to do.

"Yeah," you finally whisper, your voice barely audible. "I hope so."

Meanwhile, across the kitchen, King Ezekiel has been finding excuses to help Carol with her task of making pottage - a thick vegetable and grain stew.

"Allow me to assist you with that knife work, fair Carol," he says dramatically, moving closer than necessary.

Carol looks up, confused. "I think I can handle chopping vegetables, Ezekiel."

"Of course, but perhaps I might demonstrate the proper technique for—"

"I've been chopping vegetables since before the apocalypse," Carol says matter-of-factly, completely missing or choosing to miss the way Ezekiel's eyes soften when he looks at her.

Daryl catches the exchange and huffs out a breath which could be a laugh.

One of the Kingdom's residents - a man Daryl doesn't recognize - has approached you while you're explaining Caulde.

"You're really knowledgeable about all this," the man says, standing closer than Daryl likes. "Maybe you could teach me some more... You know one on one"

Daryl's whole body tenses.

You take a small step back from the man, trying to smile politely. "I, um, I'm just sharing what I know."

"Come on," the man persists. "Surely someone as smart as you doesn't spend all her time cooking. Your new here right? You seeing anyone?"

The question hits you like a physical blow. The last time anyone mentioned your relationship status, it was Negan, right before... You can feel your breathing quicken, panic starting to claw at your chest.

"I... I have a... I have a Daryl," you blurt out, the words tumbling over each other in your haste to make him back off.

The man looks confused. "A Daryl? What's a Daryl?"

Before you can explain, Daryl is there.

He doesn't announce himself - one moment the space beside you is empty, the next his solid presence fills it, close enough that you can smell the familiar scent of leather and woodsmoke that clings to him.

"'M'Daryl," he says, his voice that low, gravelly rumble that somehow manages to sound both casual and menacing. His blue eyes lock onto the man with laser focus, taking his measure in seconds. The stranger is soft, clean - probably never had to fight for his life, most likely.

The man's eyes dart between you and Daryl, clearly trying to work out the dynamic. "Oh, you're... friends?"

Something flickers across Daryl's face - too quick for most to catch, but you've learned to read the subtle shifts in his expression. The slight tightening around his eyes, the almost imperceptible clench of his jaw. That word - friends - lands wrong, stings in a way he wasn't expecting.

"Somethin' like that," Daryl mutters, but his stance shifts slightly, angling himself more between you and the stranger. It's subtle - everything about Daryl is subtle until it isn't - but unmistakably protective.

I was just asking your friend here if she might want to spend some time together. You know, share some of her knowledge." the man says, oblivious to the change in dynamic.

"She's busy," Daryl says, his tone flat and final. The man seems to finally grasp the dynamic. His gaze flicks between Daryl's set jaw and you whatever he sees there makes him take a step back.

"I... I didn't mean any offense," he stammers. "I was just being friendly."

Later, long after the kitchen is cleaned and food distributed Daryl's thumb traces slow circles on the back of your hand, a small comfort in the midst of uncertainty.

"Yeah?" Daryl's head tilts slightly, a gesture that somehow manages to be more threatening than any raised voice. "Well, be friendly somewhere else."

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

"Y'sure about goin' back?" he asks quietly, his voice thick with concern. "Could be safe here. Could heal up proper without worryin' 'bout him comin' back for ya."

"Are you sure?" you counter, studying his face.

He's quiet for a moment, jaw working as he considers. Then he shakes his head slowly. "Nah. Can't let that son of a bitch keep hurtin' people. Rick and the others... they're gonna need all the help they can get."

"Tomorrow we go back?" you ask.

"Tomorrow we go back," he confirms, voice heavy with resolve. "Back to Alexandria, then Hilltop. Back to the fight."

[kell-5]

Idea "Living Artifact"

Disclaimer: this is just an initial idea where the reader is a living artifact of the knights, and maybe the knight himself, don't judge strictly, it's just an idea that instantly came to my mind that I decided to write down immediately so as not to forget, the reader is gender neutral,the reader here is a tall and massive bot

______________________________________

Imagine a universe in which knights do exist, but they were sought in the wrong place and at the wrong time. It is a distant, cold, and dark planet covered in ash and everything, everything is ruined there, only three statues remain holding swords high above their heads, two statues have their heads broken, only the one in the middle is whole and almost undamaged, covered only in ash.

Behind the statues is a half-collapsed building, in the middle of which there is a hidden room, and in that room there are three stasis capsules, two of which are broken and damaged very badly, only the one in the middle remains whole and almost undamaged, the capsule has a silver coating that is hidden behind a layer of dust and ash. There is no drain in the capsule to see who is inside or even what, on the capsule there is an old lock with a code in the old Cybertronian language.

_________________________________________

Surprisingly, today on Lost Light it is very quiet and calm, even a little boring, but still there is a feeling in the air of something ... that is straining everyone, a feeling of something that will happen very soon and very soon

.

.

.

It happened that the ship was flying not far from this planet forgotten by Primus, and it caught some signal, a Cybertron signal.

No matter how much I wanted to, my curiosity was strong, there was an order to stop on this planet. The ship landed not far from the statues.

.

.

Rodimus stood in front of this statue and looked at it, thoughts flashed through his processor, was it really something related to the knights, but what happened to this planet too, why is it all in ashes and soot, here and there even smoke was still floating somewhere in the air, between the statues the road to the building stretched.

.

.

.

It was difficult to get into the building, but inside there was also ash but mixed with dust, everyone who got inside was only two, as you guessed it, Rodimus and Drift, after they entered the building the door to the building automatically closed, a passage opened under their feet and they fell to the bottom, it's good that there was nothing dangerous at the bottom but the dents remained one hundred percent

"Damn ..." - Rodimus cursed under his breath, getting up from the ground

Drift followed Rodimus's example and also got up, they looked up, it was high up, it would take a long time to climb. Drift looked around the room, the room seemed empty at first glance, until .... he noticed a strange pattern on the back wall, he decided to come closer.

"M? What are you doing?" - Rodimus asked

"Yes, I see" - Drift's tone was somewhat tense "and why did we get here"

"The signal pulled us"

"I know, just..." Drift didn't have time to finish when he stood up for something, he looked down and saw a slab under his feet. He stood up and went down a little, the patterns on the wall began to spin and a passage opened.

Rodimus was the first to decide to go inside.

"Wait, maybe you shouldn't do this?" Drift said, following Rodimus.

"It won't get any worse," Rodimus assured and went inside, as soon as Rodimus went inside, the automatic light turned on, in this next room there were just these capsules.

.

.

.

Rodimus and Drift were able to get out of there, and they also managed to take the whole and healthy capsule.

.

.

.

.....after several attempts, the capsule opened, and in the capsule was ....a sword?....seriously ...but this sword was not simple, but silver with a black handle and a red stone in the handle, the sword was very large, almost as tall as Rodimus

"Well ...this is also a good find, some kind of artifact" someone said

To be honest, Rodimus already expected that there would be something or even someone in this capsule, not this sword, what should he do with this sword

.

.

.

The sword was shown to the Perceptor to clarify what kind of artifact it was or just an ordinary sword, the inspection continued until the Perceptor touched some detail, then the most interesting thing began .... the sword transformed into a tall, massive bot

"Where am I?" A question was asked that the Perceptor could not make out both due to shock and also because it was not a modern Cybertronian ....

___

Next part

_____________________________

(I'm still alive so my posts will appear from time to time)

(English not my native language)

[bravehyde]

Ant Tenna Anatomy: What Mike is For Him?

~Deltarune Chapters 3+4 Spoilers~

I'm still working on a post on what equipment Tenna would want, and then I realized...hey, microphones should probably be their own post. This is because of multiple reasons: we have Mike, we have the fact he actually holds a microphone in a sprite, and the microphone is just important! So we'll have our own smaller post for the microphone and the cable he'll need to connect it.

Which one is Tenna holding?

This is the easiest, since it's just figuring out which microphone Toby probably used as reference, and there's one in particular that would fit the bill the best, because it's an iconic microphone model. Everyone has seen this microphone before, it's *the* microphone. This is also the closest match for Photorealistic Mike that I could find, but if someone has a better match they can ID, then by all means go for it.

Tenna's physical microphone is most likely the Audio-Technica AT818 Microphone.

So, just to go over what that name means: Audio-Technica is the company who makes the microphone. They're a Japanese company that's been top of the line for a very, very long time globally and mainly make microphones and headphones. AT818 is the model (AT is denoting that it's made by Audio-Technica, 818 is just the number they assigned it).

This is a cardioid microphone, which means it won't pick up everything in every direction and instead what's in front of it in a heart-like pattern. That's excellent for picking up one person talking. It also has a dynamic transducer, which makes it more precise with what it picks up and records and was revolutionary at the time. The AT818 is a classic for a reason, and stuck around for a longass time.

What's that cord do, though?

That's an XLR cable, and you need it. Some people also call it a cannon plug, but that's less of a thing nowadays. We use these for connecting audio, lighting, cameras, power...it's a very versatile cable and you won't see a set without one. Some microphones don't need to be plugged in for power (they have *phantom power*, which I have worked with for eight years and I still don't know what that means so don't worry about it), but everything has to be plugged in to transmit their audio to the recording device, usually with this. And because I know some people will want to see wires and cords for other reasons, here are some more pictures of them in different angles. First, where to plug it into the microphone.

All XLR cables that we use for professional microphones have the three pin configuration (the pin is that sticking-up bit of metal). There are other configurations for XLRs, they're for intercoms and the like and don't matter to the topic at hand. The other end can have a different shape depending on what it's supposed to connect to and also doesn't pertain to what I'm talking about. For the microphone we're talking about, you need to plug it in at the bottom there, so the cord will come out directly instead of from the side. After that, well, where you decide he has his multitrack recorder is up to your design, really. I was talking about suggestions with other people and i got in the forearm, a holster on the hip, or an ant-like butt that it connects into. Obviously if you need art references for the XLR cable so I'm going to go over what you can't find in a photo reference: how they move and feel.

These things are bitches and they are in charge of you. No, I'm not kidding. They're thick, they're tough, they're heavy, and if you treat them right, they're working for thirty years, but if you don't, not only are they disappointed in you, everyone in the crew is disappointed, because you fucked up the XLR cable. You cannot make them do what you want, you have to go with what they want. If you're drawing these, they'll have a lot of weight and very rarely be straight, since they love to coil in one direction and straightening them out can really screw them up. They're strong and won't ever have a sharp edge to them unless you want the director to fire you. If your Tenna has them bare, they'd also be a great show of emotions since these fuckers have so much personality to them it's a pain in the ass. I hate XLR cables. I went through some videos on cable management and I think this one is the closest to what I was taught in school on how to manage them and also shows how they really move and operate.

Notice how when you are handling them you have to run your finger along it when you pick it up. He doesn't force it into loops, it decides the loops for him and he goes with it. You physically feel how it wants to bend and follow through on it. If you force it to do something it doesn't want, congratulations, you just fucked up an XLR cable.

That's just what I have for now. I've been thinking about doing something about each of the Mikes since I thought it was funny how they're different microphones too, but I'm still thinking about that one. We needed to talk about his physical microphone while I work on the other bits, so here it is! His microphone. I looked at a lot of catalogues for microphones around this era from different companies just to see if there's a different one he could be using, but the one I said above seemed best. If anyone wants the microphones I was looking at for more options, then send me an ask and I'll post the catalogues I was flipping through.

[21st-century-minutiae]

Because there are uncountably infinite numbers and only a small number of symbols with which to write numbers, a system is employed to use a combination of numerical position and symbols to produce any arbitrary number. The "base" is how many different symbols are permitted. In the early twenty-first century, there are three different bases that are used primarily.

First is decimal, which uses the ten digits 0,1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8, and 9. Decimal is used in almost every circumstance.

Second is binary, which uses only the two digits 0 and 1. Or rather, it usually uses digital "on" and "off." This is used by computers.

Third is hexadecimal, which uses the sixteen digits, 0,1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,A,B,C,D,E, and F. It is used when humans are interacting with computer data, as it easily translates back and forth with binary (every digit in hexadecimal is 4 digits in binary), but takes up much less space when written out.

Arbitrary bases. Any positive whole number greater than 1 can somewhat easily be represented in a base. The problem is running out of symbols. Additionally, non whole numbers might be used to refer to fractal geometry. Technically speaking, any number can be converted into a base, but it would not be useful or reasonable. Base π can represent π with 10 and π^2 with 100, but would take an infinite amount of digits to render the number 4.

Regardless of the basis of the system, the number of digits will be represented with a 10. It is an inherently ambiguous statement. Conventionally, because of the overwhelming popularity of the decimal system, it can be assumed that the title of a basis, when describing it, will always be decimal. Thus Base 10 refers to decimal, Base 2 refers to binary, and so on. There is no law of mathematics asserting such, just societal convention.

Notably, the basis is used in representing numbers. It does not change math in any way whatsoever. Numbers still possess all the same properties no matter how they are rendered. The basis might make certain operations easier for humans to comprehend, but the results don't change.

Other, non-based representations exist in mathematics, such as von Neumann ordinals ({}, {{}}, {{}, {{}}}, {{}, {{}}, {{}, {{}}}}), and lambda calculus (λfx.x, λfx.f x, λfx.f (f x), λfx.f (f (f x))). However, these representation schemes are not useful in day to day life.

Oh, you're still using base 10? Haven't you heard? Nowadays everyone is using base 10

[emailgremlin]

she’s finished🥰🧶

[kingdom-falls]

Ah the wonders of bag lining

[misiahasahardname]

i found a photo of me in the hospital after my first seizure and i am wearing the most HORRENDOUS combination of clothing imaginable 😭😭

thinking of redrawing it with mikey because epileptic 2012 mikey is real

[ranger-danger]

MY DRESS IS GOING SOOO WELL

[bijoubetrayal]

too many ppl who know nothing about Filipino folklore n culture r talking shit about my ate. she’s based off of the manananggal, which you can compare to the European vampire, if that helps you understand it better. although, i’m reluctant to mention that becuz some ppl, who choose to be ignorant, currently hold the view that she’s just an Asian-colored vampire mishmash monster. she is not. other than the fact that she manages to exist at all, here are some details i appreciate about her.

first, she has a face that looks like my family’s. that’s my lola’s nose. that’s my mom’s birthmark. shit, those are my uncle’s cheekbones. the headpiece features jasmine, our national flower. the translucent petals are cool.

second, you can display her in two pieces, split by the torso. its not just a “cheap gimmick” you ignorant pos. at nightfall, the manananggal severs itself in two, leaving behind a vulnerable lower half while its upper half hunts for nourishment - blood, raw hearts, livers, fetuses. the red fringe represents her dangling intestines, hanging loose as she flies after ripping her body apart. the string detail is on the skirt for consistency, but also, intestines are long as fuck? why wouldn’t they also hang from the bottom, assuming they also get split in half.

while we’re on the outfit, the top is an extremely traditional (Spanish colonial, ugh) style in both fabric and shape. i have attire that looks exactly like it, minus the monster high red foil pattern. the tiny, “woven” sleeve cuffs are a nice touch. the earrings and bracelets look to be woven palm too, but aren’t as effective in plastic. the bottom half skirt is quite a bit shorter than is traditional, and the heels higher. it’s a monster high doll.

most accurate would be barefoot, tbh. but you guys would riot, and again, its a doll. actually, the shoes reference a lot from Filipino culture. the heel is a coconut tree overlooking a kubo, a one-room stilt hut built with natural materials such as bamboo and palm, and specifically made to be remade as necessary. the sole is “wooden”, also an accessible material of which some shoes were made with. it is attached by braid to what looks to be a straw strap. also not unusual for a shoe.

her fan and wings feature embroidery, and if you look closely at the latter, you will see a thin and delicate flora design in between the spider web pattern. this is extremely reminiscent of calado, a type of traditional hand embroidery akin to lace that is difficult as fuck. a dying art, btw.

i didn’t wake up looking to ride this hard for a plastic woman lmao. but if you’re gonna come for her, it better be because of the fluorescent green in her colorway and not because you don’t know what you’re talking about. honestly, a lot of Filipinos are just happy to be considered and celebrated. “wins” like this mean everything. maybe it’s not good enough for your collection, but now you know more about my culture than you would’ve gone out of your way to. and that’s good enough for me.

[belzebong]

We are reaching month 6 of unemployment:):):):)

[aharris00britney]

AxA Boytoy | 50+ Items | Public 07-03

Ever since the beginning of AxA packs, male clothing was only ever in the large collections. Recently Ayoshi and I decided that we should make an male focused AxA mini, which soon turned into a much larger collection. AxA Boytoy is focused entirely on male Sims, with the occasion item female compatible item. Featuring hairs, tops, bottoms, hats, headphones, a pair of sneakers, jewelry, and even a tote bag with a labubu. These items and their variations total up to 50+ new CAS assets for your male sims to expand their closets with. Grungy, fruity👀, or a little bit of both, AxA Boytoy is made for the boy who knows they’re a toy. 🧸

 Item Index Preview  |  Early Access Download   |  Follow Ayoshi 

The item index linked above will show the basic info for the items in this collection. Below is a general overview of the items

Early Access Download (Public Release on July 3rd, 2025)

Basic info

All items are BGC and do not require other meshes/packages/versions.

All hairs come in 24 EA Colors and are hat compatible

FEMALE ASSETS ► As this was made to be a male focused pack, there are not any items exclusive to female Sims. However, I did convert the cross necklace + the sneakers to their frames. Alongside that, all of the hats are unisex and work on them. In the image above you can see the female assets on their frames.

Report any issues to me through Tumblr DM with images.

Follow my TOU for all items

Credits, Thanks, and other CC Used ► Huge thank you to @deykxn for helping in inspiring a male focused pack, giving me feedback through the entire thing, and testing for bugs. ► Some of the patterns used throughout the items by the lovely @trillyke ► Other CC Used Dickie Hair by @peachibunnii Tomoyo Hair from AxA 2024 Blackout Glasses from Planet AxA Sasha, Lexi, and Victoria Hairs by AH00B Everything else you see in the previews is in the pack !

[screampied]

‘ V!RGIN KILLA! 𝜗𝜚

𓉸ྀི sum. not only does he think he knows what he’s doing, he’s also a virgin. but there’s a first time for everything . . . right? choso, nanami, gojo, geto, ino, toji.

warnings. fem! reader, vīrgin men, unprotected, vīrginity loss, whiny needy men, some college themes, fratboy! toji, pússydrunk men, cōckwarming, cérvix kissin', cunnīlingus, dry humping, finishing quick, spıt, squīrting, bréeding, petnames, sukuna's part didn't save but i'll make it up </3

★ NANAMI KENTO aka the quick learner virgin?!

nanami drools the minute his tip disappears inside of your cunt. he can’t help it - at all.

the balmy warmth you provide him while you’re straddling his waist, basically cockwarming him sends him shivers. “god, ‘s good,” he groans, tugging at the bottom edge of his spot-patterned tie. nanami could feel the raised pointed tips of his ears burning as his eyes slowly flicker down toward your sopping wet pussy. oh, how it’s just profusely leaking with so much strings of your pretty slick. messily, it glosses a shine between your legs, gleaming with thick molasses—almost similar to a stream, and yet this stream was instead flowing down between your legs. “mmh.. ride me, s- show me how to feel good, my love.”

“hey. eyes on me, ‘ken,” you whisper, your fragile breaths growing shallow the moment he’s tightly snug balls deep in. with a ringing loud ‘pop!’ you feel him greedily ease his way past the slight loose ring of your entrance and you moan. he’s in so deep, and you can’t help but shimmy your hips against his lap. nanami told you how he had little to no experience—and yet, he wanted to try this out with you. having you ride him until he couldn’t think straight. whenever you ran your hands down his carved tone body, a roaring fire would ignite within him. your touch alone sent him chills and he only craved it more. tender fawn-colored eyes that almost resemble honey meet your gaze, and he leans into your touch the moment you cup your hands on his cheeks. slowly, you’re lustfully swaying against his lap back and forth and he groans. “that’s it, you’re doin’ good, kento. hold my hips.”

“like . . this?” he hoarsely asks, and hefty hands suddenly cling onto your waist. you moan, nodding as he gently holds them in place, trying to guide your movements. his cock stretched you out in each ‘n every way, curiously exploring through the gummy walls of every slick orifice. nanami’s starting to sweat already—and you smile, watching as he sneaks a fat thumb down between your pried open legs. “mngh. . you’re soakin’ all on me. is that normal?” he breathes, and you can see a bit of drool starting to seep down the cracked corners of his lips.

soaking, he could hear the sloppy sounds of your cunt slamming back against his tense thighs and it makes him throb. in zealous sync, you end up throbbing too, and he feels said throb right against the the narrow tip of his cock. “ah, y- yeah, ‘s normal, kento,” you inhale sharply, wrapping your arms around him. callused fingertips his drag a straight line down your skin as he starts to rock you faster into his needy pelvis.

the stretch makes you whimper - his dick’s so fat, and your pussy swallows all numerous inches every time. over ‘n over, your ass violently hits back against his lap as you continue to ride him, amorously tossing your swerving hips in a circle. you could see the blond’s eyes starting to grow hooded, and he’s never looked so in love. your cunt had him hungry for more. “like that, baby?”

“mhm, i like a-anything you do to me, sweetheart,” nanami hoarsely coos, pulling up the back of your hand for a loving kiss. you’re riding him well—watching as he slowly cocks his head back, exposing the oval-shaped adam’s apple in his throat. it’s a simple yet sexy detail that makes you pulsate nevertheless, and nanami groans. “f- fuck, i need you. i need more, ‘m not gonna last, honey if you hah.. keep ridin’ me like that.”

and within a few hasty strokes, nanami starts to get the hang of your rhythm. by the hang, he’s starting to fuck you against his cock now. vast, open hands of his cling onto your waist tight before he’s occasionally spanking your ass. “ngh, good girl. that’s my girl, ugh,” and as you’re whining, nanami pulls you into his neck. the pearly silver band of his flashy watch tickles down your back as he grabs at a nice chunk of your ass, spanking it. “r- ride it like it’s yours, sweetheart. ride it like i’m yours.”

he’s whispering filthy nothing in your ears—trying to drown out your cute sobbing whimpers and your even louder pussy. nanami’s cock was deranged - it was reaching through every sensitive spot of yours, wasting no time to introduce itself near the gummy ridges.

“fuck, fuck!” you’d squeal out, gasping once the swollen head of his cock tickles its way near your hidden g-spot. oh, that spot. you couldn’t help but get sheepish, a cock drunk smile twisting against your lips. he’s so snug, rearranging your insides while continuing to spank your ass. it’s almost as if he knew what he was doing, and nanami knew how to tame your aching cunt with just a few sloppy strokes. “ken, ‘m close. fuckin’ close.”

“i know, i know. give it t’ me,” he whispers, his voice pitching deeper ‘n deeper after each sloppy thrust. nanami’s pumping you full, swallowing thickly to ease the inside of his mouth that’s parched, akin to the sahara. nanami groans, gingerly making you slam your hips against him harder. “fuck, work those hips sweetheart. show me how messy my pretty girl can be, h- huh?”

you’re whimpering constantly, sounding like nothing more than a broken record as you’re gradually being led to your release. it’s a candied sweet taste in your mouth that never goes away, and once you finally came—you were hysterical.

nanami huffs heavily, holding you tight as your hips come to a sudden devastating stop. he’s still buried thick inches deep before he groans, caressing a palm against your tender rear. “hah, that’s m- my girl,” he coos, feeling you drench a portion of his cock with your slimy slick. it’s warm, and you’re still whining incoherent blurbs as you bury your face into his neck. “whew, we’ll have ‘ta try that again,” and once he plants a wet kiss near your temple, he strokes your chin with a thumb. “but another position though. if that’s alright.”

“w- what position?” you tiredly pant, bringing a hand toward your sticky-coated back.

nanami gives your ass its final playful spank before whispering lowly against your lips. “ever heard of doggy, my love?”

#GETO SUGURU aka the nasty virgin?!

geto’s a filthy nasty virgin, unashamed. insisting how he’s never experienced something like this before, smugly stating how he ‘did his research.’

“lie back, sweetheart,” geto huffed, flipping you right back over on your back. he’d just got done with fucking you round after round for the first time, and it seemed like the word ‘stamina’ didn’t exist in his vocabulary. one second inside and he already wanted more—he was greedy, and it was never enough. as you’re struggling to catch your breath that drags out of your full puffed lungs, you stare up at geto. right away, his dark eyes dart between your legs and the dripping dewy mess that streams between your puffed cunt. “what a pretty sight, look at thaaaat,” and geto inches his face between your thighs, staring at frosty-white wads of cum that pour straight out of your full swollen folds.

so much. . you were practically overflowing with ribbons of sticky hot cum ‘n many more strings of it before he sticks out his tongue. “hah, least i can do is clean my girl, hm?” and you whimper, feeling him spread your legs apart with two hands. “kinda saw this in a video once.”

“s- sugu!” you gasp, your words leisurely turning into moans the second he dives straight into your pussy - nose first.

right as the tip of his tongue creates a frenzied slurping trail that soaks straight your cunt, he gives you the most feral look. his pretty black lashes briefly flap shut as he’s devouring you wholly, jerking his head from side to side. choked, gargled moans continue to steal out from your strained vocal cords as a hand of yours fishes through his matted tresses. “fuck, f- fuck like that, clean it up, baby.”

“mhm,” he smears his entire chin against your cunt, feeling it get doused with your sweet slick almost right away. he’s nasty, lapping up his bittersweet cum that spills out from between your folds like it’s nothing. geto barely even bats an eye, and that’s when he groans the second you feel a bit of weight dip against the mattress. he’s now humping against the edge of the bed, rocking his slim hips over ‘n over. “goddamn, ‘m so horny still, sweetheart. ‘y have no idea,” he whimpers shakily, and he grumbles under his breath, shaking his head as a few thin strands of hair gets in the way of his view. “h- hey, be a doll ‘n tie my hair back for me, yeah?”

as you’re chasing your quick-steady breaths, you grab his ponytail holder from his wrist, neatly putting his raven locks into a messy bun. “good girl, take such good care of m—mmph.”

geto lowly chuckles against your pussy once you give him a soft push that makes his nose brush up against your clit. your folds were so cute ‘n runny, filthily oozing with velvety remnants of his warm, pasty cum. “mhh, suguru,” you’d whine, feeling your back continuously arch against the stained white sheets. geto’s got a few loose strands that continue to run down his face, past his brows—making him appear to be even more handsome whilst between your legs. each thoroughly slurp gets louder, and that’s when he starts to loll his tongue out inside of you.

one thing about suguru geto was that he had a long fuckin’ tongue..

it extends fully, and you give his hair a rough tug once the tip of his tongue playfully slithers its way near your twitching sensitive nub. at that moment, you feel a rapid chill race through you and you let off the most shrilling whimper. “ah! suguru, fuck, ‘m sensitive there, don’t s- stop,” and as you’re babbling from his lengthy tongue, he starts to purse his lips. they curl up, puckering fully before he’s drinking everything out of you.

it’s a long carnal suck that makes your eyes cross and you feel like your life’s flashing before your eyes. splotches of white were all that clouded your vision as your thighs shake—nearly suffocating him with your plush, warm legs. “o- oh, fuck,” you’d mewl, and you knew that incoming pressure from anywhere.

you were close.

geto grunts, savoring your taste entirely. you’re just so sweet that your flavor melts on his tongue and he’s teasingly thrusting his tongue in and out of your sobbing folds. seconds later, that’s when you shriek. “c’monnn, give it to me,” and he even brings a hand between your thighs, spanking your precious cunt. “make a mess on my tongue, wanna see what it’s like,” he groans, his rocking against the edge of the bed intensifying. geto’s famished for more, and his bare cock twitches against the rocky mattress frame as you’re squirming on his tongue. by now, he’s licked you clean, and in return, he’s left with a locked jaw and glimmering wet chin. geto eyes you intently, giving your pussy its final sloppy spank before whispering against your folds. “let go for me, baby.”

as if on cue, you gush out loudly, feeling every muscle within you snap ‘n stretch outward. it was as if a crushing weight was lifted from your shoulders—but in this case, your shoulders were your tummy. “fuuuck!” you whimper out, squeezing your eyes shut as your legs give out.

geto’s mouth was still glued to your sticky slippery cunt as his tongue’s slowed its licks down. you tasted even sweeter, and he’s slurping you right up - softly moaning against your cunt as he reaches to touch himself. geto’s tongue’s constant movements scratch such an itch in your brain, making you let off a cute gasp. “ughh, s- suguru,” you whimper, feeling your thighs still shiver.

your tummy heaves in and out repeatedly, and you glance down at geto who’s got the sleaziest grin. “t- thought you said you didn’t know what you were . . hah, doing.”

“oh, baby i don’t,” geto rasps, sitting up from between your legs. he closes the distance between you both, pressing a steamy hot kiss against your quivering plump lips. you moan, getting a brief taste of yourself on his hot tongue before he playfully bites near your bottom lip. “my research helped me a lot,” and you moan the second you feel him give your sloppy cunt a big squeeze with his palm. “but . . i didn’t know my girl was a squirter. think we’ll have to do that again,” geto licks underneath your chin. “y’know, for research purposes.”

#GOJO SATORU aka the loser virgin?!

“yeah, yeah,” satoru would stubbornly grumble, cutting you off mid-sentence and rolling his eyes. his leaky tip remains idle, aligning itself against your soddened entrance before he puffs. phew, you were so pretty up close—especially down there. satoru couldn’t help but stare, openly admiring just how slick ‘n soaked you were.

just weeping from both off folds, the entirety of your entrance being coated in nothing but perspiring wetness. satoru swears on his life he knows what he’s doing, but the second the globed head of his cock smears a line down the wet slope of your cunt - he folds.

with a shaky, needy breath, he whines. “god, why are you so fuckin’ wet, baby. ‘s this supposed to happen?”

“yes, ‘toru,” you reassure him, sprawling your legs out a bit more. satoru’s panting, watching as you bring two sets of fingers toward your pretty pussy. with a slightly wide ‘v’ shape, you’re spreading yourself apart and he’s gawking straight between your legs. fuck, you were so soaked that you were starting to drip near the inner crevices of your thighs. you were playing with yourself earlier before he told you how he wanted to try going inside for the first time. but now that he’s up close—satoru can’t help but be a bit flustered. “c’mere, don’t be shy,” and you nearly moan, trailing the print of your thumb down your syrupy-coated slit. “she doesn’t bite.”

satoru scoffs, but he inches closer. so wet, his cock that was being fisted in the palm of his hand was throbbing hard. pulse after fucking pulse, a lightning-shaped vein races down the center of his hand before he groans at how hard you’re making him. “ngh, baby,” and he nearly loses it the second he struggles to align himself. he feels so hot, fuzzy cotton stuffing in his ears once his tip slowly rubs itself in between your drooling flaps. satoru snaps out of it, clearing his throat before puffing out his chest in an attempt to maintain his known ego. “heh- i mean uh- let’s show ya how ‘the strongest’ fucks.”

and apparently, ‘the strongest’ didn’t really know what he was doing after all.

because he’s barely halfway in when he’s cumming - heavily.

emphasis on barely, and satoru lets out a sweet needy whine the second he’s shooting thin milky ropes into you. thick, stringy ribbons of cum envelope inside your pussy with warmth right away. “f- fuck, dammit,” he’d grunt, burying his face into the crook of your neck. satoru’s beefy body presses right up against yours, and he’s shivering at the feeling. it’s unlike any feeling he’s ever felt, and you giggle the second you hear him loudly sigh. “ugh, that wasn’t supposed ‘ta happen.”

“thought you knew what you were doin’, baby,” you cheekily reply, a few beads of sweat racing down the left side of your forehead. satoru sits up, leaning into your ginger embraces—your palm cupping his temple. he’s pouting, an unsatisfied pout extending across each side of his lips.

“i- i doo,” he whines, feeling his thighs starting to heat up near the undersides. satoru clenches his teeth, groaning once you gradually wrap your legs around his slim waist. he’s hot, and you’ve got him wrapped around your pretty ‘lil finger.

wide, crystal blue eyes meet your gaze before satoru exhales into your neck. “mnh, let me try again, baby,” and right as you rub your ankle down his tense back muscles, he gruffs. snowy flapping lashes of his shut tight before he wraps a hand around his lanky cock. “pleasee, c’mon baby. lemme prove myself. i’ll get it this time for real.”

a smile marinates its way against your features as you hum, rubbing a thumb down his sensitive undercut. for a second, you could have sworn you heard satoru purr as he leaned into your touch. you almost forgot how much of a tender spot that was for him. cute.

“okay, go ‘head,” and both of your thighs were practically sticking together. such amounts of his seed glue against your thighs—almost like it was some kind of clingy adhesive. satoru pulls out for a moment, eager to get a look at the sloppy mess and oh.. it was a lot - he came a lot, and satoru couldn’t help but stare at the luminous streams of cum that teared down your polished cunt.

it’s sloppy. satoru’s eyes widen once he feels his tip glide its way against your cervix. right near your g-spot - it’s fuckin’ bumpy, and he feels your legs eagerly twitch the minute his dick slides its way near a spongy area. you’re moaning, laid back before satoru starts to whine.

he can’t help but whimper, softly smacking his swollen tip on your entrance. satoru had no idea what to do next, but he just wanted to play with your pretty pussy some more. the loud echoey smacks from his dick onto your folds make his ears ring…pap after pap and he’s pronounced feral. but that’s right when you hear him sniffle, literally getting lost in your pussy the second he feels your cute pulse on his round, mushroomy tip.

as you wrap your arms around him, hearing him whine once you rub a thumb down his undercut, feeling him awkwardly trying to align himself again with a bashful needy grin.

“toru, are you cryin’?”

#CHOSO KAMO aka the virgin who barely lasts?!

“o- oh, fuckk,” he’d whine, twinkling eyes widening the second he’s watching your tummy cave in from behind. you’re so pretty like this, bent over, sprawled all out on all fours. choso’s stiffly still at first, and he’s very awkward with his hands. bulged, umber-colored eyes bore into your backside, gazing at your skin. stunning, choso grunts as he pistons his hips, glancing at the sunlight that radiates off a shiny part of your spine.

in choso’s eyes, you’re breathing pretty - art, and with the way your skin glimmers in the sun, you looked like a rare painting. “baby, you’re so warm inside.”

“mhm, don’t stop ‘cho,” you moan in response, feeling your loose jaw start to droop allll the way down. you nibble near the inside of your gummy cheek, gasping at just how big he is. his cock was huge, and it didn’t take him long at all to fit nice ‘n snug. its a semi-tight fit that makes your mouth start to water from the inside and you whine. “fuuck, ‘s okay, choso,” and he feels you wriggling your ass against him. choso’s eyes dart towards your bouncy rear and he huffs. “spank it.”

a shuddering breath leaves from choso’s pink parted lips before he lowly rasps. “yeah?” and you felt yourself throb, feeling him press himself all up against you. now, choso’s gently hovering his weight over your back whilst he’s still presenting you with passionate deep strokes. slowly but surely—he’s getting the hang of it, rummaging through your fleshy clingy insides with each punctuating hit. choso’s gruff heavy breaths fan down your neck before he moans, creeping a hand toward your ass. “i can spank you, baby?”

“mmh,” you whimper in response, hearing the salaciously wanton squelches of your cunt help out louder. saying that you were wet was a mere understatement, you were pouring all down his dick with your slick. choso could feel the wetted mess trail between your legs, coating the front of his thighs entirely with your viscid sap. he’s heard about intimacy but it was an entirely different thing to experience it firsthand. “spank me, choso. ‘s okay, you can be a ‘lil rough.”

“ ‘kay,” he huffs, and you let off a soft squeal the second his palm sharply swats against your ass. oh, he liked that. the way your rear recoiled, pretty skin bouncing quickly for a few seconds—all from a small whacking hit. the brief sting made your cunt pulse sporadically as he was still drilling into you. pump after pump, choso turns pussy drunk within seconds. “hah, you’re so fuckin’ hot,” he whines, tracing a hand down the pretty curvature of your ass. his fingers dance down every juncture, and it’s almost heart-shaped. “baby, you’re makin’ me feel so—fuck.”

choso gets cut off from his words the moment he feels his dick throb between your soddened cunt. you’re wringing him dry, all while your head is cutely smushed up against your pillow. choso’s speed quickly starts to get relentless, and after a while, he’s starting to understand the human body just a bit more. “ah, choso. fuck me, fuck!” you’d whimper, a curling sensation arising within your toes right as he slams his way into your cervix.

it’s a direct hit, a k.o. as some would might say—and it’s almost as if you’ve got stars ‘n imaginary birds flying over your head like a cartoon because choso’s dick had you stupid.

“somethin’s c- comin’,” he moans, slightly lifting your leg to get a better view. it’s probably been a few minutes and choso’s already panting like a dog. he’s feral - softly planting a stripe of wet kisses down your neck as he’s buried balls deep. “ugh, baby. ‘m gonna cum, gonna cum, ngh.”

“inside, ‘cho. ‘s okay,” you whine, feeling his pace grow more relentless and sloppy. choso’s gripping your waist tightly, his bottom lip quivering as he’s feeling a sudden rush overtake his entire body. you’re perfect - he wanted to keep you like this forever, plug you full and keep you warm. you could hear his rough, heavy pants from behind you until he finally came.

whitish thick ribbons pour into you all at once, shooting deep into your womb.

it’s hot - physically and literally.

you’re arched over for him like a bridge and he’s whimpering, furrowing his darkened brows with a pout as choso slowly starts to flood your cunt. globs of sleek strings spray inside your gripping cunt as he gradually pulls out, openly watching as you’re moaning. the feeling of your walls wrapping around his cock had him feeling fuzzy. “m- mhm, choso,” you’d mewl out, hearing him cutely gasp once your cunt sloshes loudly, spitting out thin clumps of his cum. “ ‘m so full.”

“hah- ‘n you’re gonna get even fuller, baby,” he huffs, a pout still glossing over his slickly-wet lips as he stares at your pussy. it’s pretty like this, he thinks. from top to bottom—you’re stuffed full of his gooey hot cum, so much to where it’s shamelessly oozing out of your puffed slit, racing down your numb jittery thighs. you moan, feeling choso drag a thumb down your sobbing, slobbering slit before popping his thumb into his mouth, licking his mess right off his finger.

choso moans at the taste before pouting. “not done, one more round,” and as he glides his tongue across his digit, choso gives your cunt a soft spank before groaning, softly pushing your knees to your chest.

“ ‘m still hungry.”

#TOJI FUSHIGURO aka the virgin who gets humbled?!

“heh. do y’r worst, baby,” toji would snicker, bringing a spank to your ass as he leans back against the couch. lazily, he’s slouching with a half-filled can of cheap beer in his hand. he’s smug, and not only was he smug but he was also virgin - the cockiest.

it’s funny because toji didn’t know what the fuck he was doing…however, he was more than willing for you to ‘show him’ how to feel good.

of course—he’s haughty that you won’t be able to take him, but it’s much to be expected for a pompous fratboy. “mmh, goddamn,” he’d grunt, peering down at your glossed weeping pussy. it’s wet, and as you straddle him, toji squeezes the energy drink in his hand. “slow, baby s- slow.”

with a cooing whisper, you sprinkle a few kisses near the inside of his neck. “slower, toji? but you’re the one who kept rushin’ me,” you tease, and from your peripherals, you can see his jaw tensing. fuck, the moment your cunt starts to ease down on his length in a gradually paced manner, toji groans. it’s a low husky groan - the groan where he’s already tossing his head back.

“y’r bein’ a brat,” he snarls, sliding an arm around your waist. your pussy was hypnotic - and you wearing one of his oversized jade-colored frat hoodies only made things ten times worse. you looked so pretty, and he couldn’t help but trail his hooded eyes down your body, stopping at the hem of your waist and right near your ass. “fuck- slow, baby. ‘m damn sensitive,” and you watch the sly smirk that was once plastered on his scarred lips slowly starting to fade. toji’s getting more ‘n more pussy drunk, and he knows it too. “mhh, like that. fuck me good.”

“you talk too much,” you teasingly grip his chin, watching as his leafy verdant eyes gaze into yours. he’s hard - and not only is he hard but he’s insanely sensitive. toji scoffs, but that soon disappears the moment your hips start to move. “hnghh,” you suck in a brisk breath, eyes nearly widening once you start to feel the gaping, lewd stretch. his cock was long ‘n tall—merrily expanding through your cunt within each thick inch.

one thrust - just one fuckin’ thrust and that was all it took for you to nearly break. he’s huge, and you whimper the second you feel his plump swollen sack kiss near the undersides of your bare ass. “oh yeah? make me shut up then.”

famous last words.

because even though toji’s all talk, he gets humbled right away the minute you change him as a person entirely all from your sweet, mesmerizing cunt. toji leans back, groaning gruffly against your ear as faint gurgled whines depart from his throat. you’re riding him good, shutting him with your pussy—humbling him with your hips. oh, you’re just riding him into complete oblivion. toji was left speechless, and instead of you moaning his name, he was moaning yours.

“ngh, fuck. god, ‘s good don’t fuckin’ stop workin’ those hips, s- shit,” he’d huskily snarl, squeezing the plastic can within his palm, crushing its shape. toji’s cologne scent was loud, and it completely rubbed off against your skin as you moaned. you were grinding against him back ‘n forth, whining continuously before milliseconds passed by and you’re now starting to feel your stomach churn churn churn.

each eye rolling, toe-curling feeling that twists in the depths of your insides due to his cock makes you sob out moan after moan. you try to silence yourself by sneaking a few needy kisses near toji’s scarred lip. he grunts with a clenched jaw, returning the gesture with a hand glued to your ass.

it moves like water - toji was always an ass man, and now that he was finally living the dream, he spanked you again, and again, and again.

the jiggle against his palm makes his dick throb, and you feel it right inside of your cunt. “doin’ okay, toji?” you tease breathlessly, watching as a shiny string of saliva tears away from both lips. you felt him squeeze his way wholly inside of your fleshy entrance, ploddingly and sloppily thrusting in and out.

“tch. less talkin’ more ridin—oh fuck,” he’d gruff, his shoulders slackening as you sensually rutted your hips further into him. god, you were teasing him so much and your wet, filthy cunt was to blame. he wanted more, more more. the way you moved in such a relentless manner drove toji crazy and he was starting to think maybe the two of you were just more than roommates. your pussy had that kind of power, and it’s not even seconds later before toji’s about to cum.

but surprisingly, he ends up lifting you with burly arms, pulling out with a speed equivalent to the flash. he moans, staring at his leaking reddened tip that’s dribbling from the slit with sticky droplets of warm cum. he’s heaving, staring back at your sparkly-coated cunt before he makes you recline back against the couch.

“f- fuck, ‘s much. lie back, baby. l- lie back for me,” and once you do, he merely pounces on you. toji exhales out a deep, heavy sigh before aligning his swollen tip near your dripping cunt. “god, look at ‘er,” he grunts, and you could hear the tremor in his voice as he’s spraying his seed on the outer part of your wetted entrance. it’s long, striped stripes of ivory ropes that paint your bare tender clit and he licks his lips at the filthy sight. “hah, so fuckin’ hot. milkin’ me like that, f- fuck.”

“you came pretty quick, toji,” you jibe, spreading your sopping cunt lips apart so he could play between your legs some more. with a loud ‘thwack’, toji smacks his swollen tip against your pussy, smearing his blushing crownhead up ‘n down your stained crying slit. it’s so messy, and you watch as his tongue briefly sticks out between his ruby lips.

“let’s not talk ‘bout that,” toji grumps, and you moan the second he’s re-aligning himself. his fat girth was ready to introduce itself yet again to your swollen insides. toji’s still panting, and you can see how flustered he was because he’s visibly pouting. “f- fuck, i . . i need a minute,” and he pulls back out, slouching back against the couch. you crawl over toward him and within a split second he wraps an arm around you.

yeah, he’s obsessed.

“give me . . a minute,” he huffs, his chiseled abs flexing through his grey dingy tank. toji pulls you into his beefy hardened pecs before staring down at you, and your eyes widen once he kisses the top of your forehead. “next time, ‘m gonna last ten- no, thirteen rounds.”

“sureee thing, big guy.”

spoiler - he doesn’t.

#INO TAKUMA aka the virgin who…falls in love?!

ino who moans out a sweet gasping, “f- fuuck me,” the second he’s easing his way inside of you for the first time. his dick feels soft for a second, tenderly assuaging through your insides before he whimpers at the new feeling. ino’s heavily panting out short breaths, staring at your bare exposed body that prettily sits underneath him before he moans. “ ‘m not hurtin’ you, right, angel?”

“no, no. ‘m fine, ino,” you let off a soft sigh, the lower parts of your legs snaking around his waist. ino grunts, going as slow as he can. he’s barely even a few inches in and he’s already sweating profusely. “easyy, that’s it, baby,” you reassure him with labored breaths, staring into his droopy hooded eyes. ino’s beanie was on the verge of sliding off the side of his head before he sucks his teeth at your gripping warmth. “hold my hand, here,” and you could feel his body shudder the moment you intertwine your fingers against his.

he’s big, and he knows it. ino scrunches his dark brows into a furrow, trying his best to blindly navigate his way inside of your cunt. right away, you’re clenching around him tight, locking your unstable legs around his waist before hearing him let off a sweet whimper.

“ugh, you feel so good, so good,” and within each wet-sounding thrust, his words start to pitch. it gets lower ‘n lower, raspy and husky. ino’s skin starts to glue against you thanks to the splotches of sweat dampening against each other before he huffs. “tell me it's too much, ngh—fuck,” and his eyes soften the moment you cup his face. “s- sorryy, am i talkin’ too much?”

“ ‘s okay, ino,” you inhale, and his pace starts to get quicker. vast, thorough thrusts make you feel every inch. his frantic rhythm rocks into you steadily, causing the bed to constantly wail out pathetic whiney creaks. you brush a thumb across the side of his cheek before moaning, feeling his tip zigzag its way across your sensitive g-spot. “ah! right there, ino. there, baby t- thereee.”

“there, oh- okay,” he tries to take note, studying your body’s movements. into felt his cock twitch at your reaction. so cute. you’d clench around him tight before arching your back, dragging your nails down his soft skin. ino’s stretching you out to the very limit, plummeting his dick into you over and over until you’re seeing nothing but cloudy blobs of white. you hadn’t even realized your eyes were lulling near the back of your head before he cheekily pointed it out. “heh, you look kinda silly like this pretty girl.”

you shoot him a playful glare whilst he’s still driving himself into your mid-thrust and ino sheepishly snickers. “sorry, sorry,” and with a sticky smooch, he brings his lips up against yours. ino’s pace starts to pick up more and more, championing his chiseled askew hips into you. “ah, i think ‘m gonna cum though, shitshitshit,” and as he’s rambling, ino starts to feel his hips into you quicker. “hah, lovie- tell me what ‘ta do. where do i f- finish,” he’d huff breathlessly, sliding his scarred hands near the sides of your waist. “tell me, pretty.”

“inside, baby,” you whisper against the shell of his ear. ino’s eyes widen - darkening, and he groans. the way you talked to him so sweet in his ear, even licking against the outer lobe makes him shiver. you’re a tease, and he only wanted more. ino wanted more . . of you. “wan’ you inside.”

“say it again,” he shakily whines against your neck, nipping a few invisible kisses near the juncture of your exposed collarbone. you tasted sweet, and ino’s mind spun cogwheels throughout each second he’s spent buried inside of you. “talk ‘ta me in that pretty voice- wanna hear you again. p- please.”

with a sobbing mewl from the brief twinges that slowly form into pleasure—you repeat yourself in a desperate mewling cry of, “inside, ino. please, f- fuck me,” and oh- if you saw the look on his face. his heart’s pounding as he’s mercilessly driving his hips into you at full fuckin’ throttle.

ino’s groaning into your neck, feeling his body growing limp before a lengthy multitude of seconds goes by and he’s cumming, hard.

it’s a thin hefty load - runny, stringy ribbons of feverish hot cum that splatters deep inside of you.

ino melts like a puddle into your embrace as you wrap your arms around him. “fuuuck, i lo-” he pauses, getting silenced by a shattering breath. your pussy’s got him secured on a leash, and he’s groaning once he hears himself pour such slimy amounts way into your womb. it sprays everywhere, painting inside and out.

ino kisses his teeth sharply, pressing one more kiss near the tip of your nose before moaning. “h- heh, think i love you, angel,” and you moan, feeling him slowly raise your leg, tossing it over your shoulder.

a hand of his creeps between your gloss-coated, gooey legs that practically stuck together before he pulls out midway, smearing a palm against your stuffed pussy. “ ‘n i love her especially, s- so much.”

[batbetbitbotbut]

Low space & low budget weaving

Want to weave but don't have space for a loom? Have a few sticks and yarns but no DIY skills? Come, be tempted anyway. Weaving is a whole family of crafts, some of which don't require a loom at all.

Small-ish looms like box looms (as basic as yarn wrapped around a cardboard grocery tray), inkle looms, and rigid heddle looms exist, but I'm assuming every possible space for a box in your life is already filled. In this post we're going even smaller and cheaper. As far as possible, everything either is flat enough to stow behind/under furniture or rolls up safely into a bundle of just sticks and yarn.

Many of these crafts have some crossover - the same setup can be used for multiple styles of weaving. Most of them can be improvised at home depending on what you have on hand, or if you need to buy something there is not a huge gulf between homemade vs professional equipment. Alas I am not skilled in any of these and my descriptions will not be wholly accurate; corrections and additions welcome! If you need help, I'd only be able to tell you to seek out books and tutorials yourself, ask other weavers, and just try stuff out.

All photos included with permission. My thanks to the people allowing me to use their projects! I saw so many gorgeous and skillful projects when assembling this and I wish I could have included them all.

Fingerweaving

Projects by @kitteniestkitten (here) and @wefty-weaver (here)

Culture - I am aware of this as a Native American technique, I don't know its history with any more specific nation.

Fabric - "Warp faced" cloth of any width, insofar as warp and weft have meaning for this craft as the weaving is on a diagonal. Often used for sashes or blankets.

Method - There is no loom! A couple sticks hold the yarns to begin with, but then it is all freehand. Starting at one corner, you use your fingers to weave a strand through the other strands, and... that's it. Very simple beginnings work up to very complex patterns that no loom is capable of. The whole project can be rolled up when not active.

Backstrap loom

Projects by @calendae-creations (here) and @weavingforlooms (here)

Culture - I am most aware of this from the Andes but I think it is much more widespread than that.

Fabric - Warp faced or balanced fabric of any width up to your own reach, suitable for blankets and clothes and many other things.

Method - You are the loom! Several horizontal rods hold and manipulate the warp threads but your body provides the tension, with the other end hooked to some furniture or around your own feet. When not in use, you can roll up all the equipment into a small bundle of yarn and rods. You can also use a backstrap loom setup for other methods like tablet weaving.

Warp weighted loom

Projects by @shadowcreepling (here) and @doctormead (here)

Culture - used by ancient Greeks among many many others.

Fabric - any kind of fabric at any size. Shadowcreepling is using a warp weighted loom for a tablet-woven band, Doctormead is probably using heddle rods to make a wider piece of cloth.

Method - the warp threads are held by a bar at the top and tensioned with weights on one end that hang down towards the floor, then the weft is woven into them with any method such as tablets, heddle rods, or by hand (if you have a lot of patience) and beaten into firm fabric at the top or bottom of the loom. Warp weighted looms can be very big, but they are simple and can also be very small and taken apart when not actively weaving.

Tablet weaving / card weaving

Projects by @damage-ko (here) and @foxease (here, hardware from CellesKit on Etsy)

Culture - found as far apart as textiles (geographically and temporally) from Byzantine Egypt and the Vikings

Fabric - a warp faced fabric with patterns made by twining warp threads around each other, usually used for strong narrow bands like collars, belts, and shoelaces.

Method - the cards hold open the shed so you can pass the weft through, then rotate the cards to advance the pattern. Many people make their own with cardboard or playing cards, or you can buy some. The rest of the weaving setup can be improvised with a backstrap (or just a shower curtain hook clipped to your trousers), a cardboard box loom, or warp weights.

Rigid heddle band weaving

Projects by @pisaracraft (here) and @crookedtines (here)

Culture - small rigid heddles like the first project have been found in Roman archaeological sites across Europe. The larger rigid heddle in the second project is being used for "baltic pickup" style designs on the band.

Fabric - can be warp faced or a balanced weave, size limited by the size of your heddle.

Method - you provide tension with any setup you please such as an inkle loom, backstrap, or warp weights. The heddle creates sheds so that you can pass weft yarn through the warp easily. Infinitely many "pick-up patterns" let you weave patterns and even words into the cloth.

Pin loom / potholder loom

Projects by @pardalote (here) and @weavingmyheartout (here)

Fabric - a small square (or rectangle or triangle) of balanced weaving, which can be used alone or patched together into larger fabrics. Pin looms are finer and suitable for many knitting/crochet yarns, potholer looms are chunkier and designed for big elastics, but the method is similar.

Method - wind yarn lengthways around one set of pins and then pull yarn widthways through these strands with a hook. Or, work at 45 degrees in continuous strand weaving! Lots of room to experiment with colour and texture. You can improvise a pin loom by cutting notches in a square of sturdy cardboard.

Needle weaving / stick weaving / peg loom

Projects by @thaylepo (here) and @pastelispunx (here)

Fabric - weft-faced fabric and rugs of any size.

Method - thread long thin warp threads through the pegs, then wind a thick weft (eg heavier yarn, sheep fleece, or long scraps of fabric) around the pegs. Push the weft down along the pegs as they fill up, so that it slides off onto the warp. The pegs can be secured in a base to make a peg loom for large projects, or just handled freely. I believe these evolved as separate crafts and the nuances are different, but the overall method is similar.

Frame loom / tapestry loom

Projects by @squeakygeeky (here) and @battlestar-gasmacktica (here)

Fabric - weft-faced or balanced fabric ideal for wall hangings and upholstery, size limited to the frame being used.

Method - (usually) thinner warp threads are wound round a frame, such as heavy cardboard with notches cut in the end, a picture frame, or a small and flat purpose-made loom. Thicker weft threads are woven in by hand using needles or just small lengths of yarn. Some people make lifelike images, others make more ordinary fabrics or geometric patterns.

Bobbin lace

Projects by @crochetpiece (here) and @noxx-notions (here)

Culture - began in renaissance Italy and spread throughout Europe, often as a cottage industry.

Fabric - balanced fabric usually made of very thin threads in freeform shapes. It's not usually considered "weaving" but the basic cloth stitch is definitely a woven fabric!

Method - each thread is wound onto a bobbin (e.g. a clothespeg) and then bobbins are crossed over each other to weave threads together. The lace is pinned to a cushion to hold everything in place while the design grows.

[mssalo]

worship

Ignored and humiliated by your husband, you find yourself in Joel's arms-his best friend who's been silently craving you for far too long. One heated night pushes you both over the edge, and Joel isn't holding back. He's ready to give you what your husband never could: everything.

Warnings: 18+, MDNI, cheating, body worship, your husband treating you bad, Joel treating you good, oral (f receiving), kissing, (P in V), pinning, cumming Inside, breeding kink, Joel gets nasty with it, 10k

Part: 2

· · ───────────𖥸──────────· ··

The late afternoon sunlight filtered gently through the lace curtains, casting soft patterns across the dining table where you sat with Sarah, helping her with her homework. Your smile, though kind, felt heavy today. You leaned over the table, explaining a math problem to her with patience, even though your mind was clouded with thoughts of your husband.

It had been weeks—maybe months—since he’d been fully present. You had long suspected something was off, but now it was undeniable. He came home late, if at all, and when he did, his eyes never seemed to meet yours. You’d catch glimpses of texts on his phone, messages you weren’t supposed to see. You weren’t stupid. You knew.

But you’d spent so long being the perfect wife, the one who never caused trouble. He’d always introduced you as his “trophy,” an arm to show off at events, beautiful and polished. It was the role you’d filled for years, playing the part he wanted you to play. Smile, be perfect, don’t question. And you had been doing just that for far too long, even though inside you were crumbling.

You brushed a strand of hair from your face and forced a warm smile as Sarah struggled with her fractions.

You adored Joel’s daughter. She was smart, sweet, and had a lightness about her that made your heart ache with a longing for the family you never had. Sarah was only fourteen, but she had a way of reading people that made you think she saw right through you.

“You’re doing great, sweetie,” you encouraged her softly. “Just think of the numerator as the number on top and the denominator as the number on the bottom.”

Sarah gave you a soft smile, but it was clear she wasn’t fully focused. Her big, brown eyes studied you carefully, picking up on the sadness that lingered just beneath the surface of your cheerful demeanor.

“Are you okay?” she asked, her voice hesitant but filled with concern. “You seem… off today.”

Your heart sank a little at the realization that she noticed. You were supposed to be the adult here, the one keeping it all together, but it was getting harder to hide the cracks. You blinked back the tears threatening to well up, reaching over to give Sarah’s hand a gentle squeeze.

“I’m okay, baby,” you whispered softly, trying to steady your voice. “Just a little tired, that’s all.”

Sarah looked at you for a moment longer, her brow furrowed as if she didn’t quite believe you, but she didn’t push it. She was too kind for that, too sweet. You wished your own husband had even a fraction of the empathy this girl had. Instead, he barely acknowledged your presence anymore, leaving you to feel like a ghost in your own home.

After Sarah finished her homework, you walked her to the door, sending her off with her usual hug. She hugged you back tightly, sensing more than you were letting on, but when you said goodbye, you assured her again that you were fine. She gave you one last concerned look before heading home.

After Sarah left, the silence in the house became overwhelming, filling every corner with the weight of your thoughts.

You leaned against the door for a moment, closing your eyes, fighting the urge to let the tears spill over. It was getting harder to keep up the facade. The loneliness, the sense of being unseen in your own marriage—it was suffocating.

You’d done everything you could to save the relationship, to bring back the warmth that had once existed between you and your husband, but there was nothing left.

With a deep breath, you pushed away from the door and headed to the kitchen, trying to busy yourself with anything that could distract you from the ache in your chest. But the sound of a knock at the door startled you, pulling you out of your thoughts. You weren’t expecting anyone.

When you opened it, Joel stood on your porch, concern etched into his rugged features. His broad shoulders seemed even larger framed by the doorway, his familiar Texas drawl cutting through the silence as he spoke.

“Hey,” he said, his voice gentle but serious. “Sarah told me you weren’t doing too good today. Figured I’d come by and check on you.”

You blinked, surprised but not unwelcome to see him standing there. It took a moment for you to gather your thoughts, your heart catching in your throat at the sight of him. Joel had always been kind to you, always present in a way your husband wasn’t. He was a steady, comforting presence in your life, one you had grown to rely on more than you ever intended.

“I—I’m fine,” you stammered, your voice shaky. “I didn’t mean to worry her. It’s just been a long day.”

Joel’s brow furrowed, and he didn’t hesitate to step inside, closing the door behind him. He looked down at you with those dark, thoughtful eyes of his, reading you in ways you wished your husband still could. His gaze softened, but he didn’t buy your answer for a second.

“You don’t gotta put up a front with me,” he said, his voice low and steady. “I can tell somethin’s been bothering you.”

It was those words—the way he said them with such understanding, such care—that made something in you break. You couldn’t hold it together any longer, not with Joel standing there, offering the kind of concern and kindness you hadn’t felt in so long. The tears you had been holding back began to well up again, this time falling before you could stop them.

Joel stepped forward, his hands settling gently on your arms.

“Hey, hey now… don’t cry,” he murmured softly. “It’s okay. I’m here.”

His words, so simple yet so full of warmth, only made the tears come faster. You wiped at your cheeks, embarrassed that you were falling apart like this in front of him.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice shaky. “I didn’t mean to… it’s just… everything feels so wrong.”

Joel’s grip tightened slightly, a gesture of reassurance. He guided you over to the couch, sitting beside you as you tried to compose yourself. You leaned into him instinctively, finding comfort in the solid presence of his body next to yours. Joel had always had this way of making you feel safe, like you could let your guard down without fear of judgment.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” he asked quietly, his hand still resting on your arm, warm and steady.

You hesitated, the words heavy in your throat. You’d kept it all inside for so long, afraid to say it out loud, afraid that acknowledging it would make it all too real. But sitting there, with Joel looking at you like he genuinely cared, it all came tumbling out.

“He doesn’t care anymore, Joel,” you murmured, the words spilling from your lips, weighed down by the months of heartache you had been carrying. “It’s like I’m invisible to him. He doesn’t talk to me, doesn’t even look at me… and I know he’s seeing someone else.”

The effect on Joel was immediate. His jaw clenched tightly, the muscles in his face twitching as he tried to contain the anger that flared up inside him.

His eyes darkened, filling with a storm of emotions—disbelief, frustration, and something protective, primal. His hand, which had been resting gently on your arm, tightened its grip slightly, grounding you as he processed your words.

He stared at you for a long moment, his face a mix of shock and disbelief, as if he couldn’t comprehend how anyone could treat you that way.

“What the hell is wrong with him?” Joel muttered, more to himself than to you, his voice low and rough. “How could he—how could anyone—do that to you? To you of all people?”

He shook his head, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your breath catch. His voice softened, but the rough edges of his anger were still there, simmering just beneath the surface.

“You deserve so much more than that. You deserve someone who sees you, who knows just how lucky they are to have you.”

Joel leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to a low, urgent murmur as he continued.

“You’re kind, thoughtful… hell, you’re always puttin’ everyone else first. The way you care for Sarah like she’s your own, the way you keep your home so warm and welcoming, the way you’ve always been there for him… you’re so damn good, and he doesn’t even see it.” He shook his head again, the disbelief etched deep in his furrowed brow.

“How could he not see that? How could he throw that away?”

His eyes softened as he looked at you, filled with a mixture of admiration and frustration.

“It breaks my heart to see you treated like this. You deserve someone who cherishes you, who shows up for you, every day… who loves you for exactly who you are.”

His words hit you like a wave, each one wrapped in the raw sincerity and care that had always been so natural for Joel. You could see the anger and confusion in his eyes—he truly couldn’t understand how anyone could treat you as anything less than extraordinary.

You had been trying so hard to convince yourself that it was enough to be the perfect wife, to keep playing the role you had been assigned, but Joel’s kindness made you question all of it. His care, his attention—it was what you had been craving for so long, and now, here he was, offering it to you without asking for anything in return.

“But I don’t know what to do,” you whispered, your voice trembling as the weight of everything settled heavily on your shoulders. “I’ve tried so hard to make it work, to be what he wants, but nothing’s enough.”

Joel’s hand lifted to your face, gently cupping your cheek. The warmth of his palm grounded you, the rough texture of his skin a stark contrast to the tenderness in his touch. He guided your face to meet his eyes, filled with an intensity that made your breath catch.

“You don’t need to be what he wants,” Joel said, his voice low, almost a growl, roughened by emotion.

“You deserve to be seen, to be loved for who you are. Not just for what you can give someone else.”

His words hung in the air between you, wrapping around your heart, pulling at the deepest parts of you that had felt so neglected, so starved for this very thing—connection.

The space between you felt charged, heavy with unspoken emotions that had been simmering for far too long. It was as though every unexpressed feeling, every suppressed desire had built up into a moment that neither of you could stop.

Your heart pounded in your chest, each beat echoing the ache of loneliness and longing that had been gnawing at you for months. Joel had always been there, quietly, steadily, offering you the care your husband never could.

And now, sitting so close to him, his hand on your cheek, the warmth of his body radiating toward you, the pull between you was undeniable.

“Joel…” you breathed, your voice barely a whisper, your gaze flickering between his deep brown eyes and his lips, so close, so tempting.

He didn’t move away. Instead, his thumb brushed across your cheek, wiping away a tear you hadn’t realized had fallen. His touch was tender, but his eyes were dark, filled with something deeper—something that had been quietly building between you for longer than either of you cared to admit.

“I’ll take care of you,” Joel whispered, his voice rough with the promise of protection, of something more. “You don’t have to go through this alone anymore.”

Your heart raced, torn between the vulnerability of the moment and the undeniable comfort of his words.

The way he spoke, the way he looked at you—it was everything you had been craving for so long. The tenderness you had missed, the feeling of being truly seen, appreciated, cared for. It was overwhelming. And yet…

Before you could fully process what was happening, Joel leaned in. His lips brushed against yours in a soft, hesitant kiss. The world around you seemed to disappear, the only thing grounding you being the warmth of his lips and the steady strength of his hand still cradling your face.

The kiss was gentle at first, full of the tenderness and care you had longed for, but there was something else beneath it, something more intense, more primal, as if he had been holding back for too long and couldn’t anymore.

Your hands found their way to his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as if needing something to hold on to, something solid in the whirlwind of emotions swirling inside you.

His kiss deepened slightly, his other hand moving to the small of your back, pulling you closer. It felt like everything you had wanted—someone who saw you, who cared for you, who wanted you.

But just as quickly as the warmth of the kiss had filled you, the weight of guilt crashed down like a tidal wave. You broke away, pulling back suddenly, your heart pounding in your chest, breath coming in short gasps. You shook your head, stepping out of his reach, the taste of his kiss still lingering on your lips, but your mind already spinning.

“I—” you stammered, the words barely forming as you backed away, your hands trembling. “I can’t… I’m sorry, Joel, I just… I can’t do this.”

The look on Joel’s face was one of hurt and confusion, but also understanding. He stood there, his arms falling to his sides as he watched you retreat.

“It’s okay,” he said softly, his voice gentle, though the rough edge of his emotion was still there. “You don’t need to apologize.”

You took another step back, trying to steady yourself, your heart in your throat. “It’s not right,” you murmured, your voice trembling as you tried to rationalize everything that had just happened. “I can’t… I’m still married, and this… this is wrong.”

Joel didn’t argue. He didn’t push. He just watched you, his eyes filled with a mixture of understanding and a quiet sorrow.

“I just don’t want to see you hurt anymore,” he said softly, his voice rough with emotion. “You deserve better than the way he treats you.”

His words hit you hard, but you couldn’t stay. You couldn’t face the reality of what had just happened, of what you had almost allowed yourself to feel. The guilt was too much, too overwhelming. You turned away, your hands still trembling as you moved toward the stairs, needing distance, needing space to breathe.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered again, your voice barely audible as you left Joel standing alone in the living room. You hurried upstairs, your heart heavy, your mind racing, every step a reminder of the pull between you and Joel that you had just tried so desperately to resist.

When you reached the top of the stairs, you paused, your hand gripping the banister as you tried to steady your breath. You could still feel the warmth of his lips on yours, the safety of his arms around you, and it terrified you.

Because for the first time in so long, you had felt something real, something you wanted. And yet, the weight of everything else—your marriage, your vows, the guilt—it was too much to bear.

You didn’t look back, but you could feel Joel’s presence downstairs, lingering in the quiet of the house. His words echoed in your mind, and despite everything, you knew deep down that what he had said was true: you deserved more. But admitting that meant facing the truth about everything you had been avoiding for so long.

And you weren’t ready for that.

· · ─────

The days following the kiss were thick with awkwardness and tension that hung between you and Joel like a fog neither of you knew how to clear. Every time you thought about it—his lips on yours, the tenderness in his touch, the way he had made you feel seen and wanted—your stomach twisted with guilt. But there was another feeling too, one that gnawed at you in the quiet moments when you were alone: longing. That kiss had stirred something deep inside you, something that had been buried for far too long, and now, you couldn’t stop thinking about it.

You longed for that feeling again—the safety, the warmth, the tenderness that had been absent from your life for so long. It made the distance between you and your husband feel even wider, the coldness in your marriage more unbearable. But despite how much you tried to shake it, that kiss was constantly on your mind.

Then came the day Joel came over to watch the football game with your husband. You knew it was coming—your husband had mentioned it in passing—but you weren’t prepared to see Joel again. The thought of being in the same room as him after what had happened made your heart race and your palms sweat.

When Joel arrived, you could hear his familiar knock on the door, followed by your husband’s slurred greeting. He had already been drinking, you noticed. You had hoped he would keep it under control, but knowing him, that was never a safe bet.

You opened the door and found Joel standing there, looking as calm and collected as ever. But the moment his eyes met yours, a wave of heat rushed to your face, your heart skipping in your chest. You tried to keep your expression neutral, but it was impossible to ignore the way the memory of that kiss flooded your senses all at once.

He shifted slightly, his hands slipping into his pockets, as if he was just as unsure of how to handle the tension between you. His gaze flickered over your face for just a second longer than it should have, his eyes darkening with something unspoken before he quickly looked away.

You felt the blush creeping up your neck, your cheeks growing warmer by the second. You cleared your throat, your voice barely above a whisper as you tried to greet him without giving anything away.

“H-hi, Joel,” you stammered, forcing yourself to look at him, even though your heart was pounding so hard you were sure he could hear it. Your fingers fidgeted nervously with the hem of your shirt, desperate to find something—anything—to do with your hands.

Joel’s eyes flicked back to yours briefly, and you could see the hesitation there, the same uncertainty you were feeling. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his voice coming out low and gruff, but with a warmth that only made you blush harder.

“hello there,” he said, his tone casual, but the way his eyes softened when he looked at you made your stomach flip.

The awkwardness was palpable, like neither of you knew exactly what to say. You wanted to hide from the intensity of the moment, to avoid the feelings that had been swirling between you since that kiss. Your gaze darted down to your feet, your fingers still twisting the fabric of your shirt nervously.

Your husband’s voice suddenly bellowed from the living room, a loud demand for more beer, pulling both of you out of the charged moment. Joel winced slightly, his brow furrowing in mild annoyance at the sound, but you just gave a small, flustered nod.

“Uh, I’ll get that for him,” you mumbled quickly, stepping aside to let Joel in, your skin tingling with the awareness of how close he was as he brushed past you.

As Joel entered, you couldn’t help but glance at him one last time, your heart racing again when you saw the way his eyes lingered on you for a brief second before he turned toward the living room, where your husband was already half-immersed in the game.

“Thanks,” Joel murmured softly, his voice still gruff but gentle as he moved to sit beside your husband.

You took a deep breath, trying to calm the whirlwind of emotions swirling inside you. You knew tonight was going to be hard—being in the same room as Joel, pretending that nothing had changed. But the way your heart leapt every time you caught his eye made it clear that things were far from normal between you.

The night dragged on painfully, the tension in the room thick and suffocating. Your husband’s drinking had started early, his excitement for the game quickly turning into something darker, something meaner as the alcohol took hold. It wasn’t unusual for him to drink during football, but tonight, it seemed worse than usual. Each beer drained away whatever patience he had left, and you could feel his mood souring with every sip.

“Get me another one,” he grunted, not bothering to look at you as he pointed at the empty bottle on the coffee table.

You moved quickly, not wanting to cause a scene, especially not with Joel sitting there. The last thing you needed was for Joel to witness the full extent of your husband’s irritability. But as you handed him the beer, your husband’s gaze flickered up to you, and his expression turned sour.

“Can’t you just do one damn thing right?” he muttered, snatching the bottle from your hand. His words were slurred but sharp, laced with frustration as if your mere presence irritated him.

Your cheeks flushed with humiliation, the familiar sting of his words settling deep inside you. You could feel Joel’s eyes on you from across the room, but you didn’t dare look at him. The embarrassment was too much. All you wanted was to get through the night, to make it out of this room with what little dignity you had left.

But it only got worse. As the game continued, your husband’s tone grew harsher, his demands more insistent.

“Get me some more chips,” he barked, barely glancing at you. You quickly obliged, fetching the bowl from the kitchen, trying to keep your hands steady as you placed it on the table in front of him.

Joel, always polite, nodded in your direction. “Thanks,” he said softly, his voice warm and sincere. The contrast between Joel’s quiet gratitude and your husband’s increasing belligerence was jarring, and it only made the ache in your chest worse.

As you turned to walk back to the kitchen, you felt it—your husband’s hand coming down hard on your ass, the slap echoing through the room. You froze in place, your entire body going rigid as the sting of his hand sent a wave of humiliation crashing over you.

“Good girl,” he slurred, his voice dripping with mockery. “You’re real good at one thing at least, huh?”

The room felt like it was spinning, your face burning with shame. You couldn’t bring yourself to move, to even breathe for a moment. Joel was right there. He had seen it all.

Your heart pounded in your chest, the humiliation overwhelming, crushing. You had endured so much already—his cruelty, his indifference—but this? In front of Joel?

You couldn’t stay in the room any longer. Without a word, you turned and walked quickly toward the stairs, your vision blurring as the tears threatened to spill. You could hear your husband muttering something under his breath, but you didn’t care. You just needed to get away.

As you reached the bathroom, you closed the door behind you and leaned against the sink, gripping the edges tightly as the tears finally came. Your breath hitched in your throat as you tried to hold it together, but it was no use. The humiliation, the shame—it was all too much.

You stared at yourself in the mirror, your reflection blurred by the tears that streamed down your face.

What had happened to you? How had things gotten this bad?

You had spent years trying to hold onto the marriage, trying to make things work, but now it felt like you were nothing more than an afterthought, a servant in your own home. The sting of his hand, the cruel way he had dismissed you—it was unbearable.

You didn’t know how long you had been standing there when you heard a soft knock at the bathroom door.

“Hey… it’s me,” Joel’s voice came from the other side, low and cautious, full of concern.

Your heart tightened in your chest. You weren’t sure if you could face him, not after what had just happened. Not after he had seen the way your husband had treated you. But Joel wasn’t like your husband. He had always been kind, always understanding. He had seen you—truly seen you—when no one else had.

“Can I come in?” he asked softly.

You hesitated for a moment, wiping at your tear-streaked face as you tried to compose yourself. Then, slowly, you unlocked the door and pulled it open just enough to let him in.

Joel stepped inside, his presence filling the small space, and for a moment, neither of you said anything. His eyes softened when he saw your tear-streaked face, his brow furrowing in concern.

“I’m sorry,” Joel murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “I didn’t mean for things to get like that.”

You shook your head quickly, wiping at your eyes again. “It’s not your fault,” you whispered. “It’s just… this is how it is. I don’t know how to make it stop.”

Joel’s expression darkened slightly, but not with anger—just with sadness, frustration at the situation. He stepped closer, his hand reaching out to gently brush a tear from your cheek, his touch so different from the harshness you had just experienced. His fingers were warm, careful, like he was afraid to push you any further than you were ready for.

“You don’t deserve this,” he said quietly, his voice full of sincerity. “You deserve better than the way he treats you.”

His words broke something inside you, and you felt your lip tremble as another sob escaped. You had been holding it in for so long—holding everything in, trying to be strong, trying to make it work. But now, standing here with Joel, it all came crashing down.

“I don’t know what to do,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “I feel so trapped.”

Joel didn’t say anything for a moment, just stood there, his eyes locked on yours, full of understanding. And then, quietly, he spoke again.

“You don’t have to go through this alone,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “I’m here. Whatever you need… I’m here.”

The warmth in his words, the tenderness in his touch—it was more than you had felt in years. For the first time in what felt like forever, you felt seen, felt valued. It stirred something deep inside you, something desperate and raw, a need that had been pushed down for so long.

Before you could even think about it, you lunged toward him, closing the small distance between you and crashing your lips into his. It wasn’t delicate or hesitant—it was a kiss born out of longing, out of months, maybe even years, of being unseen, unheard.

Your hands fisted into his shirt, pulling him closer as your body pressed against his, needing more, needing all of him.

Joel responded immediately, his hands gripping your waist as he kissed you back with a fierceness that matched your own. There was no hesitation in the way his lips moved against yours, no doubt in the way he held you tight.

His hand cupped the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair as he deepened the kiss, his mouth hungry, demanding.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t gentle. It was fire, igniting every nerve in your body. His kiss was rough, filled with a desperation that mirrored your own, like he had been holding back for too long and finally, finally, he could let go. The tension between you, all the unspoken words, all the stolen glances—it was exploding now in this moment, and neither of you could stop it.

Your heart raced as your hands roamed over his chest, feeling the solid warmth of him under your fingertips. The years of loneliness, of being ignored, melted away with every touch, every kiss. Joel’s hands were everywhere, pulling you closer, pressing you against him as if he was afraid to let go.

He pulled back just slightly, his breath ragged, his forehead resting against yours.

“I’ve wanted this,” he murmured, his voice rough and thick with emotion, his lips still brushing against yours. “God, I’ve wanted this for so long.”

You couldn’t respond with words—you didn’t need to. Instead, you pulled him back into the kiss, your lips crashing together again, more desperate, more urgent. His hands gripped your hips, lifting you slightly as he backed you up against the bathroom wall, pinning you there as he kissed you harder, deeper.

There was no space left between you, no room for doubt or hesitation. Your body responded to his in ways you hadn’t felt in years, every nerve alight with the intensity of it. His hands slid down your sides, rough and possessive, holding you tightly as if he couldn’t get enough of you.

You could feel the heat rising between you, the desperation building, as if all the longing, all the frustration had finally found an outlet. His lips moved from your mouth to your jaw, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down the side of your neck, each touch making your breath hitch, your body arch into his.

“Joel…” you whispered, your voice breathless, barely able to get the words out.

But he already knew. His hands tightened on your hips, pulling you even closer, his lips finding yours again in a kiss that was even more intense, more consuming than before. You were lost in him, lost in the feel of him, the taste of him. Everything else—the hurt, the humiliation, the loneliness—faded away until there was only this moment, only Joel.

This was what you had been missing. This was what you had been longing for. And for the first time in so long, you felt alive.

Joel’s breath was hot against your skin as his lips moved along the curve of your neck, each kiss searing into you, grounding you in this moment, in him. His hands gripped you firmly, possessive yet tender, his touch a reassurance that you were more than what you had been made to feel for so long.

“God, you have no idea,” he whispered against your skin, his voice thick with need. “You’re everythin’. You deserve so much more than what he gives you. So much more.”

His words sent a shiver down your spine, your body reacting to the intensity in his tone, the sincerity. You could feel the heat between you building, your heart pounding as his lips moved lower, kissing along your collarbone, your chest. You were lost in the sensation, the way his hands moved over you, the way his breath ghosted over your skin.

Joel's kisses became more urgent, more fervent, as he slowly knelt before you, his hands sliding down to the waistband of your pants. He paused for a moment, looking up at you with an expression that was both filled with desire and a silent question—a request for permission, for trust.

“Let me worship you,” he said, his voice thick with emotion, his hands steady as he began to ease your pants down, his fingers brushing against your skin in a way that sent sparks through you. “I want to show you how much you mean to me. I want you to feel everything.”

The air between you seemed to crackle with electricity as he pulled your pants away, his eyes dark with want as he drank in the sight of you.

Joel stood, lifting you effortlessly in his arms, turning and pressing you gently but firmly against the wall. The coolness of the tile was a sharp contrast to the heat radiating off of him, his body holding yours securely, every inch of your weight supported by his strength.

“You’re everythin’,” he murmured again, his lips finding yours in a deep, lingering kiss before trailing down your neck. “You deserve the world. And I’m gonna it to you.”

Without breaking the kiss, he shifted you slightly, his hands gripping your thighs as he held you against the wall. His mouth moved lower, his lips, his tongue, trailing over your stomach, your hips, until he was kneeling before you again, one arm wrapped around your waist to keep you steady as he pressed his lips to the inside of your thigh.

The sensation of his breath against your skin made your head spin, the anticipation building as his kisses grew slower, more deliberate, inching closer and closer to the center of your need. Every kiss, every touch felt like a promise—a promise that you were cherished, that you were seen.

Joel’s lips trembled against your skin as he kissed down your stomach, rough and hungry, his hands gripping your hips tightly as though he was afraid to let go.

His eyes flicked up to meet yours, dark with desire, and his breath came out hot against your bare thighs as he spread you open for him, his tongue flicking out to tease the edges of your soaked entrance.

"Fuck, you're so wet for me," he growled, his voice deep and husky. "I've been waitin’ for this, waitin’ to taste this sweet pussy. You have no idea how many times I’ve thought about it—about you."

You gasped as he buried his face between your legs, his tongue flat and wide as he dragged it through your folds, groaning like he was savoring every drop.

His lips latched onto your clit, sucking hard, sending a jolt of pleasure straight through your body. Your fingers tangled in his hair, gripping tightly as your legs trembled, and he groaned again, the vibration making you whimper.

"God, you're perfect," Joel mumbled against you, his voice muffled as he licked you with long, languid strokes. "This cunt is all mine tonight, yeah? You feel that? You hear that? This pussy's mine."

He sucked noisily, deliberately making sure every stroke of his tongue was loud, wet, and filthy. You could hear the lewd slurping sounds as he devoured you, his mouth greedy and desperate as if he’d been starving for this moment.

Your breath came out in ragged gasps, your whole body burning under his relentless attention.

“What if he hears?” you whispered, your voice shaky as your head fell back against the wall. “Joel… what if—”

“He won’t hear shit,” Joel cut you off, his voice rough with possessiveness. “That asshole’s passed out cold on the couch. Even if he could hear, I wouldn’t stop. He doesn’t deserve you. But I do.”

His tongue plunged into you, fucking you with wet, deep strokes, his nose brushing against your swollen clit as he grunted against you. “This pussy tastes so fuckin’ sweet, baby. All I want is to hear you moan for me. Let him fuckin’ hear it.”

You couldn’t help but whimper, your hips bucking against his face as he growled, his tongue thrusting deeper, his lips and chin coated with your arousal. He pulled back for just a second, his breath heavy, his eyes wild as he looked up at you.

"Fuck, I could eat this pussy all night," he murmured, his voice almost a snarl as he gripped your thighs tighter, pulling you even closer. "I want to make you come on my tongue over and over, until you can't stand. You deserve to be worshipped like this. I’m not stoppin’ until you scream my name."

With that, he dove back in, his tongue swirling over your clit as he sucked you harder, his mouth relentless. You moaned louder, your fingers tugging at his hair as your body arched off the wall, pleasure crashing through you with every filthy stroke of his tongue.

He groaned again, louder this time, savoring every moment as he devoured you, his mouth hot and hungry, like he couldn’t get enough.

He alternated between sucking your clit hard, his lips tight around the sensitive bud, and sliding his tongue deep inside you, fucking your pussy with slow, torturous strokes.

Each time you gasped, your body trembling as the pleasure built higher and higher, his hands gripping your thighs so hard it felt like he was staking a claim.

"Yeah, that’s it," he murmured between licks, his voice raw. "I want to hear you scream for me. Let me hear how much you love it when I eat this sweet little cunt."

Your moans grew louder, filling the bathroom as Joel’s tongue worked you harder, faster, his groans matching your own as he lost himself in the taste of you.

His hands slid up your body, gripping your breasts roughly as he continued to feast on you, the pleasure so intense it was overwhelming. You couldn’t stop yourself anymore—every nerve was on fire, your mind blank as you gave in completely to him.

"Joel, fuck, I’m gonna—" you gasped, your thighs trembling as you teetered on the edge of release.

"Cum for me, baby," he growled, his voice hoarse as his tongue flicked over your clit again, harder, faster, relentless. "Cum on my tongue. I want to taste all of it."

With a final, devastating suck on your clit, you shattered. Pleasure slammed into you, your entire body shaking as you screamed his name, your nails digging into his scalp as he held you in place, his mouth still working you through the waves of your orgasm.

Joel didn’t stop—he kept licking, kept sucking, devouring every drop as your body convulsed, the intensity of it making your legs shake.

He moaned against you, his tongue softening slightly but still teasing your swollen clit as you came down, his grip on your hips loosening just enough to let you catch your breath.

When he finally pulled back, his face was slick with your arousal, his eyes dark with lust as he looked up at you, his chest heaving.

"You taste like heaven," he rasped, his voice thick with satisfaction as he stood, pressing his body against yours again, his lips crashing into yours in a bruising kiss.

You could taste yourself on his lips, feel the raw, aching desire still burning between you, and you knew this was only the beginning.

“That’s what you deserve,” he whispered, his hands roaming over your body, possessive and loving all at once. “And I’m not done worshippin’ you.”

Joel’s hands moved up your body slowly, deliberately, as if savoring every second his fingers touched your skin. His breath was still ragged, and his lips were barely an inch from yours as he whispered against them, his voice rough but tender.

“If you were my woman, I’d never let you leave the house without makin’ you cum at least twice,” he murmured, his words sending a shiver through you. “And here he is, treatin’ you like garbage. Doesn’t he see? You’re a goddess.”

He paused, his fingers slipping beneath the hem of your shirt, his touch gentle but insistent as he slowly pulled it up, over your head, tossing it to the side. His eyes darkened with hunger as he gazed at your bare skin, his breath coming out in a heavy exhale as he traced his fingers along the curve of your waist, up to the clasp of your bra.

“You represent everything good in this world,” Joel continued, his voice deepening as his fingers worked to unhook your bra, his eyes locked on yours. “He should feel so damn lucky to have you. How can he not see what he has?”

Your bra fell away, and his eyes dropped to your breasts, the sight of them making him groan deeply, the sound vibrating in his chest. His hands cupped them reverently, his thumbs brushing over your nipples as his lips curled into a smirk.

“These,” he murmured, his voice thick with desire, “prove my point exactly.”

Without another word, Joel dipped his head, his lips brushing against one of your nipples before he drew it into his mouth, sucking gently at first, his tongue swirling around the sensitive peak.

The sensation sent a jolt of pleasure straight through your core, your back arching as you gasped, your hands instinctively finding his hair, pulling him closer.

He groaned again, his hand kneading your other breast as his mouth worked your nipple with expert precision, sucking harder, his tongue flicking over the sensitive flesh with just the right amount of pressure. Every movement of his mouth, every touch of his hands, felt like he was worshipping you, like you were something precious and sacred.

“I swear,” Joel mumbled against your skin, his lips trailing to your other nipple, sucking it into his mouth with the same intensity.

“If you were mine, I’d worship this body every damn day. You deserve to be treated like the goddess you are, not some afterthought.”

His teeth grazed your nipple, sending another wave of pleasure through you, making you whimper as he continued to suck and lick, his hands never leaving your body, constantly exploring, worshipping. It was like he couldn’t get enough of you, his mouth greedy, his hands possessive, but all of it wrapped in the tenderness that made your heart ache.

“Look at you,” he groaned, his breath hot against your skin as he switched between your breasts, lavishing each one with the same amount of attention. “Every part of you is fuckin’ perfect.”

His hands slid down your sides, gripping your hips as he pressed himself against you, his erection hard and insistent through his jeans. The friction only added to the heat between you, the tension building with every kiss, every touch. Joel’s lips moved back up to your neck, his breath ragged as he pressed soft kisses along your jawline, his words spilling out between them.

“I could spend all night tastin’ you, touchin’ you,” he whispered, his voice low and filled with raw emotion. “You deserve to feel this good all the time. I’d make sure you never forgot it.”

Your mind was spinning, your body burning under his touch. Every word he spoke, every movement of his mouth, was like gasoline on a fire, and you were completely consumed by him, by the way he made you feel—seen, wanted, worshipped.

Joel’s hands slid back up to your breasts, kneading them as his lips claimed yours in another searing kiss, his tongue tangling with yours as he pressed you harder against the wall, his body radiating heat, his need for you palpable.

“Tell me,” he rasped against your lips, his voice thick with desire. “Tell me how much you want this.”

Your breath hitched, your lips parting as his words hung in the air between you. The heat in his eyes, the intensity of his touch—it was overwhelming, and you couldn’t stop yourself from responding.

“I want it so bad, Joel,” you whispered, your voice shaky with need, your body arching into him. “Please… take your clothes off. I need to feel you.”

He groaned at your words, his hands gripping your hips tightly, his erection pressing harder against you.

“Yeah, baby,” he growled, his lips brushing yours, “you need to see a real man. Feel a real cock, not just someone who acts like one. I’ll show you the difference.”

With a swift movement, Joel pulled back just enough to yank his shirt over his head, revealing the broad, muscular chest that you’d only stolen glances at before. His skin glistened with sweat, his muscles flexing as he moved, and the sight of him made your mouth water. Your hands moved instinctively to his chest, your fingers tracing the lines of his muscles as you let out a soft moan of appreciation.

“God, you’re beautiful,” you murmured, your voice breathless as your hands wandered lower, desperate to feel every inch of him.

Joel smirked, his hands already working to unbuckle his jeans, his voice dropping to a rough, dirty whisper. “You want this cock, hm? You’ve been starving for it—starving for a man who knows how to take care of you, who knows how to make you cum like you deserve.”

Your heart pounded in your chest as he pushed his jeans and boxers down in one fluid motion, his thick, hard cock springing free, already leaking with precum. It was big—thick and long, veins running down the shaft, the head swollen and glistening.

He gave it a slow stroke, his eyes locked on yours, the sight making your thighs clench with anticipation.

“See this?” he growled, tapping his cock against your thigh, making your breath hitch. “This is what you’ve been missin’. And I’m gonna make sure you never forget what a real man feels like.”

You whimpered in response, your hands reaching out to touch him, to wrap your fingers around his length, but he pulled back slightly, a wicked grin spreading across his face.

“Not yet, baby,” he murmured, his voice full of filthy promise. “I want you to feel it everywhere first.”

With that, Joel pressed his cock against your stomach, dragging it slowly across your skin, leaving a slick trail of precum in its wake. You moaned, the sensation driving you wild, your body arching into him as you felt the heat of his shaft sliding over your skin.

“Fuck, you look so good with my cock on you,” he groaned, his hand gripping his length as he slid it up between your breasts, over your chest, your neck, and then back down again. “You want this. You want to feel it inside you, stretchin’ you, fillin’ you up.”

“Yes, Joel, please,” you whimpered, your voice shaking with desperation. “I need it. I need you. I want your cock so bad, I can’t stand it.”

He chuckled darkly, his hand moving to tap the thick head of his cock against your clit, the sudden jolt of pleasure making you cry out.

“You want it here, yeah?” he growled, slapping his cock against your swollen clit again, harder this time, sending shockwaves of pleasure through your body. “You want to feel me inside this tight little pussy, fuckin’ you like you’ve never been fucked before.”

“Oh, God, yes,” you moaned, your hands gripping his shoulders as your body trembled with need. “Fuck me, Joel. I want to feel every inch of you. I want you to ruin me.”

His eyes flashed with pure desire as he tapped his cock against your clit again, the wet head of his cock throbbing as more precum leaked out, mixing with your own arousal.

He dragged his length through your folds, coating himself in your slickness, groaning as he teased you.

“I’m gonna make you scream for me,” he rasped, his voice thick with lust as he leaned in closer, his breath hot against your ear. “I’m gonna fuck you so hard, you’ll never even think about another man again. You’ll be mine, baby. This pussy will be mine.”

Your breath came in short, ragged gasps as he pressed the head of his cock against your entrance, teasing you, making you ache for him. Every word he spoke, every filthy promise he made, sent another wave of heat crashing through you, your body desperate for the release only he could give.

“Say it,” Joel demanded, his voice rough as he slid just the tip inside you, stretching you ever so slightly. “Tell me you’re mine.”

“I’m yours, Joel,” you gasped, your hands gripping his shoulders tighter as you felt him start to push inside you. “I’m yours. Please, fuck me. Make me yours.”

With a deep, guttural groan, Joel thrust into you, his cock stretching you wide, filling you completely. The sensation was overwhelming, your body arching into his as he buried himself deep inside you, his hands gripping your hips as he held you in place.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” he growled, his voice strained as he began to move, his cock sliding in and out of you in slow, deliberate strokes. “This pussy is mine now, baby. And I’m gonna make you cum so hard, you’ll forget anyone else ever existed.”

Joel’s thrusts were deep and deliberate, each one sending a shockwave of pleasure through your entire body. His hands gripped your hips hard enough to leave bruises, but the delicious pressure only intensified the raw need coursing between you. His cock filled you so completely, stretching you to the point where you could barely think straight, only able to feel him.

“God, you’re so fuckin’ tight,” Joel groaned, his voice rough with lust as he pulled almost all the way out before slamming back into you with a force that made you gasp.

The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the small room, mixing with your ragged moans and the wet, lewd sounds of your pussy taking every inch of him.

“Fuck, baby,” he growled, his voice low and rough as he leaned in closer, his breath hot against your ear. “This is what you’d get with me all the time. Not that half-assed bullshit you’ve been settlin for. You’d get this—my cock fillin’ you up, my hands on your body, making you cum until you can’t even fuckin stand.”

He punctuated his words with rough, powerful thrusts, his cock driving deeper into you with each one. Your head fell back against the wall, your legs trembling as he held you up, completely at his mercy.

“You feel that?” he rasped, his breath hot against your ear as his hips snapped into you again and again. “You deserve this, you deserve to be fucked like this every day. Not treated like you’re worthless.”

Joel’s mouth was everywhere—his lips moving over your neck, nipping at your skin before kissing and licking at the sensitive spot just below your ear.

His tongue flicked out, tasting the salt of your skin, and you moaned, your fingers digging into his shoulders as he fucked you harder, his cock hitting that perfect spot deep inside you.

“You’re so fuckin’ perfect,” he growled, his voice thick with praise and hunger. “My perfect little good girl.”

He kissed down your neck, his lips trailing lower until he found your breasts again, groaning as he took one nipple into his mouth, sucking hard. The sensation of his mouth on your sensitive skin, combined with the relentless pace of his hips, had you gasping, your body on the verge of breaking apart with pleasure.

“Fuck, ’could suck these tits all day,” Joel murmured against your skin, his teeth grazing your nipple as he switched to the other breast, sucking and licking, his hands gripping your hips tighter as he fucked you harder.

“So fuckin’ beautiful. You’d get this all the time with me, baby. You’re my good girl, hm?”

“Yes,” you gasped, your body trembling as the pleasure built higher and higher, your nipples aching under his relentless attention. “I’m your good girl. Please, don’t stop.”

Joel growled, a deep, primal sound that sent a shiver down your spine as he kissed his way back up to your mouth, his lips crashing against yours in a bruising kiss.

His tongue invaded your mouth, hungry and demanding, as he continued to pound into you, each thrust harder than the last, pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

You whimpered beneath him, your nails digging into his back as he pounded into you, his cock brushing against that perfect spot inside you with every thrust.

The pleasure was overwhelming, consuming you, and you could barely form coherent words. All you could do was moan his name, begging for more.

“That’s my good girl,” Joel rasped, his lips trailing down your neck as his hips snapped harder, faster. “You love this, baby? You love havin’ my cock so deep inside you, fuckin’ you the way you deserve. Tell me, baby. Tell me how much you need it.”

“I need it,” you gasped, your voice barely a whisper as your head fell back against the wall, your body trembling with pleasure.

“I need you so bad, Joel. I need your cock. I need you to fuck me harder. I love it. Please, Joel, don’t stop.”

“I won’t stop,” he growled, his hands sliding up your body, cupping your breasts again as he continued to thrust into you, his cock hitting that perfect spot over and over.

“I’ll never stop. You’ll never go a day without feelin’ this. Without knowing how fuckin’ perfect you are.”

His lips moved across your face, kissing your cheeks, your jaw, before finding your neck again, sucking and biting at your skin as he pounded into you. You could feel his cock throbbing inside you, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he pushed you closer to the brink of release.

His tongue claimed your mouth with the same intensity as his cock claimed your pussy, his hands still worshipping your body as if he couldn’t stop touching you.

“You feel so good,” he growled against your lips, his breath ragged as his hips continued to slam into you.

“This is what I’d do every single day if you were mine. I’d wake you up with my tongue on this perfect pussy, make you cum before breakfast, fuck you until you can’t even think straight.”

You moaned loudly, your body arching into his as his filthy words made your head spin, the pleasure building inside you with every thrust of his cock.

His hand slid down your body, his thumb finding your swollen clit and rubbing it in tight circles as he fucked you, his touch sending sparks through your veins.

“I’m gonna make you cum, babygirl,” Joel whispered, his voice thick with desire as he kissed you again, his tongue dominating yours. “I want you to cum all over my cock like a good girl. Show me how much you love it.”

You whimpered, your body trembling as the pleasure mounted, your mind going blank as Joel’s cock slammed into you harder, deeper. His hand on your clit, his mouth on your neck, his body pressed tightly against yours—it was too much, and you felt yourself spiraling toward release.

“That’s it,” he growled, his voice rough as he felt you tighten around him. “Cum for me, baby. Be a good girl and cum all over my cock.”

With a final, devastating thrust, the coil inside you snapped, and you screamed his name as your orgasm tore through you, your body shaking violently as wave after wave of pleasure washed over you.

Your pussy clenched around his cock, milking him as he groaned deeply, his hips never stopping, prolonging your pleasure as he fucked you through your orgasm.

Joel’s hips slowed, but his thrusts remained deep and deliberate, his cock throbbing inside you, the heat of him radiating against your skin. His breath came in hot, ragged bursts against your neck as his hands roamed possessively over your body, caressing every inch of your trembling form.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he groaned, his voice thick with need as his hips ground deeper, each thrust making your body arch against him. “You’re fuckin’ perfect. My good girl.”

His words sent another jolt of desire through you, your body still sensitive from your orgasm, but you could feel his need, the tension in his body as he held back. His cock twitched inside you, and you knew he was close—so close.

Joel’s pace slowed slightly, his cock throbbing deep inside you as he hovered over you, his breath hot and heavy against your ear. His hand slid down your side, possessive, as if every inch of your body belonged to him now. He kissed along your jawline, his voice husky, thick with lust and something deeper.

“Where do you want me to cum, baby?” he rasped, his hands gripping your hips as he pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, his cock still twitching inside you.

“Tell me where you want it. I’ll give you whatever you want.”

You felt a rush of heat, your body trembling with the intensity of the moment. Your voice came out shaky, but full of want as you gasped, “Inside, Joel. Please cum inside me.”

A guttural groan escaped his throat, his eyes darkening as he stared at you, the words hitting him like a spark to gasoline.

"God, I’ve been dreamin’ of hearing you say that," he growled, his hips bucking forward again, harder this time. "Pumpin’ you full of my seed. Fuck… the thought of you pregnant with my child?"

“The thought of you, round and swollen with my baby—fuck, sometimes I just cum from imaginin’ it,” he growled, his voice growing more desperate as his thrusts quickened, his cock hitting deep inside you with every movement.

“You’d be so beautiful, so perfect. And you’d be mine—all mine.”

His words sent a shock of pleasure straight through you, the intensity of his dirty talk igniting every nerve in your body. Joel’s hands gripped your hips harder as he thrust deeper, his cock filling you completely with each powerful stroke. His voice was raw, full of desperate hunger as he whispered in your ear.

“Imagine it,” he rasped, his breath hot against your neck, his cock pounding into you relentlessly.

“You, swollen with my baby. I’d make you cum again and again while my child grows inside you. I’d take care of you, worship you… make you feel like the goddess you are.”

The filthy images he painted, combined with the overwhelming sensation of his thick cock sliding in and out of your soaked pussy, made your body tremble, your mind reeling with the intensity of it. Your fingers dug into his back as your moans grew louder, matching the rhythm of his thrusts.

His pace grew faster, more frantic as he chased his release, the idea of you full of his cum, of you carrying his child, driving him wild. You could feel him getting closer, his grip on your hips tightening as his cock swelled inside you, his thrusts becoming erratic.

“You’d be such a good mother,” he groaned, his voice rough as he buried his face in your neck, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

“Fuck, I’m gonna fill you up, baby. I’m gonna cum so deep inside you. I’m gonna make sure every drop stays inside. ’ gonna be so full of my cum.”

You were lost in him, lost in the way his body felt against yours, the way his words wrapped around you, pulling you deeper into the pleasure.

“Yes, Joel,” you gasped, your voice shaky as your body trembled with anticipation. “Please, cum inside me. I want it so bad.”

“Take it, baby. Take all of it. I’m fillin’ you up. God, you feel so fucking good.”

With a deep, primal growl, Joel’s hips slammed into you one last time, his cock pulsing deep inside as he came with a force that made his whole body shudder.

He held you tightly, his breath ragged as he groaned your name, his cum spilling inside you, filling you completely.

You could feel every twitch, every hot pulse of his release, the sensation sending you over the edge again, your body convulsing as a second wave of pleasure crashed through you.

His body shook with the force of his release, his breath coming out in harsh, ragged pants as he held you tightly, his cock twitching inside you as he emptied himself.

He stayed like that for a moment, his body pressed tightly against yours, his forehead resting against your shoulder as he caught his breath. His cock still twitched inside you, his cum warm and thick as it filled you completely. His hands caressed your sides, his touch tender and loving despite the roughness of what had just happened.

Joel’s arms wrapped around you, holding you close as he buried his face in your neck, still trembling with the aftermath of his orgasm. “Fuck… you’re perfect,” he whispered, his voice soft but full of emotion. “’ everything I’ve ever wanted.”

His cock still twitched inside you, the warmth of his cum spreading through your core as he slowly pulled back, pressing soft kisses along your neck, your shoulders.

Joel's breathing was still heavy, his chest pressed against yours as he held you tightly, his cock still buried inside you. He kissed your neck softly, murmuring between deep breaths.

“I’ve been waitin’ for this,” he rasped, his voice low and raw. “You have no idea how long I’ve been savin’ this for you, baby. No one else could ever do it for me. You’re the only one… the only woman I want. I’m full of it, every drop of cum was meant for you.”

His words were tender but possessive, the weight of what he was saying wrapping around you. His hand slid up your side gently, still exploring, as though he couldn’t get enough of touching you. His lips brushed your ear, and his voice took on a pleading tone.

“Please, baby,” he whispered softly, his fingers tightening around your waist. “Leave him. You deserve more. You deserve to be worshipped, loved, the way I’ll love you every single day. You’re mine now. You know that, don’t you?”

You felt your heart pound at the weight of his words, your body still trembling from the intensity of the moment.

As the intensity of the moment began to fade, the weight of Joel's words hung in the air between you. You felt the warmth of his body still pressed against yours, his breath steadying as he held you close, but now, the frantic passion had simmered into something deeper. Something certain.

For the first time in what felt like forever, clarity washed over you. Joel had peeled back all the layers of doubt, of shame, of loneliness, and left you with the undeniable truth—you deserved this. You deserved more.

You shifted slightly in his arms, and he pulled back just enough to look into your eyes. His gaze was soft, no longer driven by raw desire, but by something far more profound. There was a silent question there, one he didn’t have to ask out loud. He had already said it all.

You smiled softly, your fingers tracing over his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart. You didn’t need to say anything right now. You didn’t need to make promises or decisions this second. But for the first time, you knew. You knew what you wanted, who you wanted.

And Joel knew it too.

“I’ll wait for you,” he whispered, his lips brushing against your temple, the tenderness of the moment grounding you both. “Whenever you’re ready.”

You nodded, feeling lighter than you had in years. You weren’t just his now—you were finally yours.

As the room grew quiet, the weight of your choices settled in, but it wasn’t daunting anymore. It felt like freedom. Like the start of something new.

The beginning of everything you’d been missing.

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