This will be my account where i post fanfics and my other writings!
Masterlist | Rules |Request are closed!
About me and my page:
• This is my first time writing Fanfics for others and posting them so please be nice and let me know if i’ve made any mistakes 😭🙏
• My name is Bella and my pronouns are she/her
• This will be my writing space but also a safe space for others!! feel free to ask me anything! 😁
• Fics or on going writes may come out a bit slow depending on the time. i usually have a lot on my plate but will try and post whenever i can
• Fuck Trump, Maga DNI
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Fandoms i’m in/will write about:
• Texas Chainsaw Massacre - Bubba, Nubbins, Chop Top, Thomas
• House of 1000s corpses - Otis, Baby, RJ, Mama
• House of wax - Vincent, Bo
• Halloween RZ - Micheal, Laurie
• Friday 13th - Jason
• Marvel - Loki, Thor, Bucky, Tony, Moonkignt boys
• DC - Bruce wayne, Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Tim Drake, Damian, (only platonic for Damian), Two-face, Lobo
• Spider-verse - Miguel, Hobbie
• Last Of Us - Joel
• MHA (will write sometimes, but rarely) - Aizawa, Tenya,
• Gravity falls - Stanley, Stanford
• Sinners: Everyone but especially Remmick
PLEASE NOTE:
There will be times i will write a fic and only put a name to the character, everything else is up to your imagination. Feel free to imagine another chapter if you like!!
I don't know, but sometimes when I watch the movie House of Wax💞
I see Vincent as looking a lot like me. Is it possible for you to write a story for a female reader who resembles Vincent, with long hair, loose clothing, and other things, like she loves to draw like Vincent, and also Opinions Bo and Lester when they first see her, because she looks like Vincent, like a female version of him?🙏🏻🙏🏻🥺
of course!! i’m also very sorry for the wait! these are pretty short hc but i still hope you enjoy!!
Vincent Sinclair x reader
reader just like him Masterlist
🕯️I personally feel like Vincent would be much more attracted or interested in you if you were more like him.
🕯️I don’t think that Vincent would be shocked, probably just more fascinated than anything.
🕯️You both would bond mostly over art. No matter what style or form of art you take on, Vincent will be interested. If you’d let him, he’d look through your art for hours, studying it and having you explain to him what you were thinking while making it and the process of it.
🕯️He would also definitely love to teach you everything there is about wax figures. He’d show you all his works, hoping for praise and approval from a fellow artist.
🕯️The best part about you both having the same style is that you can share clothes. (mostly you taking Vincent’s sweaters, he doesn’t mind.)
🕯️Lester and Bo would often joke that you’re more of a twin to Vincent than Bo is to him. “I mean, damn, you two are practically the fuckin’ same!” or something like that.
🕯️I feel like Vincent probably feels like nobody gets him or his work after his mother died. So when you come around, i’d like to imagine he’s very thankful for someone like him.
Secondly, I'm crazy emotional rn bc of my period and was wondering if you could write a fic where the reader is also emotional and just holds Bo and tells him how cute and perfect he is.
He's so adorable, I just want to give him some of the attention he never got as a child☹️
of course!! and i’m so, so sorry for the wait, this one’s short but i do hope you enjoy!
Bo Sinclair x reader
emotional reader Masterlist
When Bo gets home and walks through the door to see you crying, he thinks something is terribly wrong.
“What happened, darlin’? You okay? Hurt anywhere?”
He asks with definite worry in his voice, making quick steps over to the couch where you’re sat at. Instead of saying anything, you practically leap off the couch and throw your arms around his neck.
He immediately catches you with a surprised ‘oof’ then a small laugh.
“What’s all this for, sweetheart?”
“It’s just—“
a small sniffle cuts you off as you try not to cry even more than you have already.
“You’re just so handsome and perfect and— just look at you!”
Another laugh escapes him as he sits down, taking your spot on the couch with you now in his lap. He wipes the remaining tears off your face with his thumbs.
“So that’s what all this is about, hm? You all upset over me?”
“Yes! You don’t get it… you don’t get how perfect you are!”
“I guess I don't get it, hun. But if my so-called ‘perfection’ is making you feel this way, what can I do to help?”
You think for a moment before burying your face in his shirt. Your voice comes muffled.
“Just let me hold you…”
“Hold me, hm? Well, if that’s what will make you feel better.”
Bo lets you shift in his lap until you find a comfortable enough position where you can cling to him all you want.
“You don’t get it! You’re so handsome and you always spoil me so much and so well.”
You say in between placing kisses all over his face.
He lets you fuss over him for a while, letting you take out everything with cuddles and kisses. He’s gotta admit, it does feel good to have you all over him like this…
hi! can i request headcanons wherein both bo and vincent like the reader?? like, what would the dynamics be like??? thank you!
of course!! i’m so sorry for the wait, a lot of things happened and my request got put on the back burner for a moment 😭 I hope you enjoy!
Sinclair brothers x reader
Bo and Vincent liking reader Masterlist
I feel like their dynamic would be difficult in some aspects due to how different they are.
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I feel like Bo isn’t the type for candlelight dinners. He’s not really gentle, he’ll block your path in the workshop or crowd you into a corner or against the way just to remind you who’s really in control. He thrives on making you flustered.
Bo gets possessive quickly. If he thinks you’ve spent too much time down in the basement with Vincent, he’ll drag you with and make you spend some time with him. (and maybe mark your neck just to make his brother jealous)
He sees you as a prize, something that he earned. He’ll do anything to keep you close, even if that means he has to be a little mean at times.
Bo also loves in his own way. It might be a little difficult to see at times because of his mood changes but he does truly care about you.
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Vincent loves through art. He’ll draw you quietly in the dim light of the basement, sketching your figure with such gentle hands. He’ll also give you little gifts that was made from wax or wood.
He is more gentle than Bo overall. His touches especially are. He’ll wrap his long arms around your waist, bury his face into your neck and use your warmth and body to soothe himself.
Unlike his brother, Vincent’s love is quiet but still as intense. He’ll keep you close while he works, just basking in your presence.
He treats you like his personal porcelain doll. He genuinely detests when Bo tries to get you involved in the grim family business. Vincent views you as a beautiful, sacred thing that must be protected from Bo’s cruel nature.
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Their mutual attraction to you causes tension to grow in the Sinclair house. Bo will tease and make fun of Vincent for being too soft or over protective.
They both want your attention ALL. THE. TIME.
It’s hard for you to balance both of their needs when they’re both fighting for you 24/7. At one point, it got so bad that you needed to make a schedule for what day would be dedicated for who!
Despite their rough dynamic, both brothers go to absurd (and sometimes lethal) lengths to bring you gifts, snacks, trinkets and clothes from outside of Ambrose just to make sure you’re nice and comfortable and willing to stay.
They both are also really protective. They’re very reluctant to let you leave Ambrose, even if one of them or Lester is with you. They don’t like the idea of anyone else seeing what’s theirs.
It’s especially bad when victims come into town. You’ll be locked in your room or one of theirs until they decide it’s safe for you to come out. They can’t risk anything bad happening to you.
of course!! so so sorry for the very long wait! lots of things happened and my requests kinda got thrown of the backboard 😭 these are short but i hope you enjoy!
RJ Firefly x Bipolar reader
Masterlist
I feel like RJ would definitely be used to a lot of different mood changes already because of the house he lives in, so when he meets you, it’s nothing new. He’s less frightened, judgmental or overwhelmed by your episodes than most because of this.
He isn’t really sure how to handle it though. He’s seen it before, yes, but it usually really isn’t his issue to deal with. He will try his best though! Listening to whatever things you have to say, hurtful or not.
He doesn’t really speak much, let alone have a good way of words, so don’t really expect him to be too comforting in that aspect.
RJ knows not to take what you say to heart. He knows most of the time you don’t mean it, especially when you apologize after the episode passes.
If you do take medication for it, I feel like he wouldn’t push for you to take it. I don’t think he’d care either way. He loves when you be yourself, but if you feel like you need to be medicated, I don't think he’d try to stop you.
He quickly learns what you need during certain episodes or moods. Need him to sit beside you or maybe hold you? He’s there. Need space? He’s already out in the garage far away. Need an ear to talk off? He’s all open.
RJ offers a firm but grounding presence without needing to talk.
He may not be the best at comfort, but he tries in his own ways.
Ain't no way your requests are still open- Well in that case!
• Soon to be wife reader sharing one bed with her virgin boyfriend (Thomas Hewitt) while Tommy cuddles her from behind. The thing is; he might have a naughty dream from time to time UwU.
• Reader feeling him grow, as he slightly rubs and grinds subconsciously. She studies his size with her hand under the blanket, now having an idea what awaits her on her wedding night.
•Tommy's reaction to his now wife telling him about his nightly grinding multiple nights before their wedding.
Thank you~
of course!! and i’m so, so sorry for the long wait! a lot of stuff happened and all my requests were thrown on the back burner for a minute 😭 Thank you so much for your patience!!
Thomas Hewitt x reader
NSWF mdni Masterlist
The Texas heat shows itself, even through the night. Even with the windows open and the fan turned on high, it still doesn’t stop the sweat seeping through your nightdress. And well, it also doesn’t help that you have your hunk of your soon-to-be husband wrapped up around you from behind, his body heat making everything 10 times hotter.
Though, even if it means having you sweat and suffer in this heat, you wouldn’t change it for the world. Having Tommy wrapped up in you is your favorite part of the night. His face in your neck, feeling his breath against it while his strong arms around your waist hold you close to his chest.
You kick the heavier blanket off you, only leaving the thin sheet over your body. You hope to get some sleep tonight, despite the weather. But it seems like Thomas has some other plans in his unconscious state…
You see, this whole thing started a few weeks ago. Luda finally let you both share a room, and a bed, after getting engaged and agreeing not to do anything before marriage. And Thomas always loves to hold you when he sleeps. You’re like his personal teddy bear.
That night a few weeks ago, you were up late, trying to finish a few chapters of the book you were reading. Thomas was dead asleep behind you, arms around your waist and face buried in your neck. You get torn away from your book when you feel Thomas’s breath start to get a bit heavier against your neck and his body getting restless.
At first, you thought he’s having a nightmare, turning your head slightly to better face him. His eye brows are pinched together and eyes squeezed shut. But then he started slowing grinding and rutting his hips into your backside. It’s safe to say your focus was definitely not on the book anymore.
Whatever dream he was having, it seemed to have him riled up.
His breath gets hotter and faster against your skin and his grip on your waist turns so tight it’s almost painful as his hips start to speed up, grinding desperately against your ass. Small grunts of pleasure against him as he goes on.
And you? As soon as you realize what’s happening you feel your face get all hot and an ache start to form between your thighs. You and Tommy have never done anything more than a few stolen makeout sessions whenever the family isn’t looking, due to Luda Mae’s strict rules and Tommy having to work a lot of the time. So this is new. And more than anything you’ve never felt before. You stay frozen up, not really knowing what to do, the book forgotten in your hand.
After a few minutes, the grinding stopped and Tommy seemingly went back to a peaceful sleep. You try to get what sleep you can with the heat between your legs still raging.
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This goes on for a few more weeks, same cycle. Thomas grinding and rutting against your backside while you lay there hot and bothered, too embarrassed and frozen up to do anything back.
But that changes one night.
The moon is high up in the sky. Lights have gone out a long while ago, the whole family asleep as well as Thomas behind you, but you can’t seem to sleep.
All you can think about is the thick and hard bulge that rubs against you every few nights. Just the thought makes your cheeks warm up. It’s been in your head all day. While doing dishes, laundry, serving dinner. There hasn’t been one moment where it hasn’t slipped itself into your mind.
You’ve been up longer than you should’ve thinking about it, imagining what it might look like or even feel like, in your hands or even mouth or—
Just like clockwork, Thomas’s huffs start to brush your neck and hips start to move as his grip tightens around you.
You let him continue for a few minutes, just like he has been, before reaching your hand under the blanket.
You just can’t help it! You’re too curious! Sure, you can feel it when he humps but that's not enough for you. You need to feel what’s in store for you in a few months. And Tommy won’t mind, would he?
You’re hand travels down, under the blanket and over Tommy’s sleep pants, to the hard and aching bulge in his pants. You’re fingers lightly trace over it, breathe caught in your throat as Thomas’s grip gets tighter around your hips and his sounds a bit more louder. His hips seem to track and follow your movements, even in his sleep.
Now, feeling a bit more bolder, you gently cup and squeeze it, eyes flickering up to Thomas, a bit fearful that he might wake up. He doesn’t. Instead, his hips rut into your hand with heavy groans you’ve yet to hear from him.
Bitting your lip to keep yourself from having any sounds slip, you continue feeling him up, squeezing and feeling around your fiancé to your liking.
Thomas seems to like it too by the way his hips stutter into your hand, grinding like his life depends on it.
Eventually, he stops with one last heavy groan against your neck and hips falling slack against your hand, wet spot forming on the front of his sleep pants.
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The house is quiet. Mamas out at the gas station, Hoyt out where only god knows getting drunk, and Monty… well he’s wherever.
One of the rare moments you and Tommy get alone.
You’re on his lap while he sits on the bed, you’re legs straining to straddle his big thighs as your lips are on his, his mask pulled down just enough for it to be possible.
His hands kneed and grip your hips, pulling you closer as the kisses get progressively more heated.
You shift a bit on his lap, now suddenly feeling the hard-on he has under you, much like the ones late at night. He notices too.
You smile a bit to yourself and without breaking the kiss, you reach down and cup him just like you did a few weeks ago. He moans against your lips and his hips rut up to meet your hand.
You giggle to yourself. He acts just like he does in his sleep.
Thomas looks up at you, confused by your giggles.
You whisper everything in his ear, about every late night activity he does in his sleeps, watching as his face gets more and more flushed until he just flat out drops it into your chest, listening to you laugh more about his embarrassment.
hii hope you’re doing well! could you write something with bo sinclair and how his s/o (female reader?) is watching him work and he decides to teach her some of it since she seems interested and loves watching him work
Of course!! sorry for the wait, i had got caught up in a few things, but i hope you enjoy!!
The sound or music and tools fill the shop as Bo works on his truck. You’re curled up on your dedicated spot on the torn up leather couch that sits in the workshop. From here, you have a perfect view of him as he works under the hood of his truck. His dirt and oil covered hands messing with a part that you’re unsure the name of.
He hums slightly as he works, mumbling under his breath from time to time if something doesn’t go his way. You watch as he picks up different tools and parts, his forearms flexing as he strains to tighten something.
You’ve always loved watching Bo work. You’re not so sure what it is about him working. Maybe it’s how focused he is, or how good he is at what he does. Or maybe it could be how hot he looks while doing it…
Anyway, you don’t know what it is, but you love watching him do anything if it means you get to be near him. There’s just something about his presence that makes you feel safe, comfy.
If he’s in a good mood, Bo will talk to you about what
Bo looks up from his truck with a sigh, wiping his hands off on a nearby rag. He looks over and catches your eye. “Hey, baby,” he says, giving a little pull of his head, motioning you towards him. "Won't you come over here and give me a hand real quick, hm?”
More than happy to help, you get up from your spot very quickly, practically skipping over to him. He smiles slightly before guiding you gently in front of the hood with a hand on your lower back, him standing behind you.
“You see that part right there?”
“Mhm!”
“I need you to hold it for me while I do this, okay?”
You nod and put your hands where he showed you to. He gets back to work. And while he does, he rambles to you. You welcome it with open ears, ready to take on any new knowledge he decides to throw your way.
“This here is called the Serpentine Belt. It drives the alternator, air conditioner, and water pump. Not too sure how it got fucked up like this though.”
“What’s that?” you ask, another part. You love to her Bo talk about this kinda stuff. You can tell he likes it when you ask more, the little smile that appears on his face tells you all you need to know.
“That's the oil stick. It measures the oil quantity and quality in the crankcase. There’s nothing too special about it.” he sighs as he sets down the tool he was working with. “That’s all, hun, thank you.”
You take your hands away and turn to look up at him. He smiles and gives you a kiss on the forehead before sending you back to your spot on the couch.
You sit back down and go back to watching him as he cleans up. Once his hands are wiped off of all the dirt and oil. He walks over. “You were such a good help today, baby. Maybe i can show you a little appreciation.”
Hygiene problems are very common. I imagine Thomas (Hewitt) having trouble maintaining his hair washed. Hot long days full of chores, his hair greasy, but he's too exhausted to wash them...
That's where his caring, loving wife steps in, getting him out of his clothes, sitting him in the bathtub and humming, while washing his hair properly.
Just imagine how relaxed Thomas gets in these moments. Warm water relaxing his muscles and head scratches.
Take your time, darling~
Bye bye
Of course!! OMLLL i loved writing this one!
Thomas Hewitt x Reader
Fem wife reader Masterlist
Thomas was never clean until he met and married you. Sure, Luda always made sure he was at least decent for school and he kind of tried for work but after everything went down and he was just at the house, that’s when things got bad.
He never had the energy to clean up himself after a long day or Hoyt bossing him around or chasing victims. He didn’t see the need to. Why clean up when he doesn’t have to? Luda got on him for it a few times but never really did anything. Tommy’s not little anymore, she can’t just drag him into the bath. And the very few times he did try, he never did it right. There was always some soap left in his hair and some part of his body left unwashed.
It’s only when you came alone did things get better.
You notice how tired he is after long days of sweating and working hard, so you take care of him. Always cleaning him so nice and getting his hair so soft. Thomas doesn’t remember the last time he has been cleaner.
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Today was an especially hard day. Thomas was helping Hoyt out in the yard with cars from dawn till dusk. He’s sweaty and incredibly dirty, oil and dirt covering his hands and arms. He wants nothing more than just to hold his pretty wife and go to bed. But he knows you won’t let him in bed until he’s squeaky clean. And he doesn’t mind the relaxing process that comes with it.
He opens the bedroom door to find you stepping out of the bathroom attached. You look up when you hear the door open. “Oh good! You're just on time, I just filled the bath.” You give a kiss to his masked check before continuing. “Go head and get undressed, i’ll get everything else ready.” He nods and follows you into the bathroom.
Thomas starts to take off his clothes as you gather all the stuff you need for the bath. He takes his time while undressing, tired, but also just wanting to watch you as you fuss over him.
After Tommy is fully stripped of his sweat and dirt ridden clothes, he sinks into the bath. A faint sigh escapes his lips as the warm water embraces him, quite, but you catch it.
You grab a nearby cup and dunk it in the bath to fill it with water. “Tip your head back for me, Tommy.” He obeys and leans his head back, eyes closing. You pour the water over his scalp, wetting his hair, and being careful not to pour it on his face. You repeat that a few more times before grabbing the shampoo.
Pouring a good blob into your hands, you rub them together before sticking them into his hair, massaging his scalp. This is Thomas’s favorite part. There’s just something about your hands that work magic on his body. He doesn’t know how you do it. If you’d let him, he'd stay forever in this bathtub, feeling your fingertips rub slow circles into his hair. He also whines when you pull them away, his eyes fluttering open to you at you.
A giggle leaves you as you watch him. You know he likes it a lot but you don’t want the water to go cold. You fill the cup back up and start to ride out the shampoo. Once that’s done, you move onto the conditioner, rubbing it into his ends. As it sits, you grab a cloth to wash his body.
Thomas leans back as you start to put soap onto the cloth. When its sudsy, you start scrubbing his arms. He and you both watch as the dirt and blood from all today’s work start to wash away. You work in sections around his body. At some point, he closes his eyes and you would swear he was asleep if it wasn’t for the constant hums of pleasure leaving him.
You rinse him off and wash out the conditioner, you pull the plug to the drain. All the mucky and gross water start to go down the drain. You leave Thomas to dry off as you go back into your bedroom.
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Thomas doesn’t wear much to bed. From the hot weather from being in Texas in the summer, to his own personal thing with how he doesn't like how bed clothes feel against his skin, it’s hard to pick him out something to wear. So, you stick to the usual. Some underwear and a comfy pair of pants you know he likes, laying them out on the bed.
After that’s done and set out onto his side of the bed, you get yourself ready. Slipping into your favorite nightgown, you sit on the bed and start brushing all of the knots out of your hair.
Tommy comes out at just the right time. He walks over to the bed while looking at the clothes you’ve put out for him. He slips them on without hesitation. He looks up at you when he’s done. You signal him to sit between your legs.
He takes slow, tired steps forward and plops himself between your spread legs, back facing you. His head drops back into your lap and you chuckle, starting to brush his damp hair. His face nuzzles into the side of your thigh, breathing you in in slow and deep breaths, eyes getting heavier with every stroke of the brush in your hair. He could die right here and die a very, very happy man.
You lay his shoulder to single that your all done. He stands up and practically throws you over his shoulder. “Tommy!” you squeal out with surprise. A low sound escapes him and he gently sets you down on the beg, quickly getting in beside you. His large frame wraps around you as he pulls you into his warm and bare chest. He grumbles something before burying his face into your neck. You know he’s fallen asleep when his breathing slows.
I know I recently did an ask but I have a good idea.....how would slasher/slashers of your choice react to a s/o on their period
Of course!! love this idea lol
Slashers x reader
Reader on their period Masterlist
Thomas:
When Thomas sees you obviously in distress and pain, he panics.
It's only after you explain what’s happening that he calms down a bit and tries to help. He first goes to Mana about what to do. When he was in school, his health class explained a bit about periods for women but never actually explained how to deal with them, so he’s completely and utterly lost. Luda is his savior at this moment.
Luda helps Thomas make a little care basket of what you need. In it lies a hot water bottle, painkillers, cloth pads, water and tea, and a more comfortable set of clothes. Thomas brings it to you and you thank him with extra kisses on his masked face.
He hates the cramps more than you do, even though he’s not the one feeling them. He hates to see you in any pain and hates knowing he can’t do anything about it.
It makes him very glad when you ask for him to rub your back or slower stomach, knowing his large and warm hands bring some sort of comfort to you
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Bubba:
Like Thomas, Bubba doesn’t like to see you in pain. But he is truly clueless on what to do. Especially with no other women in the house.
You tell him whatever you need and he brings it right away, always coming right back to your side.
He won’t leave you alone for the whole week, always making sure you’re content with everything. He does stuff before you even notice it needs to be fixed. Your water bottle is almost empty? A new and filled one appears at your side. Too hot for your thick blanket? He brings you a thin sheet.
Don’t you dare try and get up and do chores! You’ll be ushered right back to bed or the couch. He doesn't let you lift a finger.
Cuddle KING when you’re on your period. If you don’t want him too, he’ll lay there for days with you, massaging anything that’s sore or hurts.
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Bo:
Knows a few things from his mother but doesn’t really know all of your needs.
He’ll go out and get pads or tampons without you having to ask. He’d even buy you a personal heating pad if you need it. Bo helps you, but it’s not loud or obvious.
Bo mostly leaves you alone unless you ask him to stay. He’s awarded when it comes to stuff like this but he’ll never show it. If you ask him, he'll help you through cramps or mood swings, doing whatever you need, always right there by your side.
You really like his old jackets and he knows this. They just smell so much like him, how could you not? So, when you have a tough moment or just don’t feel good due to your period, he’ll wrap you up in his jacket and watch as it flips an unseen switch in your head that seems to calm all your senses.
Always just a bit mad you won’t let him get his freak on when you’re bleeding. (sorry not sorry)
Like Bo, he knows a few things from their mother. But he knows more than Bo because with his father teaching him studies of anatomy and other things, women’s menstruation was a thing he touched on. He looked into it more after he met you.
He studies to find out every little sign or symptoms you might have so he can look out and prevent them.
You have a little spot in the basement where you go each time, which is on his mattress down there, curled up in a ball of blankets. You want to be with him while he works but also be comfortable.
He brings you stuff you might need while there, always checking in on you while he works
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RZ michael myers:
He’s… something.
He knows what it is from school, his sister, and mother. He’s not clueless and very far from it. He sees the signs when you’re on it and your mood swings help him figure it out too.
Michael watches and doesn’t help directly. He notices when your face contours in pain as a wave of cramps passes through you, he sees the blood stained sheets in the laundry when you have a small accident. He knows.
You’d wake up from a nap on your period to find a box of tampons or pads next to you. When did those get there? You don’t remember buying them. You go and look for your other box and find it empty. You were out and Michael went and got you some. Though, you don’t really want to know how he got them…
You become hyperfixated on one of Otis’s “art projects”. Instead of being terrified by the gory and unusual sight, you start asking questions about the anatomy or technique his uses. This surprises Otis but he will teach you about anything you might ask.
He admires how you can just be so focused on things. He has projects going on left and right, some just left unfinished. He gets fascinated about how you can lock in on one little thing for weeks or even months.
If the house gets too loud or chaotic and you start to get overwhelmed, he takes you out on a drive. He hates how weak he is for you, even if he doesn’t show it and covers it up by bitching all the time, but he hates to see you with that much trouble. He knows his family can be a lot. Hell, he stays in his room half the time. He knows what it feels like.
You like to do things at odd hours. Otis doesn’t usually sleep unless he has too so when your up at those midnight hours, he is too. You’ll drag him somewhere at 3 AM just to do whatever task is on your mind and causing you to refuse sleep at the moment. He’ll be pissy about it but he does it for you. (He likes it, don’t let him fool you)
When a victim ran away and you and Otis had to go after them, you stopped randomly, distracted by a cool looking bug that had landed on you. He snaps at you, losing his temper and tells you to get it together and focus. After the victim gets caught though, he laughs about it and tells you (jokingly) how stupid you are.
Otis notices how you can never stay still for too long. If you’re standing, you shift on your feet or sway a bit. If you're sitting or cuddled up to him, he sees how you never stay in one position for too long.
He also notices how you seem to love the texture of his old, grimy flannels. You always fun your fingers over it, feeling the rough texture against your skin. You say it’s something about sensory. He gives you a few of his flannels to keep so you’ll stop stealing his.
Hey!! Can you write headcanons for Tommy with a female reader that always has very cold hands?
Of course!
Thomas Hewitt x reader
Fem reader with cold hands Masterlist
Thomas runs like a furnace, always warm. And in the Texas heat, he’s extra hot.
You, on the other hand, seem to always be cold. Even with multiple layers or blankets, you seem to never be able to warm up.
There’s times where you’ll just randomly put your hands up his shirt. He jumps at first, your cold fingers very contrast with his warm skin, but lets you keep them there. He knows how cold you get and wants to help in anyway possible, even if that makes him your own personal heater
At night, you snuggle up and cling to him like a big teddy bear. He’s so warm, how could you not? Thomas doesn’t mind warming you up either if it means he gets to hold you.
And during chilly Autumn mornings, your hands start to go numb and cold. Thomas is already awake and will pull you into his body, keeping you nice and toasty with with warm frame
Will definitely take your hands in his big ones and rubs them in his own, trying to bring back circulation.
Everytime you’re outside with him and you complain about how cold you are, he’ll pull them from your jacket pockets and hold them in his sleeve, letting his heat radiate off him and onto you.
Even though you see your cold hands as a bother, they can soothe Thomas. During rare and quiet moments alone, you rub your icy fingers in slow circles in his temple, his eyes flickering shut as he relaxed into your touch
Hii!! I love your work so much and was wondering if I could maybe get some Headcanons of Otis Driftwood x f!reader who’s really in the punk/metal scene and never shuts up? I’m a yapper haha!
Thank you in advance I appreciate it🖤🖤
Of course!! I really, really like this idea and had a lot of fun writing for it!
Otis Driftwwod x reader
metal/punk fem reader Masterlist
Otis loves your style and loves to see you go all out. His favorite part is watching you do your makeup, it gets him riled up to see you all dressed up and pretty. He’ll sit on the bed and just watch as you get ready in the mornings.
Since his clothing style is similar yet different than yours, he loves to see you in his clothes, especially his jackets. But he loves it even more if you mix them with your own style.
When you introduce him to the music you like, he fucks with it. He already knows a few bands and songs himself. He’ll ask for song names or artists every time you both listen and he doesn’t know it, whether that’s in the car or just while you both are getting ready.
He’ll let you talk and talk about bands or different people who you like currently while he works on a project, listening mostly but sometimes adding commentary. Your voice helps him think. So, talk all you want. It helps him.
Definitely rocks out with you in the car during late night drives. Driving on backroads while the music is so loud it makes the truck shake.
He would definitely draw or paint you if he liked your outfit enough. You are his muse for a lot of his sick works. He often finds you very inspiring.
He would make “freaks” for Captain Spaulding's museum based off your favorite bands, giving you private and twisted shows
If you do DIY clothes or jewelry, he’ll definitely have you make him some. It could be a patch for his jacket or maybe just a bracelet. One time, you sew a patch of one of his skin suits onto the arm of your jacket. He wouldn’t shut up about it for weeks, proud that you wore his work. Whatever it is that you do, he likes it.
Surprisingly, it doesn’t take him a lot of convincing to let you do corpse paint make up on him. He’ll playfully bitch during it about how you’re ’doing it wrong’ but he’s just fucking with you. Bonus points if you do yours too so you both are matching.
Instead of the usual dark ritual, you turn the torture sessions of victims into a high-octane performance, playing Motorhead or Misfits while he does all the dirty work.
Can you do a Bubba or Brahms with a S/O dealing with anger issues?
Of course! I decided to do both! Masterlist
Bubba:
Bubba always tries his best to calm you down. He’s all ears when you rant about whatever thing happened to make you mad, doing his best to soothe you by stroking your arms and back. Whatever you need to let off some steam or cool down, he’s there! Need a drink of water? He’s rushing to the kitchen to grab it. A hug? Expect the biggest one you’ve ever had in your life. Need to go for a walk alone? He’s grabbing your shoes for you.
If you accidentally snap or yell at him, he will get a little upset. He doesn’t see what he did wrong, why are you yelling at him? After you explain your anger issues to him, he will understand better and not get as upset because he knows that most of the time you don’t really mean to yell. It still hurts him a bit so make sure to give him lots of hugs when you calm down!
He’ll bring you things that he knows you like while gently pushing you to sit down on any near furniture so you can calm down before it gets too bad.
Bubba will try and find what triggers you so he can look out and hopefully steer away whatever it is. He pays attention to the things that might cause a reaction. If it’s a certain person, he’ll either guide them or a different person into a different room. Maybe it’s a task you can’t quite do right? He’s there, pulling you away and doing breathing exercises with you.
*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚ *ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚ *ੈ✩‧₊˚༺
Brahms:
With Brahms mood swings… things all all over the place. He can either be the sweetest person on the earth or most evil.
When you do argue, it’s bad. Brahms is petty and never admits he’s in the wrong. He’ll storm back into the walls mid argument and stay there until either you calm down or he’s done being bratty. Even when you call for him he won’t come out. He’s always the first to apologize though, giving you those eyes and telling you “he’ll be good” (he won’t)
If you snap at him, he goes and hides until you apologize to him. He’ll stay there for days until you give him a ‘sorry’.
If he’s in a good mood and you get angry, he’ll try to calm you down. Getting you things you might need or just pushing away what triggered you. If it was a person though, his first option is to kill them and get rid of the problem in general. You’ve had to talk him out of that one a few times
Once and awhile, when he did something really bad to make you mad, he will try to make it up to you with cuddles and hugs while telling you that he’s sorry
When he doesn’t get his way though, he’ll purposely try and trigger you (like the brat he is). He uses it to get what he wants, and when it doesn’t work? He gets mad too.
𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐄: "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. [...]"
or
Where Remmick and You are part of Smoke and Stack's circus and try not only to promote their new theatrical act, but also to balance a love between a human and an immortal.
𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐄𝐀: i simply LOVE this fanfic. i don't think it's fair for it to remain archived, so i'm humbly putting it back into this vast world! take good care of my babies, because i'm obsessed with the drama surrounding the pierrot concept, that sarcastic harlequin thing, and mixing it with vampirism and eroticism, in the bowels of a historical period that I love to study and always revisit… well, i don't need to explain myself any further!
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: +𝟏𝟖 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓. 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐇𝐀𝐕𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐄𝐃. HISTORICAL PERIOD. (REVOLUTIONARY RUSSIA/SOVIET UNION). use of some russian words/nicknames (with appropriate translations). CAST OF SINNERS INCLUDED—mention of the twins, anne, mary, pearline, sammie… vampirism, description of blood. anguish and long dialogues. SMUT (dry humphy, licking, crying over this pussy, "just the tip" and p in v). lamentation, immortal obsession, reader with a complex about her own humanity.
𝐖𝐂: 11.4k
[likes, comments, and reblogs are always welcome and encouraging for this amateur writer! ;]
AO3
“it’s getting harder to make you laugh with the years / after all, i’m not a jester at the king’s throne / i’m hamlet in the madness of passions / for years i’ve been playing for myself / everything seems like i’ll take off this mask / and this world will change with me / but no one sees my tears / well, i guess i’m not a bad harlequin!” (harlequin, anna pugacheva)
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)
You!? How dare you show your shameless face after stealing my Kolombina from me!?
(stunned, PIERROT stands, pointing the banjo at the figure now beside him)
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. ARLEKINNObegins 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.
_ _ _
𝐌𝐎𝐒𝐂𝐎𝐖, 𝐑𝐔𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐀. 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.
_ _ _
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.
_ _ _
"I've witnessed every kind of popular revolt," Remmick's deep voice filled the room where the entire family was gathered around the large table used for meals. "Wars between kingdoms, monarchs losing their heads... Literally." Seated in a blue velvet armchair that served as both his favorite seat and a stage prop, Remmick had his arms possessively around you as you sat on the chair's armrest. He stroked your dark hair while smiling affectionately, his blue eyes flashing as memories assailed him.
"And what good was witnessing the Bastille's fall or the English Revolution if you never picked up a carbine to fight alongside humans, man?" Elias's sharp voice came from across the room, briefly silencing the overlapping chatter and Samuel's guitar playing in the corner, where Pearline sat at his feet admiring him. Sparks flew as Remmick stared intensely at Smoke, the air between them growing thick enough to slice with a knife. The vampires exchanged glances. You studied Remmick's profile—his prominent features expressing something beyond human comprehension. Or rather, beyond your ability to read. But why worry about vampiric matters when such morbid beauty sat beside you? His nose was perfectly curved, his forehead lined with expressions immortalized in his immortality, fine wrinkles revealing the age at which he'd been turned—you'd never discussed it, but he'd clearly been transformed in his late twenties or early thirties. Full yet narrow lips, a thin stubble that grew daily—just as he kept his thick, soft hair trimmed short, dark between deep brown and near-black.
And his eyes... The epitome of that sad clown: so blue that all the sorrow he needed for his Pierrot character was already there whenever he raised them to pale stage lights.
Remmick licked his lips, breaking the silence between humans and vampires after several seconds:
"You think you can read me completely, Elias, but don't forget I was the one who made you. There are things so hidden within me they're impossible to access... But regarding this—" His smile widened, nearly diabolical, a feral glint flashing across his typically passive expression: "—I've tasted the dried blood of Marie Antoinette on my fingertips and tongue; I've walked English fields with great pleasure, I might add, while men perished for the futile breaking of absolutism. I followed all those philosophers, from Robespierre and the Jacobins to the rise of Durkheim, Hegel, Kant... Marx and Engels... Don't presume to tell me what I did or didn't do on this vampiric road."
"Hey man, I was just messing with you! Where's your sense of humor, huh? Did the Reds steal it?" Elias raised his hands sarcastically. Mary giggled, as did you—she sat beside her partner, her eyes gleaming that same opaque blue as Remmick's returned to their natural color. Your hand now stroked his back, Stackhing him:
"I'm perfectly calm, Dym. You just don't realize how... inspired this makes me."
"Inspired how, Remmick? By civil war chaos?" Annie's voice held disbelief as she judged him. You knew she'd been the first to vehemently oppose the vampire's presence in their troupe, claiming her tarot cards didn't lie—until Remmick offered rubles and glory, and the twins immediately made their deal with the devil.
And so you sat in this strange communion—vampires alongside humans drinking beer and vodka while the undead quenched their thirst with animal blood, tobacco, and mulled wine. The vampire stared at Annie, lips parting slightly, some unspoken hostility clearly agitating him:
"Look, I want no discord among us, moya sem'ya (my family). What I mean—" He raised an index finger, eyes wide: "—is that this growing communal spirit in the fields inspires me. I understand these people, your people, wanting to return to an absolute primordial communion—what our ancestors knew before human selfishness corrupted everything. As a wandering vampire, I only ever wanted family." He clasped his hands together emphatically: "Friendship. Family. Love. Everything this new revolution preaches."
"Preaches," Elijah muttered from his corner, rolling a cigarette. Remmick arched a brow at him as you studied the circus owner curiously:
"It's easy to promise mountains and rivers from a podium. But making it work? An economy needs capital. A business needs money... If we bring these liberal ideas without material foundations into our family, Remmick, we'll end up on the streets."
"That won't happen, Smoke," Remmick clicked his tongue, leaning back with a roguish smile as he crossed his legs: "I've already secured more than enough for our success."
"Good."
Elijah exhaled sharply, lighting his cigarette. Your fingernail traced a line from Remmick's right shoulder to his left, leaving a faint crimson scratch on his marble-pale skin. Though smiling, the vampire had been genuinely affected by the exchange. The mood had soured, that metallic stench of curdled wine clinging to the air—the scent of a vampire restraining his rage.
_ _ _
That night, Remmick retreated straight to his tent. He sealed himself inside his coffin, ignoring calls to feed properly. Bo stood with you before the closed lid, trying to reason:
"Come on, friend... If you don't hunt tonight, you'll be unstable by tomorrow's performance—"
"I fed today," came the muffled, curt reply. You rolled your eyes at Bo's pleading look. With an exasperated sigh, you tried:
"Remmy, listen to him. Animal blood won't sustain you through—"
"No."
"Well Bo, he's a big boy," you snapped, Arlekinno's devil-may-care tone slipping out. "If he wants to starve, let him." Bo chuckled incredulously as silence answered from the coffin.
With a shrug, Bo turned away:
"Your funeral, comrade. I'm heading out."
"Me too." Yet you lingered, staring at the dark polished wood as if will alone might open it. The black-and-white checkered tent flapped in the icy wind, revealing Remmick's spartan quarters—just the coffin, two suitcases, and the wooden soaking tub in the corner, its soapy water covered with cloth.
Nothing stirred. Not a whisper. Only that terrible silence between you.
Giving up, you stomped to your own tent and threw yourself onto the squeaky bed, squeezing your eyes shut against the strange sorrow weighing your heart.
_ _ _
𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐀𝐘 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐖. 𝐎𝐂𝐓𝐎𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝟐𝟓, 𝟏𝟗𝟏𝟖.
The noise of the gathering crowd outside mixed with the frantic backstage activity. You tried to keep up with everything happening around you, but exhaustion weighed heavily on your shoulders—you hadn't slept a wink, haunted by that strange melancholy that had followed you from Remmick's coffin to your own bed.
He stood in his corner now, in the makeshift dressing area near the stage, surrounded by vanity tables with fixed bulbs illuminating foggy mirrors. Grace and Lisa moved between performers, helping with costumes and makeup. Your face was already painted white with rosy cheeks, wearing the diamond-patterned Pierrot jumpsuit—its black silk details perfectly fitted to your body. All that remained was to tie the worn ballet slippers around your already bandaged feet and put on the cap.
Remmick couldn't see himself in a traditional mirror. The solution had been to polish a chrome surface until it provided enough reflection for him to apply his own makeup, albeit blurry. Yet he still asked for your help to outline his eyebrows and paint the solitary tear on his cheek, always whispering: "The left side, where the heart resides", as if your hands hadn't traced that teardrop shape a thousand times before, like a painter perfecting the same brushstroke until it becomes instinct.
When you caught his gaze over your shoulder, Remmick shot you an intensely serious look. He held the brush loaded with black paint, carefully outlining Pierrot's sorrowful expression. Now a nervous, troubled Pierrot stared back at you, while you stood there merely dressed as a masked Arlekinno.
Bo appeared like a shadow beside Samuel, who already wore his Phantom of the Opera costume—elegant black tailcoat and white mask pushed up on his forehead—his black guitar in hand as he announced excitedly:
"Sold out, everyone! Tonight we make history in Moscovo!" His shout through cupped hands was met with cheers from the troupe. Pearline, beautiful in her Christine costume, fluttered her fan; Mary and Smoke prepared their "magic" act. You and Remmick? Just two clowns in the middle of it all.
Bo glanced at his creator:
"You're opening the show."
As he turned to leave, he suddenly remembered something, his yellowish eyes gleaming:
"Oh, and Remmy? We've got Party comrades in the audience. Smoke's nervous as hell."
A wink.
You looked at the vampire. Behind Pierrot's black-and-white tragic mask, a smile emerged - Remmick showing through. Without realizing it, you felt the tension leave your shoulders.
He was back.
_ _ _
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
_ _ _
“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."
_ _ _
RED CURTAINS OPEN.
ACT II
EXT. FOREST OF FOOLS. DUSKPIERROT 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, Arlekinno 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.
_ _ _
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.
_ _ _
"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.
_ _ _
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.
_ _ _
There are things that need not be vocalized, for there exists a mutual understanding between people—a communication that precedes speech in human comprehension. A contained glance, a twist of lips, a hand gesture—even the void at the beginning of silence are all forms of communication. And you were a master at interpreting these subtle signals because something within always warned you that the greatest truths were embedded in details. You knew what Smoke wanted you to do, what Annie had told you, even Remmick's desperate urge to make you like him.
Your hurried steps led you to the dressing room - a tent crammed with costume trunks, makeup vanities, and an ever-helpful Grace and Lisa ready to assist with wardrobe changes. For the third and final act, you changed into a leotard and tutu, the leotard's thin straps bearing the same diamond patterns as your jumpsuit, the tutu red. The balaclava and pointe shoes remained. Your feet ached, crushed in those rigid shoes that even after years of use still made their presence known against your toes. Compressed bones, bruised flesh, nerves raw beneath skin. You opened the tent expecting the Chow sisters, but were met instead by the sight of a Pierrot undoing his blouse, his back to you as he faced his chrome-plated mirror where his blurred reflection stared back—Remmick watching you through the glass.
Your eyes met in silence.
"Where's Gracie or Lisa?" was all that left your lips as you tied the tent flap shut behind you. Remmick shrugged, continuing to undress: now shirtless, he sat on the bench, took a clean towel, soaked it in an aluminum basin of water and milk to better dissolve the face paint, dragging it across his chin. As you approached and watched him dip the paint-stained cloth, you glimpsed scarlet blooming in soft waves through the liquid's whiteness. Oh. The realization struck like a whipcrack.
You stopped an arm's length away, observing how muscles rippled beneath that pale skin, darker hair contrasting with his cadaverous frame, the gold chain at his throat. A deep breath, then you turned toward your trunk and vanity, assessing your own state: your makeup too had deteriorated, tear-tracks revealing skin beneath layers of paint and powder, like an ugly sketch someone had plastered over. There lay your truth. You touched the stitched wound with fingertips, counting:
"One, two, three..."
"Four and five."
Suddenly you felt his presence behind you. Instinct made you check the mirror—but it held no reflection. When you glanced over your shoulder, Remmick stood there with a melancholy smile, his smeared mouth exposed to you while half the sad clown's makeup still framed his face. You smiled faintly, turning back to the vanity where you resumed fussing with the wound, commenting:
"It's nothing Rem, don't worr—"
"How the hell can I not worry when I could hurt you badly at any moment, even kill you if I lose control?" His voice tore out, dry and wretched. You turned to see him with that cornered-animal look, fists clenched, milky water trails dripping from mouth to neck, collarbone to pectorals, translucent lines on already-pale skin. Remmick, Pierrot, Pierrot, Remmick, Remmick-Pierrot, Pierrot-Remmick. One and the same. Slowly he approached, arms enveloping you in a rough, desperate embrace, his face buried in your neck's curve, drowning in your warmth, your pulsing blood singing directly to where he hungered for you: inside him, through all his damned being. Remmick choked open-mouthed, thick drool on your skin, a sob—but couldn't suppress the fragile weeping. You stood motionless, arms limp at your sides, processing everything unfolding.
Some things need not be said—and one was how the vampire sought affection through flesh, how he buried his bitterness against you, stealing measured drops of your precious blood as respite. Before you knew it, your hands gripped his waist firmly, palms against icy skin as you listened to him whimper against your shoulder.
"Remmy... Remmy..." you began whispering in his ear. You felt him shift, reluctant, pulling away from your warm shelter to give you a pitiful look, those painted brows arched dramatically, the white face streaked with dried blood-tears. A masterpiece of melancholy, death's sweet eyes staring at you with immortal passion. Something you couldn't comprehend—only feel. Your smile tightened; the vampire twisted his lips, frowned, then sank to his knees, hugging your hips fiercely, nuzzling your lower belly. Again that ragged weeping:
"Y-you know how I s-suffer, my love? Only y-you know my damnation... And only you c-can give me what I w-want..." His nose slid from your navel downward, slow, shoulders shaking. You watched with mingled desire and sorrow; Remmick raised eyes—deepest blue, showing the bitter abyss of his soul, or what remained, in that moment. Tears framing the portrait of a clown who bled for you. Into you. His voice came low and muffled against your skin:
"I want you now."
"Wanting isn't getting, Remmy," you said thinly, eyelids fluttering shut, hands gripping the vanity behind you for strength. Outside, the crowd roared, oblivious to what transpired in this tent grown too small for you both. Remmick curled his lips, that anguish melting into something slick, lewd:
"I promise just the tip, my Záyka... Just the head—" He let the words exhale against your cunt, upturned nose nudging your pubis through fabric, inhaling your scent. A guttural sound escaped him. With a lethargic blink, his irises had bled to deep red; he continued his lament, seeing even this failed to sway you... Not explicitly.
"Come on, don't deny me. Just the head and I'll be satisfied..." he murmured, eyes shifting back from blood-red, rubbing his nose against you again, leaving white paint streaks on red fabric. You sighed deeply, one hand finding his hair, fingers tangling in straight strands, already pliant with adrenaline—this wouldn't be your first hidden act between performances—mentally calculating how long you had for costume and makeup changes.
Remmick opened his saliva-filled mouth to devour your cunt through fabric, staring up with provocation dancing in red-ringed eyes, tongue dragging along your cleft, making you yield with just a whisper:
"Fuck, yes, hurry up you bastard—Just the tip."
"Knew you wouldn't deny me some cunt-tea to cheer me up, my Arlekinno..." he teased, rising in one motion, hands firm on your body, squeezing flesh tenderly, letting you feel the delicious shock of his cold skin against your warm costume. Frenzied, Remmick seemed to transform into a beast in heat: his hands tore the jumpsuit's side seams ruthlessly, wooden buttons scattering. He laughed as you gasped his name in warning, yanking the top down to expose your breasts, skin pebbling, feeling his wet mouth surround one—velvet tongue, venomous saliva leaving everything slick and obscene, sucking your stiff nipple until whimpers escaped. Watching to memorize every detail, attuned to your sounds, his other hand trailed down your belly to where fabric still covered you.
With one motion, icy fingers found your clit, your soaked cunt awaiting him, index and middle fingers circling that throbbing spot. Chin tilting up, your voice strained:
"Fuck Remmick, you make me so wet... Shit..."
"Such a dirty mouth, my Záyka... Soon the whole audience will hear you." He pulled away just to taunt, amused by how your body responded to simple teasing: fingers rubbing your clit through fabric in slow drags, making you arch back, craving more, eyes squeezing shut, biting your lip to stifle louder moans. Remmick, patient as the ancient vampire he was, knew speed was essential now. Salivating with need, he withdrew, drawing a whine from you as you watched through half-lidded eyes while he shoved his costume pants down, his thick, veined cock springing free, head glistening with precum. He brought cunt-slicked fingers to his lips, tasting you with closed eyes, then used the same hand to spread your wetness over his length, gripping the base as he stepped closer:
"Spread those legs for me, my love." he ordered, already brushing the tip against your slit, drawing a sharp breath as you obeyed, perching halfway on the vanity for better access. His mouth found your ear, teeth grazing the lobe while his cockhead teased your clit in firm strokes, sending shocks through you - you clung to him like you might fall, head thrown back offering your neck, sweet sweaty temptation. Remmick restrained himself, grinding between rough groans:
"This feels so good Rem— "
"I know, I know... What if I just put the head in, hmn?" he murmured slyly against your ear, kissing your cheek. Eyes shut tight, torn between surrender and maintaining control. Remmick laughed darkly; with one hip roll, his cock slid from your clit to entrance, giving just the head, drawing a desperate whine.
"Just the head, little angel, and you're already crying on my cock, hm?" he taunted, resuming clit strokes. One hand gripped his shaft, feeling veins under your touch, guiding him as you rubbed yourself against him, trembling, laughing:
"That's it my love, fuck yourself on my cock so nice... Take it and I'll fill you up right here— "His free hand found your slit alongside his cock, thumb pressing your soaked flesh. Your moan stretched, lost between distant cheers and this growing moment, legs spreading wider as he pushed you toward the edge. Remmick grinned through lust, thick drool dripping, makeup intact save for blood-streaks smeared on your costume—that perfect mix of sorrow and desire in purest form.
"S-so beautiful..." you crushed the words between heavy breaths. Fire in your lung–Remmick clicked his tongue, predator-instinct surfacing, grabbing your right leg to hook around his waist, gripping his base to grind against your clit, sending pleasure radiating to your fingertips. Sweat-slick, vision blurring with tears that briefly washed away doubts, you felt him slide his tip inside again; you allowed it.
"Can I fuck this tight cunt, Záyka? Just to stretch it a little..." he near-wept, desperate, burying just the head. You hugged him tight, meeting those stormy red-brown eyes, lips brushing his to whisper:
"Fuck me Rem, fuck me good and let these people remember your damn name." You pulled him into a wet kiss as he sheathed fully inside, filling you like no other, drawing a ragged groan as your walls clenched him, giving that human, carnal pleasure so intense it felt unreal, hands fisting his hair as your tongues tangled, Remmick thrusting hard enough to shake the vanity, making you float outside yourself.
You arched back when pleasure crested, eyes squeezing shut, breath catching. Remmick drove you through this lascivious, profane dance, the sound of skin on skin merging with distant applause—as if you fucked onstage; one hand gripped your waist, bringing you back to the moment, your eyes meeting in wordless frenzy where only broken moans remained, his other hand finding your throat. You thanked him with a blink, lips parting to gasp his name as you melted into him:
"Remmick."
Legs trembling, spine arched, toes curling, your whole body spasmed as breath caught in your nose. Everything turned sweet and easy, sweat warming you, the moment's glow embracing you, the vampire's cold frame shuddering through his own release inside you, burning where he came. When you opened tear-streaked eyes, you saw with satisfaction that he too had wept through climax, as if purged.
Remmick stood like a Pierrot in rapture: makeup framing that pitiful image mid-carnal delirium. Fresh blood-tears streaked his face, which you licked away without thought, the ferrous tang of vampiric tears on your tongue. Meeting his gaze, euphoric, you saw such sincere immortal love that it nearly made you reconsider—to offer your life. So easy, with his fangs already bared, needing only your "yes" to seal this marriage. His hand cradled your face as he whispered proudly:
"Mne nravitsya, kak ty raskryvayesh'sya, kak tsvetok, kogda ya dozhozu tebya do orgazma...a ghrá mo chroí." ("I love watching you bloom like a flower when I make you come, my love.")
Your heart exploded between ribs—for this was what it meant to love an ancient being like him, immortal, so desperate for you he deified you madly, terrified of loss. You knew behind that dazed smile, that gentler gaze, even beneath the sad clown's guise, Remmick—that monstrous creature with trails of blood and horror, yet also memories and history, emotions no longer human—behind it all lay something primal, between soul and what remained of his humanity, simply loving you. Wanting you. Feeling you. Waiting with desolate core for your "yes."
Tears welled and spilled like springs of the Volga, born in Valdai's hills—vast, expansive, flooding outward. Your soul torn between immortal love for the vampire and passion for your humanity. And Remmick just pulled you close, still inside you, fused to your warmth, breathing your sweat mingled with his crimson torment. He hugged you with his entire being, for you were his world.
"Help me here, please?" He turned so you could button his final act's large black silk shirt. Remmick radiated melancholy beauty as a freshly made-up Pierrot, now in the black-and-white costume version; you too stood ready in ballet attire, pointe shoe ribbons loose, smiling as you fastened each button.
A quick cleanup—scattered wooden buttons, your ruined jumpsuit tossed carelessly into the trunk. You wiped yourself with a towel left soaking in the milk-water basin now streaked with black and white. The tent smelled of your sweet-sour sweat, sex, grass, and makeup-setting powder. You'd repainted his tear; your cheeks now bore brighter rouge contrasting with white base, lips a vibrant red heart-shape, one diamond on your right cheekbone. The balaclava hid your wound.
Your eyes met, silent promises exchanged.
"Let's go my Arlekinno, we've got a finale to kill." He winked.
_ _ _
RED CURTAINS OPEN.
ACT III
EXT. FOREST OF FOOLS. NIGHT.
ARLEKINNO takes the stage, striding center where spotlight captures her altruistic figure, baton twirling. Behind appears PIERROT with banjo, face mournful yet hopeful. The band strikes up circus chords as ARLEKINNO's voice erupts, dancing about while recounting her mischiefs and life with PIERROT. At the chorus, she's joined by THE RED BAND and fellow performers, PIERROT moving to her side, banjo strumming as they sing joyfully in unison:
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)
_ _ _
"HUZZAH! For this triumphant opening night in Moscow!" Smoke raised his vodka glass, grinning ear to ear as the company mirrored his toast. His gaze locked onto Remmick beside him—both still in performance garb—"Thanks to our Centennial Lord too. Without his theatrical genius, we'd be nothing. Spasibo for the rubles, dear man!" He winked, gratitude laced with provocation. Laughter erupted as the circus owner downed his firewater, the chorus of "Huzzah!" shaking the tent before glasses shattered against the earth.
The cacophony of splintering crystal fused with Delta's harmonica wail and Pearline's powerhouse vocals as Sammie's guitar sparked a raucous chorus. This celebration thrummed with such vitality it made you feel alive, woven into the circus' very fabric. When you glanced sideways, the flickering lamplight caught the man's clown paint in chiaroscuro.
Remmick's eyes met yours with that same... gentleness.
Your mind spiraled through dichotomies:
Life and death.
Blood and brine.
Sacrifice and sovereignty. Love and loathing.
The world dissolved into a watercolor bleed—crimson to azure blossoms, sun-warmed breezes caressing your cheeks while your palm registered the coffin's glacial wood beneath your fingers. The ferrous tang of blood—pungent yet cloying—stained your lips. Tears of anguish became rivers. Humanity evaporated like morning mist. And through it all, you drowned willingly in death's saccharine gaze. Outside, the revolution raged. Within you, war raged fiercer: the temptation to live versus the siren call of his crimson embrace. Oh, this exquisite, cruel crossroads.
_ _ _
That night, you melted into one being.
Saliva, blood, whispers—the pale moonlight piercing your tent, resonant murmurs, tears of pleasure, moans building into a carnal symphony. Bodies moved in perfect rhythm, Remmick devouring you with the roughness of a starved lover, taking you from behind with precise thrusts, hands gripping your waist before flipping you over, pulling you onto his lap to watch you tremble around his cock. Gasping his name, sweating out your passions, warming him with your blood.
When he finally drank from you, it was voracious - mouth wet with saliva and hunger, fangs buried in your flesh as you wept in unison. Naked and clinging, your blood spilled across the bedsheets, life flashing before your eyes: childhood memories blurring with tonight’s performance. Alive. Yet here you were, embracing his death—whispering as the vampire groaned around your blood:
"Drink from me... drink my blood... Take all of me."
Remmick tore away from your left breast (where your heart pounded) with a wet snap. He admired your morbid beauty, lips curling into a smug smile, face streaked with your scarlet essence. Thick droplets fell from his mouth onto your skin as he watched you, pupils blown wide.
"Wake, my love... for the night has only just begun."
_ _ _
𝐀𝐔𝐆𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝟐𝟗𝐭𝐡. 𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓
Annie eyed you sideways as you prepared for your final night in Moscow—the twins’ plan was to head to Petrograd next, maybe even make it to the Winter Palace, as they put it, "to share a cup of vodka with Mr. Lenin himself." A notion Remmick found absurd.
You stood in your Harlequin costume, staring at your distorted reflection in the dull mirror, Remmick bent over your shoulder, putting the final touches on your makeup. Suddenly, the tent flaps rustled, and the brothers burst in, eyes gleaming—especially Elijah’s, who clapped his hands together with enough force to snap all attention his way.
"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."
