Mason gazes at Mischa, then turns his thick, juicy corneas to y/n and Karl. Karl grasps your elbow and whispers sensually in your auditory orifice: "Are you ready?" His raspy voice titillates every crevice of your moist, quivering body. Your father approaches the both of you and gets down on one knee.
Panting heavily from the motion, Mr. Brinker says to you: "Will you make my wedding...our wedding?" A gasp tears out of you, and y/o* start to weep salty liquid. Karl twists your weenis, his hands wet with anticipation.
"We've been planning this double wedding ever since I laid my orbs on your shapely form," Karl gabs. "You and I will be yoked in stable wedlock, as will Mason and Mischa." Karl takes one of the rings and stabs it through your hand digit.
"Nothing would make me happier," you say. "Except for cream of beet on a Sunday afternoon, of course." Everyone chuckles heartily, and you are reminded of the warmth you once felt in the womb.
---
[AT THE WELDING]
You stand before the beet-encrusted doors of the Sistine Chapel** and gaze upon yourself in a shard of shrapnel. Your blood red wedding dress glistens in the light of the blood moon. Mr. Brinker, your papa since birth, comes to clasp your ankles as an omen of good luck before the marriage.
"Are you ready to enter, my babushka?" He asks, sweaty palms still embracing your tarsals. You nod, and look ahead as the doors part and the beloved Soviet National Anthem blares from the pipe organ.
He walks you down the aisle, hands still wrapped around the holders of your achilles tendons. The attendant all begin to loudly weep with sounds of joy, moaning ever afoot. When y/o land on Karl, you two join the weeping and moaning. Once you reach him, the doors open once again, this time Mischa at the portal.
The ceremony flies by as Petroshka regurgitates Dwight and asks him to bear the rings. At the reception, "Rasputin" commences as you and Karl begin your first dance. He proves to you that his knees are as flexible as his pliable, slender form. You retch with joy, the love pouring out of each and every one of your orifices.
Karl embraces you and everything fades to black, as "Rasputin" comes to a close.
THE END
*y/o = your orbs
**referring to the mini replica in Moscow
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thank yuo for this wyld ride. Much love from Russia, comrades. Aman.
YOU ARE READING
Romeo and Soviet
RomantikKarl Marx x Reader....gets saucy...........NOT CRACK i'll always take criticism, but no hate...dont like dont read
