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brownskinlemon · 4 months

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Forever and a Day (d.f.)

pairings: dom/reader

word count: 1.211

summary: Your bestfriend/roomate Dominic finds out about a secret you have been keeping

warnings: fluff, angst, swearing, kissing

authors note: loving the love, send requests if you wanna see something specific. Thanks to @gri1my for this request! <3

do not repurpose or repost as your own for any reason on any platform without credit.

You and Dom had spent the day at the beach, the same beach you always came to together since elementary school. You had come here so much you were almost sure there was sand permanently in your closet, between all the summer days and warm nights. Between bonfires, drunken group nights, tears on each other shoulders through every hard thing, you two had practically grown up on this sand together.

You had packed up for the day, trudging to the street to walk home, with Dominic in tow with his eyes nearly closed from how he had worn himself out surfing. You smiled softly to yourself, amused at how this big man with tattoos and a RBF looked so gentle and sleepy.

You had secretly had a soft spot for him ever since middle school. You cursed the way girls got googly eyes around him, and how he never seemed to notice the way your eyes saw him deeply, deeper than he would ever know. You had grown up and rented a house in your hometown of Naples, each with your own room. You were silently grateful that you were not privy to any of the activities he indulged in with other girls, though he rarely ever did, he had the decency to spare you the details and the noise. You had shoved your feelings down, doing what you knew best, avoiding your feelings and doing your best to get over it, filling the gaps with rare hookups and situationships. It was moments like this however, that brought you back to middle school, completely and utterly a fool for him.

Your keys jangled at your door, as you swung it open, and you both dropped all of your belongings on the ground. As you shuffled about the kitchen, unloading the cooler, you heard Dom scuffle behind you to the livingroom to flop onto the couch. You walked to the door frame of the living room, poking your head in to see the tall man splayed on the couch on his stomach, legs hanging over one of the arms. You padded quietly over to him, poking his forehead.

“Hey, can you get up and go shower? I’m about to cook and I know how you are about eating while feeling dirty.”

He slowly cracked one eye semi-open, peering up at you. He sighed and sat up to face you, head tilting up to you as you stood with your hands on your hips.

“I guess so…” He poked your exposed tummy, making your stomach clench, begrudgingly standing up and scuffing to the bathroom in his room.

You had decided on mac n cheese and salmon, silently moving about the kitchen, your thoughts about Dom keeping you busy. Your thoughts were interrupted by a call from your friend Sonya.

“Hey what’s up?” You put the phone on speaker.

“Did you tell him yet?” She blurted out, forcing you to immediately snatch the phone off the counter and take it off speaker, crooking it in between your shoulder and ear.

“Can you hush?” You whispered sharply, “You’re acting like I don’t live with him”

“Sorry, sorry. So..?” She trailed off.

“No” You muttered, sighing to yourself. “I just…don’t wanna mess things up. We live together and if it goes..wrong, it would make things unbearably weird and our friendship would be nonexistent.”

“Have you ever thought that maybe, just maybe,he likes you too?” She countered.

You stood there, silently toying with your bottom lip, and let out a heavy breath. “No, I don’t want to entertain that delusion.”

“Ok but if you keep waiting he’s gonna be entertaining someone else’s p-” She was suddenly cut off by Dominic yelling for you from his room.

“Y/N! Can you help me?”

“Watch it. I’ll talk to you later.” You whispered into the phone.

“Go get your man” She snickered.

“Bye” You smirked, rolling your eyes at her childish teasing.

You quickly made your way down the hall, bracing yourself for either an injury or a bad idea. You were shocked to find him in his bathroom, sitting on the edge of the tub with a hairbrush in his hand.

“Um. What’s up?” You said, trailing off, leaning into the doorway.

“I need you to brush my hair” He deadpanned, eyes boring into yours.

“No way you called me in here to brush your hair.” You raised an eyebrow.

“Please?” He whispered sweetly, making your insides turn at how adorable he looked, Damp curls draping beautifully over his face, brown eyes doll-like. You pushed off the door frame, trailing over to him, taking the brush and standing on his side.

You began sectioning and brushing his hair silently, eyes catching his face in the mirror and he sat with his eyes closed, blissed out and nearly falling asleep at your gentleness.

“What were you and Sonya talking about?” He broke the silence.Your eyes locked onto his as they met through the mirror.

“What do you mean?” You feigned ignorance, failing miserably as your voice began shaking and your eyes avoided his, looking at everything but him.

“About whatever secret you’re hiding from me” He said candidly.

“How much of that did you hear?” You sighed and muttered, accepting defeat.

“Enough. You’re kind’ve a loud whisperer.” He admitted, pausing for a moment. “Did you mean it?”

“Do you want me to mean it?” You had stopped brushing his hair by now, eyes caught on the tattoo on the side of his neck.

He turned while sitting, head turning to look up at you, eyes dancing between yours.Your breath caught in your chest at the eye contact. He slowly brought himself up to stand over you, eyes not leaving yours. He stepped forward so that your chests were nearly touching and his lips ghosted over yours, hands moving to cup your face.

“Can I?” He said, barely over a whisper.

“Please” You whined.

It took no time for him to respond, gently connecting your lips. He walked you backwards until your hips gently met the sink, lips languidly moving in tune with yours. He gently lifted you onto the counter, your hands lacing into his unruly curls, and his hands grasping at your thighs and the small of your back.

You whined into the kiss, arching up into his chest as he gently tugged your bottom lip with his teeth. You gently opened your mouth for him, inviting his tongue to dance with yours. After a few moments, you both pulled away as his forehead stayed on yours, chests heaving and lips bright and dark from the kiss.

“How long were you gonna wait hm?” His eyes searched yours.

“Forever and a day probably” You admitted shyly.

“Why?” He chuckled.

“Because I just…I was scared that if I said something that you wouldn’t feel the same, and that it was gonna just fuck everything up.” You answered, eyes flickering between his blown ones. “Why didn’t you tell me anything?” You countered back.

“Same thing for me. I tried to push it down, but fuck it fought so hard to come back up. I was losing it” He sighed contently.

“I’m glad” You smiled at him,

He leaned back, helping you hop off the counter. He turned you in his arms, both of you facing the mirror as he began wrapping his arms around your waist and dropping his head to your shoulder.

“This strangely makes sense…us…how we look together.” You whispered

“Mhm.” He smiled, dimples popping out and eyes squinting, as he kissed your cheek. “My hair looks nice too. You did good”

“I’ve been known to be a woman of many talents” You both chuckled, “Speaking of, you have salmon and mac n cheese waiting on you”

His eyes shot open. “I’m fucking starving that sounds heavenly”

You left his arms, walking out of the bathroom backwards, “Well if you don;t hurry I’ll gladly take your plate…” You teased.

You both ran through the halls like children, giggling and squealing as he caught up to you.

“We should do this again.” He smiled as you were pinned on the kitchen counter.

‘Same time tomorrow.” You beamed at him.

You both had dinner, settling into what would be your new normal. You hated to admit it, but for once, Sonya was right.

#dominic fike #dom fike #fluff #dominic fike x reader #dominic fike fluff

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ronearoundblindly · 1 year

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The Root of All Ransom (4)

Welp. Here we are. Another part that isn't the finale. So, here you go, 👜 anon, I turned a few sentences into 5.2k.

Ransom Drysdale x rich!Reader (see previous or series)

Summary: Ransom tries his hand at something completely new: being a boyfriend.

Warnings for a shocking amount of foul language, Ransom absolutely not understanding his own feelings, so ya know, idiot!Ran, and referenced smut (non-explicit, or at least not super detailed, don't hate me). MINORS DNI 18+ ONLY. There is plenty else for you to read on my Light Masterlist.

He’s shocked it’s first class and not a private plane. Ransom shouldn’t be shocked. It’s you, so why not be one more sensible thing you don’t have to do and do anyway? He kinda hates your practicality, but you insist—when the stay overseas is this long and there’s no hard start to your arrival, you fly commercial.

He already regrets coming along. Why did he think this was a good idea again?

Ran entertains himself for the majority of the first leg since you are actually on a call in mid-air about…whatever the fuck he interrupted you discussing yesterday…and now he’s distracted by that damn memory again.

He adjusts himself in his spacious seat, folding his hands over his lap and focusing out the window past you. Except he’s not. He’s not eyeing the cloud formations or the colors of quickening sunrise and set. He’s just watching you handle your business. He sees you put on fake—but well-executed fake—smiles and offer niceties to people beneath you, people nowhere near as smart as you, people nowhere near as pretty.

Shit.

He watches a movie instead, waking up as the pilot announces your descent, and he turns to find you resting against his shoulder.

He hadn’t even noticed. He didn’t notice falling asleep. He didn’t notice someone touching him in his sleep. He didn’t care, and that’s weird for Ransom.

He doesn’t want to know what it took for you to put him beside you on such short notice—except he really, really wants to know—but he vows this will be the only time you pay for his ticket. It’s better if he pays his own way. Less mess. Boundaries. Not much harm in you napping on him though because, hey, you’ve been naked together in bed…and now he’s thinking again. Shit.

Ransom has ‘friends’ all over the world, so his passport is current and ready for a barrage of stamps. The noise of the immigration officer’s plunging metal and ink gong (or may as well be) tells Ran he needs some painkillers for a headache. Good thing he wore dark sunglasses.

Coffee during the mercifully short layover does not prevent him from passing out on your shoulder during the second leg of the trip, but you are happy puttering away on your tablet when he falls asleep and when he wakes up. You play some stupid game the whole time. He had no idea you did that.

With how excruciating the journey is to Beijing, Ransom’s considering always tacking on a visit to someone between you and home. He’s never going to do just this back and forth again, but it’s not so daunting if padded with a second locale.

He can make one call and be raucously accepted in Dubai, Monte Carlo, Sydney, and Naples, and those are just the people he’s seen recently States-side. Trust fund children live their best lives, do the best drugs, and drink the best booze. They do that shit endlessly. They are Ran’s people. Ran is one of them. He’s rolled that fact over and over in his head too much by the time you two step out to find your car in Beijing.

You have a local assistant and translator, whose name he doesn’t give a fuck about when he’s this tired, and she rides in the back of the SUV with you. He just shuts his eyes behind his sunglasses and prays to stop moving soon. His ass is vibrating and not in a pleasant way.

There is no pomp at the hotel. In fact, Ran notices that absolutely no staff so much as glance at your party as you make your way to the private elevator.

One button. It’s not labeled. It’s just a little gold round, and the assistant pushes it.

Then Ransom sees a few smaller black buttons below the otherwise empty panel that all have distinguishing characters, but guests need not know nor care what those mean. Only the gold matters. You should arrive at the penthouse, nowhere else, and the elevator just does the rest.

It’s a nice touch, he allows, properly exclusive.

You head to sleep instantly, only taking the time to wash up before crawling under the generic white but high thread count sheets, and lightly snoring. Ran thoroughly cleans up, too, unable to lay down just yet. He smirks when he sets his bag of travel-sized skincare down by yours. It’s odd that feels right.

He explores the four rooms of your suite with due reverence. This is the shit he thought you avoided. This is the top of Beijing—possibly all of China—and they know you here.

Whilst you remain dead to the world, room service arrives at exactly six pm local time. That is not something you told the assistant to do within the last day; that’s a routine, a standing order, and Ran has no clue what to do.

Does he wake you? Does he help himself? What the fuck? What would you want? What does he want? He’s way out of his depth. He munches on the proffered food while contemplating how stupid it was to make this long-ass trip without truly getting what it would mean.

What does it mean anyway?

Optionless but to ask you, he slinks into the bedroom and gently sweeps your hair behind your ear.

You mumble but don’t wake. He doesn’t get an answer if you are hungry, but he leaves the door ajar so you can smell dinner if it strikes your fancy.

Ransom crashes pretty quickly once his belly is full and the sun sinks beyond the smoggy horizon of metal spires.

His choice for bed is to curl around you. That’s what he wants. That’s what puts him right out. Ransom Drysdale always does exactly what he wants. That’s the beauty of his life.

Within a few days is another formal event, and Ransom is pre-partying with a glass full of two tiny bottles worth of whisky when the elevator dings.

He thinks it’s room service again but isn’t sure why they wouldn’t know to skip a dinner delivery tonight.

Before he gets a word out, however, a tall, bulky gentleman in an all-black suit stares back at him with the same questioning look.

“Who the fuck are you?” Ran blurts.

The man looks around and asks for you instead of responding, and you pop out of the bedroom.

“Cole?”

Is that even remotely this fucker’s real name? He’s a very, very good-looking Asian man named fucking ‘Cole?’

No. Ran fumes instantly.

“Shit,” you exclaim rushing to place an earring and ignoring the wide-open back of your dress. “This is my fault. I blanked. I won’t need you tonight, dear.”

Dear???

“But you’ve got your—“ you hold your hand out toward the newcomer (or not-new), miming giving him something, but Cole sweeps away your concern with a wave.

Ran steps closer to you, forcibly zipping your gown with eyes fixed on the other man.

“Yes, ma’am. It’s no trouble.” Cole looks Ransom up and down, flashing an approving grin. “You two have fun.”

The hell if he needs Cole’s fucking approval, but you play it all off so well that Ransom forgets all about him by the time you take his arm and walk into that evening’s venue.

He has enough to drink that Ran gets pretty handsy in the car on the way back to the hotel. His groping gets you very hot and bothered in turn, and eventually, he bends you over the suite’s expensive grey couch with the view of the city below, gripping your hair and hip tighter than intended. He fucks you so hard that you squirt, and it drips down the inside of his legs, wetting his dress socks which are still on.

It’s not the soggy socks that annoy him the most though.

You make him help you clean the mess with towels, and the kicker is that Ransom didn’t get to come yet. What the shit? From now on, hard fucks are only for over hardwood floors, and fuck if he’s letting you come first, selfish whore. Ran isn’t the help. He’s not fucking cleaning.

His reward—because he always forgets that there is always a reward with you—is that you let him come wherever he wants, so then he’s deliberate and torturously slow sliding into your soaked pussy and marking his selfish, rewarding, dick-sucking, cum-painted whore. No condom. Damn it, it’s perfect.

He’s a filthy asshole and you fucking love it. He knows because you let him. He knows because of those noises and that fucking giggle. He knows because you both sleep like fucking rocks after your dirtiest sex ever.

Yes, the arrangement is working well, despite being in each other’s company five times more than ever before. He gets breaks while you work or he roams around shopping sometimes. Still, two days after the first event, Ran flies to see that buddy in Monte Carlo and then home.

Just in case.

He doesn’t want to get bored.

It works. The whole arrangement works, and no one is more surprised than Ransom. He isn’t getting bored with you or the sex. He visits in short intervals, ready with any number of jaunts to other countries should he need to run, and you keep running your own fucking business. He’s simultaneously cautious and completely unhinged in enjoyment. Best of both worlds—or no worlds, kinda—because there are no labels and no pressure. He’s in complete control. He comes when he wants. Yup. That means exactly what he thinks.

He would have guessed the distance would get on his nerves or get old, but Ran discovered phone sex. There was no reason before to do digitally what he could do personally. Why have a phone book of willing ass if not to use it? He may have been wrong on that front. The phone itself is a goddamn revelation. He gets to finish and there is no one—no one—to kick out afterward. He can hear everything, see everything if he wants, and then he definitely doesn’t have to clean your filthy cunt up. He’s never gone long enough to forget what you taste like, so that’s fine. Where has this been all his life?

Good news is that you like enough variety (and make all those fucking noises) that he is anything but bored. He’s steadily built a vivid spank bank from his in-person visits and a few choice screencaps on his ever-more-beloved phone.

He enjoys one event gown with a slit so high up your thigh that he can finger you secretly. He only has to lean over enough to look like he’s listening to you whisper in his ear—and you do whisper harsh, filthy things that make him wish his clothing left such easy access to his dick. Also, Ransom Drysdale is now a member of the Mile High Club, and yes, he is very smug about that fact.

You do that. You answer his texts, and you call more. Ran looks forward to midday as well as midnight buzzes from his pocket.

He enjoys it even more when he gets to pick up your call in the middle of brunch with his mother, holding a finger up to Linda’s face mid-sentence to say he has to take this.

He’s deliberate to call you ‘sweetheart’ right away, openly gloating which, ok, yes, you were right about him doing, but he doesn’t pity Linda. That bitch deserves all this and more.

“Yeah, it’s a good time to talk. Just at brunch,” he says with all the niceness of people he’s seen being obnoxious in ‘relationships.’

“She says ‘hi,’” he tosses to his mother as he excuses himself from the table. The look on her thin, cigarette-puckered face is priceless. He’ll have to make sure you call during brunch every week he’s not traveling.

His grandfather is harder to flaunt you in front of. The astute old man always asks about you, not your business, and promptly waxes poetic about his late wife. Ran has never heard Harlan talk about Grandma Thrombey so much while playing ‘Go.’ He thinks maybe Grandpa is getting senile or hoping to freshen up the old stories for a new audience, namely his nurse, Marta.

Compared to his deceased ancestor, Ran’s giving it the old college try. Comfortable living in a nondescript limbo of getting laid with total freedom. You are never the sole reason he leaves the country. That would be dependent. Ransom is not dependent.

He’s careful because if he upsets you then he makes this very awkward for himself—temporary as that may be until he simply flies away.

He plays the role of a boyfriend. He imitates things he’s seen. It’s easier to fake than he thought it would be.

Ransom has never seen you this stressed.

You make less eye contact with him and the other guests at the swanky Hong Kong plaza—a little travel amongst his travels—but the party is too crowded for him to ask what’s wrong.

Of course, because you’re such a big name right now, lots of young entrepreneurs and CEOs want to talk to you. That’s too many people too close for even Ran’s socialite moods. He bristles at the puppy dogs wagging their tongues and tails in your face.

You don’t handle the attention well.

You jump headlong into the variables of earnings, spending, overhead, gross revenue, and capital while Ran watches the men and women surrounding you start to zone out. They humor your rant, but it’s not what they all want to hear.

These are people who talk out of their asses. They talk a big game with tiny, manicured hands that grasp at buzzwords and soundbites. They are ‘eco-friendly,’ ‘streamlined,’ ‘culturally inclusive’ little fucks, all of them, and Ransom speaks their language.

He touches your elbow lightly.

“Shall we get you a fresh drink, sweetheart?” he says a touch loud to cut you off.

All you notice is that you can see the bottom of your glass. “Oh, sure.”

“I’ll bring her right back,” Ran promises the circle of listeners, guiding you away to a far table.

He’s not telling you how to do your job, but he knows those folk. That’s not how you keep young money’s attention.

They don’t do well with practical details upfront. They’re dreamers. Paint a picture. Give them the moral and idealized speech of how you’re making the world a better place. The bullshittier the better. Then hit them with the figures if they ask.

As he says his piece, you sigh and straighten. You know he’s right.

“You really are cold and calculated.”

“What the fuck else am I supposed to be?”

You look him over before a small ‘okay,’ announcing you’re ready to tackle the rest of the night.

Ran smiles back before taking you the long way around to grab those fresh drinks he promised. He’s been helpful. He feels like your equal, and it feels good.

You certainly don’t need him, but his confidence is boosted after coming to your rescue.

On his next trip out, there’s a problem. Thank god you lay out your clothing the morning of so that he caught it, too, because the dress—this goddamn rag sack piece of shit—has to go.

It’s hideous. Trendy in the worst way. Ransom isn’t letting you fucking leave like that. He isn’t going to be seen with you like that, more accurately. He simply refuses.

You’ll have to be fashionably late. They’ll fucking wait for you.

He doesn’t care if it’s a local designer. He doesn’t care if your assistant has to be on the phone through her lunch break. He arranges for you to have a proper gown.

Something decent. Something flattering. Something you.

And it really does make you light up.

You hang on his arm with gratitude the whole night, sweetly touching your hand to his thigh when something in the dinner conversation reminds you of him (or if you’re sure you’ll commiserate about someone’s stupid comment later), and Ran feels appreciated for his expertise.

It’s another high note.

His planned trip on the way home is Ibiza. The friend he visits there was once loosely described as “the British Ransom,” which then led to the two being called ‘the Wank’ and ‘the Yank,’ a story for another time. However, Ran struggles to see the similarities this time.

The Wank still sleeps around with these model types. He still drinks too much and does a bunch of drugs. Ransom has no interest in any of the half-naked women throwing themselves at him. He tries—he really tries—to find them appealing, but he can’t help but notice they’re dumb. They have no original thoughts of their own, not a single one between them, and it’s fucking torture to listen to them. They are instantly boring.

He misses the challenge of you already.

Ran muddles through an exhaustive, unenjoyable weekend before coming up with a solution.

Instead of going back to the states, instead of being boring and predictable and expecting those imbeciles to develop opinions overnight, he surprises you (and himself) by returning to Beijing.

It makes sense because Ransom Drysdale does whatever he wants, always has. No, he doesn’t have to do anything, but that makes it all the more strange that he wants to see you again so soon.

It’s a mixed bag bordering on a mistake.

He’s seen you stressed but never this busy. Every other visit was planned, aligned with weekends or events so he has something to do with you instead of just near you, but he’s fucked that now.

You spend hours away at your temporary offices. You have meetings at your construction site morning and afternoon. Your contractor even comes up to the hotel suite after you come back from twelve hours out already.

Ransom is bored. He’s upset for you, and he doesn’t hide it well.

After fifteen minutes sitting across the living room from you two and your blueprints, bouncing his foot on a rug not thick enough to muffle the sound—but also no longer stained from your come, he notices,—you stride over with a set jaw.

Your hand lands on his knee in a biting pinch.

“Behave,” you hiss, “or go.”

Normally, he’d be furious. No one talks to Ran like that, but that’s just the problem: you do.

You talk to Ransom like that because you’re trying to work. You’re work is more important than he is. He’s returned, and you have shit to do. Why does that hit him so differently?

As a child, he started with a sky-high hope of pleasing his mother, but her constant belittling and dismissal wore that hope down to nothing. The sudden desire for that approval from you is a bit like his presence: uninvited but not unwelcome.

Linda didn’t care what he did as long as he wasn’t around. You don’t care what he does—not really—as long as he is around. It’s only that you don’t like being annoyed, just like him, and he doesn’t want to annoy you.

He doesn’t want you to get bored with him.

So his immediate reaction is to sit still. He wants to behave. He wants to stay in the room with you. Why is that so odd? He should take a swing or yell. He should bolt to catch the next flight out. Why does staying in a place he belongs feel so foreign?

Wait. Why does he feel like he belongs here?

Because Ransom does whatever he wants, and if he wants to be in the room, then he belongs there. Obviously. Yeah. That’s gotta be why.

He stares, perfectly unmoving with your eyes locked on his, and your look softens after a long moment.

“Sorry,” you mouth. “Thank you for being patient.”

In yet another odd turn of events, Ran wants to argue with that. He’s never been patient his entire life. Certainly, no one has ever described him that way, but a confused weight pushes his ass further into the cushions, readying him for a long haul.

“Good boy,” you mutter, planting a kiss on his forehead.

Behaved? Patient? Good? Fuck, he’s gonna need time to think about what he’s done, why he’s doing it, and why the fuck you think he’s good because Ransom Drysdale isn’t good.

Right?

He’s good with strictly Old Money folks or young money folks, but Ransom has never been particularly adept with earned money folks. You are a mix of young and earned. It’s why he can’t figure you out all the way, not quickly, at least, not obviously.

He tags along to an intimate business dinner scheduled for the night. Since he wasn’t supposed to be in town, it’s either that or eating alone, so Ran guards himself for a spectacularly boring meal.

There are only seven people, and he’s the odd man out. You are neither the oldest nor the youngest two there. Among the table is another couple in their fifties—business and life partners—who have been together for years, probably decades. Ransom doesn’t listen very closely; he watches. They are both more playful and more serious than you and him. It makes Ran very aware of how useless he is to you at this moment. Because Ran can’t ramp up his industry knowledge in five seconds flat, he decides to touch you more.

Grazing the back of his finger down your arm. Swiping your hair off of your neck. Splaying his hand between your shoulder blades.

It’s not meant to be possessive; he just has nothing else to do. What else is he supposed to offer?

Apparently, that’s not…good?

He doesn’t understand much of what’s said (a hazard of not giving a flying fuck because he’s not there to understand your business) but he does notice your change in demeanor after a short chat with the woman seated to your right.

On the way back to the car, you lengthen your stride, rushing in front of him, fuming. Ran doesn’t understand. It’s not as if he fingered you under the fucking table or something, well, not again. You didn’t seem any weaker or submissive in front of the group. He demanded no attention in return. He’s not an idiot. He made sure.

The elevator ride to your floor is sweltering and not for good reasons.

You refuse his help with your zipper and beeline to the bathroom, starting a shower much later than you normally would. He knows these routines now.

He listens to the spraying water while quietly undressing, not sure what to do or say because he has no clue what he did or said in the first place. He wasn’t hanging all over you. He didn’t grab your ass or objectify you in any way. He’s always known how not to treat people like shit; he simply doesn’t care most of the time.

This isn’t one of those times.

He needs to know if he fucked up so he can leave. He can’t stand to hang around for arguments. He watched enough of those from Richard and Linda. He listens by the bathroom door until there’s one faint sniffle from the other side and immediately walks in.

You’re standing under the water, head hanging.

When he gets to the glass door, he asks, “what’s wrong?” Ransom doesn’t have a gentler way to word that.

You stare at the tiles. “I’m tired.” You don’t tell him to go away or leave you alone, so Ransom opens the door and steps in.

He’s seen you tired. He knows you tired. That’s not the whole truth.

Ran won’t get any goddamn sleep if you’re strung out and emotional beside him, so he lifts your chin in his grasp and asks you to pass him the body wash. He’ll get your back.

Your pupils are blown when he looks at you. Ran doesn’t know how to take that when you keep your arms tucked to your chest like a scared and quivering rabbit.

No fancy ideas form in his head while he slowly scrubs that beautiful expanse of skin he’s grown quite fond of. It’s a lot for him to even stay in the building much less the tiny space of this bathroom, luxurious as the shower may be. He has no experience going toward upset people. He is always running away from them.

With how quiet you are, all of Beijing will run out of hot water before you talk to him, so he motions to leave.

“Good? You ready?” he whispers once you’re rinsed.

You don’t look at him again. “I’ll meet you out there” is all you mumble.

Fine. He grabs a towel for himself and peels off his now sopping-wet boxer briefs. He wrings them out over the sink dramatically and flashes you a smile, but you’ve fully turned away, covered and drying with your head bent again.

He does not like this.

Ransom’s flight home leaves the next day, and this is not how he wants any of his visits to end. You can’t be sad. He can’t get any sleep beside a sad woman.

When you crawl into bed, damp hair and all, he mirrors how you lay beside him, but you don’t touch.

“So…” he tries again, leading you to a place he’s not even sure he wants to go.

After a heavy sigh, you explain that the woman at dinner thought he was an escort. She thought you were so lonely that you hired company for a dinner of friends. She thought you inappropriately considered that acceptable, as if you wouldn’t know for what functions you needed a fucking date.

Ransom fills the silence that follows. “Like…Kyle?”

You prop up your head to glare at him in the ambient city light. “You mean Cole?”

“His name isn’t fucking Cole, but sure, that guy.” Ransom shifts over to his back, spreading out casually over the bed while his chest tightens. “You…pay them for company.”

More silence.

“Paid, past tense, yes.”

“Did you fuck ‘em?”

You smack his chest with no real force. “Ransom!”

“What?! It’s just a question. It’s a fair question,” he retorts. You only call him ‘Ransom’ when mad. When he’s good you call him ‘Hugh,’ or when you’re messing with him, but either way, he prefers when you say ‘Hugh.’ You are the only person not employed by his family who he prefers that from.

You sit bolt upright in the bed, wearing pajamas, he notes. Boo.

“Ok, sure, Anal Daddy of the Northeast. You can talk.”

“Fine—” because that was savage “—are you embarrassed?” He mirrors you again and sits up. “Does it embarrass you that you hired them?”

“No.” You don’t sound convincing. “It didn’t then.”

Ran rests his head on his fist, tired. He’s tired but not bored. Weary. That’s a better word for it. He’s weary because that absolute cunt at dinner has no right to make you feel so small and wrong when you could wipe the fucking floor with her.

“Why would be embarrassing now?”

Good god, if Ransom Drysdale isn’t embarrassed that you walked in on him with one of the saddest fucks of his life than surely you’re overreacting.

You are busy all the time. It would make less sense for you not to use that type of service. It’s only because he has money that he can keep up with you and only because he has no job that he can see you on your schedule.

“Because…” You flop onto your back, so your eyes can’t meet his even in the dark. “Because she thought my first real boyfriend of this decade was a whore.”

Ran shrugs. “I am though.”

You snort, try to stop it, and end up burying your face in the comforter to giggle.

“Hugh—“ that’s better “—stop it. That’s not what I meant.”

He leans over you, his weight against a hand at your side. “I suppose the real question is ‘am I a better free fuck than your paid fucks?’”

Your fake ire is adorable as you try to ‘attack’ him in bed. You may as well have started a pillow fight, but it’s leagues away from crying on your own in the shower. Who knows? If he plays his cards right and puts you in a good enough mood, he might get a blowjob out it. That’ll sure as shit let him rest well tonight.

Finally, tumbled onto his back with you straddling him, he grabs your wrists lightly.

“Come on, sweetheart, I’m sorry that old hag is a bitter bitch.” He kisses the tip of your nose and lines his lips up to yours. “Now where’s my check?” he asks in a gravelly, thick voice.

“Cash,” you correct just before your mouths meet, and Ran snaps back in curiosity.

That’s how you wanna play it? He tries to get more out of you.

“No, no, no.” Your squeals as he manhandles you closer are delightful, the silky fabric of your shorts and top glide right over his heating skin.

“You know what I think,” he announces with you pinned to his chest, gasping for breath. “I think you need to come home. I think you’ve been here too long.”

“I can’t. Not yet.”

When you move to hide your face in his neck, Ran has to hold your cheek, forcing you to pay attention.

“Three days,” he says. “Give me one weekend. My grandfather’s birthday is a couple weeks away. You can see the leaves change and watch my mother shrivel into the Crypt Keeper before your very eyes.” He allows a pause for your poorly stifled laugh and watches you bite your bottom lip like he’s going to do for you in about two minutes, right after you say yes. “Pure entertainment. No translator required. How about it?”

It wouldn’t be you if you didn’t fight him a little more. It wouldn’t be you if the challenge didn’t make him that much harder.

That’s why. That’s why he does this. He wants the bit of work to get you in bed, the bit of struggle before you let him inside you. He wants to be home with you there. He wants to be in his own space again. He wants to show you off. He wants his fucking family to see he can do this.

Selfishly.

All of these things he wants for himself. He wants you to stop crying for him. He wants you to destress for him. He wants you to have a vacation for him. These are all completely normal motivators from Ransom Drysdale.

He’s still in control. He’s still getting what he wants. He didn’t have to change a thing about himself to be perfectly happy. He was right all along.

A/N: Repeat after me: this is not a series. This is a mini-series. There will only be one more part. Again, only one more part...because ffs I do love Ransom, but it is impossible to write any other character while dipping into this asshole's mindset. Anyway, one. more. part. and we're done! Also hey, hey, @supraveng.

[Next Part]

[Main Masterlist]

#hugh ransom drysdale #ransom drysdale x reader #ransom drydale x you #ransom drysdale #ransom x reader #ransom smut #fanfic #fanfiction #knives out fanfiction #ransom drysdale fanfiction #ransom drysdale x you #ransom drysdale smut #18+#18+ fanfic #ransom drysdale fic #the root of all ransom

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sommerregenjuniluft · 6 months

Text

(almost) sunday snippet 🐜

thank you @kaaaaaaarf for the tag<3 i actually just now finished writing a small chunk of ant pile so have the rosekiller boys being boys™️

Evan snorts. He can’t be for real right now.

Looks up at his best friend just for Barty to wink at him.

“You’re kidding,” Evan deadpans.

“What’s it look like to you, ay?” he wiggles his hips a little from side to side, “Finest swordsman in all of Naples right fuckin’ here,” and makes hissing noises that Evan believes are meant to be interpreted as slicing sounds.

Evan shifts his weight onto one foot, crossing his arms in front of his naked chest, giving Barty a look.

Which simply ignores this and continues with his ministrations and then an aborted noise slips from Evan when their dicks knock from Barty’s nonsense.

Instinctively snaps a hand out to shove at Barty’s shoulder.

Barty stumbles back a half step and stares at him with raised brows, jaw lax. No you didn’t.

taaaggingg @kaleidoscopexsighs, @veryinnovative, @casstration, @grimjobs, @plecotusauritus, @achilleslikespeas, @showinalittlelife, @maliceofminds & @messerflower if you got anything u want to share<3

#fic: ant pile #swords fight and not a blade in sight #dw they still have their underwear on #so it’s No Homo that way #rosekiller #rosekiller fic #evan rosier #barty crouch jr #lune writes

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noaltbruh · 1 year

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hey! hope you’re doing well 💕 this is actually my second time requesting for you (my first one was from last year and it was headcanons of abbacchio and fugo reacting to the fem! reader who’s intimidated by them. if you don’t remember, that’s fine LOL i only remembered since your blog looked so familiar for some reason), so i’m back again 😂😌 anyways, i was just scrolling through twitter and i found out that one of my favorite k-pop girl groups, blackpink, will be having a concert in my city in a couple of months and i got so excited i almost screamed (actually didn’t since my dad is currently asleep HAHA), so i was wondering if i could get some headcanons of the bucci gang reacting to the gn! reader getting excited over their favorite artist/group coming to naples for a concert (and also worrying about whether or not they can actually attend, worrying that something unexpected like a mission might happen)? hehe, tysm!!

Ohh hi there, my friend! Yes! Of course I remember you, I had a blast with your first request, it was one of the first things I wrote during Summer time and it was so fun 😊

Ah! I've heard of that group before, though I've never listened to them myself, this was a really cute ask, thanks for stopping by again :)

Bucci gang taking S/O to a concert 🎶

Giorno 🐞

Ok, first of all, there's a high chance Giorno already knew about the group coming to town before you did lol.

I feel like he'd keep track of your favorite singer/band's tours and activities, since he can tell you'll probably want to attend their concerts too, understandably.

When he found out, however, that the group was straight up coming to Napoli, he hesitated a bit. It is quite the dangerous city, after all. He was hoping maybe they'd sing in a nearby town and you could attend safely, but alas that wasn't a chance.

Because of this, he had to sit down a moment and consider whether or not you should have gone or not. He knows that telling you not to would have hurt you a lot, but it was for your own well being and he'd blame himself if something were to happen to you.

Thus, after a while, he decided that he would have accompanied you to the concert himself and would have brought a couple of guards along too. A bit overbearing, I know, but he absolutely wants to make sure that nothing bad happens to you.

Imagine the scene: you're coming to scream and yell at him about these news, when he pulls out two fresh front row tickets just for you.

And I can only guess that the yelling gets even more intense after this. It gets quite a laughter out of him too.

If you thanked him for those, he'll just give you a lil' kiss, telling you that it's not much and that you can think of it as a little apology for all the times he's too busy with work to spend time with you.

"It's been a while since we've spent an evening together just the two of us, it'll be fun, non credi, tesoro?"

Okay, he probably takes this way too seriously and dresses up like he's going to attend a gala or something. Giorno's never been to a concert in his life, but he's doing his best.

He won't be letting you go even for a moment. He claims that it's because he doesn't want you to get away from him and get lost, or even worse, hurt. And while it's true to an extent, it's partially just an excuse to hold you as much as he can.

He most likely listened to and memorized a couple of songs ahead, so that he's familiar with what he's going to listen to, but he won't sing along in any case.

He may find the excessive noise and the amount of people a bit overbearing, but he won't let you notice and will try to distract himself looking at how excited you are. It makes him happy too.

He got you a special pass so that you'll get the chance to meet your idols in person and get an autograph from them. Don't ask how, he...He just did.

Bruno 🤐

Okay, Bruno is most likely used to your " slightly over the top" reactions...But I suppose you can only imagine his surprise when he suddenly heard you scream from the room nearby-

He immediately rushed to see what was going on, with Sticky Fingers ready to be put in actions at any moment.

So, when he found out that it was just some news about a concert, he took a huge sigh of relief and probably asked you not to ever do that again, unless you want to give him a heart attack.

Needless to say, Bucciarati is not exactly very keen for you to attend the event, and he'll be telling you immediately, not wanting you to get over hyped over it and end up getting disappointed.

He'll try to explain as calmly as possible why he thinks it's dangerous. He doesn't mean to limit you nor your freedom, but when you're tied to the mafia, some things just aren't the same as for normal people.

Seeing your disappointed expression, however, he'll instantly start to regret his decision and blame himself for making you sad. Me might suggest the two of you go somewhere else that evening instead, as a way to cheer you up.

When that doesn't work out, it'll be your turn to persuade and beg him to let you go, gotta insist when he's the most vulnerable.

And so, with some stubbornness, the man ultimately accepts. Of course, you won't be going alone, he'll make sure he doesn't have any important duties to attend to that night, so that he can safely escort you himself.

And once you do get him to satisfy your request, a part of Bruno is almost kind of happy you managed to change his mind. After all, his responsibilities often keep him away, so he's more than glad to be able to take a break and enjoy a night off with you.

"Sigh...Alright cara, if this truly matters so much to you, I suppose I can make an exception this time, ma non ti ci abituare troppo, mh?"

Just like Giorno, he gets front seats for the both of you. He loves to spoil you whenever he gets the chance to, although he kind of wished you didn't yell in his ears after seeing them again-

He probably dresses up even more formally than his friend- he barely knows what a concert is, cut him some slack.

He knows the songs they're going to play simply because he heard them from you. He's a bit confused since he doesn't understand how you can like a band that doesn't even sing in a language you know-

But he gets in the mood pretty fast and actually finds himself vibing to the music it's than he had thought at first.

He thinks you're adorable getting all excited as soon as they start singing. He might even film your best reactions as a way to keep a memory of the evening you spent together.

Mista 🔫

Buddy when Mista first heard you scream, he just screamed along because yes. He's used to people yelling and knew it was a shout of excitement and not fear or a call for help.

Once you're done screeching, he just laughs and asks you what was all that noise about. And when he hears the reason, he starts laughing more lol.

Don't get me wrong, he loves concerts and music, he just loves to mock you considering your favorite group is a k-pop band.

After you tell him to knock it out or straight up slap him, it's up to you, he tells you that, of course, he will be coming with you. He's not missing out on a concert in his town, and most of all, he's not missing out on a night out with you.

Yes, the music is not exactly his ideal first choice, but whatever, anything is tolerable as long as it's not classic.

Honestly, the idea of an unexpected mission possibly ruining your night only goes through his head once you're about to buy the tickets. It goes something like:

"Hol' up, what if some stand user tries to kill us while we're there? ...Eh, ma chi cazzo se ne frega, I've got a gun" purchase.

For the event, he most likely wore his usual outfit and just slammed a jacket on it.

Once you actually get to the concert, dude basically feels at home. He loves crowded places and music, what else could he asks for?

He's got no clue of what the heck they're saying while singing, but he has heard you jamming and listening to their songs on full volumes in the past, so he knows how the rhythm goes.

It's quite the funny scenario: you perfectly singing along to the lyrics, while Mista just makes a bunch of weird noises, hyping you up with and arm wrapped around your shoulders.

The little pistols will be dancing on top of your head during the whole thing, while number five just covers his non existent ears with his hands.

Either way, the two of you had a blast, but he will still be making fun of k-pop music just to piss you off lmao.

Narancia 🍊

Another boy one who's able to know about the concert even before you do. It was an accident, honestly, Narancia just loves music in all its forms and keeps up with all kind of genres, even the ones he's not really into.

Moreover, even if it's not exactly what he usually likes, he just made himself listen to all the songs from your favorite bands and artists, because even if they aren't his style, the remind him of you and it's enough for him to love all of them.

Which means that IN THE EXACT moment the news about the tour are out, he finds out about them, not wasting a single moment.

And with that exact same speed, he obviously runs to warn you. That way, the two of you can get hyped and excited together! He loves when you get so happy about something you love, it makes him full of beans too.

You immediately rush to buy the best possible tickets you can find, you can't wait even a second, or someone might get to them before you do, and he's not gonna let anyone take them away from you when you're so joyful.

Kind of obvious by now, but the idea of something going wrong due to a mission or an enemy stand never even reaches him, all he can think about is having a great time with his great girlfriend.

"Hell yeah! We're gonna have a blast at that concert, you can count on it! Uh? Of course I love their songs! Potrei mai non amare qualcosa che ami tu, tesoruccio?"

He attends concerts very often, and he doesn't hesitate to leave the town to go to one of them if he particularly likes the singer or band. He can't wait to share one of his biggest passions with you :)

While it embarrasses him a bit, if you want to wear matching clothes related to whoever is going to perform, he'll be down for it with little to no persuasion a lot. If you wish to do it, he'll do it too, anything to make you smile.

Get ready, because he'll be bringing along a lot of snacks for the whole night too. Are they allowed? The answer doesn't matter, since he's gonna take them with him regardless.

While it may surprise you a bit, Narancia actually sings along pretty well to almost all the songs with you too. He's just listened to them so many times thinking about you, they got stuck in his brain, despite having no clue of what they're actually saying.

To be honest, he's actually been blasting them in his earphones even more once he found out about the event, just for a chance to impress you a bit and have even more fun.

And while he may not have thought about it before, if, hypothetically, someone were to brother the two of you while you're enjoying the music, he's got his dagger and Aerosmith to keep you safe.

Fugo 🍓

Fugo canonically listens to K-pop. Trust me bro, Araki told me in a dream.

No matter how much you push him, or how obvious he is: he will never admit he likes this kind of music. Never. No, he doesn't care if you won't tell anyone, he doesn't care if you love it you, he's got a minimum dignity he CAN'T waste away.

As a result, while he had heard that the band might be coming to town, he decided to ignore the news until he heard you scream.

And, as a result, he screamed back at you not to ever do that again, and that if you ever do, Purple Haze will just go batshit crazy and may accidentally murder whoever is in the house.

Once, much to his dismay, you ask him to go together, he categorically declines your offer. It does pain him to do so, but he has his reasons not to accept.

Social gatherings like concerts do make him quite nervous, and he can't calm his nerves at the thought of an enemy hurting you during the performance.

He's among the hardest to persuade into changing his mind, but you're confident you can do it, as despite how much he denies it, it is pretty blatant that he'd love to go as much as you.

Maybe let him cool down a bit and then ask him again, it might be easier to get to him in this taste.

"Cucciola...Please, try to understand where I'm coming from, we may...Urgh, you really won't bite, won't you? ...Alright, Spero solo tu sia cosciente delle possibili consequenze, fragolina"

He stays right next to your side while you buy the tickets, claiming that it's because he doesn't want you to somehow mess this up, but it's actually because he wants to feel the joy of acquiring them too.

He WILL complain a lot about going and say he's only accompanying you in order to keep you safe. God he's such a terrible liar you can't even bring yourself to call him out.

Despite the fact that he's a deadly Mafioso who has killed an enormous amount of people with his deadly poison, he's scared to attend the concert.

The thought of being surrounded by all those people and the music blasting so incredibly loud in his ears makes him feel incredibly sick. You can clearly see how nervous he is when you actually go there, you can't help but feel kind of bad for him.

Just hold his hand tight and tell him that everything is fine. Soon enough, your touch and the sound of the music he secretly loves will do the trick. Seeing him finally cracking a smile during the exhibition makes you even happier.

He'll have to stop himself from singing along with everyone else, but if you're careful, you may notice him humming some of his favorite songs very quietly. Don't say anything about it though, because he'll get embarrassed and immediately stop.

Abbacchio ⏮️

Have you seen this man? Look at me in the eyes and tell him you genuinely believe he'll willingly take you to a concert, if you asked him to.

To he honest, if you didn't tell since your father was sleeping, you might as well contain your screaming right now too, because he know he will get pissed off if you just started screeching without a good reason.

So just show him the news about the concert and prepare yourself for a single, stern, blatant and disappointing "no" as an answer, while he goes back to whatever he was doing before.

To be completely frank, at first he didn't reply this way because he was scared of an enemy, but because he straight up does not want to go. His introvert ass despises concerts.

And when the possibility of a threats pops into his mind, it'll just give him even more of a valid reason not to accept.

He doesn't get why you'd even want to attend, when you can just listen to their music for free whenever you want.

Just like Fugo, there's no point in insuring at first, just leave him alone or change the subject, put him in a good mood, if you can.

And once you think you might have a chance, ask him again. If you're good enough at persuading, he may consider giving you his approval, but only if you do something in exchange for him too...

...Which is probably just finding a way to keep the others away from him for a whole so he can rest his head a little lol.

He was just planning on telling you to go alone and do whatever you wanted, but then he remembered that you could have been in severe danger if you went on your own...

And so, after some reflection and a long sigh, he agreed to accompany you. He'll never openly say it, but a small, small part of him is happy he can at least go on a date with his partner...Even if it's in a huge, crowded and loud place.

"God, mi farai uscire di testa one day. Fine...But I'm only doing this because I''ll be damned if you die for something so stupid"

He probably reconsiders his decision two hours before the concert, but sadly, he knows that it's far too late to retreat now.

Low-key dresses up like he's about to attend a funeral or something, but you don't question his decisions because, delicate being anticlimactic, he looks hot either way.

He secretly borrowed a gun from Mista for extra precautions and will bring it with him just in case, but you won't know about it.

Somehow, the guards did not notice either, but they would have probably been too intimidated to say anything in any case.

He's just getting dragged by you to your places without saying a word, or grunting lightly at best.

Even so, despite his apparent annoyance, when the band starts singing and you're too busy paying attention to them to notice him, he may actually unconsciously smile while looking at you.

Your enthusiasm is very contagious to him, after all, and it helps distract from the immense amount of people around him.

Just...Please, choose something a bit quieter for your date, next time ^^"

Trish 🎙

Trish loves music, doesn't mind crowds too much and isn't very strict, so she won't have anything to say about you going.

...That's what I would say, if she wasn't a jealous girl.

Just a lil' friendly reminder that this girl is working to become, and partially already is, a singer. But she doesn't have a problem with other music artists themselves.

She has a problem with YOU wanting to attend their concert. Why? Why is this so important to you? Do you like their music more than you like hers? Mh? Is that it?

As a result, once your screams reach her, she isn't particularly annoyed, she's used to be around people yelling for literally no reason and she doesn't even notice anymore.

It's when the finds out the reason for your excitement, that she immediately get stiffs and just...Stares at you with a "I'm not angry, just disappointed" look.

Just kidding, she is angry.

And so, your excitement soon enough turns into nervousness, as you try to explain that yes, you still love her, yes, you still think she's the best singer, and yes, it's...Just a concert, despite how much it pains you say that.

Honestly, the doesn't even remotely consider an enemy possibly getting in the way, it's the last of her problems right now.

Well, seems like you won't be attending it. It might be important to you, but you don't want to hurt your girlfriend's feelings.

...That is, however, until the next day you hear her softly knock on your door, with a special...Something in her hand: two tickets and a special pass to meet the musicians.

Her pride may be big, but not as bit as her love for you. So, she decided that she had reacted excessively and bought these as a way to apology, though you can see the embarrassment on her face while she says all of this.

"I'm...Sorry for what I did, non avrei dovuto prenderla così sul personale. Do you still want to go?"

Not everything I said at the beginning is a lie though, and once she agreed on going, she can't help but find herself actually being quite impatient for the night ahead.

Sure, she'll try not to show her enthusiasm too much, but hearing some of the singer/band's songs from you, she actually kind of...likes them. She's got an ear for music and easily memorized the rhythm, although not the lyrics.

When the night finally comes, it's almost admirable just how comfortable she is despite the large amount of people, guess she's just used to it, mh?

She feels very proud of herself showing off the perfect places she's reserved in front of the stage just for you, being famous has quite a lot of advantages.

She inevitably finds herself humming the songs while you sing along so passionately. She'll try to deny it as soon as she notices, but she gives in quite enough and softly accompany you and the singers during the performance.

Finally, she'll be taking a lot of videos and photos of the two of you the whole time, but if she ever looked ugly in even just a single one, it's getting deleted before you can even blink.

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thestarkerisobvious · 11 months

Text

Goncharov (Has A Happy Ending)

production

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Chapter 1 - Time And Her Cruel Games

“There’s no happy ending for people like us, Andrey. Only the misfortune of time and her cruel games of fancy.”

Tony’s mouth on his was warm and gentle and amazing, and was quickly driving all thoughts out of his head.

At least, that’s what Peter thought. Up until Tony’s hands began working his ass again.

They had promised themselves they were going to sleep now. At least,

that’s what they had said in the shower. Peter, certainly, was up for a little shut-eye. Even Tony, the notorious insomniac, had admitted he was ready to try.

“And you can’t blame jetlag anymore,” Peter reminded him, and not for the first time. They had been in Naples for two days now. Peter was actually eager to get out and see Naples, but so far they were still holed up at the top of the hotel. No one knew they were in Italy, not yet. Technically they were waiting for Tony to get the word that things were ready in New York. While Spider-Man was getting photographed webbing up bad guys in NYC, THAT was when Tony and Peter would make their appearance.

Ever since word got out that the face of Stark Industries was dating a hot youthful intern, the press had started to make noise about Ironman and Spider-Man. Tony had taken the opportunity to whisk Peter away into hiding, claiming it was all about protecting “Underoos” secret identity. Peter didn’t argue - he wasn’t in the habit of arguing with his older lover - even though he thought his secret identity’s days were numbered. And that was okay with him. Now that he was an official Avenger, and officially Tony’s boyfriend, the whole ‘secret identity’ thing seemed a little childish.

But he said nothing as Tony made his plans. There was a Spider-Man double who was geering up to take the stage - a friendly Avenger had volunteered for the role - now they were just waiting for the go-ahead. Until then, it was their job to hide in the hotel.

At least, that's what they were telling themselves.

Of course… all this laying around naked in each other’s arms all day and catnapping between sex was turning out to be very pleasant… and neither were very eager to give it up.

And it didn’t help that everything they needed was right there on hand. In breaks between love-making Peter lazed about, googling all the landmarks that he wanted to see, and Tony was having all the information on the most famous tourist attractions sent up to the hotel room. He himself had spent many summers there with his “Nonna” and knew a great deal of the country intimately, and was happy to serve as Peter’s tour guide. When the time came.

Of course, that would require putting their clothes on. Which so far they hadn’t really managed to do.

“But mostly I want to see the clocktower, the real one. And the place where you say they actually filmed the scene,” Peter had explained as they worked out their Itinerary with FRIDAY - all a plan for The Day that they wanted to be seen and serendipitously photographed as a couple. “It HAS to be RIGHT by the wall where they shot that scene - the one that everybody recognizes. We’ll have to get pics of us by the actual clocktower, obviously…”

Tony was more than a little surprised that Peter was familiar with the movie at all… let alone such an expert on its shooting history, or the authenticity of the locale. Let alone the accompanied history of Naples, Italy.

“It was an important movie for me… in my formative years…” Peter had said with a shy shrug and a ducked head. That gesture alone told Tony that this was one secret he was going to learn.

It had been last night (or was it the morning before? Time was losing all meaning for them in the hotel suite, and Tony loved it that way) that Peter had finally made his confession.

They were laying skin-to-skin in a tangle of white sheets on the mammoth bed when he began to whisper the story. “Imagine me, at thirteen, recovering from a tonsillectomy, with nothing to watch on tv… we only had cable then and I was too sick to get up and find a DVD… just flipping through channels. It came on. I had no idea what I was looking at… but the remote’s batteries were wearing out and I was too miserable to get up to do anything about it. That’s why I watched it all the way through. I thought it was really boring at first… but then…”

Sometimes he giggled and blushed, sometimes he hid his face in Tony’s neck and begged for a reprieve. He didn’t want to tell this story, which was all the more reason that Tony needed to hear it.

“I thought it was really hot,” Peter finally whispered. ”These men… they were supposed to hate each other but… but that’s not what it looked like to me…

“And I guess…” He faltered again and covered his face with one hand. Even here, laying lip to lip, toe to toe with his lover, he tried to hide.

“I guess that was the day I first started to imagine…” he said, leaning up another two inches to whisper the secret into Tony’s ear. “What those two, handsome men really wanted to do with each other. I didn’t think they really wanted all that violence. I think they just wanted to do this…” He molded his long, lean body against Tony’s, entwining their legs and tightening his arms, trailing kisses down Tony’s bare shoulder.

Tony wanted to know more, of course. Discovering the movie, the moment that had triggered Peter’s sexual awakening felt like a perfect, surprise clue and all he wanted was more. But Peter was too tight-lipped about those earliest fantasies. No amount of teasing, bribing or begging would get Tony any more information. Finally, he gave up.

“And of course we’re in love… that’s why I tried to shoot you…” Tony finally joked.

“If we were really in love you wouldn’t have missed,” Peter quoted back with a grin.

He was rewarded with a kiss. A warm, gentle, amazing kiss that made Peter wonder if he should remind Tony about his promise to try to get some sleep… hard to do when Tony’s free hand working its way around and back into interesting places…

“Again?” Peter thought about saying (although he was certainly up for one more go. They had never done it three times in one night, but there was a first time for everything, wasn’t there?) But instead, when he opened his mouth, he heard the word “Amazing.”

“Hmmm?” Tony asked, pulling up from the kiss just a little. Peter looked up at him in the morning sunlight, a little embarrassed. HE hadn’t meant to say it out loud.

But now Tony was looking down at him with those incredible dark eyes, and he had to speak. “I said… amazing. You’re amazing,” he whispered.

“You’re amazing….”Tony replied, and Peter found himself look up into Tony’s face and seeing something that hadn’t been there before. Something that almost looked like… fear? Doubt?”

“You’re amazing – everything about you is amazing…” the older man was saying now, his voice falling into a whisper. “... and your mind is incredible and your body is… and the things you let me do to you in bed…”

Peter had to look away, blushing a little and hiding in Tony’s chest. “The things you ‘let’ me do to you in bed” was a strange way to put it – as if Peter hadn’t asked for it, as if he wasn’t constantly begging for more…

“But…”

A silence filled the room. Peter blinked up in alarm.

“...but?”

He looked up into Tony’s face just in time to see him reaching up to adjust glasses that weren’t there.

Peter had seen the gesture a million times - Tony’s glasses were the armor he wore when he wasn’t wearing armor. Peter had seen Tony make that move so many times before… but never around him. This was the first, and his eyes widened when he realized Tony was trying to protect himself.

“...but… sometimes… well sometimes you reach down and find the watch in the same place the gun was hidden. Sometimes… dammit kid.” He shrugged, his eyes fell.

He had seen the movie too.

“Sometimes… winter just comes to Naples.”

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

This is chapter 1 of 3. The whole story will be posted here this month.

story by @thestarkerisobvious

incredible art by @mrstarksbaby

Follow the tag #MrStarksBabyIsObvious Series to see what ELSE we’ve got up our sleeve...

#Starker #Peter Parker/Tony Starker #Tony Stark/Peter Parker #MrStarksBabyIsObvious Series #Goncharov #ben's moodboards #TheWitchwayWritesStuff #long post

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la-rougo · 9 months

Text

Golden Crack

Memories Unit #5

Talking behind Diavolo’s back

Y/n, walking around in Naples with Doppio: he’s not like… “here” right

Doppio: yes

Y/n: *suddenly stops and inhales* He’s such a goofy old man

Doppio: 😦

Y/n: like, what’s with the hiding identity if you’re that gorgeous

Doppio: I mean.. he’s a literal mafioso boss…

Y/n: and why is he wearing a slutty stripper clothes🙁

Doppio: true..

Y/n: he’s so funny I can’t even take him seriously

Doppio: 😶

Y/n: I honestly feel bad for you, he could just give you a phone and call you like a normal person but instead makes you do a ring tones noises which makes everyone think you’re mentally ill!!

Doppio: aw😢

Y/n: also, when he use you to transform from you to him, why he stripping😕

Doppio?: If you want to know then I’ll tell you *takes off his shirt

Y/n: oh sHiT, I thought you’re not here *nervously backs away*

Diavolo: I’m always watching you

Y/n: *runs away*

Diavolo: YOU CANNOT ESCAPE ME

Bucci gang, passing by:

Narancia: what the hell? Why’s there a stripper man whore chasing that person?

Mista: that guy looks hideous!

Fugo: guys! shut your fucking rudeness up or i’ll stab you with a fork!

Bucciarati: let’s not mind them and continue our mission please…

Giorno: I have a strange tingling feeling about that guy..

#jjba #jojo bizarre adventure #jojo no kimyou na bouken #jojo no kimyō na bōken #jojo's bizarre adventure #jjba x reader #jjba golden wind #jojo golden wind #jojo part 5 #doppio x reader #diavolo x reader #jjba diavolo #vinegar doppio #jjba doppio

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aptenodykes · 8 months

Text

Well if you guys insist i elaborate… I was gonna write this anyway lul

Leia and Luke are the dual “rules” of the god/goddess society. Ruler is a loose term bc it’s more of a school board/HOA type government where they don’t really interfere with human affairs but debate about where the tax money goes.

Leia is the one in charge bc Luke fucked off to whatever the godly equivalent of Naples is to retire. She married Han and had Ben, a Demi god by technicality but you wouldn’t even know. Ren is obviously God of Death and Shadows and he is the neighbor who doesn’t believe in noise complaints or fire safety. Drives a motorcycle bc of course. Isn’t allowed in the meetings unless it directly involves him because he is a nuisance™️

Ben grew up kinda sheltered bc it’s my au I make the rules so he thinks Ren is the coolest thing since sliced bread. Ren notices and becomes the worst influence possible to make Ben his. Ben gets rebellious™️ and starts arguing with leia and Han more

One day it reaches a boiling point and Ben runs off to the underworld where he cries and rants to ren for hours. Ren seeing the opportunity presented and tells Ben “if you eat these pomegranates you’ll be forced to stay in the underworld with me”. Ben does and is reborn as Kylo Ren, malewife of the king of the underworld, via magical girl transformation bullshit.

Kylo now gets to be around his husband all day and live out his big titty goth bf whore fantasies

The end ❤️

#star wars #kylo ren #ben solo #ren prime #sorry for word vomiting #but it’s just the Persephone hades myth with renben influence #it’s my HEA for them bc they deserve it

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lostinfic · 7 months

Note

For the spooky Borgias prompts, maybe Lucrezia thinks she's being haunted?

A ghost story: a love story

"It’s only grief," Lucrezia told herself as she stared at the canopy over the bed. The golden silk seemed to undulate in the dark, as if animated by a passing spirit. She looked away. The full moon shone through the curtains, illuminating the face of Alfonso d’Este, her third husband. He slept soundly. She hadn’t slept in weeks.

Since Cesare’s death in March, nightmares plagued her nights. The dreams always started with a good memory— lying on the grass together, the first time they’d made love, the way he’d kissed her after she fled Naples, waking up with him when she lived in his house before remarrying— but then his beautiful face would start to rot and melt and she would wake up sick to her stomach, with pangs of grief that felt like stab wounds.

And then the noises had begun: footsteps in the hall and whispers in the night. Even during the day, she caught shadows that belonged to no one, and her things were not where she’d left them.

The first three nights it happened, she’d woken up her husband. But as he’d started emitting doubts about her sanity, she thought it best to deal with this on her own.

Lucrezia’s body was rigid under the sheets, all her attention focused on the noise outside her bedroom. The footsteps were getting closer to the door, the floorboards creaked under the person’s weight. She was used to the servants, coming and going, but this was different. She thought she recognized that gait, but it couldn’t be. He was dead, ambushed by his own men in Spain.

She took a deep breath to gather her courage, but when she breathed out, the air was cold along her lips and nostrils. She willed her body to shake off the fear-induced stupor she was in. Her feet found her slippers, she wrapped herself in a black robe, and she walked slowly towards the door.

When she put her hand on the doorknob, the footsteps stopped. The ghost or whatever it was, stood just on the other side. Then a whisper, like a cold, hissing draught on a windy day, no more intelligible and yet she thought she heard her name.

She pressed her ear to the jamb.

“Mine, mine, mine, mine…”

It’s not fear but immense sadness that made tears well up in her eyes. She laid her hand and forehead against the door, as if she could feel him on the other side. Cesare. Her brother. Her other half.

The floorboards creaked again, away from the door, and she chased after them. Rounding a corner, she was caught, a gloved hand slapping over her mouth.

She fought and squirmed and tried to scream.

“Lucrezia.”

She recognized the voice and stopped wiggling, but her heart still hammered in her chest. The hand left her mouth as she sagged against Cesare’s chest. She didn’t turn around, didn’t try to see his face in case it wasn’t real. His arms wrapped around her and his lips found her neck. That feeling, like God was in the room with them, overwhelmed her again. It was a miracle, there was no other explanation for it.

“Are you a ghost?” she asked.

“Only to some, to you I am flesh and blood.”

“Prove it,” she asked, turning in his arms to face him at last.

Though most of his face was shrouded in shadows, she recognized his smile and laughter.

Cesare picked her up in his arms and carried her to the nearest empty bedroom.

The next morning, she woke up alone and not a trace of him remained...

#hope you like it anon!#The Borgias #Cesare/Lucrezia #lostinfic writes stuff

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foundtherightwords · 1 year

Text

Love in a Storm - Chapter 2

Pairing: Eddie Munson x Chrissy Cunningham (Regency AU)

Summary: A devastating loss threatens the happy marriage of Edward and Christine Munson, Lord and Lady Hurtsfield. However, when Edward is accused of a crime he didn't commit, Christine has to set her grief aside and embark on a perilous journey to prove her husband's innocence.

Warnings: childbirth, stillbirth, infertility, angst, false accusation, wrongful imprisonment, legal drama, some violence (non-graphic), some smut (non-explicit)

Chapter warnings: period-typical attitudes toward women and infertility, some awkward sex

Chapter word count: 3.4k

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

London, February 1820

"Your ladyship, please come inside. It's snowing."

Christine was startled by the maid's voice. She looked down and saw that, indeed, snowflakes were sprinkling over her hands as well as the rose bushes and the shears she was using to prune them. They melted almost as soon as they touched her skin. She put the shears away, gathered her shawl more closely around her, and went into the warmth of the drawing room.

"Is his lordship back yet?" she asked the maid.

"No, ma'am. He said he'd meet you at the doctor's."

Christine sighed. They were due to meet a sterility specialist that afternoon, one of the many they had consulted over the last eight months. They had tried every herbal remedy, every tonic, every tincture available. They had gone to Bath to take the water and to Brighton to try sea-bathing, and finally, at Dr. Sinclair's recommendation, they had gone to London and visited physician after physician, listening to their treatises on uterine scarring and defects and imbalance, being subjected to one uncomfortable interview after another, filled with indelicate questions and even more indelicate examinations. She doubted this one would be any different. She knew Edward only accompanied her out of love; he had no faith in these doctors, whom he deemed to be greedy quacks trying to make money from others' unhappiness and desperation. She could hardly blame him for not wanting to see another one, especially one who demanded that they came to him, instead of allowing them to consult him in the privacy of their own home.

At least they could afford the privacy. Christine smiled mockingly to herself when she imagined what her mother would think about having a parade of doctors in and out of her house. But a year ago, during a trip to Naples with her friend Lady Harrington, Mrs. Connyngham had, against all odds, caught the eye of an Italian man. He was untitled but wealthy enough and seemed to dote on her, which greatly made up for any lack of peerage in Mrs. Connyngham's eyes. She had decided to make Naples her permanent home, giving Edward and Christine the use of her townhouse in Hanover Square. Though, to be fair, the house was in Edward's name, considering he had been paying its rent. Still, Christine's relationship with her mother had improved a great deal now that there were over a thousand miles between them.

Later, as the cab rattled toward the specialist's office, Christine couldn't help feeling slightly hurt that Edward wasn't there to accompany her. London had been in chaos since the passing of the late king just two weeks before, and there was a sense of unease on the damp, foggy streets. There seemed to be more police officers mingling about, recognizable by their red waistcoats and tall stovepipe hats. A group of laborers congregating on the curb was roughly broken up by a constable. There was hostility and fear on people's faces, and the usual noises of the city had a threatening note to them.

Christine sighed again and wished she hadn't let Edward convince her to stay in London. In the immediate days after the loss of their son, they had found comfort in grieving with each other, but in the months that followed, the comfort wore off. It became painful to be around each other and be reminded of what they could have had. So Edward had started going out more, focusing more on his charity work. Christine had encouraged it at first, thinking it would benefit him to find other things to engage his time, knowing she was not the best company when melancholy had her in its grips. That was when he decided to spend the summer in London. It would be more convenient for them to seek treatment and allow him to become more involved with reform efforts. For a while, he seemed to have found a new sense of purpose, brimming with ideas, looking as excited as he had back when he'd just started the school in their village, in the early days of their marriage.

Then the riot in Manchester, labeled "the Peterloo massacre" by newspapers for its bloody conclusion, occurred, followed shortly by the passing of the Six Acts. Christine, who did not follow politics at all, was alarmed the day Edward came home with a thunderous expression, some newspaper clutched in his hand. "Is something the matter?" she asked.

"This," he said, tossing the paper onto the table. The headline "SIX ACTS PASSED" jumped out at her, followed by the cartoon of a chained and gagged man wearing tattered clothes. She picked it up and scanned the article.

"Read the third one, the Seditious Meetings Act," Edward told her.

"Any parties wishing to meet for consideration of subjects connected with church or state should notify their intention by a requisition signed by seven householders, and it should be illegal for any person not usually inhabiting the place where it was called, to attend," Christine read. "Every meeting for radical reform is an overt act of treasonable conspiracy against the King and his government." She looked up at Edward. "What does this mean?"

"It means we are losing our freedom," Edward said grimly.

His mood had changed after that. On the rare occasion that she accompanied him to the drawing rooms of the Hargrove sisters and their friends, Christine could hear him ranting and raving against the Six Acts to everyone and anyone that would listen. And he still went to meetings, despite the harsh law now restricting them. Just that morning, he had gone to meet with the Hargrove sisters to discuss the organization of a free day school in Whitechapel. Christine had nothing against Miss Beatrice and Miss Minerva Hargrove, though she had found them rather intimidating upon first meeting. In their fifties, they had seen too much of the world to care what others thought of them, and quietly but undauntedly, they went about making changes wherever they could, regardless of the law. Christine knew it was unfair and unjust that their charity work, aimed solely at bettering the lives of less fortunate women and children, could now be seen as seditious. She was even glad that Edward had found solace in working with them, whereas she herself couldn't. She merely wished he didn't have to endanger himself while doing so.

She knew this was selfish of her and felt ashamed. There were others who had been through much greater tragedies than the loss of a child, and yet others whose loss of a child had been much more tragic than hers - just look at the Hoppers, whose only son was cut down in his prime in a senseless war. And her husband was out there, helping them. If only he could find a way to help her as well...

***

Christine was ushered into the specialist's consulting room by a maid. The specialist, Dr. Brenner, with his pure silver hair, black eyebrows, and unlined face, looked more like a stage actor than a physician. He glanced at her card and stood up to greet her with a little condescending smile, and Christine immediately knew this would turn out to be another humiliating experience.

"Will Lord Hurstfield be joining us, your ladyship?" he asked.

"I hope so," Christine replied, though without conviction.

"His lordship has been busy, I've heard," Brenner said, smiling thinly. Christine's irritation rose, though she didn't know if it was with the specialist or Edward. Edward had always been vocal about his beliefs, but sometimes, he could be too vocal. He forgot that for all of its largeness and its crowds, London society could feel like a small town, tight-knit and full of gossip. For once, she was glad Edward was not with her. He would not hold his tongue in front of this man.

"My husband's charity work is very important to him," she said.

"Shall we wait for him then?"

"I don't see why, unless you wish to examine as well," Christine said, keeping her voice even. The specialist's smile wavered slightly.

"I can assure you, your ladyship, there is no need for a physical examination," he said. "I do not subscribe to the newfangled, and frankly immoral, notion of some of my colleagues that they need to be intimately familiar with a patient's body to treat them." Then how do you expect to know what's ailing them? Christine thought but said nothing. "These notes from your personal physician will suffice."

He looked over the notes from Dr. Sinclair with a theatrical air, and regarded Christine for a long moment. "I do believe, your ladyship, that your struggle to conceive has less to do with physical issues and more with mental ones," he announced.

"Oh?" She had heard that before.

"The scarring from your stillbirth, as described by your personal physician, should heal by now. And if there is no problem in your marital relations—"

"There isn't," Christine said, her face turning pink. And it was true, at least in the physical sense, though it had taken them months to be intimate again. But she wasn't going to tell this pompous little man that.

"Well, then, it is as I suspect," Brenner said, putting Dr. Sinclair's notes aside. "It appears you are prone to melancholy and hysteria."

Christine knew Dr. Sinclair's notes didn't say that. What they did say, however, was that she had once had a brush with death after ingesting arsenic in a moment of despair and madness. Brenner had simply drawn his own conclusion from that.

"You often take long walks or go horse-riding, do you not?" he asked. It was the first question he'd asked her.

"I thought exercises were good for one's health," Christine said, confused.

"But such restless activity, my lady, is detrimental to your ability to conceive. I can prescribe you some calming tonic, but it is essential that you stay away from any sort of excitement. Keep to your home and your feminine roles."

Christine was losing her patience now. "I am here for your medical advice, doctor," she said, "not to have you tell me how to live my life."

"This is my medical advice. It is well known that a woman's neglect of her calling goes hand in hand with sterility. All those women, running around in the name of good causes and demanding equal rights, willfully rejecting their duties..."

"What duties?" she asked, raising her voice. "How could I fulfill them if I have no child to raise, to care for?"

"You have your husband, and it appears he is more interested in helping other women than helping his own wife," Brenner said coldly.

Christine stared at him, too angry to speak. Finally, she stood up. "I think it is you that are neglecting your duties, doctor. You are not my spiritual guidance, or my father, or my brother. Your duties are to treat my physical ailments. If you refuse to do so, then I must take my business elsewhere. Good day."

She turned on her heel and almost ran into Edward, who burst in at that very moment, his hair wild, his cravat askew, followed by the flustered-looking maid. "Apologies for my late arrival," he said. "What's happened?" he asked, looking from Christine's furious face to Brenner's indignant one.

"Nothing. We are leaving," Christine said, pulling him along.

***

It was only when they were in the relative privacy of the hackney cab that Christine unleashed her fury on Edward. "Where were you?!" she hissed.

"I'm so sorry. The meeting ran later than I thought..."

"I've never been so humiliated in my life!"

"What did he say to you?"

"He didn't ask me a thing. He simply decided, after one look at me, that he knew all about me, all about our life. He blamed me for being restless, for not keeping you at home so you could impregnate me—"

"He what?!"

"Not in so many words, but the implication was clear."

"Of all the impertinent—"

Edward half-rose from his seat to stop the cab, but Christine pushed him back. "What are you intending to do, challenge him to a duel for insulting me?" she said, exasperated. Edward opened his mouth to speak, then decided against it and sat down apologetically.

Suddenly Christine felt as if all her strength was drained out of her. She slumped against her husband. He wrapped his arm around her, and she snuggled closer to him. "I'm tired of it, Edward," she said. "Tired of doctors and their probing and prodding, tired of all the medicines and potions. Let us go home."

Edward didn't answer, and she glanced up at him. He was looking out the cab's window, his brow furrowed in thoughts. "Edward?"

He turned back to her with a quick smile. "Yes, dear?"

Suspicion immediately reared its head in Christine's mind. Edward never called her dear, except when he had something to hide. But she knew better than to ask. He would always tell her of his own volition in a day or two.

"Let us go home," she repeated.

"We are going home."

"No, I mean home to Yorkshire. To Hurstfield."

His face was unchanged, but the arm around her shoulder stiffened slightly.

"I know you still have a lot of work here," she said. "But we can go home, can't we?"

"Of course. Give me a week or so to make sure the school is set up and the Misses Hargrove can continue without me, and we'll go home."

"Thank you," Christine said and leaned back against him. But his arm remained rigid, and he kept his eyes out the window.

***

Edward remained distracted over dinner. Though she tried not to let Dr. Brenner's judgmental words affect her, Christine couldn't stop herself from mulling over them as she watched Edward across the table. He did look more wearied than she'd remember, his hair tangled, his eyes dimmed and sunken, and she felt a pang in her heart. Had she been too focused on her own grief and neglecting her husband's?

Later, she found him in the study, going over their account books. Back in Yorkshire, where the estate was much more vast and difficult to run, the accounts were the domain of Edward and his steward, but here in London, he left the running of the household to Christine, so she was surprised to find him looking at them. "What are you looking for?" she asked, eager to be of help.

Edward jumped and hastened to put the book down. "Oh, uh, nothing in particular. Just want to make sure the accounts are in order before we go home, that's all."

"I can do that, you know."

"Yes, but you've had a trying day."

Christine lingered by the desk, rearranging the already neat papers and quills and inkstand. "Edward, what would happen if we could never have another child?" eventually she asked.

Edward gazed at her for a moment, then reached for her hand and pulled her down on his lap. "We've been over this matter before, Christine," he said. "It is of no importance to me."

She wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her face into his chest. How comfortable and safe it was to sit like this, in his arms and with his lips on her hair. If only that was enough to chase away all the pain and the doubt. "But what about your inheritance?" she asked. They had gotten married so that Edward could inherit from his great aunt, whose will stipulated that he must have a wife and produce an heir.

"I rather hope that you would want to have children with me because you're madly in love with me, not because you're worried about the inheritance," Edward said, glancing down at her with a twinkle in his eyes. But upon seeing Christine's beseeching look, he sobered up. "I'd give it back, if it came to that," he said.

She was stunned. "You would?"

"Yes. Hurstfield is prosperous now, we can afford it." He kissed her forehead. "I married you for you, remember?"

"I thought you married me to secure your inheritance," she teased.

"Well, that was a nice bonus too." He smiled, sliding his lips down her cheek to her mouth, and for a moment, while she kissed him back, it was as if nothing had changed between them. Then the kiss became more pressing, more eager, and his hand started moving under her wrap, under her nightgown, and Christine tensed up, not from anticipation, but apprehension. Though it had been nearly two years, she still remembered the pain all too well - the pain in her body, and the pain in her heart. Involuntarily, she turned her head to the side.

"Is—is everything all right?" Edward asked.

"Everything is fine," she said, reaching up to caress his face. "Let us go to bed."

He leaned down to kiss her again. Then, putting his arms under her, he picked her up and carried her to their bedroom, his lips never leaving hers. As he put her down on the bed, she forced herself to focus on the kiss, on him, his soft lips, his hair entwined in her fingers, his familiar smell, his warm hands touching her in all the places he knew she liked. But her mind kept wandering. Every time they made love now, she both hoped and feared it might result in a child. Perhaps it would this time, this time, or this time. But what if it did result in a child? Could she carry that child to term? What if the child died as well? Could they face that pain once more?

She tried not to flinch when he slid into her, but Edward must have noticed and paused. "Are you—" he said, his face wavering above hers. "We don't have to—if you're not..."

"No." As much as she feared a pregnancy, her desire for it was stronger. She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him closer. "Don't stop." They couldn't afford to stop.

She kissed him, trying to sweeten the act, but it didn't help much. She wasn't sure if this could be called lovemaking. There was something mechanical about it, two people having become so familiar with each other that there was no longer any newness or excitement to their touches. Before, she had taken comfort in that familiarity. Now it felt almost... dreary.

A coolness on her skin lifted her out of her reverie, and she realized Edward had withdrawn from her. She didn't even know when he had finished. Now he was sitting up, looking at her. The flickering flame of the candle kept his face half in shadow, so she couldn't fully make out his expression. There was sadness there, and something else too. Guilt? Disappointment? With her or with himself? She couldn't tell.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. He brushed his lips over her temple, before blowing out the candle and lying down with his back to her.

***

When Christine's breath had steadied, Edward gently turned around so he could watch her in her sleep. She looked so fragile, with her hands inert on the counterpane, the bruised lids covering her eyes, the fine lines of pain etched on her forehead and at the corners of her eyes like cobwebs, lines that a thousand kisses and touches could never erase. There was so much he wished he could tell her, so much he wanted to share with her. It had been on the tip of his tongue when they left the specialist's office, but then he had seen the way she'd covered her pale face, the way her hands had shaken with futile rage and exhaustion, and the words had died before they could reach his lips. He had always prided himself on being truthful in his marriage, but this was one truth he couldn't burden her with. She had been through enough. No. This trouble was his to bear alone, and bear it he would.

Chapter 3

A/N: No, this Dr. Brenner is not the same Brenner in canon. Some other ST characters (or, rather, their Regency equivalents) are going to show up later, but in this case, I just ran out of names :))

#hellcheer #hellcheer fic #hellcheer au #regency au #eddie munson #chrissy cunningham #eddie x chrissy #chrissy x eddie #joseph quinn #joseph quinn fic #stranger things fic

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weiner-enjoyer · 9 months

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i need white noise to sleep. i need a sleep mask on me. i shoot my shot like pow pow pow. i shoot my shot like “how are yow?” salmons a superfood salmons a superfood you are just super rude i took a super nood, for five dollars. how bout you im a prime time tv. i eat a prime rib early. i eat just to feed me. i eat just cuz i need me. pineapple upside down ya, in the toilet i make a brown ya. pineapple upside down ya in the toilet i make a brown ya. throw a stones toss all across the creek and i do it every day monday thru friday, every weeeeek, and i do it eveyr month. march, february, aprillllllllll. i go to naples. pineapple upside down ya in the toilet i make a brown ya in the ocean ya i drown make some motion to the sound ya. ninety day fiance more like ninety day chimpanzee. go to the zoo and see some fish, go to the will and make a wish. in reality i got a lot of free time. in reality im sponsored by a win company so i got a lot of free wine. and im sponsored by a lot of watermelon companies so i eat a lot of free rinds. pineapple upside down ya in the toilet i make a brown ya.

at my wedding i wont wear a gown ya, i would rather wear lady gaga meat dress.

tickle the president for the free press. put him in the bath to get his feet wet. take him to five guys, thats what she said. thats amor, yeah i speak french. pineapple right side up is boring, i like to envision you snoring. red hot chili peppers is what im snorting, when the camera isnt recording. pineapple right side up is boring, i like to envision you snoring. red hot chili peppers is what im snorting, when the camera isnt recording.

#im obsessed with that one part.#queef jerky #pineapple upside down

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pocket-emilu · 9 months

Text

elena & lila, early/mid book 3, wordcount: 2.7k

I did not try to silence the whirlwind of affairs that had been spinning around me but rather let it swell to a vast buzzing noise that followed me from my parents' house to San Giovanni a Teduccio. Lila had that power, to concentrate my life into a single sound, composed of many smaller disparate sounds, that somehow summed to her.

read on ao3 or below

In those days my mind was filled with comings and goings, people and places and words that slipped past me and through me.

I visited Mariarosa and her ever-changing guests, Pietro met my family, I saw the apartment Pietro had chosen in Florence and, soon after, the more suitable apartment Adele replaced it with.

Pietro had pleased me with how well he got along with my family, even winning over my mother, but his presence was a disruption, an anomaly, an ornate design on tattered yellowed pages. I was uncomfortable sharing my origins with him; he did not belong here, among the crime and filth and violence of my youth.

As for me, I no longer felt bound to Naples in the way I once had. I was free to come and go, but I sensed deeply that I would not belong in Florence where I would soon live with Pietro, in that apartment Adele had helped me arrange and furnish while politely circumventing my inferior sense of taste. But I and my inferior taste would reside there for who knew how long, surely not the wife that Adele and Guido had intended for their son, but not an utter disappointment, not as long as I continued to write articles and novels and conform as best I could to the idea and shape of an Airota.

I benefited greatly from the attention my novel gave me, though some of the attention troubled me. Voices from all corners of my world emerged to speak about my book, ranging from academics I had never met to people whom I had grown up with. I was praised, I was ridiculed, my work was immature, my work was profound, its pages were poetic, its pages were dirty.

All these things and more swam around in my head, confounding me. There were too many stimuli, too many moving parts. I was unsure how happy I felt, or how happy I should feel, in those busy days that swept me toward my wedding date.

It was among this constant shifting that Pasquale and Enzo found me and urged me to see Lila. She was sick, they didn’t know what was wrong, she demanded to see me, would I please come immediately.

Though Pasquale and Enzo’s appearance could have fit into the theme of the perpetual comings and goings in that period of my life, their arrival marked an end to those unmoored days. They were not an external factor drawing me to Lila but rather the vehicle for the inevitable internal force driving me toward Lila which had been lying dormant, waiting to activate. I did not try to silence the whirlwind of affairs that had been spinning around me but rather let it swell to a vast buzzing noise that followed me from my parents' house to San Giovanni a Teduccio. Lila had that power, to concentrate my life into a single sound, composed of many smaller disparate sounds, that somehow summed to her.

Pasquale and Enzo warned me that Lila was greatly agitated. I was consumed by worry as we climbed the stairs to the apartment, and Lila was indeed in poor condition, but I was glad to find that my arrival calmed her. She called me into her room and sent out Pasquale, Enzo, Gennaro. She spoke to me and me alone, confiding in me, revealing her story, distilled to the point of pain.

She told me about the sausage factory, Soccavo, Edo, the pamphlets, Pasquale, Nadia, Armando, Michele. I felt that she was shoving into my hands another box full of her notebooks, like the box she had given me three years earlier that I had dumped off the Solferino bridge. But this new collection of Lila’s I held onto in my mind, examining it in detail, tracing over its lines.

Over the course of that night, Lila’s physical state did not improve, but as she told me her story, a weight seemed to lift from her, or perhaps extrude itself from inside her like a poison being sucked out, and as I listened, I thought of how she had given me those notebooks that contained her adolescent history, how I had dumped them into the water, and how likewise she had burned The Blue Fairy, erasing her childhood brilliance. But now she was entrusting me with this new oral history of her adulthood spent apart from me, these fragments that were once scattered in time now drawn together by the force of her mind and given order, stitched into one another until the pattern was revealed in its most pure form.

Lila wanted to put these events to rest. She was done with the sausage factory, she no longer wanted to live in San Giovanni a Teduccio, she was ready to return to the neighborhood. In her mind she had ended this story, and she poured its details into me to unburden herself of what was already finished and dead.

I treasured the knowledge of her life, shared after such a long separation, and yet I resented this offloading, this throwing away of what had grown stale in her eyes. I resented that she had not relayed any of these events as they occurred, only pulling me into the web of her life after it was dismantled, as if the act of inserting bits of information into me solidified the fact that they no longer mattered, the way she had thrust her adolescent box of notebooks into my arms to do what I pleased with.

And for the first time, on that night of confessions, Lila shared with me her experience of sex, her thoughts of it, the disgust she felt, the brutality she had experienced. She mentioned my book, its dirtiness, as if to prove to me that I understood her, that my experience reflected hers, that her experience was truth.

I thought of what Nino had told me in Milan, that Lila was made badly when it came to sex. Back then I had been so shocked by his words that I had turned them inward, had wondered if I was made badly in the same way. I had been offended on Lila’s behalf; a child had come from that union that Nino spoke so disparagingly of. Now, in San Giovanni a Tedducio, Lila was trusting me with that child, urging me to swear that I would take care of Gennaro if something happened to her. And I found that I could no longer accept this old reaction to Nino’s remark, that a new idea was growing from it, replacing it.

I wondered if I should tell Lila I had met Nino, tell her what he had said, but now that his assessment of Lila had been living inside me for long enough, free for me to turn over and poke at and examine, I no longer thought of these ideas in relation to myself or Gennaro or Nino, rather I thought only of Lila, now that she had laid for me out her experience of sex, spoken it into existence so crudely.

But my thoughts were not yet fully formed. Lila held and kissed my hand, we kissed each other hello and goodbye, her body on the bed was frail beneath me, she spoke coarsely yet evasively about sex. I was not prepared to relate the knowledge to her on an intellectual level, I only felt her and saw her, experienced what she was writing into me through the story of her life since the day she had thrown The Blue Fairy into the fire, the fragments of herself she stored in me after the erasure of the childhood masterpiece that I had absorbed into myself and used to produce a novel. I could perceive in only the most rudimentary way that Nino’s words did not sit right. I could not yet organize those sensations into thoughts, but soon I would.

Lila begged me again to take care of Gennaro. She asked me to watch over her, too, to always watch over her, even after leaving her room, after returning to the neighborhood, after leaving it for Florence. I was touched, but I was also unnerved, for was it not Lila who watched me? Was it not Lila who uncovered everything, who saw everything, who knew everything, who conspired with some unknown force to acquire knowledge that she, only she, was capable of possessing?

But I made my promises, and indeed I did watch over her, in the days leading up to my wedding—May 17, 1969, an unlucky wedding date, though neither I nor the Airotas were concerned with superstition. For that short period I spent more time with Lila than ever. As Pietro, Florence, my future approached me, reaching for me through that expanse of time between the current moment and the seventeenth of May, I evaded, I redirected, I fed off Lila’s power to disassemble and reassemble my life around her. On this occasion, I was the one who took charge and set things into motion. Or perhaps it was Lila who commanded my fixation on her affairs and I only thought myself the master of both of us.

Doctor’s appointments, the L’Unita article about Bruno Soccavo, Pietro leveraging his connections to find a job for Enzo—everything I did was for Lila. I hurt for her, her pain pained me, and so I did everything I could to help her. I disrupted our balance, I tipped the world in her favor, I fixed the scales that my mother imagined contained on opposite ends me and Lila, successful and unsuccessful, good and bad.

Once I re-immersed myself fully in Lila’s world, I experienced fantasies, imaginations, wanderings. After hearing Lila speak of sex, I was confused by the message of my own novel. Suddenly, in relation to her, its importance diminished; she had pointed out the incongruities between my work and my person, between what I believed to be profound and what was already profound according to the truth that she alone imbued things with.

Was Lila truly made badly when it came to sex? I pondered the question over and over; it became not Nino’s statement but my own wondering. I became acquainted with her uncooperative body, as I took her to see doctor after doctor, who understood the workings of the body but not its essence; only Nino, Stefano, and perhaps Enzo had their answers to my question and none of those answers would match. Lila was made badly in a way that responded uniquely to each man who had been with her; her body adopted novel strategies of resistance depending on its adversary.

And now at each doctor’s office, Lila demanded the pill, she wanted to thwart her nature, she cared more about obtaining contraceptives than solving her heart condition, her flu, her nerves. Perhaps the pill was in fact the cure to all of those ailments, or she fabricated a cure through her quest to subdue one by one all of the obscure forces in her body.

At first I thought, yes, of course Lila is made badly when it comes to sex. She is cruel, she thinks only of herself, she seeks dominion and cannot be subdued, in fact the desire of men to subdue her is already an admission of failure. They are frustrated before they begin, for not even Lila can contain Lila.

But as I turned over the question more and more, as I imagined her hands, her lips, her figure, the irregular heartbeat that refused to yield to her mind, as I imagined her in relation to a man—or perhaps in relation to nothing at all, only Lila, a comparison of herself to herself—I found that I could not believe she was made badly when it came to sex in the way that Nino must have meant. Rather, her perpetual desire to deconstruct herself overcame her feelings of affection, passion, devotion. She was always inserting pieces of herself into the other, shards that burrowed in, cut, drew blood, provoked and aggravated internal injuries, formed hemorrhages, and when she tried to disappear, to tear herself to shreds, to diminish herself through the act of sex, she tugged on the pieces which she had inserted into the other, into Nino, Stefano, Enzo, and by forces transcending the physical, into Marcello, Michele, Pasquale, into all of us and everything. She wanted to rip out all of those shards which she had planted. But the shards could not exit those persons without an explosion, a complete change of form, like the rupture of the copper pot so many years ago. In reality, only a few bits would escape and return to Lila, doing so in a burst of violence, and in the act of simultaneously revealing and concealing herself, Lila inflicted pain, plucking pieces out while at the same time inserting new pieces of herself into you. The agony, the contradiction, the cyclic war of attrition, formed an intimacy that eclipsed all other forms of intimacy, an intimacy which was only possible with Lila, which she both demanded from you and excluded you from with all of her effort.

I felt that I had evidence, proof of her witchcraft. My ruminations on Lila did not frustrate me, they invigorated me. Handling her affairs filled me with vitality. I enjoyed the power, yes, the power, which was all sourced from Lila and which had become my own, a thousand shards embedded in me, to be ripped out when she could no longer stand to be oppressed by my influence. When Lila took my hand and kissed it, when she left behind the sensation of her lips, I felt that rather than delivering a sign, an external assurance of affection, she was instead activating a talisman that existed inside me and jealously calling the shards back to herself.

It was not until I decided to help Lila return to the neighborhood, when I searched for apartments and inquired about her status in the neighborhood, when I learned the news of the Caraccis and the Solaras, only then I did I realize her betrayal. That her friendship with Alfonso, her dominion over Michele, and who knows how many other things, had been kept from me. In all the care she had taken to meticulously diagram out her life for me, she had excluded me from this knowledge, hoarding it inside herself. Alfonso, Michele, all the other things I did not know—they were still important to her, too important for me to be useful in regard to them, and therefore she hid them.

I thought of the notebooks I had pushed over the Solferino bridge. By now they would have disintegrated, dissolved, been carried to the connecting bodies of water. They were out at sea, farther than she and Nino had dared to swim at Ischia, the particles of paper and ink now smaller than the flecks of color that she and Nino had shrunk to. I had achieved what Lila had simultaneously feared and desired most: I had dispersed her, I had taken the order she created in the world, the precision that she captured in her words, and I had scattered it, I had sent it through every body of water and to the ends of the world.

But on that night in San Giovanni a Teduccio and in the days of my investigations in the neighborhood, she had given me nothing physical to hold onto, no paper and ink, no notebooks filled with her person, only the memory of her words and the imagery they evoked. Only the shards in me, to be pulled out one by one like thorns, porcupine quills, splinters, to grind to dust and scatter like ashes. I could not remove Lila from myself the way I could wash her kiss off my hand. Her secrets grew violent inside me and revolted against me.

The humiliating meeting with Professor Galiani was the last straw, the final splinter wedged under my skin.

I left Lila, under the illusion of freedom, numbing myself to the pain and machinations and permutations of Lila inside myself, as if I could remove her shards by simply ignoring them. I went to my wedding, dragged by the hand that reached backwards from the unlucky seventeenth of May, convinced that my own propulsion could be stronger than the force with which Lila would invariably bury herself inside me and claw her way back out once more.

(if you enjoyed this fic, please visit me on ao3!)

#courtesy of my lila obsession #my brilliant friend #the neapolitan novels #l'amica geniale #pocket stash

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decordivadelights · 6 months

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tyrannosaurus-trainwreck · 1 year

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I’m halfway through a goddamn Katya/Sofia fic thanks to this stupid meme edit and I feel like I made a wish on the monkey’s paw. >:(

Katya had been maybe sixteen when she realized that most men wouldn’t waste an opportunity to explain something--anything--to her. She knew why, of course. Her mother had been practical about Katya’s beauty.

“We’re all brothers and sisters under Stalin--” You never knew who was listening, even at home. “--but you have a chance to get a seat closer to the head of the table, if you marry well.”

Explaining things gave even nervous and shy men an opportunity to demand her attention, to keep talking to her.

It had been the thing that first set Goncharov apart, when she’d met him. He’d been ambitious, even then. Cosmopolitan, clever, driven. The import business was lucrative, but dangerous. Give the wrong person too small a bribe, smuggle too much of the wrong thing, come back a little too comfortable with capitalist decadence... there were many ways to fall, doing what Goncharov did. You had to have balls and brains both, and from what she knew he was doing it well. She’d thought he could be a useful contact to cultivate.

“Do you really need me to tell you?” he’d asked, when she’d feigned ignorance about something. “Or is it that you want me to tell you?”

It hadn’t been a transparent ruse; she hadn’t wanted him to think her an idiot. But he’d been watching her as she’d been watching the rest of the room, seen her weighing up her options, charting her course. Their positions had been reversed enough times in the years since--he’d known what she was up to because he’d been up to the same thing. She could see him even now, in her mind’s eye, looking at her and thinking what a pretty, fashionable, social-climbing wife could do for a man in his position.

Katya had been older when she’d recognized, with a startled flash of gratitude, that it worked with women, too. There’d been a freedom in the exercise of that power that she reveled in, a freedom that wasn’t there when she talked to men. She’d felt like a god, like a hypnotist, like a witch from a fairy tale. When it was another woman, she could give anything, take anything, and the next day, it would all be like it had happened in a dream.

It was a technique that worked even better in sun-drenched Naples. Katya barely had to thicken her accent, to make her phrasing a little more stilted, and men would believe practically anything. She could point to a fishing boat and say, “And what is that?” and they would trip over themselves explaining the ocean to her, as if perhaps they didn’t have maps and ships in Russia. It had paid dividends so far around her husband’s new associates--they were careless of the things they said to each other in front of her, provided they said them in Italian.

Sofia was not careless, and Sofia wasn’t in a great hurry to explain anything to Katya, and when the day’s business was done and Katya had a moment to herself, she found that it made her want to tear her hair out. Or perhaps Sofia’s hair.

That would at least break the glacial calm on that porcelain face, bring some expression into those dark eyes. And it would be very satisfying, getting a great fistful of those raven curls and giving them a good hard pull. Sofia might even make some noise, if she did that.

Katya had met commissars with less self-possession than Sofia. If the Italians hadn’t proven themselves inveterate chauvinists time and again, she’d have suspected Sofia of being one of Ambrosini’s assassins, though Goncharov had told her they did things differently here.

“They have a system,” he’d said, when she’d told him she didn’t trust Andrey around him. “Like a machine. If a man wants you dead, the word passes from one man to another until it gets to a man he’s never met, and you’ve never met. That’s the man who kills you--a stranger.”

It was uncivilized, apparently, to kill your own enemies. Katya wondered if they made love the same way.

Katya thought of giving someone a kiss, letting it pass from mouth to mouth until it came to Sofia from a stranger.

“How do they know why a man is dead?” she’d asked. “How do they know who ordered it?”

Goncharov had spread his hands and shrugged, mimicking Andrey’s response whenever someone brought up too many specifics for his taste. “They simply know.”

There was an art to it, in Russia. The giving of absurd alibis, the witnesses who were mistaken. Everyone saw a man or his right hand walk into the home of his enemy, but then when the police came no one had seen it after all. Enough money was paid, and then the police stopped asking. People knew to take you seriously, that you weren’t someone to slight or to cross. People knew there was fire in your blood, that you’d come for them. They knew what it was over, too--after that, they stayed away from your woman, or your money, or your family.

The Italian way seemed little better than putting it in the hands of their fickle god. She might as well go into one of the cathedrals and pray for Sofia to kiss her.

“You’re sulking,” Goncharov told her one morning. She hadn’t been sulking, but she still didn’t trust Andrey, and he was coming over after breakfast. Goncharov forgot sometimes that she could watch him, too. “I’ll call Mario and have him send Sofia over. She can drive you to the market.”

“And get what?” she asked. She was sulking now, just a little bit, because she didn’t like being accused of sulking when she wasn’t, and because she didn’t like the eddy of excitement and disappointment swirling in her belly. She could ride in the back while Sofia drove and look her fill. She could make Sofia carry her bags and translate for the merchants at the stalls. She couldn’t make Sofia pay attention to her. She couldn’t make Sofia look back.

“Whatever you want.” His gaze went to the flowers in their vase at the center of the table, bright, beautiful things unthinkable this time of year back home. “Something you’ll remember, if we can’t come back again. Something to write your mother about.”

Katya stopped sulking. Goncharov was right to keep the possibility of being recalled in mind. There were others who wanted what they had, and it was easier to bend an ear when you were there in person instead of basking in the Mediterranean sun. The Italians had a fickle God; she and Goncharov had a fickle Party.

“Fine.”

By the time she had finished dressing, Sofia was waiting on the front steps. Andrey couldn’t help but stare at Katya when she swept past, that thing she didn’t trust pulling his eyes tight under his thick brows as Goncharov kissed her cheeks. Andrey clasped her hands lightly, a combined greeting and farewell, and the band of her wedding ring shifted under his grasp.

Sofia checked her watch instead of staring when Katya came to the door, and Katya wished petulantly that she could show the same level of detachment. Sofia was dressed well but not extravagantly, and Katya couldn’t help but let her eyes trace the shift of Sofia’s muscles, the sway of her curves, the toss of her hair. Katya had dressed well and extravagantly, all reds and golds against the bright white of her dress, and Sofia found the scratched glass face of her wristwatch just as compelling.

It was infuriating. If Sofia had been Russian, she’d have understood what she was doing. Katya could have done something about it, if Sofia at least understood. They could have fought in the street. Katya could have slapped her and torn her braid and called her something indecent in front of everyone. Katya could have made Sofia hate her, if nothing else.

But no--the Italians did things differently. Katya would just look like a barbarian, and Goncharov would have to smooth things over if they wanted to keep the rubles flowing back to Novorossiysk, and it would either be like it hadn’t happened or retribution would come out of the blue, from nowhere. To not even have the luxury of Sofia’s anger--it was intolerable.

Katya envied the wind that tousled Sofia’s hair on the drive to the market. She should stop making a hell of paradise and tell Goncharov to ask Mario for a different driver. Mario had insisted, when they’d taken the house. The roads in Naples weren’t like Russian roads, he’d said. They needed an experienced hand at the wheel. And it was better for business to make sure the driver was discreet. Mario would arrange for drivers, as their friend.

Katya thought that he sent Sofia to drive them because Mario hadn’t been able to take his eyes off her that first night when they’d met over dinner, and he thought that what he couldn’t do, no man could do. Mario didn’t want trouble, not the unpredictable kind of trouble. Not over a driver. Katya didn’t know if it was because Italian women didn’t know how to love or if it was because Italian men ignored love affairs between women the same way Russian men did. Or maybe Mario just knew Sofia.

The market was drowsy and quiet when they arrived, and Katya tried to imagine what the streets in Leningrad looked like now. It had been such a long time since she’d been home. There wouldn’t be flowers now, she was certain of that. Her gaze fell on a patch of vivid red. Or pomegranates.

She remembered the first time her mother had given her one. She hadn’t known the trick for opening them yet, but she’d wanted the seeds so badly. She’d ripped it open with her hands, precious tart juice staining her nails and running down her arms. Her father had laughed and called her his little lioness before giving her a knife to do it properly.

Katya hesitated, hand resting on the plumpest one in the pile. There had to be limits to even Sofia’s stoicism.

“What sort of apple is this?” she asked, picking it up and turning it over.

“Apple?” Sofia asked slowly. She was probably trying to decide if Katya had said the wrong word or if Katya was playing a joke on her.

A joke, of sorts, but Katya would never admit it. “Da. What sort of apple? The skin is so thick. Do you need a special knife to pare it, as you do with your cheeses?”

“It’s not an apple.”

“Then what, if not an apple?” Katya tossed it in her hand, demonstrating its firmness. A persimmon of the same hardness would be vile, completely inedible. Her gold bracelet flashed on her wrist as her hand moved.

“It’s a pomegranate.”

“A what?”

“A pomegranate,” Sofia repeated, irritation creeping into her voice.

“What do you do with them?”

“You cut them open and eat the seeds.”

Katya picked out a half dozen and paid the boy minding the stall. After that it was easy enough to keep going. She knew what Goncharov would like. Fresh white bread. Some sort of exotic hard cheese ripened in caves by the sea, made with the milk of goats fed on herbs and sweet grasses by the same family since the time of the Romans. Jam from fruit that you couldn’t get in Moscow, wine that tasted like herbs grown in the sun, flowers that could fill a room with their perfume.

Time was fleeting, and fortune was more mercurial even than God or the Party. What point was there in denying yourself when someday the memory of past pleasures would be all you had left? She and Goncharov understood each other in that respect. They understood, too, that there were things a person could do to put a thumb on the scale and maybe keep fortune by their side longer.

“What sort of wine does Signore Ambrosini like?”

“I don’t know.” Sofia shrugged around the bags. “He doesn’t drink when he’s conducting business.”

Katya had a moment to think that it was perhaps Sofia’s turn to play the game, then dismissed the thought. Sofia’s attention was already on the next stall.

“Not even when things are concluded?”

“No.”

Katya tried to imagine it. It was a bad idea to get too drunk, even once things were agreed on and the papers were signed. Tempers could get out of hand, words misunderstood. But not drinking at all would be like spitting in a man’s face.

“Doesn’t that get in the way of doing business?” she asked. How could a man trust a business partner who wouldn’t even drink with him? A man who thought he was too good to share your vodka would never honor a bargain with you.

“Not that I’ve seen. It’s more professional.” Sofia shrugged again, paper rustling at the movement. “He doesn’t say anything he doesn’t mean to say. Keeps his temper.”

Katya shook her head at that. Perhaps being bred in the peninsula’s warmth let the people cultivate a certain cold-bloodedness. If they tried it in Russia, they’d freeze solid and break apart like a sheet of ice on a window pane.

#goncharov #unreality #katya/sofia #part one

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