#it's like... going back to your mob boss without his beloved wife

[adhd-merlin]

that time the knights were escorting Gwen through the woods, had her kidnapped from under their noses, decided to go back to Camelot anyway and, when Arthur enquired about his wife's whereabouts, went: "yeah, about that..."

[melis-writes]

Moth to Flame [Michael Corleone x Reader series, 18+ Smut] Oneshot – My One and Only.

Read on AO3 / Chapter Masterlist. / Fic Playlist.

Oneshot based in 1957 (canon year of the fic's storyline).

"I guess I couldn’t let you and Michael enjoy the party all alone." / "I just made sure she was afraid of decomposing in the back of somebody’s car anytime soon so that’s why she kept her distance."

1957 marks seven years of prosperity at the Tropigala, a casino-resort under the Corleone family's ownership. Flying into Las Vegas to celebrate the milestone with Michael, all eyes and cameras are on the both of you alongside a luxurious welcome. As a time to relax and enjoy the weekend getaway with your husband, you look forward to the entertainment the celebration has to offer with excitement until you come across an unwanted and uninvited guest. It's been two years since you've last seen Rita Duvall–Fredo's past favourite ex-cocktail waitress, dancer, singer, actress and notorious mobster seductress. Two years ago, Rita was serenading Michael for his attention until threatened off by you, and this time she knows she can get a reaction out of you that you won't exactly be able to live down.

[WARNINGS]: Heavy, rough smut / Love marks & hickies / Oral sex / Dirty talk.

[AUTHOR'S NOTE]: Requested by a beloved anon as a prompt, I accidentally found myself making this into a full sized oneshot! 😳 Oops. 😅 Just loved the idea of a jealous Victoria, mentions of trust issues due to Michael's lies in the past and reassurance play the central themes here in this oneshot! For those of you wondering, I've included the idea/concept of Victoria's evening dress and day dress she wears in this oneshot HERE, whereas you guys remember the scene of Michael "eating" that orange in the second film? 🥵 That's his whole look from head to toe here. 🥴 I've included plenty of Michael GIFs to get everyone's imagination going this oneshot and as anon requested, the best angry sex Michael and Victoria have ever had is in this oneshot!!

1949. Your name is Victoria Ferrari, and you’re the only daughter of one of the most powerful mafia families in New York—the Ferrari’s. When the Ferrari family began to gain heavy influence and power, it struck a power imbalance with the Corleone’s. To bind the families together as one in an offering of peace, friendship and business, you are to be married to their youngest son, Michael Corleone. As you ensnare yourself in the life of a mob wife by Michael’s side, what you don’t know is his old ties with Kay Adams, your best friend from Dartmouth, and that he returned from Sicily a widower. A ruthless mob boss to be, you unravel Michael’s dark past and the brutality that has changed his personality. You find yourself adapting to your new life, betrayed by those you love most, and in high profile to Ferrari and Corleone family enemies. Falling deeply in love with Michael, you enter a life and marriage filled with secrets and darkness. Bearing his children, supporting his crime empire and following him into the shadows, you’re unable to deny your passion and desire to the new Don. When it comes to Michael Corleone, you are but a moth to a flame.

[ Las Vegas, 1957 ]

“I feel like with each annual celebration, it just gets more and more grandiose just to impress you.” You giggle, hugging Michael’s arm as the two of you enter the Tropigala accompanied by Ritchie Nobilio and Al Neri for security.

“Consider me impressed,” Michael says back sarcastically, wrapping his arm around your waist as photography cameras instantly begin to flash in both of your faces.

For the sake of publicity knowing you’ll both be on the front pages without a doubt tomorrow morning from attending such an event as the owners of the Tropigala, you and Michael stop by the photographs and allow them to snap a few pictures.

There are all smiles from your end as photographers call, “Mrs. Corleone, over here!”, “gorgeous dress tonight, Mrs. Corleone!”, and “welcome, Mr. and Mrs. Corleone!” amidst other humble requests for photographs at different angles.

It only takes one nasty “that’s enough” look from both Al and Ritchie for the photographs to finish up and step back, allowing you and Michael to comfortably enter the dining hall. 

“Johnny Fontane, all of his dancers, more performers…” You point out, letting your eyes wander over the band stage in awe, “ooh, fancy, fancy.”

“Johnny wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Michael only turns his head to the side to spot Johnny in the midst of singing a melodic tune to a crowd of admirers at the very front of the stage.

“He renewed his contract with us?” You ask, walking with Michael towards the VIP section of the dining hall where your reserved table is with Michael.

‘Us.’ It can’t please Michael more to hear you refer to the Corleone family business as “us” and not just Michael and his brothers. You are a Corleone wife after all.

“He did,” Michael confirms, letting his hand linger over your waist before the two of you part and sit across from each other at the reserved table. “And he’s been renewing it for the past seven years—him and his friends from the movies both.”

“Mm, that sounds like Johnny alright.” You smile at Michael, propping up your elbows on the edge of the table and resting your chin over the back of your hands. “He’s made the Tropigala his own world.”

“Brings him and brings us good publicity, just as Pop would have wanted it.” Michael relaxes in his seat, smoothening out his black mohair suit before pulling out a pack of cigarettes and his cold encased lighter. “We’ll see him soon tonight.”

“And until then…” You peek down at the menu card placed in front of you on the table, eyeing tonight’s refreshments and meals. “We’ll make the best of everything.”

“If you want anything changed or substituted, let me know, darling.” Michael gestures to the menu, taking a cigarette out of his pack. 

“Did you have a say in this?” A playful smile forms over your lips as you read French champagne, a bottle of Barolo—Italian red wine—from 1931 from the refreshments list alone.

“Our presence has a say in this.” Michael glances towards the menu. “They want to impress us through everything tonight and more so in specific, you.”

“Me?” You blush, meeting Michael’s eyes again. “And not the illustrious Don Corleone who owns the very building we’re in?”

“Depends who you ask.” Michael puts his cigarette in the corner of his mouth, opening the cover of his lighter. “All eyes are always on you during events like this and I’m always aware. Everyone wants to see Mrs. Corleone.”

“By everyone, I hope you mean just them.” You chuckle, turning your head towards a photographer who snaps another picture of the two of you sitting before Al almost swats the camera out of his hands.

“I won’t let them bother us tonight, darling.” Michael lights his cigarette, taking a small drag. “And we’ll be in our hotel room before the end of the event. Johnny’s estimated to perform until at least 2 AM.”

“Fine by me.” Your cheeks sting with blush as you watch Michael smoke his cigarette across from you; his eyes still over yours and his plush lips holding onto the end of his cigarette as he blows out smoke underneath him. 

“Mr. and Mrs. Corleone,” a waiter approaches your table with a polite smile, extending his tray towards the table before setting down two glasses of sparkling water, two flutes of champagne, and two empty wine glasses with the bottle of Barolo.

“Thank you.” You show your appreciation towards the waiter as he pulls off the cork on your wine, beginning to fill both your and Michael’s glasses halfway through.

Michael remains quiet, continuing to smoke until the waiter sets the wine bottle down on the table and walks back off into the dining hall—leaving you and Michael alone.

“Before I get a good start though,” you chuckle, eyeing the champagne and wine—wondering which you should have a little taste of first—“would you excuse me for just a moment, baby? Going to use the restroom.”

“Of course.” Michael nods back at you, holding his cigarette in between two fingers. “I won’t have our dinner service start until you get back.”

“Don’t miss me too much.” You tease, rising from your seat and smoothening out your dress before grabbing your clutch purse.

You head out of the dining hall and make your way to the women's washroom nearby, adjusting your diamond earrings at the same time.

Humming quietly to yourself, you push open the doors and instantly pick up on the scent of sanitation, perfume, and general cleanliness in the marble-decorated and spacious bathroom.

You glance to your left towards the stalls only to see one is occupied before moving towards the grand set of mirrors by the sinks.

You set your purse down next to you and open it, reaching in to grab your favorite crimson red lipstick.

You pull off the cover of your lipstick, lean in towards the mirror, and apply a light yet fresh layer over your lips to perfect your pout before the majority of the celebration for tonight begins.

You hear a flush of the toilet from the preoccupied stall behind you and only a few seconds pass by before the door is pushed open.

You continue minding your own business, pressing your lips against one another and double-checking how your lipstick appears under the light—completely unaware of who else is in the washroom with you.

Rita Duvall, notorious for her private performances, exotic dancing, and singing amongst many other vibrant talents around Mafiosi and corrupt businessmen and lawmakers alike, steps out of the bathroom stall in a satiny, scarlet-draped dress.

Out of your line of sight, you remain satisfied with your makeup for tonight and lean back—twisting your lipstick back down before clasping the cover on it and putting it back into your purse.

Rita doesn’t need to approach the sinks to know you’re here in the washroom with her; she knew it the moment she heard a pair of stilettos accompanied by your favorite, signature floral perfume she’s only ever smelt on you.

Still, you’re preoccupied with the items in your purse, now grabbing out your perfume and setting it down on the counter just as Rita begins to approach the sink next to you.

“Well, well, Victoria Ferrari Corleone.” A wry smirk grows over Rita’s lips as she sets her matching red gloves on the counter. “Not so much of a surprise now, is it?”

“Rita,” you acknowledge—instantly annoyed but hiding it over your expression and body language very well as you glance at her. “I could say the same for you.”

“Expected me, hmm?” Rita turns on the sink tap, beginning to rinse off her hands. “I guess I couldn’t let you and Michael enjoy the party all alone. Who else would provide the entertainment?”

“Johnny Fontane is doing just fine in terms of tonight’s entertainment.” You reply, diverting your attention back down to your perfume bottle.

“Oh, I’m aware.” Rita chuckles, lathering soap over her hands. “I’m hoping I get a moment to speak with him tonight, I think the Tropigala would be very lucrative for my career.”

“If you think you can just ‘show up’ to one of my casinos, resorts or hotels to ‘perform’ and have it your way, you’re very wrong.” You state, spraying some perfume over your collarbones.

“Oh, it’s yours now?” Rita throws her head back in laughter. “Don’t make me laugh.”

“You’d be surprised.” You’re not phased by her immature antics, putting down your perfume bottle. “It’s public record. Even a waste of talent like you could ask one of your mobster boyfriends for some proof.”

“Hmm, yeah.” Rita washes off her hands, turning off the sink tap. “Maybe you’re right about that. I should ask my newest one about it as soon as I can—that husband of yours. Michael fucked me so good last week, after all, I should really catch up with him.”

Holding back any reaction whatsoever, you place your perfume bottle back inside of your purse, but can already feel the tips of your ears and the nape of your neck prickle hot at Rita’s words.

Rita lies to you on purpose—she hasn’t been able to personally approach Michael let alone go anywhere near him since the family celebration you two held at the compound over two years ago, but anything to get a reaction out of you when it comes to Michael more than pleases Rita.

“In what, your wildest dreams?” You roll your eyes, smoothening out your hair. “Another fantasy of yours?”

“You wish, sweetheart.” 

Rita holds up her wet, left hand in front of you—pointing to her empty ring finger. “Maybe I’ll be just as lucky as you one day, dazzled out in diamonds and custom-made perfume. Michael’s told me how much he wants to spoil me.”

“You’re pathetic.” You close your purse, holding it between your arm. “And clearly in need of some help. Those daydreams of yours are starting to heavily impact the intelligence you barely have.”

“Aww, are you jealous of me, sweetheart?” Rita puts one hand on her hip, facing you. “Upset that your husband, your brothers, in-laws, and all can’t get enough of me? Am I taking the spotlight away from you just a little too much?”

“I don’t even waste my time thinking of someone as low as you.” You begin to walk past her, “and if I were you, I’d behave instead of acting like a spoiled brat obsessed with storytime. I own the building and my security knows what to do with unwanted guests and their chatty mouths.”

“No amount of fancy perfume you wear is going to mask out my scent on Michael, Victoria,” Rita calls out behind you as you begin to exit the washroom. “And you can wear all the pretty lipstick you want but every time you kiss him, you taste my pussy on his mouth.”

Frustrated to no avail and almost shaking with anger, you pull yourself together and take a deep breath—making it your sole mission just to get back to the dining hall before you decide to redecorate the Tropigala’s washroom with red.

‘Why the hell is she even here? Whose the one planning all this ‘entertainment’ and having that woman at our hotel?’

Before you even get back to your reserved table with Michael, you approach your personal bodyguard—Ritchie Nobilio—at the end of the dining hall whom you don’t bother to greet but rather hand him your purse.

“Mrs. Corleone.” Ritchie blinks, holding onto your purse.

“I’m going up to my hotel room now.” You state firmly, making it clear to Ritchie that nothing can change your mind. “You can let Michael know, and tell him he can continue the dinner service and eat here by himself.”

“Right.” Ritchie frowns, clearing his throat. “Will do, Mrs. Corleone.” He reaches into the pocket of his dress suit, handing you his spare key to the hotel room. 

Without another word or glance to Ritchie, you take the key out of his hand and walk out to the hallway as quickly as you came out of it to get to the hotel suites.

‘If she’s planning on going near Michael tonight and he lets her, who am I to interrupt or do something? I’m done, I’m sick and I’m tired of these party tricks.’ 

You want to be better than your anger but when it comes to Rita Duvall, everything hits a personal nerve. 

‘This woman only stays in Nevada just to spite me. There’s nothing she does but spite me and let her sick fantasies roam free in her head about my husband. That’s it. That’s all there is to it, and I’m supposed to believe Michael isn’t aware?’

This woman has the ability to be where you are because although you detest her and Michael could care less about her, she’s a pretty little thing your brothers and brothers-in-law are used to seeing, and Mafiosi from the other crime families love the comfort of a charismatic, beautiful woman surrounding them.

‘I want an explanation as to why the hell Rita’s here and I want it from Michael—nobody else. Has he seen her? Has he? I wouldn’t be surprised.’

You’ve seen all of Rita’s dirty, cheap tricks and it isn’t uncommon knowledge she’s an escort too—something you could care less about but she’s been in Fredo’s bed on more than one occasion while he was married to Deana and it’s how Rita’s always been able to get favors and gifts. 

“You taste my pussy on his mouth!” 

Something like that affects the family in the worst kind of potential scandal possible, and you know Rita does it because she can and to purposefully spite you, knowing you get jealous over Michael, but Deanna never had a shred of jealousy towards Fredo.

‘Michael wasn’t with me last week.’ You pick up your pace, just glad nobody else is in the surrounding hallways as you get onto the elevator. ‘He was at a business meeting with Don Cuneo in Reno. Another casino-resort. Do I have to guess who was there too?’

“Michael fucked me so good last week after all.”

“Mr. Corleone?” Ritchie approaches your reserved table, catching Michael’s attention. “Sir, I wanted to inform you Mrs. Corleone is retiring for tonight back to your hotel room.”

“What?” Michael stares at Ritchie, unamused. “And her reason?”

“She just approached me and wanted me to notify you, sir. She didn’t give me a reason.” Ritchie gestures to your purse in his hands. “She was visibly upset and didn’t want to return back here for the dinner service either.”

Michael’s eyes flicker around the dining hall as his shoulders tense up. “Did you give her one of the suite keys?”

“Yes, I did.” Ritchie answers. 

“Stay here.” Michael gets up from his seat, looking towards the end of the dining hall. “I’m going to go see her.”

“If anyone questions your absence, sir?” Ritchie stands next to Michael’s empty seat.

“You can tell them to stop asking questions they aren’t entitled to.” With that, Michael turns on his heel and comes out of the dining hall undetected—going towards the hotel suites. 

This isn’t a “convince me to come back downstairs” type of anger you feel but one of the only times you feel is too much of a difficult mood to get out of.

As soon as you got up to your hotel room, you kicked off your heels and went straight for the bedroom where you slipped out of your black, cocktail dress and took off your full set of jewelry with your hands shaking in anger.

Before Michael made his way to the suite room, you pulled on your bathrobe—otherwise just in your matching black bra, panties, stockings, and garter belt and fixed yourself a glass of sparkling water.

Having wiped off all of your makeup and now sitting on the edge of the king-size bed with your back towards the door, you mentally scold yourself for feeling so upset and off the edge from Rita trying to get a clear reaction out of you.

Knowing you’re inside and otherwise waiting for a reaction out of Michael this time (or so he assumes), Michael calmly approaches the suite door and unlocks it with his key before stepping inside.

You hear Michael enter and ignore him—your mood already ruined, your expression glum as you stare into your glass of sparkling water with a million questions buzzing in your head that rotate around one in particular: what the hell does this woman want with me and my husband?

With your back turned to Michael, you can hear him enter but you don’t turn to look at him even though his eyes are on you. 

“Wish you’d join me downstairs for the night we were supposed to celebrate together,” Michael speaks, stepping out of his dress shoes.

“I’m not in the mood to be convinced.” You mumble back, sipping your drink. “But don’t let me ruin your evening.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, you do no such thing.” Michael approaches the doorway of the bedroom. “You left me downstairs and now I find you up here. Ritchie won’t give me any reasons why and so we’re back to playing the guessing game.”

“No, we’re not.” You narrow your eyes, turning to face Michael. “You know why I’m here.”

“Victoria, to be frank with you, darling, no, I don’t.” Michael eyes your bathrobe and your dress for the evening hung up by the closet. “What exactly could happen to you for a few moments in the restroom for you to storm off like this?”

“I’d ask myself the same thing, but I know better.” You scoff, “your favorite plaything approached me in the washroom—that’s what happened.”

“My…what?” Michael furrows his brows. 

“Rita Duvall, Michael.” You snap, “come on, seriously? You didn’t see her at all here?”

“No.” Michael stares back at you. “I wasn’t under the impression she would even be here, to begin with.”

“Must be your special invite.” You roll your eyes, almost spilling your drink entirely when setting it down on the nightstand. “Because she definitely seemed invited, very grateful to you which was all she talked about. Why do we even need to have this talk? Why do I have to repeat to you that I DON’T want to see that woman?!”

“You don’t,” Michael answers plainly, stepping into the bedroom. “As I said, I wasn’t aware of her presence here although I’m not surprised.”

“You’re not surprised?” You scoff, crossing your arms. “Of course, you’re not.”

“I mean our invited guests are allowed to bring one other person with them. You can play your guessing game with which mobster decided to take her out to the best hotel-casino in Nevada.” Michael shrugs off his suit jacket, neatly setting it aside. “There’s your explanation, though I’d hope you wouldn’t let your anger have you jump to other conclusions.”

“God, Michael…” You shake your head in disbelief, “why are you talking down to me like this? You think my reactions are unwarranted?”

“I do because it seems to me like petty jealousy.” Michael stands by the foot of the bed. “I don’t know this woman, I don’t speak to her, I don’t go near her, and yet when you hear her name or you see her, you become—”

“I become what?” You interrupt, your eyes challenging Michael. 

“You become jealous.” Michael finishes his sentence. “And that’s why I believe your reactions are unwarranted. They make no sense, they’re not based on any foundation.”

“I guess I was just dreaming at our family party at Tahoe when she came to rub your shoulders and serenade you.” Your eyes begin to sting with tears. “How she sang to you, kept her eyes all over you no matter where she was and now she walks up to me in the restroom and tells me how good you fucked her last week, how every time I kiss you, I taste her pussy on your mouth?”

A look of disgust crosses over Michael’s face, but it’s not at all enough to convince you. “I’m tired, Michael! I’m tired!” Your voice breaks. “And yes, I AM jealous! I am! I am because I love you because I don’t want to share you! I want to be selfish with you because you’re my husband, my life partner, my best friend, and the father to my children. Why would I want some sleazy whore getting comfortable with you? Thinking she can show up to our parties just like that? Talk so casually about having sex with you. You give absolutely no reaction and you leave me without answers—I don’t know who to believe anymore!” 

You throw your hands up in the air, getting off the bed. “What do I have to do?! Do I have to threaten to leave you again so you stop fucking playing around with this ex-cocktail waitress?”

“You’re accusing me of cheating on you?” Michael scowls at you. “Start listening to the things that are coming out of your mouth, Victoria, and don’t make me repeat myself.”

“I’ll do you a favor instead!” You burst out into tears, pointing a shaky finger at Michael. “Because believe me, a divorce would make for a much less impactful scandal than if you’re caught and on the front page with your face buried between Rita’s—”

“ENOUGH!” Michael snaps, slamming his hand down on the dresser next to him as hard as he can. “Enough! I won’t hear any more of this! I’m not cheating on you. I never have and I never will—what part of that is so difficult for you to comprehend, Victoria?!” Michael lunges towards you, grabbing your hands into his. “What have I done that even I’m not aware of that’s abused your trust? Hmm? I wish I knew for once why it’s so easy for you to accuse me without any proof.”

“You wouldn’t leave p-proof,” you hiccup, beginning to sob.

Although seven years have passed, when it comes to women like Rita Duvall, the concept of jealousy, the fact you know your brothers themselves whored around before they settled down, and Michael’s own brothers continuing to be unfaithful to their wives after years of marriage mix in with the bitter memory of when you thought you were Michael’s “other woman”, being cheated on when you discovered Michael kept his first marriage away from you.

Your trust issues and fear of being cheated on spike up when all of those memories come to mind and make you think: how am I any different than these poor women who experienced unfaithfulness?

“That’s not your real reason, is it?” Michael looks you in the eye. “What is it, Victoria? What actually has you so dead set against me from the beginning?”

“Your brothers cheat.” You croak out, noticing confusion in Michael’s expression. “They cheat… All of them e-except Tom and he isn’t even—” You hiccup again, “they cheat all the t-time and it’s become so normalized I forget it’s even happening in f-front of my own eyes. I’m surrounded by it and this woman is obsessed with you—who am I not to be cheated on, Michael? Tell me!”

Michael lets out a soft sigh, not indicating he’s just about done having this conversation with you nor is Michael going to go off on a tangent to explain to you that he’s aware of his brothers’ promiscuity and cheating habits but he’s a different person altogether.

No, Michael understands exactly where you’re coming from and what you mean. 

Just as you remembered the fear that gnawed over your heart when you assumed for just a moment that Michael was being unfaithful to you when you discovered his wedding photographs with Apollonia, Michael is still aware the memory remains bitter; it stings and it made the topic of faithfulness and cheating extra sensitive for you.

“You’re my wife.” Michael reaffirms, giving your hands a gentle squeeze. “You aren’t just somebody out there and you never will be. Do you think women like Rita challenge that? Change that? Who is she to stand before a woman like you? Do you ever think about that?”

You sniffle, remaining quiet and gazing into Michael’s eyes as you begin to feel the warmth of reassurance.

“I love you, Victoria,” Michael states, looking you in the eyes. “I love you and only you and that’s why I only want to deserve having a woman like you as my life partner. Last week I was in Vegas, yes,” he nods, “but I was with Don Cuneo at his private residence. We only visited another one of our establishments briefly. Photographs were taken at both places and there was no entertainment. Not a chance anyone else would be there—Rita or not. I can prove this to you easily. I can have a third party prove it to you too if you don’t want to hear it from me.”

You let out a deep, shaky sigh, nodding glumly at your husband. “A-and what about that first time? When she was at our estate performing and…” You grit your teeth, feeling a rush of anger accompanying your jealousy. “Singing to you, touching you.”

“Victoria, it was nothing.” Michael shakes his head as you let go of his hands. “It’s what she does, that’s how she gains attention. I ignored her, gave her no attention whatsoever, and then she left—”

“No, she didn’t!” You raise your voice, breaking into tears again. “She only backed away because I threatened her afterward, otherwise why wouldn’t she return to serenade the Don—the man who hired her band—and give him extra attention all throughout the night?! I just made sure she was afraid of decomposing in the back of somebody’s car anytime soon so that’s why she kept her distance. Don’t you ever lie to me!” You point an accusing finger at Michael. “Don’t you ever lie and say that you ‘ignoring’Rita’s antics was the reason why she avoided you. Because you didn’t do anything in the first place, she’s now vocally fantasizing about fucking you!”

“Victoria, for the love of God what do you want me to do about that now? What in all honesty can do or say to change all of this for you? Tell me something.” Michael begins to grow irritated.

You wipe your tears off of your cheeks, shaking your head. “Nothing. Nothing… It’s all done and over with now as you said anyway. Just nothing.”

“You’re not upset about that or what happened today.” Michael takes a step towards you as you turn your back on him. “You’re jealous. I know you.”

“Yeah, I bet you do.” You hiccup, saying so sarcastically. “Maybe I am… So just let me be jealous in peace if it bothers you so much.”

“It doesn’t.” Michael places both of his hands over your hips, pressing his chest against your back. “You don’t think I feel the same way when I see how men flirt with you? How their greedy eyes look all over you?”

“You’d never admit to being jealous.” Your tears stop as you continue wiping your face off with your hands.

“I would admit to being a lot of things.” Michael embraces you from behind, pushing back a curtain of your hair over your shoulder to kiss the nape of your neck. “You’re not upset with me right now. That’s completely different. We don’t have to go back downstairs, you know.” Michael’s hand feels at the plush fabric of your bathrobe.

‘God…’ You mentally scold yourself for finding yourself instantly aroused by Michael’s touch and his breathy, low voice speaking to you now.

“You want attention, that’s all.” Michael’s already got you and your jealous fits figured out. “You have me here with you, so why not admit to that too?”

“Mm, I don’t think so.” Feeling like you’re the one calling the shots tonight, you pull away from Michael’s embrace and shrug off your bathrobe, letting it fall off your shoulders and to the floor.

Michael’s eyes instantly dart up and down your body, admiring every inch of you from top to bottom—especially paying attention to the way your garter belt adorns your thighs, how the silky smooth fabric of your stockings shines under the bedroom light, and the lace of your bra and panties clinging to your skin.

“I already have my own ways of relaxation for tonight.” You clear your throat quietly, purposefully crawling over the bed to tease Michael and give him a full view of your ass. “Since you don’t want me—"

“Who said I don’t want you?” Michael instantly presses one knee down on the bed, grabbing you by your hips as you squeal out before he pins you face down on the bed. “Hmm?”

“I don’t know.” You hide your grin against the bedsheets, arching your back against Michael’s growing erection. “Maybe you were just showing me it all evening.”

“Not a chance.” Michael grips a fistful of your hair, yanking your head back abruptly but not enough to hurt. “Trying to tease me now because you want the attitude fucked out of you?”

“You don’t deserve me.” You tease, reaching your hands back to teasingly inch off your panties.

“I think—” Michael almost tears off your panties entirely, throwing them off your ankles. “You’re just begging to have the attitude fucked out of you.”

“Definitely don’t deserve me—ooh!” You let out a soft moan as Michael gives both of your thighs a firm smack, running his hands in between them.

“You and your attitude—” Michael keeps you pinned onto the bed by pressing his hand onto your back with one while he unbuckles his belt with the other. “Are only going to get you so fucking far, Victoria.”

“Try me.” You challenge, looking over your shoulder for a split second to see Michael’s fully erect cock spring out of his dress trousers.

“Shut up.” Michael turns your face away from him much to your pleasure before raising your hips up to his waist. “You don’t think I know all of your little dirty tricks?”

“I think you’re more jealous than me.” You say back, gripping onto the bedsheets.

“Say that again.” Michael presses his shaft against your pussy, feeling its dewiness drip over his cock as he pushes it in between the lips of your heat.

“Oh—” Your eyes snap open, feeling intense arousal crawling through your skin. “I w-will.”

“I don’t think so, not like this.” Michael eyes your body as your thighs begin to shake a little over the bed; he’s barely done anything to you yet and you’re already throbbing and extremely turned on.

In truth, you’ve absolutely no desire to fight back against Michael but rather want to get the attitude fucked out of you over and over again under Michael’s dominance—the best way he can make up anything to you tonight.

“Say it.” Michael grips your face roughly, tilting your chin up but he doesn’t give you the chance to reply as his lips crush over yours in a sloppy kiss.

Droplets of precum begin to slick down Michael’s shaft as he bucks his hips, teasingly pressing the tip of his cock against your pulsating clit.

“Mmm,” you let out a muffled moan, unable to answer Michael.

“Can’t talk back to me now, huh?” An aggressive and demanding Michael is more than welcome to you now.

Michael pulls back, spreading your ass cheeks apart with both hands before leaning his head down and breathing hotly over your sensitive clit. “Talk. You want this, don’t you?”

“Mmmmm, yes!” Your knuckles turn white from how harshly you clutch the bedsheets. “D-deserve it! B-because you don’t deserve it!”

“You don’t think I deserve you?” Michael narrows his eyes, refusing to wait for a reaction or reply of any kind.

Instead, taking you by surprise, Michael plants a sloppy, full-mouthed kiss over your clit—suckling over it.

“Oh, YES!” You cry out, clasping a hand over your mouth almost instantly.

Ignoring you, Michael clutches harshly onto your ass to keep your legs spread—the feeling of his warm, wet tongue licking over your clit sending sparks of pleasure inside you.

You pull your hand off your mouth, rolling your eyes back to feel Michael’s mouth slobbering over your pussy and lapping up your wetness with his tongue.

‘Worth. It!’ Whiny little moans escape your lips as Michael doesn’t relent in his pace, now grinding his tongue and lips against your sex.

“M-Michael, Michael—” Face flushed scarlet and moaning out your husband’s name as your body begs for more, Michael keeps his teasing at it should be—sweet and short.

Michael parts his tongue away from your pussy slowly, a string of spit separating from his mouth before he 

pulls you back over to him by your hips. “What was that? Hmm?”

“Maybe you should…” You breathe out, looking back over your shoulder to challenge him once more. “Just give up already. Go and fuck Rita—do yourself a favor and leave me alone so I can go find someone else—”

Michael clasps his hand over your mouth, instantly silencing you as he scowls. “Shut the fuck up.”

Not only does his irritation build from how serious your tone of voice sounds but also from how difficult you’ve been acting towards him. 

“You think that’s what I fucking want, hmm?” Michael roughly shakes your face, bucking his hips up instantly and impaling your pussy with his cock.

“Mm!” You moan loudly against Michael’s hand before he pins the side of your face onto the bed—still keeping his hand right over your mouth to keep you quiet.

“Find someone else?” Michael grunts, thrusting deep inside of you with no mercy—pushing all eight inches of him in. “I’ll teach you to listen to listen to the things that come out of your fucking mouth.”

‘Oh fuck, yes.’ Desperate to feel Michael’s cock going in and out of you, you push your hips back against his but you’re easily overpowered by the position he has you in.

“I’m going to ruin you,” Michael breathes out, gripping your ass and slamming into you again and again.

The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room as Michael’s cologne and your perfume mix around one another, accompanied by the scent of sex.

Just from the angle Michael fucks your pussy in roughly, you can already feel a powerful orgasm being coaxed out of you.

As you peek back at Michael, you only meet his narrowed eyes and as if to punish you for looking back, Michael instantly picks up his ruthless pace while fucking you.

“You’re mine.” Michael leans down, hissing in your ear before wrapping a firm hand around your throat. “Mine.”

Not even halfway through being fucked into a state of bliss, you’re already feeling the heights of euphoria have the best angry sex of your life with Michael.

Michael feels your pussy humming and clenching against him as your orgasm continues to build still fucking the ever-living life out of you by the minute.

The bed begins to shake, causing the headboard to rattle against the wall as Michael pounds into your pussy like a wild animal over and over again.

Your moans grow louder and more desperate, calling out Michael’s name several times to feel more and more.

Fucking you like a ragdoll fully under his dominance, Michael notices how your ass cheeks redden from hitting his hips at such a rough and quick pace. “You want this, huh? You fucking love it. You love being fucked like a dirty whore!”

“Y-yes!” You can barely even nod back at Michael, only focused on how your body begs for his cock to fill your hole again. 

“Every other man can fucking dream,” Michael slams in and out of you mercilessly, “because you’re mine, and nobody else will get to do this to you.”

You shriek out, brought to loud and uncontrollable moans. “Please, please!”

Michael’s hair once neatly slicked back comes apart from the heat and friction surrounding you two; his hair now begins to curl against the sweat forming on his forehead. “Now she knows how to beg, huh? How sweet.”

Ignoring your pleas for more, Michael raises your ass upwards and watches his cock slick in and out of you as fast as his hips can possibly thrust. 

“Fucking. Whore!” A low moan comes from Michael who jerks his hips and hits your G-Spot consecutively. “You love taking in my cock, don’t you? This is how you wanted me to shut you up?”

Being fucked into nothing but pure bliss, you gasp out and curl your toes in response to feeling Michael cum inside you—still refusing to slow his thrusts.

“Just as you should be.” Michael squeezes the sides of your throat, “filled with my fucking cum, thinking over everything you said twice.”

Just the sight of Michael dominating you and taking control from behind turns you on like none other—now grabbing onto the headboard to hammer inside of you.

“Gonna cum! I’m g-gonna cum!” Your eyes prickle up with tears from how good every sensation flowing inside of you is.

The very mention of your orgasm approaching causes Michael to fuck you even harder, as rough as he can be—turning him into a wild man. 

“Who would have known—” Michael breathes, hearing his cock sloshing into your pussy. “That the little slut needed my cock to shut her up?”

“Mmmm!” You let out a weak, out-of-breath giggle. 

“You love arguing with me, I know you do.” Michael pushes your face back down on the bed, taking all of his sexual frustrations out on you. “Now you can’t get a single word out, can you?”

Having Michael constantly in his state of stern calmness and coldness to all fucking you this rough, sloppy, and relentless is heavenly and only adds to how severely aroused you are.

The pressure of your orgasm builds up in your gut almost unbearably so; your clit is engorged from being stimulated as Michael’s manhood comes in contact with it with each thrust. 

Your breasts bounce against the bedsheets as Michael becomes so lost in you that he’s thrusting harder than ever without losing his rhythm, now utterly oblivious to his surroundings or anything else.

Unable to take any more of your orgasm edging with Michael cumming inside of you a second time, you scream out Michael’s name as you cock your head back and feel your orgasm rush through you.

Michael licks over his lips, keeping you pressed up against his body to ride out your orgasm as your thighs shake uncontrollably against Michael. “Did I say you could cum?”

“M-Michaellllll,” you whine, feeling both of Michael’s hands cupping your breasts. “I-I couldn’t—”

“Couldn’t what?” Michael tilts your chin to face him directly, looking you in the eye. “Couldn’t do what you were told?”

“Oh?” You giggle, clutching onto Michael’s shoulders and holding in your whimpers as his cock is still buried deep inside of you. “You’re gonna punish me for that too?”

“What use is a punishment if you beg for it?” Michael squeezes your breasts together. “You like being fucked this hard, you like edging out your orgasm, and you love getting spanked.”

“That doesn’t stop you, does it, Don Corleone?” Attempting to catch your breath, you let yourself fall back on the bed with Michael’s arm around your waist.

“Don’t say stupid shit like that again.” Michael hovers over top of you, placing a finger against your lips. “Or I’ll make sure you can’t sit for a week straight.”

“Mm,” you pout back at Michael, running your hands up and down his biceps. “Don’t threaten me with a good time now, baby.”

~

“Mr. and Mrs. Corleone are preoccupied with business matters at the moment and do not wish to be disturbed” generic excuse also served to be the perfect lie for last night as even though you and Michael had the best angry, make-up sex of your lives, the two of you decided to go at it for two more rounds before retiring for the night and without thinking twice about returning to the party.

Of course, neither you nor Michael made the dinner event downstairs an entire waste by not attending, since Michael had room service bring up the entire meal service to the suite—including the full bottles of champagne and Italian wine.

The official celebrations won’t exactly be “over” until the two of you make the drive back to Lake Tahoe, meaning photographers and overly curious journalists (especially from your early absence last night) will be more than glad to accompany you for breakfast.

Sore as ever and snuggled up on Michael’s chest all night right up until the alarm goes off at exactly 7:00 AM.

All it takes is Michael slamming his palm down on the alarm and almost sending it flying off the nightstand (and causing you to giggle as a result) to silence it just to spend a few more minutes cuddled up naked in bed with you.

“Mm, I think we have a problem, Don Corleone.” You can barely hold your giggles in as you trace lazy little circles over Michael’s chest.

“And that is?” Michael’s muscles relax into the bedsheets as he rakes a hand through his messy bed hair. 

‘My God…’ Your eyes gaze up at the smoldering sight of Michael naked, one arm propped up against the mattress with his other hand stroking through your hair gently.

“Too sore, might not be able to sit up at all.” You laugh quietly against Michael’s chest. 

Michael chuckles—his morning voice deep and still laced with some sleepiness as he kisses your forehead. “Appearances matter, Mrs. Corleone.”

“Using my own words against me, huh?” Grinning, you bite down on the corner of your lip and slowly begin to sit up in bed.

“Mmhmm.” Michael’s eyes flicker down to your exposed breasts before meeting your eyes again. “Neither of us is going anywhere or doing anything until we shower at the very least.”

“Then the world can wait for us.” You lace a hand with Michael’s, tugging to get him out of bed.

“The world doesn’t have a choice.” Michael chuckles breathily, throwing the covers off of him.

You already know if you take another peek back at Michael that you may as well just go for another three rounds just at the sight of your naked husband alone.

“You have to promise me one thing though,” your usual enthusiastic tone returns to you this morning as you and Michael enter the spacious hotel bathroom.

“After last night, I’m the one making promises?” Michael pulls aside the shower curtains, angling the shower head towards the wall.

“Why not?” You tease, removing the protective cover off of a new toothbrush by the bathroom sink. “This time I think it’s one you can definitely keep.”

“Very funny,” Michael comments, adjusting the shower water. “Let's hear it, then.”

“I want to gel your hair before we go downstairs for breakfast,” you blush, squeezing some toothpaste over your toothbrush.

“Because…?” Michael pulls the shower curtains shut halfway, still walking around the bathroom completely naked before opening up a cabinet to grab some towels.

“Because I want to, that’s my reasoning.” Giggling, you look into the mirror and can see Michael towards the back of the bathroom as you begin to brush your teeth.

“I won’t object to that.” Michael sets down two fresh bathrobes and an additional pair of towels for his and your hair over the bathroom counter.

Michael embraces you from behind and plants a warm kiss over the side of your neck as you continue brushing your teeth before he grabs the second, new toothbrush and begins to do the same.

Blushing, you finish up and wash off your toothbrush before pecking a kiss over Michael’s cheek and hopping into the shower first. “Mwah.”

“Mm.” Michael watches as you step into the shower, letting the hot water rinse over your naked body—particularly over the hickies trailing around your back, over your ass, and above your sex.

“Come onnnnn,” you call out, purposefully keeping the shower curtains open a little for Michael to see the water running over you.

Michael rinses out his mouth, cleaning up and setting his toothbrush aside before approaching the shower. “Insistent, are we?”

“Come in!” You pop your head out, giving Michael a wet kiss and trying to pull him inside.

“You come to me.” Michael pulls you into his arms instead as he gets into the shower, causing you to squeal as both of you are caught under the hot water. 

“Mm, you don’t give me a break, do you?” You wrap your arms over Michael’s shoulders, standing under the water with him.

“Over just what, exactly? Maybe I like to keep you on your toes.” Michael steals a kiss from his lips; the water soaking through his dark hair.

“Over looking like this all the damn time,” you whine quietly, reaching for a bottle of shampoo—unable to ignore the way the water runs over Michael’s chest, clinging onto his chest hair.

“Haven’t seen yourself lately.” Michael grabs your ass with both hands, pulling you closer to him. “You know, the freshly fucked last night and soaking wet look is a good one on you.”

“You’re gonna tease me this early in the morning?” Your cheeks flush red from embarrassment as you.

“Can’t get enough—” Michael kisses in between your breasts, making momentary eye contact with you, “—of you.”

Shyly gazing up at Michael, you let out a shaky breath. “Definitely teasing me now.”

“I know I’ve got your attention.” Michael gently tilts up your chin with his finger, running his thumb against your wet bottom lip. “Just as I had it last night.”

“Not upset, are you?” You bunch your soaked hair up in your hand, pulling it over your shoulder. “About what I said…?”

“Should I be?” Michael sighs in relief under the running hot water.

“Certainly gave me a reaction.” You watch as Michael works his slim fingers through the shampoo he’s slathered in his hair.

“You’re the only person on earth who gets a ‘reaction’ from me.” Michael lets the water rinse through his hair. 

“But even then you can hide it well, huh?” You smile playfully, making sure to get shampoo through the ends of your hair.

“See, you have your answer.” Droplets of water land over Michael’s eyelashes as he lets the hot water drip down his naked body. “It generally had me upset, yes, but I knew you didn’t mean it. As you never do.”

“Oh?” Your eyes widen in surprise. “And you know this how…?”

“Because,” Michael watches water run down every inch of your skin under the showerhead with him. “Had you been upset enough with me, we wouldn’t have slept together, but I wouldn’t let you go to bed angry with me.”

“I know.” You pout back at him, squeezing the excess shampoo out of your hair. “At least you wouldn’t have to ‘play the guessing game’ with me about it anymore.”

“I know how she makes you feel, baby.” Michael begins to foam up some body wash over his arms and chest. “I don’t want you to come close to feeling those same emotions again. At the very least, nothing near what you were saying last night.”

“Just to get you turned on and jealous.” You squeeze the loofa in Michael’s hand, causing more of the frothy body wash to drip over his chest. 

“It did something,” Michael still wouldn’t admit to being jealous outright, pressing his chest against yours and closing off any space between the two of you. “It made you sore, it made you beg.”

“What’s a girl supposed to do?” you blush furiously as his hands roam over your breasts, sharing the body wash with you. “You know just how I like it.”

“Rough,” Michael states out, gently caressing and soaping up your body against his. “Soft, sensual, just about anything there and in-between.”

“Show me something else tonight when we have the chance to sneak away, hmm?” You teasingly suggest, watching the way the water dribbles down Michael’s plush lips and chiseled jawline.

“I can promise you that already, baby.” Michael leans in for another kiss.

Depending on both of your daily schedules regardless of where both you and Michael are, there’s always an insistence on joining one another in a shower or a bath.

It never entirely has to be sexual either, although you and Michael know it very well could be, there’s nothing more relaxing and soothing than sharing a hot shower or bath with one another before starting your day or ending it.

Still, with Michael’s business trips, early meetings, and days you’re expected at the courthouse, showering and having baths together has been somewhat of a rare pastime you always want to make up for.

~

Without enough time to properly dry your hair and style it for the morning which would matter little to you had you been anywhere else but at the Tropigala, you improvise perfectly by using a few of your own hair products and gel to pull off a perfect French twist look with ease.

As Michael carefully shaves off his stubble, you stand behind him still in your bathrobe and almost fully dry, working to gel through Michael’s hair.

The clean slicked back look—whether it’s parted from the side, the middle, or slicked right back from the center—is one classic hairstyle you’ve been surrounded with seeing your brothers and father have anywhere for any occasion.

Timelessly sexy and the preferred, clean look for a mafioso, you’re very well aware Michael never leaves the house without his hair neatly styled one way or the other and you’re obsessed with any of his looks with any of his suits.

It’s not the first time you’ve gelled and styled through Michael’s hair, but you can definitely count it as a rare occasion on your fingers.

“You’re the only one I know who enjoys this,” Michael murmurs out a comment, washing the shaving foam off of his razor.

“Why wouldn’t I?” You chuckle, dipping your fingertips into Michael’s preferred high shine and high hold gel pomade before working it through Michael’s hair. “It reminds me of when we first got married.”

“Mm?” Michael continues shaving alongside his jawline. “How so?”

“Well…” Blush hits your cheeks as you comb through Michael’s hair to spread around the product evenly first. “I’d wake up and there’d you’d be, already dressed and ready to go for the day; new suit, cologne on, hair done and everything. I like that, I always have, but I like getting ready with you like this more.”

Michael doesn’t answer you, but the curious glance you two exchange from looking into the mirror causes you to giggle quietly as you continue styling his hair.

You part Michael’s hair towards the left side of his scalp but without doing so that would show a full, clear part. 

From there, instead of gelling and slicking Michael’s hair back and towards the nape of his neck, you slick his hair horizontally to the side. 

Humming quietly while Michael begins to finish up his shaving and use a wet cloth to wipe off the shaving foam from his cheeks, you dip your comb and fingers back into the gel pomade every now and then to get a clean, perfectly slick look.

Not a single strand of Michael’s hair sticks out, is loose, or appears frizzy. Once you get towards the sides of Michael’s hair, you slick it back neatly to the back.

Instead of a fully slicked gel look through the middle and completely clean look, there’s a slight bit of volume in Michael’s hair where you parted it to the left and combed it left and right instead of straight back. 

Michael’s dark hair gives a clean, healthy shine from the gel, and his shower without a gritty hold or any product clinging to his skin all within five minutes.

“Maybe I wouldn’t be so used to it if Niccolò wasn’t always so adamant about looking like his father.” You beam, closing the tin top of the hair pomade and setting the comb down.

“Can’t blame him, can we?” Michael pats an aftershave lotion over his cheeks and jawline before washing off his hands. “You work quickly,” Michael glances at both sides of his hair in the mirror, impressed. “Thank you, darling.”

“Don’t have to thank me for that.” You lean in, kissing Michael’s cheek and inhaling the scent of his heavenly aftershave. “Mmm, look and smell so good.”

“I haven’t got my cologne on just yet.” Michael moves his head to steal a quick kiss from your lips. “Are we pressed for time?”

“Almost,” you sheepishly admit. “Better get dressed before the photographers practically show up at our suite door.”

“Not that I would be surprised.” Michael shakes his head, smoothening out his bathrobe. “May as well.”

Your day dress for breakfast today at the Tropigala is sleek and elegant; a white empire drape dress that hugs at your hips and has a cinched bow over your collarbone.  

Your hand is just as quick as flicking over a small wing of eyeliner over your eyelids, applying a coat of mascara, and using white pencil eyeliner for your bottom lid but you already find yourself more than distracted being able to see Michael behind you in the mirror.

Just as you’re applying a medium tone of coral lipstick over your lips, your eyes dart over to Michael who lets his bathrobe drop by the hotel closet.

A tug of sudden, deep arousal pulls in your gut at the sight of your husband naked, pulling on a pair of briefs and watching the way Michael opts for a wine-red dress shirt that hugs his back and arm muscles as he pulls it over himself.

Topping his look off with a navy jacket, and matching trousers, Michael tucks a baroque patterned day cravat neatly into his collar instead of a tie and approaches you by the vanity table provided by the hotel where he reaches for his cologne and sprays it over himself a modest amount.

“Ready to go with only two minutes to spare?” Michael extends his hand out to you.

“I’m sure everyone’s just dying to see us.” You laugh, nodding and taking your husband’s hand as you get up from your seat.

From the very moment you and Michael exit your suite and make your way towards one of the dining patios outside, both your bodyguards Ritchie Nobilio and Al Neri are quick to accompany you two from the crowd of expectant photographers.

Not bothering to stop by for questions or give the photographers the angles they want for their pictures, Michael gives an acknowledging wave and you a polite smile on your behalf before leaving the line of sight of the photographers.

Michael keeps an arm around your waist, walking close side by side with you as your eyes widen in delight to see the beautifully set up, private table by the garden and water fountain with you and Michael’s name reserved on it.

The glass walls that separate the private, luxurious outdoor patio look into the midst of the dining hall where it’s now less crowded than it was last night, but still filled with guests and patrons enjoying their breakfast.

“Darling,” Michael murmurs, pulling your dining chair back for you to sit on first. 

Blushing, you take your seat across from Michael and tuck your chair in—being served immediately by two nearby waiters who set down a plate of freshly baked biscotti, two glasses of water accompanied by two cups of just brewed cappuccinos, five selections of fruit jams, a frittata and chocolate-banana stuffed crepe for both you and Michael.

“Thank you,” Michael tells the waiters as you smile up at them, speaking out to you after they leave. “How’s that for the Tropigala’s warm welcome during breakfast?”

“A major, lovely improvement from Klingman’s days running the hotel.” You admit, placing a piece of biscotti next to your crepe.

“I’ll say.” Michael holds back rolling his eyes at the thought. “My father was stunned when the news came that Klingman gave up the Tropigala’s license.”

“Was that before or after Al beat it out of him?” You giggle, beginning to eat your crepe.

“Neri has his ways.” Michael shakes his head, stirring his cappucino. “Now Klingman spends the rest of his days chatting about how the Corleone family has a monopoly on casinos, resorts, and hotels in Nevada.”

“I’d say that’s a bit of an exaggeration.” You dip your butterknife into the raspberry jam, spreading it over your piece of biscotti. “I don’t think we’ve even—” Your butter knife drops from your hand and clings against the side of your plate as you stop talking.

Michael’s just raised his coffee to his lips, pausing and noticing you stopping mid-sentence. “What is it, darling?”

Your eyes lock onto Rita Duvall’s on the other side of the glass wall inside of the dining hall. Leaning against the wall with one arm and grinning at you and Michael, just the sight of her alone causes enough bitter annoyance and anger to spoil your appetite.

Michael turns his head back, noticing Rita whose eyes now meet Michael’s out of pleasant surprise he even bothered to turn back and look at her.

More than pleased to divert Michael’s attention from you, Rita continues shyly gazing at your husband and her eyes light up in excitement when Michael sets down his cappuccino to rise up from his seat.

‘Where is he…?’ You stare at Michael, unable to speak out as he smoothens out his jacket and rather calmly makes his way towards Rita like he’s been expecting to see her all morning.

You force your eyes down onto your food, picking up your butter knife again only to feel your anxiety flaring up inside of you seeing Michael beginning to approach Rita inside the dining hall. 

“Mr. Corleone, hello.” Rita blushes, politely greeting Michael and reaching out her hand to shake his.

Michael approaches her upfront, refusing to shake her hand but not appearing to be in a foul mood either. “Miss Duvall, I wasn’t aware you attended our annual celebration last night.”

“I was Senator Geary’s guest.” Rita admits, “I admit, it was a surprise for me to come by as well but I thoroughly enjoyed the meal service and all the entertainment, so thank you.”

“You should keep your appreciation and thanks to those who work here, not myself.” Michael’s voice remains stern towards her. “Just as you should stay away from Victoria.”

“Aww,” Rita pouts at Michael, “did she send you in here to talk to me?”

“No.” Michael stares at Rita coldly. “It was my choice. I would have done the same had I seen you last night.”

The smug look on Rita’s face begins to fade almost instantly. 

“You’re a grown woman,” Michael continues, gesturing to her. “And I can’t stop you from any of your so-called ‘fantasies’ but keep in mind I’m aware of the things you say to my wife about me.”

From where you sit, you have a perfect view across from you of Michael and Rita speaking to one another, but it’s already apparent to you that it’s Michael doing the talking considering how taken back Rita appears.

“Mr. Corleone—”

“Leave.” Michael lowers his voice. “Enjoy your last breakfast service here, then never find yourself welcome here again, near me or my wife before the journalists catch wind of a desperate admirer in a state of delusion with sexual fantasies towards the owner of the Tropigala. Believe me when I tell you a story like that won’t do well for you or the Senator’s reputation.”

Overprotectiveness spikes up in Michael as he gives Rita a departing scowl, walking away from her as if he never had that conversation with her, to begin with.

You pretend to remain preoccupied eating your breakfast casually, instantly feeling relief from your anxiety and any annoyance from Rita’s nearby presence as Michael returns to your table.

“What was that all about…?” You swallow down your food, staring at Michael in surprise.

“Nothing important.” Michael takes a sip of his water, looking at you. “Just had to remind an unwanted guest that she can’t and will not talk and act the way she does to my wife.”

You cover the smile growing over your mouth with your hand. “Oh? She’s still there, looking at you in dismay, you know.”

“I don’t care,” Michael replies plainly, putting his water down.

“Still looking, still looking, and…” You lace your hands with Michael’s free one on the dining table before pulling him a little closer to you.

Leaning to the side, you move in and plant a loving kiss over Michael’s lips right as Rita stares and watches the two of you inside the dining hall.

When you pull back, you only part your lips from Michael’s for a second before kissing him over and over again—each kiss deepened and returned by your husband until Rita huffs, throwing her purse over her shoulder and going to exit the Tropigala. 

“You’re mine and only mine,” you tell Michael as you sit back in your seat. “You know I take no issue with letting other people know.”

[matildashoney]

Anything For You: Part One

MASTERLIST // ANNOUNCEMENT // PART TWO Rating: R (death, violence, swearing, sex) Summary: Francesca Giovanna Cartelli is the daughter of Opal and Giuseppe Cartelli, a huge Mafia Boss in New York in the 1920s, a rivalry of the likes of Al Capone. Harry Styles, the security of the neighboring mafia that the family is allied with, has been a longtime friend of the family and specifically took a liking to their daughter. Francesca and Harry have an easy-going relationship, one without pressure and too much stress, but when there’s a hit put out on Francesca and her father sends her away with Harry to be safe, everything changes. Authors Note: hiiiiiii. this is the first story in two years that is new and i'm really excited to share it! i think it's going to be one you all like (i hope). i have a lot planned for this year, story-wise, and i really hope you're all excited and ready. i'm ready to give writing my all and embark on a new journey with you all. love you all so much. happy reading! x

Francesca Giovanna Cartelli, born 1 August 1900 to Giuseppe and Opal Cartelli, the first and only child of the pairing. Giuseppe’s pride and joy and Opal’s very reason for existing. Giuseppe Cartelli, one of New York’s Finest Mafia Bosses. Opal Cartelli, the wife and devoting lover, caring mother, responsible financial advisor of all things business. Owners of one of the very first speakeasies in New York City and owners of nearly half of the Upper West Side. Francesca Cartelli, perfect and intelligent daughter of the two most strategic mob bosses in the business.

Landmark Tavern on 11th Avenue, New York’s arguably most famous speakeasy, that the Cartelli’s own. Francesca’s second home, more so. Her family’s home is down the street, the neighboring and allied mafia’s security living directly above the apothecary on the third floor. Outside, the walls are made of brick and stone, a painted yellow wall decorating the border. Outside decorum makes it seem innocent enough to onlookers, and yet, everyone that knows, knows. Francesca is comfortable here, safe, and it’s the place where she can dance freely and love loosely, a moment to express herself and live her wildest dreams.

“Frankie Giovanna,” a woman – Maisy is her name – calls from behind the bar, handing her a champagne glass and raising her hand for a toast, “to the most beloved and wanted daughter in mob history.”

“To Me,” she giggles, raising her glass proudly, taking a sip and smirking as she feels a hand grace her back and a fingertip adjust the strap on her shoulder. Francesca turns, facing the man that is standing awfully close to her side. “You shouldn’t be here, Styles.”

“You shouldn’t be here, Francesca. Not when there are many, many, people after you,” Harry Styles, her father’s right hand security guard, says strictly, a tight-lipped smirk on his face as he holds his hand out to offer himself for a dance as he always does. “Spare dance, Miss Cartelli? For an old friend.”

“Hm, I would, but what if my new beau sees, Mr. Styles?” Francesca teases, twirling beneath Harry’s arm and turning into his open embrace, her hand patting his chest playfully. “Charles won’t be very happy with you.”

“The only reason I haven’t killed him yet is because he’s a very nice distraction for you, Miss Cartelli. Easy enough to keep track of you when you are being minded by someone, now isn’t it?” Harry says firmly, his hand resting on her lower back and his other occupied by her own.

“How kind of you.”

“It is my job to keep you safe,” he says with a shrug, not minding the implications of his statement. “I’ll do whatever it takes, or your father will have a bullet in my brain, Francesca.”

“Maybe, I’ll care a little more about what happens to you when you stop calling me by my whole name,” she says spitefully, playfully quirking her brows and squeezing his shoulder. “Obviously, I care now, but I’d care a little more if this were the case. I’m not too fond of the formality of our relationship, Mr. Styles. It’s very, how one might say, annoying.”

“How kind of you.”

“Learned from the best, haven’t I?”

“Don’t act like your mother didn’t raise you to be a kinder soul than that, Francesca,” Harry sterns, shaking his head and leaning in to whisper in her ear. “Don’t act like you didn’t have the biggest interest in me when you were a teenager either. Fancied me a bit, you did.”

“How dare you! I did not!”

“You did so,” Harry chuckles, twirling her around once more and pecking her cheek. “It’s okay, I fancied you, myself, a bit if I’m honest. Isn’t that why I took the job of your minder? To make sure no harm came of your way.”

“Careful with your confessions, Harry. Charles might hear you.”

“Charles is preoccupied with Miss Cavalier, over there, Miss Cartelli.”

Charles was always a bit of a wandering eye, so everyone’s said, and this makes that gossip no different. Francesca believed that his distraction was enough to distract her father from what she really wanted, who she really wanted. It was forbidden, though. Much like alcohol and dancing and everything else The Prohibition stopped the easy access to, her love life was nearly off limits because of her father and all forces influencing such. Francesca didn’t love, even really like Charles, if she was being honest. He was, as Harry had said, a distraction, a way to keep her minded while her father hunted down the Mob Boss that was after his wife and daughter.

“Ah, yes, what a gentleman,” Francesca scoffs, shaking her head and taking a step into Harry, their chests hugging each other, their heartbeats nearly aligning under the smooth jazz playing in the background. “You wouldn’t do that to me, would you, Mr. Styles? Had we been the ones that courted instead, of course.”

“Had we been the ones that courted, instead,” Harry hums, dipping Francesca and holding her head awfully close to his own, “I wouldn’t be dancing with you in front of all these people. I’d be doing something very different, as you cannot live forever.”

“Ah, a Gatsby man. Clever.”

“That’s what I am.” Harry leans down and presses his lips to the tip of Francesca’s forehead lightly, barely enough to feel the ghost of a kiss, but enough to feel the tension rising in the air and the way that they feel for each other, secretly – or not so secretly – as they glide across the floor. More songs pass, more dances shared between the two, when he says, “I have been instructed to take you home promptly at half eleven, Miss Cartelli. I fear it is time to get on our way.”

“Must we?” Francesca whines, jutting her bottom lip and placing her hands in front of her heart. This very well won’t work on Harry, Francesca’s knows this, but it’s the thought and the effort that counts, isn’t it? “One more dance? I’ll even offer a kiss.”

“Tempting as that may be, I would prefer to see another day with you, Miss Cartelli.”

Francesca rolls her eyes and sighs, bidding her goodbyes to the workers and the dancers and the singers and her courting boyfriend who’s taken the interest of a vocalist in the corner of the room. Escorted by Harry, she links her arms in his, ushered through the exit by guards that have known her since before her birth twenty some years ago. Harry walks ahead of her, not for the manner of a man before a woman – which he finds completely ridiculous and outdated – but for her safety. Francesca knows best by know, following closely behind with her fingers laced through his, her head kept down and her hair falling in front of her face.

Blend in, Francesca, Giuseppe always says.

Don’t stand out too much, my darling, Opal encourages.

Most of the street is quiet, which is a pleasantry these days, and gives Harry and Francesca an easy way for conversation on the way home. Francesca speaks of her studies at the college, psychology she’s studying this term, and she’s thinking about taking it again and pursuing a career as a doctor. Harry laughs pleasantly at this, encouragingly, saying that that’s a much better suited career for her than a mob wife.

“I would prefer to be married after I graduate,” she says firmly, taking a step closer to him and walking quickly with his pace. “I’d like to keep my name as a doctor. Cartelli has a certain ring to it, don’t you think, Harry?”

“It sounds lovely for you, Francesca,” he says with a softened smile. He imagines the person she is to marry is richer than he, smarter than he, likely someone she’s met at Landmark’s or at Columbia or even at the local market when they’re going for their soaps and specialties, though he would be lying if he hadn’t thought about pursuing her himself.

Her father would never allow such a thing, though, especially knowing Harry’s track with relationships – so be it because he always put her above his lady, at the time – Giuseppe would never find him suitable to be fit for Francesca, and Harry has come to accept his fate. He will always protect her though, under any circumstance.

Harry has always protected her, which is why the multitude of chatter and the screams originating from where her large brownstone resides begins to worry him. He immediately breaks into a stride, pulling her behind him, hiding her from the horrifying scene ahead of him.

Francesca immediately worries, “Have you heard from Mother, Harry? Maisy hadn’t said that she rung the tavern before we left. She hadn’t told us it’s safe to come home.”

“Styles! Turn Francesca around!”

Francesca instantly recognizes her father’s voice, the duly panicked tone making her heart race and her body shiver with fear. She searches for a sign of her mother, listening carefully for her voice, desperately praying to hear the comforting sounds of her trying to talk her father down from his rage. Maybe someone betrayed him. Maybe someone stole something for the rival Mafia boss. Certainly nothing could’ve happened to her family, not to her family.

Opal Cartelli, lying on the ground with her hand clasped over her stomach, a dark shadow cast around her body, her security guard on the ground nearby, a similar shadow around his head.

“What happened to Mother?”

It’s too late. Francesca can see everything.

“Frankie, dear,” Giuseppe begins to say, stepping around the bodies on the ground and walking towards his daughter and her security carefully. “I need you to go with Harry, okay? I need him to take you somewhere where you’ll be safe.” He wipes his hands on his handkerchief, and under the streetlight, Francesca can see the red stains on his skin. Giuseppe takes her face in his hands and kisses her forehead, and Francesca can feel the tears on his skin. “Ti amo, mia luce del sole.”

“Ti amo, Daddy,” Francesca whimpers, a tear slipping down her cheek as her father presses another kiss to her cheek and then turns her around, nudging her to walk the other way. “Can I at least say goodbye?”

“It’s not safe, right now, my dear. In due time, you can. In due time. I love you.”

“Let’s go, Francesca,” Harry says hurriedly, wrapping his coat around her shoulders and beginning to walk her down the street at an uncanny speed, his gun holstered in his hand. He isn’t afraid to use it, Francesca knows this much, and she’s sure that he would die trying to protect her. “Francesca, you can talk to me.”

“I have nothing to say, Harry,” she says under her breath, panting and heaving for air once they reach the apothecary, Harry rushing to find his keys and usher her up the two flights of stairs inside. “Mother, she’s, she’s.”

“I know, I know,” he sighs, closing and locking the doors, the bolted locks they installed when the mafia started living in the neighborhood coming to use in moments like these. “Come here.”

Francesca begrudgingly meets his stare, the tears falling helplessly down her cheeks, her hands immediately reaching for his shirt and burying her face in his neck, crying tears of pain and sadness into his chest. Mother, her beautiful, intelligent, kind mother, was lying dead in the middle of the street, with the person that was meant to protect her, protect them.

If Mother wasn’t safe, she surely isn’t.

Francesca looks at Harry with wide eyes, coated in fear and danger and panic, and whispers, “I’m not safe. They’re going to come for me. Harry, I’m next.”

Harry delicately brushes her hair away from her forehead, tucking the stray strands behind her ears and cups her cheeks, making her look at him for a moment, a singular moment, to listen and hear what he has to say. “As long as I’m alive, you’ll be safe, Francesca. Do you hear me?”

Nodding slowly, Francesca blinks back the tears in her eyes, shaking her head and breaking free from Harry’s grasp, wiping her eyes, and quietly nodding as a thank you for the handkerchief offered to her to nurse her cheeks. “I think I just want to go to bed.”

Harry sighs, rubbing the back of his neck uncomfortably, “Um, that’s something we’ll have to share, tonight, I’m afraid. Until I can get another bed. Unless, of course, you want me to sleep elsewhere. I wouldn’t mind.”

“I,” she says softly, running her fingers through her hair and sighing a deep breath, taking the pins out of her hair, and setting them in her palm. “I don’t mind. I just don’t want to be alone.”

Harry nods, holding his hand out for Francesca to take and leading her up the stairwell and into the main bedroom. Outside, the night looms through the parted curtains, Harry quickly walking to close them and draw them shut, peering outside to ensure that no one is lurking around the house. “Stefan is guarding outside. I think we’re safe, now. I want you to sleep, okay? Get some rest and we’ll regroup in the morning.”

“Have you got any clothes I can borrow?”

“Um, yes, of course,” he says, scurrying around his bedroom and finding a spare pair of sweatpants and a shirt, handing it to her gently and ushering her towards the bathroom. “Here you go, love. Go change and we’ll settle you into bed.”

“Alright,” she sighs, walking into the bathroom next door to the bedroom, closing the door quietly behind her. Sucking in a deep breath, she looks into the mirror, her eyes welling with tears at the thought of her mother and her father and the way her family is suddenly so fallen apart. Mother, the matriarch and center of her family, held her and her father together, held their lives together so perfectly, and suddenly, in the matter of seconds, she was gone. “Fuck.”

“Francesca?”

“I, um, I’ll just be a minute.” Hurriedly wiping her eyes, Francesca dresses in Harry’s clothes, clinging to the tightness of the shirt on her chest. Much like her dresses that she wears to Landmark Tavern, the shirt clings to her breasts and falls loosely around her curves. Francesca sighs, shaking her head at the thought of anything comforting her in a moment such as this.

Harry is sitting on the edge of his bed, head in his hands, silently praying with his cross tucked between his teeth when Francesca walks into the bedroom, her dress and accessories held tightly in her hands. Looking at her, he drops the crucifix, standing on his feet, opening his arms, and taking the clothes into his hands, setting everything on the lounger in the corner and walking to where she is standing rather quietly in the doorway. Francesca simply nods silently, knowingly, and walks to the side of the mattress where there is a misshapen pillow and untucked duvet. Harry doesn’t say anything about that being his side.

“You must be tired.”

“I’m exhausted, Harry.”

Harry takes one look at Francesca as she stands anxiously at the side of the bed and knows exactly what she needs – a hug from her mother – something that he very well can’t provide. Harry would have to do, for now. He would have to try. “Would you like a hug, Francesca?”

“I think I do.”

Harry gently lays his hand on her lower back, encouraging her to turn around in his grasp and sighing heavily when her arms circle around his shoulders, a shudder leaving her lips as she tucks her face into his neck and a tear falls down her cheek. All the night’s commotion has finally come to this moment, this overwhelming and outstanding moment, where everything has piled in and over her emotions and finally come to pass.

Mother is gone. Father has sent her away for her safety. Harry is the only person she can trust.

“Harry?”

“Yes, Francesca?”

“You’ll stay in here with me, tonight, won’t you?”

Harry doesn’t dare to lift his cheek from her head, simply humming and rubbing her back gently, breathing in her scent and taking in the warmth that she surrounds him with. From the moment Harry laid eyes on Francesca when she was eighteen, when she was old enough to attend to school and travel out with her friends and, more pressingly, when she was old enough to be a target by the opposing bosses, Harry’s had something for her, an affinity, an affliction, a love. He simply couldn’t describe the way she made him feel, the liveliness that she brought into his life of misery. Francesca’s safety ensured the safety of Harry’s family, as well, and neither was something he was willing to risk. Harry had never loved before, not since he was a teenager himself, and to feel the way he does for her, simply put, was not understandable.

Francesca is his boss’ daughter. There couldn’t by anyone more off limits. And yet, there Harry is, inappropriately imagining what it would feel like to kiss her and hold her safely through the night.

“Harry?”

“Oh, of course, yeah.” Harry coughs uncomfortably and hesitantly releases his grasp from around her, smiling softly at her as she stares up at him. Her hand nervously moves to his face, brushing away a stray strand of hair and tucking it behind his ear. “Thank you, my dear.”

“My dear,” she says with a light giggle, one that he’s familiar with, but certainly not in this tone or time of night, “that’s a new one.”

“Figured I’d give it a go, rather that than calling you by your name every five seconds.”

Francesca lowers her voice as she climbs beneath the duvet, “This is quite true, Mr. Styles. You do have a habit of doing that.”

Harry chuckles lowly, turning around and rummaging through his drawers for clean clothes to wear to bed, taking his time in listening to the sound of her breathing slow and her eyes fall shut. “Get a good night’s rest, love, we’ll be off in the morning.”

“Off where?”

“Off to where they can’t find you, I promise.”

Understandingly, Francesca nods, closes her eyes, and drifts slowly into sleep, Harry’s presence watching her protectively from the doorway surely going unnoticed.

══════════════════

Cape Cod, Massachusetts, 1926.

The Cartelli’s bought a beach house there during the midst of the Civil War, a bit tasteless if anyone asked Opal, but it was theirs, nonetheless. One space that was theirs that no one else knew about it, not even Harry, until he was being called at a bright and early hour (he had an inkling without looking at the clock as the sun was rising through the curtains) by Giuseppe, giving him strict instructions to take his daughter before the sun is fully set in the sky and take her hours and hours away to a house where no one knew the whereabouts. Giuseppe had a maid leave a suitcase full of his daughter’s favorite clothes at the backdoor, a collection of cash and identities and everything they would need tucked away inside, a car already parked behind the apothecary for them to take.

Harry knew what this would entail, creating a fake life with Francesca and making her comfortable wherever they may be. Cape Cod, for now. Forever? Not likely.

Cape Cod is beautiful in the summertime, though. Harry knows this well. He accompanied The Cartelli’s on their yearly vacation there once Francesca was old enough to go to speakeasies in town and needed the protection from neighboring mafias and their bosses, and Harry was her friend, he would always protect her. Harry made that much very clear to Giuseppe from the get-go. That’s why Giuseppe trusted him with his daughter’s life for the last eight years. That’s why Giuseppe is trusting him, right now.

Harry leans against the doorway, questioning whether or not to wake Francesca with a cup of tea or coffee. He’s already had two cups worth by the time he’s made the decision to wake her and give her the option. He’s been pacing around the house, the floorboards creaking beneath his feet, making him awfully uncomfortable with the noise radiating through the quaint home.

“Have you got my clothes from my father? I’m sure of it that we should be heading out quite soon. Sun is nearly up for the day,” Francesca yawns, rolling onto her back and stretching her limbs above her head. Squinting behind the sunlight peering in through the beige curtains – hideous color, she notes – she notices Harry hiding a smile behind his mug. This will be his third coffee this morning, she counts in her head. “Are you preparing for a long drive? That’s your third dose of caffeine, this morning, Mr. Styles.”

“Have you been counting, Miss Cartelli?”

“I’ve been wondering how long it would take you to offer your unwanted house guest a cup, more so,” she smirks, sitting upright and rubbing her eyes. Given the circumstance of the previous evening, she felt safe sleeping beside Harry, last night, and wouldn’t mind continuing to do so, if they must, of course.

“Unwanted house guest,” Harry scoffs, shaking his head and setting his mug on the dresser beside the doorframe, walking into the petite kitchen and pouring her a cup. His breath hitches in his throat when her delicate hand splays across his back as he’s pouring the milk, assuming she wouldn’t like hers black the way he prefers, and he quickly recovers, handing her the porcelain mug and gesturing to the tiny table and chairs situated in the corner. “You’re never unwanted in my home, Francesca. You should know that by now.”

“Mm,” she hums contently, taking a sip of the coffee and letting the warm liquid pour down her throat. Harry leans against the counter, his hands holding the faux marble, his eyes intently following her movements. “Do you know where we’re headed? Am I allowed to know?”

“I do,” he says firmly, unwilling to give more information than necessary, “and you’ll know once we get there, but I can’t risk anyone hearing anything until we’re in the car and on our way. Otherwise, you know your father and his demands.”

“Off with your head.”

“Precisely.”

Understandably, she sighs, her eyes fluttering shut with the warmth of the coffee wafting into her senses. Must be best this way, she reasons with herself, not daring to look at Harry and take into account his feelings. He must not be happy with this arrangement – especially not as the most eligible bachelor in New York City. That isn’t something Francesca can worry about, right now. Not when she needs to be on the run from people who are very well set on the intent to kill her.

“Not to rush you, Francesca, but we have to be going any minute.” Francesca hadn’t even noticed Harry had left the room. Looking at him, Harry’s already changed his clothes, new checkered trousers, and a white shirt – his usual – and combed his hair. It looks nice. Harry looks nice, she thinks. “Giuseppe said that we must be gone by ten.”

Francesca looks at the clock hanging above the doorway. The time in question? 09:42.

“Understood.”

“I suggest waiting to bathe until we’ve gotten to where we’re going. It’ll be a long journey. Your suitcase is at the foot of the bed. I didn’t want to search through your things for clothes.”

“Thank you, Harry.”

Harry nods silently, filling his mug once more and taking a seat at the table, leaving Francesca’s empty seat and mug where she left it. Francesca hurries into the bedroom, sorting through the neatly packed suitcase – surely one of the maids did this for her father – and finding fresh undergarments and a neatly pressed skirt and blouse to wear. Francesca was always the more feminine type, and that was certainly shown in her extravagant wardrobe and fancy accessories. Only one of her favorite dresses has been tucked away in the case, and she wishes to thank whoever packed her things for that, for the comfort of knowing she’d have one thing to wear on a night out. If she were to ever go outside again. Harry wouldn’t keep her locked away, would he? They would make new lives and venture out together. Things wouldn’t be so bad.

They wouldn’t be so bad, would they?

By the time Francesca has contemplated her entire situation with Harry and Giuseppe, Harry is knocking on the bedroom door. Ten minutes have passed, he says politely, and they must be getting on their way in a matter of moments. Hurriedly, she readies herself in the bathroom and dresses in her skirt and blouse, brushing her hair with her fingers and letting her curls fall as they may. She digs through the suitcase in a rush, searching for a tiny bag of pins that she may use for her hair after her bath later that evening. Thankfully, she finds just what she’s searching for as Harry knocks again.

Another three minutes has passed. It is now time to go.

Opening the door slowly, the suitcase in her hand quickly taken from her as Harry gestures for her to take the back entrance from the house. He’s in a hurry, she can see, and she doesn’t want to waste time. Giuseppe’s orders are always very strict and timely, and with a purpose, and she knows that there must be people out searching for them as they very well breathe. Harry doesn’t bother locking the doors behind him, merely taking a glance over the house to make sure nothing is out of place and looks in order, this way if anyone comes searching, there is nothing to find. His suitcase is already in the backseat, setting hers alongside it, his coat tucked protectively around his body to hide him away from onlookers – not that anyone could very well make him out with his cap and jacket. Francesca slinks into the passenger seat, hiding her face away from the window and staring at the street she’s grown so fond of. All of it gone in an instant. Mother. Home. New York City.

Harry drives relatively fast for the first hour or two or three. Francesca lost count of the hours somewhere along the way. Minimal conversation and chatter are had without the hum of the car engine and the stir of the radio. Francesca knew that her father had bought this car specifically for their eventual getaway. New radio. New license with numbers that weren’t associated with their name. New antenna. It must’ve been tucked away in a lot somewhere where she couldn’t have found it, because if she had, she surely would have wanted it for herself for school. Now, it’s being used as an escape route from murderous bosses in New York City.

“Giuseppe wants me to take you to the cottage in Cape Cod. The one on the beach?”

“On Oak Street?”

And suddenly, Francesca feels at peace with the forced decision to leave Giuseppe and New York City. At least she’ll be somewhere familiar. At least she’ll have the town and warmth and sunlight and the sand between her toes. At least she’ll have that, the familiarity.

“That’s the one,” Harry says with a hint of a smile. It’s barely there – the smile – but she can make out the curvature of the corner of his mouth. “Have new identities for the two of us, also.”

“Oh?”

“Haven’t been there since you were a kid, Giuseppe said. He, um, influenced, a friend to draw up some signage and paperwork to make it look as though the house was for sale. Our story is that we’ve just married and we’re buying the property.”

“Married, huh?” Laughing for the first time in what feels like days, Francesca wiggles her hand in front of the dashboard and Harry’s face, “And where’s the ring, Mr. Styles?”

“In my suitcase,” Harry says with a pursed smile, patting her thigh and setting his hand back on the steering wheel. “It was my mother’s. I’m meant to give it to the person I fall madly in love with. My epic love, so to speak.”

“And you must settle for me, for now. That’s quite noble of you, I’d say,” she says with a roll of her eyes, hating the pang of jealousy that courses through her veins at the thought of him with another woman. The thought alone sends a shiver down Francesca’s spine. Harry notices.

“It’s not settling for you, Francesca. I’d happily marry a woman like you. Hell, I’d happily marry you. Giuseppe, on the other hand, would absolutely have my head if that were the case. Not to mention, I doubt you’d want to marry me.”

Francesca is taken aback by this, insulted even. “Harry, why would you say such a thing?”

“Because, Francesca, I’m simply a guard for Giuseppe Cartelli and his mafia. I live a simple life, with a simple pay, and I will never be enough for a woman of your candor and your class.”

“That is, quite honestly, the greatest lie I’ve ever been told, Mr. Styles. You’ll need to ask for forgiveness for that one.”

“I apologize, Francesca. Although I do believe it to be true, I apologize for hurting your feelings. I will be more mindful, now, as your faux husband would never say such a thing.”

Opening her mouth to say something, she then closes it hurriedly, realizing without merit that there is nothing left to say.

Cape Cod’s scenery is beautiful in the summertime, she has come to realize. Opal and Giuseppe had only taken her a handful of times in the winter when they were thinking about purchasing the property in the early Winter of 1908. Her eyes dance across the tall, waving grass, the sprinkling sand of the shoreline, and the crashing waves of the sea. Cottages line the shore, tall and wide, small and grandiose, and the one at 12 Oak Street is perfectly quaint enough for a “newly married” couple, as so their story goes. Bushels of flowers line the windowsills, a mailbox sitting on the edge of the drive, the stone pathway leading to the navy-blue front door with a four-squared window making for a perfect entryway.

“What’s our names?”

“Giovanna and Edward,” Harry answers without hesitation, as though he’s been practicing. “Rivers is our last name. It’s French. We’ve just moved from Virginia. You’ll be enrolling in school, tomorrow, to become a midwife. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”

“May I call you Harry in private? Or are we simply Edward and Giovanna, for now? Until our next move, of course.”

“I would expect you to, and I’ll be calling you Francesca in private. I like your name too much.”

Francesca turns towards the window and away from Harry’s onward gaze, desperately trying to hide the blush on her cheeks. “I do expect you to at least put the ring on my finger, as any fake good husband would do.”

“I would anticipate nothing less, Miss Cartelli,” Harry chuckles, shaking his head. “Or shall I say, Mrs. Rivers.”

“Hm,” she says with a hum of contentment. “That’ll do, but it makes me miss my last name. Cartelli has such charm.”

“Cartelli has a button man and very many angry people attached to it. Giuseppe included.”

Francesca snorts a laugh, shaking her head and leaning back against the passenger seat, a smile sneaking across her features as the cottage comes into view and the car slowly pulls into the driveway. Harry hurriedly rushes out of the car and reaches into his suitcase, tucking the ring in his pocket and walking towards her side, opening her door, and helping her out.

“For you, my darling wife, Giovanna.”

Harry slides the ring onto her finger delicately and a shiver rolls through her spine, once more. Harry notices, once again.

“Why thank you, Edward.”

Harry chuckles and holds out his hand for Francesca to take, her petite figure jumping onto the gravel pathway and smoothing her skirt with her hands, her chestnut curls falling around her face as she does so. He leans forward, so close she can nearly feel his breath on her cheeks, and tucks her hair behind her ears delicately, intimately. “I’ll get our cases from the backseat.”

Francesca swallows thickly, smoothing over where he had just touched her, so lightly it was nearly unnoticeable, and turns on her heel, walking towards the front door and admiring the two chairs situated in the corner. In another life, Francesca could see herself growing old here, with the love of her life, aging with their grandchildren playing on the beach behind them. Although, much to her dismay, the likelihood of any such thing is unlikely.

“Have you got the key?” she says hurriedly, shaking her head of the thought and blinking away a stray tear that has come to form in the corner of her eye. She mustn’t think about such things at a time like this, not when her life is on the line. Future thoughts are for when she’s safe and secure. Maybe in love with someone, hopelessly and devotedly.

“’Course I do. What kind of husband would I be without the key to our new house?”

Francesca knows Harry’s playing the part, but part of her wishes this moment was real; that she really had just married the love of her life, her epic love as her mother would call it, and they were moving into their first place. Ideally, Francesca would be out of school, a midwife at the local hospital, her husband in a safe career – a teacher, maybe, finance would be acceptable, too – and the mafia life way long behind them. This may never be the case, though, and she finds herself longing for a happiness that she’s not quite sure Cape Cod or running will ever bring her.

Harry looks at her curiously, and instead, she smiles politely and takes the suitcases from his hands, waiting for him to open the front door. He doesn’t ask questions, simply opening the lock and taking the suitcases from her hands without any regard to the questionable look on her face. He smiles devilishly, a handsome smile, she must say – or think, more so – and her breath hitches in her throat when his hands slide beneath her knees and behind her back, lifting her into his arms and carrying her through the doorway.

“What on Earth are you doing?” Francesca squeaks, gripping onto his shoulders securely, slightly scared of falling and slightly scared that he’ll hear the pounding of her heartbeat in her ears. “Harry! Put me down!”

“It’s tradition for a man to carry his wife through the threshold of their home,” Harry says matter-of-factly. “And although this situation is any less than traditional and ideal, I would like to treat you as though you are my spouse, that includes upholding the traditions. As silly as they may be.”

Francesca’s heart swells in her chest, pounding heavily against her ribs and making her feel so significant in such a way that she’s unfamiliar with. Beaus of the past have never treated her with such respect, and although it is fake, there is part of this that feels so real, so genuine.

“Then I will do the same,” she says surely, a genuine smile spreading across her lips. Leaning forward, she presses a light kiss to his cheek, her breath locking in her throat when his face turns and their noses touch. He lightly sets her on her feet, his hands remaining on her hips for a moment too long. “Um, I’d like to take a bath and then go to the market, if that’s all right with you? Would you accompany me?”

“Of course, Miss Cartelli. It’d be my pleasure.” Harry smiles brightly and nods towards the bedroom in the corner, the bathroom a door slightly ajar adjacent to it, before turning around and gathering their suitcases from outside the front door.

12 Oak Street is even smaller inside than it is outside. Windows introduce sunlight to the lounge and the parlor, the kitchen opposite of the fireplace and the entryway. Francesca would enjoy cooking here, that much was clear, with a bay window overlooking the front yard and a newly installed cooker. Adjacent to the kitchen is the singular bedroom, one that she and Harry must share, she now knows, although she is sure her father believes Harry is sleeping elsewhere. Inside the bedroom, the walls are painted a baby blue shade, one that reminds her of the sea. On the bed is a pure white duvet, one her mother must’ve chosen ages ago, and the thought makes her heart ache. Her mother must’ve loved this place, much like she does. Across the hallway, the bathroom is a pleasant shade of yellow, the clawfoot bathtub inviting and warm overlooking the beach behind the house. Francesca sighs, desperately praying the circumstances will change, and she will stay here forever. Home. She would make this home.

“Francesca? I’ll be waiting for you, out here, okay?” Harry calls from the lounge, distracting her from her thoughts and drawing her attention back to what she was doing.

Undressing, Francesca thinks about the moments leading up to this. Dancing at Landmark’s. Mother dying. Harry protecting her in the city. Driving to Massachusetts. Harry’s mother’s ring on her finger. Carrying her in through the threshold. Kissing his cheek. Noses touching.

His ring.

Admittedly, she hasn’t looked at it since Harry put it on her finger. It’s beautiful, she must say. Cut into a beautifully perfected shape, the emerald gem sits on a gold band. Complimenting her olive skin, the gem shimmers beneath the fading sunlight, and the way it sits perfectly on her skin makes her think that maybe in another life, this was meant for her.

This is Harry, we’re talking about Francesca. He wasn’t made for you in another life. He’s your protector, your friend. That’s where we draw the line!

“Of course not,” Francesca says to herself, shaking her head and blinking hurriedly, shoving away the rational thinking. “Harry is my friend,” she repeats to herself, climbing into the bathtub, letting the warm water welcome her aching muscles. “Harry is only my friend.”

══════════════════

Cape Cod’s town center is a quaint, little market town, filled with many shops and Massachusetts delicacies. Fisheries line the shore. The local grocer rings a bell every time a customer pays and passes through. Markets for small goods and household accessories leave their doors open for the daily rush. Floral shops smell of roses and tulips and arrangements in glass vases. Apothecaries smell of herbs and petals. Markets shine of colors with fresh fruit and vegetables through the open windows. All of it coming together so cohesively to build a town.

Francesca could see why Opal and Giuseppe loved it here, loved the town and the people and the artistry that embraced the town’s ambiance. Francesca could see that she would love it here, especially with her friend at her side, accompanying her all the while.

Harry looks to Francesca as they walk into town, hesitantly reaching between their swinging arms and brushing his hand against hers, the rush of electricity pulsing through his veins as their hands meet and her eyes reach his. Do it, Harry tells himself, pushing himself to reach an inch over and simply interlock their hands. Francesca smiles at him softly, turning her head to the road and following the pathway to the town center, adjusting her blouse quickly and smoothing out her skirt before returning her hand to its previous position, waiting rather impatiently for Harry to make the move.

Gathering his courage, Harry does so after what feels like hours – only it was minutes, more likely – interlocking their fingers and squeezing her hand gently as they walk further into town, the bustling of the community milling about the center and the shops making Francesca smile.

Normalcy. That’s what Cape Cod feels like. Normal.

“Have you got any idea of what you’d like to get for dinner? Your father sent us with money to settle us in until I have a job in town.”

“What will you be doing, Ha-,” Francesca catches her words mid-sentence and quickly recovers, “Edward?”

Harry smiles and squeezes her hand. This would take some getting used to, most certainly, “Likely, I’ll be a policeman.”

“That’s dangerous, isn’t it?”

“Being in World War One was dangerous, my dear,” he chuckles, shaking his head and encouraging her to walk forward. “I’ll be fine, Giovanna. You mustn’t worry about me. Worry about school and becoming a doctor. That’s most important. For your safety.”

“Fine,” she concedes reluctantly, her pulse quickening at the feeling of his thumb rubbing against her knuckles softly. Francesca is aware that Harry’s doing it to comfort her, to assure her that everything will be okay. Harry is all she has, right now, and the thought of him being hurt is terrifying. “As long as you’ll be safe.”

“Always.”

Harry and Francesca walk in silence for the rest of the short way to the town center, occasionally squeezing each other’s hands and assuring the other that they’re all right. Francesca’s eyes go wide at the sight of the town, the first moment that she’s really experienced being around other people where she’s safe in what feels like a lifetime. In New York, although everyone in her family and friends and the mafia would look out for her, there was always the lingering sense of danger and fear around her. Would today be the day? Would someone hurt her today? And in this moment, with her hand tucked in Harry’s, in the tiny town center of Cape Cod, Massachusetts, it feels as though no one could hurt her, no one could possibly do so.

“Have you got any ideas on that dinner, yet?” Harry wonders aloud, repeating his question and looking to where Francesca is standing beside him, her figure tucked tightly next to his. She squeezes his hand and smiles, nodding excitedly and hurrying into the grocer, immediately taking a basket from the entryway, and beginning to gather some items. Harry smiles to himself, blushing maybe, and thinks about the first moment he saw her.

The moment everything changed.

•·················•·················•

New York City, 1918.

Crisp air hits Harry’s face as he walks into the speakeasy on 11th Avenue, Landmark’s Tavern so he’s heard it’s called. It’s quite cold for November, the wind chilling his cheeks as he hurries inside and shrugs off his coat. His medals still hang around his neck, his pins from the war stuck to his lapel as he walks to the bar and orders a drink – bourbon, neat. He can feel eyes on him, and the feeling stirs panic inside his chest. His hand lays on his gun in his holster, and he walks further into the speakeasy, and relaxes slightly, laying eyes on the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen.

Hair a deep brown color, curled and soft, her skin an olive shade that he’s only seen in the Mediterranean Sea. She mustn’t be more than eighteen, so much life inside of her and life to live. He swallows back his pride when a man steps up to her, his hand splaying over her lower back and kissing her cheek. Harry reasons to himself that they’re together, shaking his head and taking a sip of his drink, the familiar liquid coating his throat. He drank bourbon a lot overseas in the midst of the war, a way to combat the nightmares and the panic of not coming home. His mother was worried, his sister off with her husband and unaware of the fact that he’d gone off to war in the first place. His father had died of Influenza years before his departure, and he was left to care for the family in the only way he knew how – to work.

He takes a seat at the bar, staring longingly at the mysterious woman dancing happily on the floor. Her head adorns a crown of sorts, and he wonders what the occasion might be. Is this her wedding? Is this her engagement? The thought churns his stomach. He’s always been a jealous man.

“It’s Francesca’s eighteenth birthday,” says a man quite near to him, snapping him out of his thoughts.

“Francesca,” Harry repeats slowly, the syllables dripping from his tongue like honey. That fits her, he thinks to himself, halfway smiling at the man who has now moved a seat over to be next to him.

“Francesca is my daughter. I’m Giuseppe Cartelli.” Harry nods behind his glass. He very well knows that name. Many of the soldiers talked about the Cartelli family overseas. The Cartelli Family is one of the most powerful mafia families in all of New York City, rivals of Al Capone, Giuseppe Cartelli is ruthless. “I assume you’ve heard of me.”

“Oh, maybe a time or two.”

“I’m in search of someone to be a guard of sorts for my daughter. In January, Francesca will be attending Columbia for school. Many, and I mean many, are after her, and I need someone that will lay their life on the line to protect her. Do you understand me?” Harry nods without saying a word. “Compensation will be generous, and your time is valuable, I will never take that for granted. I take it you’re an army man, yourself?” Harry nods again. “Know how to shoot?”

“Unfortunately, yes, sir.”

Giuseppe nods, clapping Harry’s shoulder excitedly and taking a sip of his drink before waving over the beautiful woman on the floor. “Frankie! Meet –”

“Harry Styles.”

Francesca Cartelli lends out her hand, smiling softly when Harry takes her hand and gently kisses her knuckles. Gentlemanly thing to do, she notes in her head for future reference. Handsome, for sure. Francesca smiles and locks his stare. Harry doesn’t move or release her hand.

“Harry Styles. He’ll be your, well, let’s call him your guardian angel, for now. Until you’re safe from everything. It’s best this way.”

Francesca reluctantly takes her hand away from Harry. “Okay, Daddy.”

Harry hesitates for a moment after this, swallows the rest of his bourbon, and then gathers his courage and says, “May I have a dance, Miss Cartelli?”

“Can you dance, Mr. Styles?”

Harry chuckles and nods, taking her hand once more and ushering her to the dance floor, the smooth jazz playing in the background a perfect tune to sway along to. He smiles brightly at her, admiring the way her features shine under the shimmering light fixtures. Her eyes are a honey brown shade, matching her hair, and the golden flecks that shine around her irises entrance him. Francesca doesn’t say a word for a moment or two, allowing Harry to simply take her in and admire her.

Francesca tightens her hand around Harry’s, her arm laid delicately over his shoulder as his hand splays across her lower back, his thumb rubbing her skin lightly. His eyes are beautiful, an emerald shade that dances beneath the moonlight, she’s sure of it. His lips are bright pink and plush, something she’s sure to remember for future reference. Quietly the singers perform behind them, their silence very much looked over by her father as he stares at them intently.

“My father has been scouring every soldier that comes into Landmark’s, tonight. Apparently, some very ruthless men want my head on a silver platter to serve to my father,” she says matter-of-factly, seemingly unphased by the thought of grown men wanting her dead. Maybe she’s used to this by now. Giuseppe Cartelli has been a boss in the Italian Mafia for nearly thirty years.

“I’m just another soldier, then, hm?” Harry says, quirking his eyebrows and twirling her beneath his arm, bringing her back to his chest with a halfway smile.

“I hope not, Harry,” Francesca confesses with a blush to her cheeks. “I must admit, I haven’t liked any of the other soldiers. They’re much too, how would I say this politely, brash, for me. You’re polite, though. Kind, I sense. You wouldn’t want to hurt anyone unless absolutely necessary. How did you ever make it out of the war alive?”

Harry nods to her observations and agrees, “By the skin of my teeth, Miss Cartelli.”

“You don’t have to call me that,” she corrects, shaking her head and giggling with the slight dip that he surprises her with, “Frankie is fine. Everyone calls me ‘Frankie’. Or Francesca if you’d like.”

“Francesca,” he says, the word coming off his tongue so smoothly it nearly makes her shiver. “Beautiful name.”

“My mother named me,” she smiles brightly, and he can tell the affection and the love she has for her mother without having to say another word. “Are you going to take the job, Harry? Of my minder, I mean.”

“I wouldn’t be your minder, Francesca. I would be there to make sure no harm ever comes of your way. I’d lay my life down for you.”

“More or less a minder.” Francesca smiles. “You’d lay your life down for a stranger? You didn’t even have to think about it? You don’t even know me.”

“It’s what a soldier does, Francesca. I protect those that can’t necessarily protect themselves.” Francesca’s face drops and Harry quickly recovers from his previous thoughts. “That and you, might I add, seem like a great friend to have. Great company to keep.”

“Oh, so we’re friends, now, hm?”

“That’s right. Friends.”

•·················•·················•

Grabbing the hefty basket from Francesca’s arms, Harry walks to the counter where an elderly woman is talking to what appears to be her spouse, as his hand is cupping her cheek and kissing her forehead before walking away to a different part of the shop. Harry lays his hand on Francesca’s lower back, nudging her a bit closer to him as they stand behind another woman, her body standing in front of his as they wait for the counter to clear. Francesca’s eyes widen at the sight of a golden band wrapped around his third finger, her gaze travelling between the wedding band and Harry’s eyes on her.

“Couldn’t be married to you if I didn’t have a band myself,” he says, a smirk playing on his features as her cheeks flush a different shade of red.

“I suppose you’re right, Edward,” she says, yawning tiredly and leaning into his chest, her eyes fluttering shut until they hear a ‘Next!’ called from behind the counter. “Hello. How are you doing, this afternoon?”

“I’m well, my dear, and yourself?” the elderly woman greets, a smile plastered on her face as she carefully writes every item in the basket and begins to mark how much they would owe at the end. “I haven’t seen you before. Are you new into town? I’m Rosemary Arthur. That’s my husband, David.”

Francesca smiles and steps forward, easing into her role and the story they’ve set for themselves, Harry easily follows suit and closes his mouth. “I’m Giovanna, and this is my husband, Edward. We’ve just moved in down the street. We’re at 12 Oak Street.”

“That’s the tiny cottage on the beach, Ro! Beautiful house. Perfect home to start in,” Mr. Arthur says from the assortments of fruits, sorting through the apples and taking the bruised ones into a basket to take away.

“Newlyweds, I presume,” Mrs. Arthur smiles, nodding towards their left hands and the way their rings sit perfectly on their fingers, not too tight, not too loose. “Have you got any children?”

“Oh no,” Francesca giggles without thinking, and when Mrs. Arthur’s face falls slightly, she quickly says, “Not yet at least. Our wedding was only a week ago.”

“How long was your engagement?” Mrs. Arthur asks nosily, the elderly woman turning to Harry for a moment and sharing the amount of the groceries. Harry pays her quietly, expecting her to ask Francesca the question. Mrs. Arthur’s eyebrows furrow together curiously when no one answers. “Edward?”

“My apologies, Mrs. Arthur,” Harry apologizes swiftly, his hands beginning to feel warm against Francesca’s back, his cheeks surely heating with embarrassment. “Our engagement was only six or so months.”

“Quickly married, then, yes?” Mr. Arthur says, a gravelly voice echoing through the tiny shop as he walks towards the front counter where they’re all congregated. “Must’ve been keen to get a ring on this lovely lady’s finger.”

Harry notices the blush on Francesca’s cheeks and smiles, encouraging the conversation by saying, “Look at her! A ring was a must! Otherwise, someone would’ve come right from under my nose. I very well couldn’t have that. I’m in love with her. I wouldn’t want to see her with anyone else.”

Francesca looks at Harry with wide eyes and sighs, her heart swelling in her chest against her will at the thought of someone going through this much trouble to protect her. Harry must love her to some capacity, shouldn’t he? He must feel some sort of affection for her, to be willing to go through such lengths to make sure she’s safe. Surely, Francesca feels something for him.

And what is it that she feels? Honestly, she’s not quite sure.

“My husband and I would love to hear the story of your engagement. Wouldn’t we, David?” Mrs. Arthur says suddenly, pulling Harry and Francesca from their gazes and back to reality. “It reminds him of when we were young, once.” Mrs. Arthur wraps their groceries in the basket and slides it over the counter for Francesca to take. “David’s engagement plan had fallen through four times before he could truly ask me to marry him. One thing after another kept getting in the way, but he never gave up on the idea of marrying me. He kept trying until I could say ‘yes’. I admired that about him. Quite obviously. Look at us, now. Forty some years later.”

“Of course, you liked it. My Ro loved the chase, way back when,” Mr. Arthur grins and continues, staring lovingly at his wife from behind the counter and wrapping his arm around her shoulder, kissing her head sweetly. “Mind telling us about your love story? That would truly make our day. Then, of course, you can be on your way. Surely you’re exhausted from a day of travel.”

“Of course,” Harry smiles politely, taking the basket from the counter and setting it on the ground by their feet. He takes Francesca’s hand and interlocks their fingers, squeezing her hand for comfort. “I met Giovanna when I was away for The Great War. Giovanna was given a soldier to write to, myself, and I was her writing accompaniment. Upon weeks of conversation, we had agreed to meet at the dock where I would be let off, where everyone’s family and friends would be greeting their loved ones. I was searching for her, and mistakenly, we had bumped into each other. It was love at first sight. Our affections for each other were much more than what I could have ever imagined, and we fell in love in a hurry. Our lives were forever changed by each other, and it couldn’t have been possible to love another person more than we loved each other. Granted, her father approved of me quickly, so it didn’t cause much trouble to be together. He knew that I would do anything to protect her, no matter the circumstance.”

Rosemary and David nod knowingly meanwhile Francesca looks at him curiously – it’s like he’s imagined this story before; as though, he’s envisioned what this version of their life could have been like.

“Giovanna’s favorite flower is a yellow tulip, she revealed to me one day in a letter, and so I took us to a garden in Upstate New York. Sunflowers and tulips and roses grow in large arrays of colors, and I knew that she’d fall in love with the sight. Our lunch was had in the middle of this field, and when she was walking through the yellow tulips, and I stopped her, took her hand, and asked for her hand in marriage. I said, ‘Marrying you would be the greatest honor I’d ever be fit to do.”

Francesca stares at Harry incredulously, swallowing thickly as tears well in her eyes. Harry knows that her favorite flower is a tulip? Rosemary and David coo at the faux newly married couple, thanking them for their story and wishing them a lifetime of happiness as Harry gathers the basket and squeezes Francesca’s hand to nod towards the exit. Harry bids the two a goodbye, Francesca leading the way out of the grocer quietly, unsure of what to say. Outside, the sun has begun to set, and the watch on Harry’s wrist reads, 6:31.

“Must be getting back for dinner, my dear,” Harry says softly, switching the basket in his hands and grabbing Francesca’s other hand, their fingers slotting through each other’s perfectly. “Given that we both have a busy day tomorrow, we can come back to the market in the evening and grab anything else we might need for the house.”

“Of course,” Francesca hums, too caught in her own thoughts to have anything to say. Harry notices this quickly and squeezes her hand reassuringly. “Yes?”

Harry peers down at her as they walk towards their house, her eyes cast on the pavement and her feet stepping lightly over every crevice in the walkway. Her silence is deafening. “Are you okay, Francesca?”

“I’m slightly confused, that’s all.”

“Confused?”

“How is it that I know nothing about you, Harry, and yet, you know everything about me?” she says without thinking twice, stopping in her tracks without questioning her bluntness and the clarity behind her words. “I want to know more. I want to be your friend. Not simply you as mine. That’s not right. Nor is it fair to you.”

Harry sighs and nods, squeezing her hand and encouraging her forward. “What do you want to know, Francesca?”

“Tell me about your family, about your life. Why did you choose to go to the war? Have you ever been in love? Do you wish you were still in New York with my father and our friends?”

Questions never bothered Harry, until they were questions that he wasn’t quite sure how to answer. How do you very well tell the person you’re in love with that you’re in love with them when it is strictly forbidden? How could you do that?

“My mother and father met in 1890. Mother fell in love with Father easily and Father was in the war, and it made sense to get married quickly. Mother would have been a housewife and Father a cook for the army, and everything was well and good. Mother had my sister, Jo, then she had me, and Father was in and out with the various wars and the army being sent around the nation after the Civil War. In 1903, Father fell sick with Influenza. He died shortly after, leaving me in charge of the estate and everything when I was old enough. That was honestly a bit much for me. I enlisted in the army to get away from my responsibilities. I was a coward, Francesca. I didn’t want to be responsible for my sister and my mother.” Harry doesn’t dare to look at Francesca’s face, for the fear of her disappointment cloaking her features. He couldn’t bear to have her be disappointed in him. “It was when I was in the war that I learnt what true bravery is, sacrificing yourself for another person. I came back alive, I was lucky. I promised myself I would do what it would take to protect my family and my friends.” He lets out a breath that he had been holding in his chest. “I met you that first night I came back from Europe.”

“Me?”

“It was your eighteenth birthday, Francesca. Giuseppe approached every man in the bar that was a soldier to see if you’d hit it off with any of us to be your guardian. I suppose I was your lucky match that night.”

“Ah yes, I remember that now. I remember it well. Daddy called you my guardian angel, so to speak. He was certainly right in that regard. I surely wouldn’t be alive if it weren’t for you.”

Harry shivers at the thought. Francesca notices. “I don’t wish I was in New York with your father and our friends,” Harry answers honestly, reaching into his pocket and scrambling for the key to the house. “You are my friend. I would do anything to protect you. I know it feels as though you don’t know me, Francesca, but I promise that you do, that you will. I trust you. That is more for me to say than anything else.”

Francesca is pleased with these answers, with the glimpse of Harry’s past and present that she seems to have been given in this moment. And yet, there is one lingering question that is bothering her that she can’t seem to shake. “Have you ever been in love, Harry?”

Harry swallows thickly. Love is a touchy subject. “Yes.”

“Oh,” she says, jealousy beginning to swallow her whole. Jealousy of the sense that she has never had the opportunity to fall in love, to feel so deeply for someone that she would give her entire life for their safety, for their health, for their happiness. Given her situation, she may never be able to feel that, and for that, she’s jealous. “What’s it like? To love someone?”

“Consuming,” Harry says softly, firmly, opening the front door and gesturing for her to walk inside. “Love is all consuming, Francesca. It swallows you whole. Every moment that you are living, you are living for the other person and yourself. Happiness is no longer your own, you share it. It’s the most powerful magic that exists in the world because it is something so indescribable, that it may never make sense to the naked eye. Love is magical and lovely; it is every pleasantry known to man.” Harry stops for a moment and pauses, “Love, though, when it’s taken from you, is the most devastating. It takes your heart and pulls it in a million different directions. It shatters you and makes you whole again. Having loved and been in love is the greatest gift and the worst curse, as you will never know something so tender and great in all your years. Love is epic, Francesca. Epic and extraordinary.” Harry shuts the front door and locks it, walking into the bedroom with Francesca following behind closely.

“Harry?”

“Yes?”

“Would you ever want to be in love, again?” Francesca furiously shakes her head and waves her hands in the air, excusing and apologizing for her own question. “I’m so sorry. I take it back. That was horribly rude and invasive of me. I shouldn’t have asked such a thing. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”

Harry carefully walks to where Francesca is standing and lays his hands on her shoulders, shaking his head with a smile and gently encouraging her to look at him. He says her name delicately, as though it’s a word that’s only meant to be spoken by the utmost holy of ordinances. “Francesca.”

“Yes?” she whispers in return.

“I already am.” Harry smiles softly, and nods his head, walking towards where their suitcases have been unpacked and their clothes are in the wardrobe. He walks towards the wooden fixture, grabbing his pajamas and walking out of the room, the bathroom door creaking shut behind him. Francesca sucks in the deepest breath her lungs can take, unsure of what to say.

Did Harry Styles just admit that he loves her? That he’s in love with her? Is that even possible? Does he realize what his words have quite possibly said?

On the edge of the bed, Francesca takes a seat, shaking her head and quite possibly contemplating running to the beach and sinking her feet in the water to feel something other than the heat that is rising through her skin. Her whole body is on fire with the thought, the thought of touching him, of kissing him, of feeling his skin on hers. Coursing through her veins is every temptation she has ever felt, every thought to kiss him, or tease or fall in love.

It’s Harry. She can’t. That’s strictly forbidden. Forbidden. Off limits. Father would have a field day and have his head on a silver platter. Gun to the brain. That would be a disaster.

“Bathroom is all yours,” Harry says, breaking her thoughts and smiling softly. He can see that she’s deep in thought, and the thought of it being about him makes his stomach churn with nervousness.

Harry understands why Francesca is so nervous. Hell, he’s nervous. Giuseppe would certainly kill him if he found out Harry was in love with Francesca. He is meant to protect her, not to be in love with her, especially not to want to have a relationship with her. Classic forbidden romance, only, this time, it is one that could never be possible. Not in this lifetime, anyways.

Harry watches as she walks into the bathroom and begins to pace around the bedroom, nervously wondering if he should have said such a thing to her. There’s no way that she’s in love with him. There’s simply no way. Her heart was set on a pretentious, all-too-classy, rich man in the city, with a life in a brownstone and children.

How could Harry give Francesca anything that she really wants?

Harry immediately stops pacing when Francesca enters the room, his heart sinking at the distraught look caught behind her eyes. “May I ask you a question?”

“Of course.”

“Francesca Giovanna Cartelli, what do you want out of life? Tell me what you want out of life, and I will do that for you. I will give you everything and anything. Just, tell me what that is.”

That’s the moment that she knows what to do. Grabbing Harry’s cheeks bravely, Francesca kisses him, pressing her mouth to his with conviction. Harry only takes a moment to gather his thoughts, to realize what is happening, before his hands are circling around her wrists and holding her hands to his cheeks. His eyes flutter shut with the feeling, the way her mouth feels on his, so pure and perfect, soft and delicate. Moments pass with the two simply basking in the way this feels, nothing moving beyond their lips on each other, the night passing through the open windows.

Minutes travel by before Francesca pulls away breathlessly, Harry’s hands holding hers against his face gently, his eyes a softened shade of green that she’s never seen before. Her thumb rubs his cheek, basking in the way he’s looking at her.

“What?”

“Why’d you do that?” Harry asks curiously, his voice barely above a whisper. This is forbidden, whether they be in New York City or hundreds of miles away. He shouldn’t be kissing her.

“Many reasons,” Francesca says boldly, her voice staying at the same volume of his. “Firstly, because if anyone ever proposed to me in the way you told Mr. and Mrs. Arthur, that would be the way I would say ‘yes’. In a heartbeat. Secondly, for sharing parts of yourself that you haven’t shared with anyone else. Thirdly, I want everything you can give me.”

Harry grins at that, a victorious feeling overwhelming him. “And the other reason, Miss Cartelli?”

“Well, that’s a reason for another day, Mr. Styles.”

Fourthly, Francesca thinks to herself, I’ve always wanted to do that.

Harry nods respectively, his eyes travelling between her eyes and the bridge of her nose and her mouth. “May I ask one thing before bed, Francesca?”

“Anything.”

“May I … Could we,” Harry hesitates between each sentence, unsure of what to say. How could he politely ask to kiss her again? And again? And again? Instead, Harry sucks in a deep breath and brings his mouth to hers, desperately praying that she’ll understand exactly what he’s saying. And when she kisses him back, when her lips move intricately against his, he knows that she understands. Harry smiles against her lips, not saying another word.

“Mhm,” she says instead, brushing her thumbs along his cheekbones sweetly before dragging her hands away regretfully, taking a step away from his chest before she’s tempted once more. “One day.”

“One day soon?”

“I sure hope so.”

Harry smiles widely, his cheeks indenting with a dimple that she’s never noticed before this as he turns on his heel and shuts the bedroom door, taking his gun from the dresser and laying it on the bedside table on his side, closest to the door. Harry watches intently as she releases the pins in her hair, gently brushing through the curls and tying the ribbons on her silk trousers. Her routine is so simple, so mundane, Harry wonders if there is a version of it with himself included, with a shared bath and a kiss goodnight. Harry wonders if he would ever be up to par with such a woman of class and poise, her innocence too pure to be ruined by his past. His curiosity has always gotten the better of him, of his mind, and in this moment, he reaches out and touches her shoulder, smiling beneath the moonlight as she stares at him with tired eyes.

“Francesca.”

“Yes?”

“You never answered my question.”

“I believe I kissed you instead,” she says with a giggle. “I thought that would suffice for what I wanted.”

Harry sighs peacefully and traces a heart along the back of her shoulder, “I suppose it does. For now.”

“Have you got any other questions for me, Mr. Styles?”

Harry sighs, “Have you ever thought about getting away from all of this, Francesca?”

Looking at him with confusion, unsure of where the conversation is heading or what it is about, Francesca ponders, “From what?”

“The Mafia, everything.”

“Of course, I have. Many times.”

“Do you detest being in it?” Harry does sometimes. Harry sometimes wishes he died in the war. Harry wishes these things until he realizes that he wouldn’t have met Francesca if any of the previous were to have happened. “Do you wish to have a different life?”

“No,” she says solemnly, thinking carefully about her answer. “I wouldn’t have met you if I wasn’t in it, right? I wouldn’t have met, quite possibly, the best friend I’ve ever had.”

“Right.”

“I’m okay with running,” Francesca admits, settling beneath the duvet and laying her head on the pillow, her eyes looking up at the ceiling, her thoughts swirling around her brain. “I’m okay with running, so long as I have someone to run with.”

I’ll run with you, Harry wants to say, I’ll run with you until I can no longer feel my feet. “Understood,” he says instead.

“Have you begun to hate it yet, Harry?”

“Hating something would require me to not be happy with it,” he says, lowering himself to his pillow and laying back, not daring to look at her and succumb to the pressure of wanting to kiss her. “I’m also okay with running, especially when I’m running with a friend.”

Francesca smiles, once more for the day, turning onto her side and letting out a breath she hadn’t realized she had been holding for most of their conversation. Exhaling and taking a new breath, she shuts her eyes and whispers, “Goodnight, Harry.”

“Goodnight, Francesca.”

Under the shining moonlight, the two fall asleep peacefully, basking in the warmth radiating from each other and the way they feel, knowing that maybe, just maybe, their chance at true love is not long lost and forgotten.

[youbloodymadgenius]

Ivarello (Modern!Ivar x reader) Chapter 1

Moodboard by @quantumlocked310

Ivarello’s masterpost here

A/N: This is my entry for @deans-ch-ch-cherrypie 500 Followers Fairy Tale Challenge. It's a retelling of Cinderella. Congrats again, darling 💖

A huge thank you to @mrsalwayswrite, who's a great beta reader and an even greater cheerleader 😂

A massive thank you to @quantumlocked310, @vikingstrash and @serasvictoria. Thank you for agreeing to collaborate and for sharing your talent with me. Your moodboards are beyond amazing 🤩

In this story, Sigurd is alive. Ragnar and Aslaug are dead, but Lagertha didn't kill her. I took a lot of liberties with the show, I hope you won't mind.

Unlike the tale, there will be no magic involved. Not everything will be realistic, however. It's a fayritale, after all!

Let me know if you want to be tagged 😊

Summary: Orphaned five years ago, Ivar and his brothers have been living with Lagertha ever since. Now 16 years old, he wants to attend Harald's traditional Midsummer party, but obstacles stand in his way.

Warnings: description of car crash; orphaned kids; Sigurd being Sigurd; OOC characters.

Words: 1806

Additional note: I'm afraid I'll disappoint some of you. No more newspapers... The articles defined the setting of the story. From now on, it'll be a regular fic.

Hope you enjoy it nevertheless 🙂

🛡⚔️🛡

June 2021

Ivar yawns, rubbing his eyes, when he suddenly hears the front door open. The next moment, Ubbe shouts, "Hey baby bro, we're home!"

Slightly confused, Ivar looks at the time on his computer. Stunned, he blinks repeatedly, shakes his head and checks the time again, now looking at his watch. "Guess I lost track of time," he mumbles as he realizes it's really 5:30 pm. He clears his throat. "I'm coming!"

Yawning once more, he wheels to the kitchen. Hvitserk waves at him with one hand as Ubbe greets him with a grin and Sigurd... Well, Sigurd ignores him, as usual.

"Hello boys!" Lagertha smiles as she also enters the kitchen. "Did you go to the beach this afternoon?" It's a rethorical question, since sand can be seen on the tanned skin of his brothers, shirtless and wearing only swimming shorts.

When she looks down at him, her smile becomes softer. "Ivar, you seem tired. Did you work all day long?"

He nods, glad that for once she called him by his first name and not by one of those stupid nicknames that she likes but that make his skin crawl.

"Yep," he shrugs without smiling back, "I made good progress. The new version of your website is almost done. It could probably be online by the end of the week."

His stepmom flashes him a beaming smile. "Great, thanks!"

The conversation then moves on to the subject that everyone in Kattegat has been talking about for the last few days: the midsummer party thrown by their neighbor Harald Hårfager. Every June, it is Kattegat's not-to-be-missed event, to which every resident hopes to be invited.

Lagertha is invited every year, yet rarely attends; his brothers wouldn't miss it, not in a million years; Ivar never went.

He listens with half an ear as his brothers prattle on about the upcoming party, while taking a seat at the large, wooden kitchen table on which Lagertha has just put cakes and drinks.

"What are you going to wear?"

"Do you think Marit will attend this year?"

"Hopefully the music will be better than last year."

"Can't be as bad! What was the name of that reggae band?"

For a fleeting moment, Ivar entertains the thought of attending as well. Not that he's dying to, but… Sometimes, he feels a little bit like Cinderella in this house.

Don't get him wrong, it's not that bad.

First, his stepmom is not–

Wait, wait, wait, is Lagertha technically his stepmom? He's not sure. After all, she wasn't when his parents were alive, she was just his father's first wife. Anyway, she may be his guardian now, but he sees her as his stepmom and he honestly doesn’t give a shit if it's a little weird.

Where was he? Oh yes, Cinderella.

So obviously, Lagertha is not a wicked, haughty and abusive stepmom like this Lady Tremaine of the fairytale.

Actually, even if it pisses him off to admit it, she's pretty nice, patient and composed. Does he love her? Let's not exaggerate – he doesn't. She may love him though, which is a little bit uncanny, if he's being honest. He was the favorite son of her nemesis. Shouldn't she hate him? He would, if the situation was reversed.

The truth is, when he was younger, he tried, he really tried to hate her, blaming her for everything and anything. When too much pain prevented him from sleeping, he let his imagination run wild. There, bound to his bed of suffering, he could see Lagertha cutting the brakes on his mother's car, causing her crash, causing her death.

Of course, even then, he knew deep down that Lagertha had not killed his mother; that the story he told himself was just the product of his endless nights of insomnia. But what can he say? He needed this. Because blaming Lagertha rather than admitting that his beloved mother was at fault – by being distracted, or by falling asleep, he'll never know – was easier for the heartbroken boy he was.

Anyway... So yes, Lagertha is definitely not an evil stepmother like Cinderella's.

Also, he doesn't sleep on a sorry garret, on a wretched straw bed either.

Actually, he has a very large room on the main floor, with a king-size memory foam bed, a walk-in – well, a wheel-in for his case – closet and his own, huge bathroom, fully equipped for his special needs.

Sure, the bathroom and the dressing room were already there when his parents were alive; however, the memory foam mattress had been Lagertha's idea.

Anyway... So yes, he can't exactly complain about his sleeping conditions, unlike Cinderella.

And obviously, he's not forced into servitude.

Actually, one might think so, but no, he's not. Sure, sometimes he works for his stepmom, like today. But so do his brothers. When she had taken them in, she was a powerful businesswoman, working twelve to fourteen hours a day. Once she had become their guardian, she had rearranged her working time and learned to delegate; but even so, she had often run out of time. Therefore, it had seemed normal to them – yes, even to him – to help her out, each of them according to their skills and abilities.

So, while Hvitserk almost always does the grocery shopping, while Sigurd vacuums and does the laundry, while Ubbe mows the lawn and trim the bushes, he, Ivar, runs her company's website and sometimes even does the accounting. And since he loves computers and numbers, it's not exactly a problem.

Anyway... So yes, he's not a slave in this house. Unlike Cinderella.

So, yes, to sum it up, he can't really complain and he's by far not Cinderella. And he knows it.

But... Yes, there's a but...

Sometimes, he feels trapped, as poor Cinderella must have felt.

Sometimes he feels like a spectator of a life he doesn't belong to.

Sure, he doesn't have to be homeschooled – but gods, he's glad he is. The reasons for him to be continuously bullied by classmates are endless. The simplest ones being: he is a cripple, an orphan, the son of a dead mob boss, the smartest one in the whole damn school, let alone his class. Take your pick. It's no fun, no fun at all. Being home alone is preferable to that alternative.

Therefore, barely leaving the house except for medical appointments, he has no friends. He doesn't do sports either – obviously – and yeah, he lives a lonely life, filled with video games and Netflix series. And he's okay with that. Well, most of the time.

Sure, his brothers, or at least Ubbe and Hvitserk, always try to include him as much as possible. But the truth is that because of his legs, there are many, many things he just can't do.

And the other truth, the less pleasant one, is that he partially did that to himself. He cut himself off from a world that hurt him, yet he still misses this world sometimes. At times, he blames himself. Because his life, honestly, is hardly what you would call a life, is it? Not when you're sixteen.

That's why sometimes, like now, he feels this longing, almost a need, to live. To really, truly, fully live. And that's why, for a brief moment, lulled by the light chitchat of his brothers, he considers attending Harald's midsummer party.

But he knows better. This life is not for him, never has been, never will be.

And so, shaking his head, he chases the thought away and, placing his hands on his push rims, he's about to leave the kitchen while the incessant babbling of his brothers goes on.

"I can't wait."

"Don't tell me! As every year, the most beautiful girls of Kattegat will be there."

"Remember that burger food truck? Best burgers ever!"

"I've heard Y/N would be attending this year."

"There'll be booze and girls! Sounds like Valh–"

Wait. His mind goes blank.

Fuck.

What? Did he hear right?

As he replays his brother's words in his head, it's like there's an earthquake happening inside of him.

Fuck.

He stops breathing. Blinks, then clamps his eyes shut.

Fuck.

When he finally manages to draw air into his lungs, he swallows loudly before asking in a weird, high-pitched voice, his heart pounding in his chest, "What– What did you say, brother?"

Hvitserk turns his head toward him and shrugs. "I just said there'll be boo–"

"No, not you!" Ivar snaps at his brother, pointing his pointer finger at Ubbe. "You, what did you fucking say?" Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Lagertha frowning – 'no curse words in this house, boys'– and even if he barely contains an eye roll, he still mouths a quick 'sorry' at her before rewording his question, impatience coursing through him. "What did you say, dear brother? Who did you say would attend?"

Stunned, Ubbe looks at him with wide eyes. "Y/N? I said Y/N would come. That's what I heard anyway. She's Harald's niece. She was here once, right? Remember her, baby bro, huh?"

But Ivar is no longer listening, the blood draining from his face. Y/N... Y/N... Fuck. Finally. Fucking finally. After so long... He may see you again. Wow.

I'll go! I'll fucking go!

He barely contains the words, suddenly acutely aware of the deafening silence in the room, his brothers shamelessly staring at him.

With her brows furrowed and her lips turned downward in a slight frown, Lagertha takes two steps forwards before crouching down in front of him. "Are you all right, sweetie? You're a little pale."

He barely hears when Sigurd giggles, "A little pale? He's greener than an alien!"

Lagertha shoots Sigurd a dirty look and then gently cups Ivar's cheek. "Do you know her, Ivar? Do you know Y/N?"

Overwhelmed, self-conscious, freaked out, caught off-guard, he doesn't know how to respond. Should he tell the truth? Should he lie? His brothers will mock him, for sure. What is the point of telling the truth? What good would it do? On the other hand, he could really use some advice. Yeah. Sure. Advice from Sigurd. Just the thought of it is enough to make him sick. Fuck, what is he going to do?

Rushed words are out of his mouth before he can even gather his thoughts. "No. No. I don't. I mean, yes, I think I do but–" He's being pathetic and he hates it. So after a sharp intake of breath, he shakes his head and eventually replies in a flat, calm voice, the white lie rolling off his tongue. "I know her, but I thought Ubbe was talking about someone else. Sorry."

With these words, he hastily leaves the room, his eyes riveted on his knees, his heart still drumming in his chest.

Y/N. Fuck.

🛡⚔️🛡

Ivar's taglist: @waiting4inspiration @honestsycrets @lisinfleur @saldelys @gearhead66 @inforapound @readsalot73 @milkkygirls @xbellaxcarolinax @shannygoatgruff @zuxiezendler @hecohansen31 @lonewolf471 @fuckindiva @tgrrose @didiintheblog @peachyboneless @pieces-by-me @funmadnessandbadassvikings @ethereallysimple @destynelseclipsa @cocovikings23 @xceafh @mrsalwayswrite @deans-ch-ch-cherrypie @pomegranates-and-blood @jadelynlace @grimeundglow @quantumlocked310 @alexhandersen-marcoilsoe-fandom

Ivarello's taglist: @not-another-viking-fanfic-blog @hashimily @prepare4trouble @supernaturalvikingwhore @funmadnessandbadassvikings

[blessedwedgie]

Hey so I’m going through a crap time right now my alcoholic dad told me he doesn’t want to be dad anymore and that I’m no longer his daughter/family so I was wondering if I could get either a mafia!bucky / mob!bucky or biker!bucky comforting me in this situation. Thank you x

Hi!! I am so sorry to hear about your dad and everything that is going on. I cannot imagine what you are going through but I will do my best to make you feel better. 💕 I’m a series girl because I’m in it for the long haul when it comes to Bucky and I like to get lost in a storyline. I have some oneshots to include but I suck at remembering titles so give me a day or two and I will add them. For now get cozy because you’ve got some reading to do…

Howlin For You by @invisibleanonymousmonsters

My FAVORITE biker! Bucky series. It’s the right amount of angst with mutual pining. I re-read this series very often.

Summary: When Y/N gets an unreal deal on her first home, she wonders why her neighbor scared away all the other buyers. Despite being cautious, she wonders why the town has given Bucky Barnes a bad name.

Swallow by @all1e23

Such a good biker! Bucky series! This is right up there with Howlin For You like top tier. This series is so well written it is insane and each chapter just pulls you in deeper and deeper into the storyline. Also, not sure if you are a fan of alpha! Bucky but if you are you need to read her Heart & Soul series because it is *chef’s kiss*.

Summary: Since he was fifteen years old, Bucky Barnes has only been sure of two things; the club should be the most essential thing in his life, and he’d burn it all down for you. You’re the only thing in this world that matters, and he’ll do whatever it takes to win you back, even if that means destroying everything he built. None of it mattered without you. Swallows choose a mate for life, and will only nest with that bird and no other; they travel long distances apart only to find their way to back to each other, again and again. Bucky knew the second he met you. You’re his other half; you’re his swallow.

Love, Honor, and Obey by @constantwriter85

This is a good mob! Bucky series. I love angst so this is another one that has some good angst but still gives you fluff for your feels. Also it is amazingly written so have fun binging!

Summary: Faced with blackmail and the loss of your beloved charity, you’re forced to marry the son of your mobster father’s friend, James Barnes, in order to keep the peace between the families. Little did you know, James had fallen in love with you at first sight. As he tries to woo his new wife, a new rival family comes into play, threatening all you’ve come to hold dear.

Petals & Bullets by @revengingbarnes

Another mob! Bucky series that is very well written. I haven’t finished this one but I am loving it so far and it was recommended to me by multiple people!

Summary: For as long as Y/N can remember, she has been sold in the black market as a sex slave. This time, the purchase is intercepted by a group of men in black. Their leader, a man with a silver gleaming arm, is the boss of the most feared mafia in NYC. Sucked into the world of drugs, guns and money, Y/N finds out more about her past than she bargained for. As her past and her family’s mistakes catch up on her, she finds herself falling for the man next to her with piercing blue eyes and a taste for violence.

Hope this helps a little bit!! If you ever just want to talk or vent, I am here. If you need more Bucky fics or just want to talk about how great he is, I got you. I know saying it doesn’t really make everything magical okay, but I am firm believer in things will get better. It may not be soon or in the way you are expecting, but I have to believe that there is always some sort of light at the end of the tunnel. 😊

Take care and happy reading!

❤️ Court

[okaybutjustk]

open to: f

inspo: my muse is a rich, powerful mob boss, and your muse (his significant other/gf/fiancee/wife) was kidnapped.

my muse: vincent ricci

tw: kidnap, murder, use of weapons

It was going on three weeks since he’d last seen her. Three weeks since he’d last seen her smile, and heard her breathe his name. Three entire weeks since he’d known of her whereabouts. Three weeks since anyone had seen her alive, well and breathing.

Vincent had hardly slept, he’d spent every minute looking at security footage, barking orders and working towards getting her home. They had a few different leads that he unfortunately fallen through. He knew who had taken his girl, they were just struggling to find out where she was, and why. He had his fair share of enemies in this city, and one of them had made his worst fear come true.

One of his people had recently gotten a tip that she had been taken to a warehouse just a few minutes outside of the city. At this point, Vincent had to have hope that she was still alive and well, and that they were looking for a person instead of just a body. It caused the man physical pain to think that she may have succumbed to any harm, because of him. Because someone who didn’t like him wanted intel on his business.She didn’t deserve any of it, and yet she had fallen victim.

It had taken a few days to form a plan of attack. They’d narrowed in on the warehouse to storm, and gotten all of the people they needed, even each of Vin’s sons were ready to help in case a war broke out. Each person had their orders: when and where they were supposed to be. Tonight would finally be the night that his beloved was coming home, no matter what.

It was just after nine o’clock when they made their entrance, from any and every exit they could find. Vincent had the pleasure of shooting down not one, but two guards: one by a fatal shot to the abdomen, and the other guy getting it square in between the eyes. The man had trained for moments like these his entire life, and wasn’t going to show a single drop of mercy, until he found his bride safe, and alive. If he had had things his way, not a single life would be left. It felt like they were checking rooms for hours, clearing the building starting from the basement and working up. Apart from a few guards, there had been no sign of her, which only fed the fury growing within Vincent.

Shots could be heard from the opposite side of the building, along with screaming and shouting. No one was safe, not even his own men. But each of their lives were sacrifices he was willing to make to get her back home. Vin had been on the second floor when he felt his phone vibrating in his pocket. He kept his stride while answering it, not saying anything, but expecting to be spoken too.

“Top floor, south, last room on the right,” his son Mathias says, out of breath completely. With this information, he hangs up the phone, and sprints to the nearest staircase, moving faster than he had in years. He knew nothing of the state she was in, nor if she was even up there. The man just had to hope that she had been found, he didn’t know how much longer he could take of this.

Within minutes, he finds himself heading down the hallway, his vision becoming blurred as he got closer and closer to the door. It didn’t feel real, he couldn’t even think about anything, other than holding her again, feeling her chest rise and fall beneath him, feeling the warmth of her skin against his. He had a bunch of things he wanted to say and do, but the only goal he had in the moment was to get to her.

As he arrives in the doorway, he’s left without air to breathe, eyes immediately landing on his woman, watching as Mathias and another one of his soldiers worked on getting her ankles out of restraints. Vincent wastes literally zero time, going to her side and falling at her knees.

“Baby, are you alright?” He asks, hands frantically going over her body to make sure she had no fresh wounds that needed to be tended to. Even so, she wasn’t in good shape. He saw the bruising and dried blood, causing numerous different emotions to soar through the man. Of course, he was angry. But he was saddened to see the woman he loved in this condition. Seeing her in this amount of pain, knowing he couldn’t do anything about it just hurt him in a way he couldn’t describe.

Vin leans forward, resting his forehead against hers and letting out a deep sigh of relief. She was alive, and he could finally take her home.

[babbushka]

Each Eye (6/8)

Kylo was the most feared boss in the entirety of New York City. They said that the crime families were no more, that they had disappeared with the end of an era. You knew it wasn’t true, you saw first hand. The families didn’t disappear, they simply went underground, adapted.

Lucky for you, your man, and your family, no one could ever get rid of crime. Not really.

Mob!Kylo Ren x Reader

5.6k; NSFW

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

When he returned to you, he was bloody. Covered in it, the mess. He’s silent as he moved through the apartment, as if to not wake you, as if you weren’t already awake. You’re sitting on the big grey couch, wrapped up in your robe, concerned. You knew, you knew he was capable, but there’s something in the wait his gait is slowed slightly that made you anxious.

“Did you have fun?” You asked him, and he nodded with a sigh, one hand pressed to his side.

You reached out for him, and he without any hesitation removed the bloody palm from his waist, linked the fingers through yours.

You led him through the apartment, and he’s careful not to track blood on the carpeting as you go into the bathroom.

He’s not in the mood to talk, you could tell. But that was okay, he didn’t have to. He’s out of it, but that’s okay too, all he needs is a bath and some sleep. Normally you’d corral him into the shower, but there’s something in the weight of his shoulders that seemed to you like he was in need of a good soak. 

So, while you instructed him wordlessly to strip, you dumped salts and oils into the grand tub and went to the linens closet for rags that you could use to soak up and scrub away the evidence of this night.

“Show me?” You asked, sitting on the edge of the tub as it filled with hot water.

He’s naked before you, and he stepped in between your legs just as you told him. He’s exhausted, and you gave him a small loving smile as your hands smooth up the muscles of his strong thighs. He’s been stabbed, right in the abdomen, just below his belly button. You sucked in a deep breath and hummed out the exhale, dipping the wash cloth into the soapy water, ringing it out.

“This might sting.” You said softly, and he nodded, hands flexing and clenching into fists at his sides.

Other than those small movements, he didn’t show any sign of being in too much discomfort as you cleaned his wound. Although, you reasoned, nothing could really be more uncomfortable than being stabbed in the first place. The blood around the wound had dried and crusted, coagulated and already begun to heal. It wasn’t a deep cut, not a deep wound, thank goodness. Maybe only an inch or so in, nothing important compromised.

Still, an inch was deep enough for stitches, and you pointed to the medicine cabinet on the other side of the bathroom.

He knew exactly what you wanted, and he grabbed it with ease, the suture kit resting where it always did, on the top shelf. He handed it to you and watched you as you got to work.

You didn’t know, at this point, how many times you’d stitched him up. You were no medical student, no doctor, not by any means. You thought back to that very first time, the very first evening you had tried to save him, had tried so desperately to get his bleeding face to close. You hadn’t been very good then, hands shaking as tears blurred your vision, your resolve nearly cracked and broken, nearly shattered into nothingness, as evidence in his flesh from the mangled scar that splits all the way down to his throat.

You hadn’t been very good, but you had been good enough.

Now though, now you feel like you could do this blindfolded, the small seam of his wound closing evenly. He’d scar of course, but nothing like the gnarled mess that was the one on his face. You applied bandages on top of it with steady hands, waterproofed the area on his abdomen with a special patch that allowed him to happily sigh as he sunk into the tub.

Almost immediately, the water ran a sick pink, and your stomach churned because you knew that this time it was his.

You never had a problem with blood, not once. Not unless it was his.

You sat on the edge, carefully poured a cup of the water over his hair, red rivulets streaming from his handsome locks.

“Who did it?” You asked, because you had to know.

Kylo only sighed again, gestured to his pants that lay in a heap on the floor. You nudged the pants over to you with your foot, not wanting to get them stained with any more blood than they already were. The cleaners were going to have a field day with this one, you thought. The splatters which sprayed all across the soft fabric would no doubt be impossible to get out.

In the pocket was his little prize for you, his little trinket he brought back. He always brought something back for you, your man did.

Your eyes widened at the sight of it, the small golden ring. You could recognize that symbol anywhere, that imagery. You turned to him, and he only nodded, asked for your hand with his own. You gave it to him, and he slipped the ring on your middle finger. You already wore a ring there, you already wore a ring on all your fingers. But this one, this gift was no simple band, this one was ornate enough to win a spot on your hand, a display of your prize, of Kylo’s kill.

“We’re really in it now, aren’t we?” You asked, and he only leaned his head back against the tub, only sank down enough to blow bubbles in the frothy pink bloody suds that pooled around his chest.

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

He adored you, you knew. Worshipped the ground you walked on. He’s killed for you, would kill again for you, if only you said the word.

And you do, sometimes. When you’re in the mood, when you’re feeling scorned enough, when you’re feeling burned enough, when you’re feeling ruthless enough. You do.

But on the whole, Kylo had so much energy, so much pent up aggression he harbored inside his chest, that he doesn’t know what to do with; he doesn’t know what to do with it, so he spent it all on you. Better that, than killing. There’s no body count attached to his riches.

Well, not directly, anyway.

He decorated you with the finest things, cloaked you in nothing but luxury, ensured your appearance is exactly how you want it, exactly up to the standards you demand. And though you were no kept woman, not by any means, you wore the gifts happily, wore them eagerly, wore them with pride.

You had your favorites, because of course you did. It’s the jewelry, anyone who knew you would know, anyone who took one look at you would know how much you love jewelry. You’re adorned in gold from your head to your feet. The furs and the shoes and the bags and the stuff was all nice, but you really loved the jewelry.

Your ears sported diamonds encrusted into heavy thick karats, your neck a display of wealth all on its own. From the weight of your Magen David in solid gold, to the pretty braided chains which glinted in the light, you sparkled everywhere you walk. Your wrists were never bare, an elegant watch worth more than some apartments on the lower east side forever clasped around your pulse.

Not that you needed it of course, when Kylo was the one frequently checking the time.

He kissed them, all of them, each chain and pendant and diamond, each strand of gold spun across your body. He lavished the attention on them, on you, in the early light of dawn. It was five in the morning, as it always was when he wakes you, but this time he didn’t wake you with his hands sprawling across your body in that hungry hungry hungry way of his – no, he is far more careful with you, far more slow.

Purposeful.

You wondered if it was because of everything that was going on, everything that was going to happen.

“Kylo,” You whispered, stretching out the sleep from your calves as he brought his lips down like a soft rain across your skin, peppered kisses in his wake.

“Hmm?” He hummed into the spot below your ear, worrying your gold chain between his teeth.

At least he’s talking now, you thought to yourself, as your hands carded through his hair. It’s soft now that it’s clean, you smiled to yourself. Smiled only because somehow, somehow he always returned to this, to this handsome, strong, capable man. No matter how ragged he looked when he showed up after a job, no matter how out of it he had gotten in all the killing, he woke up to kiss you and be soft and sweet against your skin.

It was a shame that the only times he ever felt comfortable enough to be so soft, was the early dawn of twilight, was when he was in bed with you. It’s a shame you’d have to interrupt this morning ritual of his, this daily routine of how he worships your body.

“I have something we need to talk about.” You knew there was never going to be a good time for this, never going to be the right time.

But he was in a good mood, in a decent mood, anyway, lost in the touch smell sight of you. He sucked in a sharp breath and sank his teeth down into the crook where your shoulder met your neck, making you sigh out a happy little gasp of pleasure.

“Right now?” He grumbled, removing his face from your throat and lifting your hands to his lips.

You are covered in jewelry all over, but especially on your fingers. How could one forget to mention the way you have a ring on each one, bands snugly fit, perfectly fit, around all ten fingers. Not all of them had been gifts from Kylo, contrary to popular belief. Some had come from your family, before you were Mrs. Ren, before you were anyone’s wife. Back when you were simply a beloved daughter of one of the largest crime families in New York, back when you were the ultimate mob princess, you wore some of these rings.

Among these are the signet ring which bore your maiden crest, it lived forever on your pinky. A second signet, one that bore your husband’s name, lived on your second pinky.

Kylo kissed them both.

The new one, he didn’t.

“It’s about Rey.” You answered him, as he pressed a respectful kiss to your ring, the whole thing very on brand, when you thought about it.

Kylo liked to say that the old way of doing things was dead, that the old way of the mob was over. But sometimes, sometimes glimmers of the world which your husband so idolized shone through, in small gestures, small acts like this.

He kissed the wedding band, the engagement ring, the decorative and sentimental rings that were warm from your sleep, pressed your palms to the sides of his cheeks and kissed them too.

“I know.” He admitted, making you raise an eyebrow in mild surprise, when he said, “I know she’s lying.”

“You do?” You asked, wondering why he held that to himself, why he wouldn’t have gone out then and there to cut out her tongue, to shut her up. You wondered if he’s planning on it, if he’s waiting for you to give him the permission to do it.

He didn’t need your permission, not really, not technically.

But he’d never do anything without it.

He’s nodding, and your hands smoothed back into his hair once again, scratched gently at his scalp in that way that has him shuddering, has him melting into your embrace, practically purring against you as he kisses you deep.

“I recognized the look in your eye.” He said, and you smiled at that, at how he knew not because of his sister’s own actions, but because of yours. He’s not smiling, however, when he regarded you with cross-eyed vision from being so close, foreheads pressed together when he asked, “What are we going to do about her?”

“I haven’t decided yet. I’m meeting with her for brunch. You’re technically not invited.” You sighed, as Kylo rolled you both over, so that he could cradle your skull against his chest, so you could relax against the breadth of his body.

“Technically?” He asked, and your smile when you look up at him tells him everything he needs to know.

“Technically.” You winked, and he’s already preparing for a long fucking day.

“I’m hungry now.” He hummed, licking his lips, heat in his eyes as his pupils widened.

Knowing what he wanted, you’re more than happy to oblige, more than happy, eager. Your hips open up as your legs spread for him, and he took in a deep pleased breath as he shuffled his way down, kissed his way down your body.

You’re wet for him, body automatically craving him. Your hands cupped his shoulders, those strong broad muscles, tips of your fingers digging into the meat as he pried your legs farther, just far enough to wrap his huge arms around your thighs.

He nuzzled his face into your pussy, kissing and licking all the skin, all the flesh he could. His tongue parted your folds with ease, and he pressed his nose right up against your clit, right away, making you chuckle out a moan, a soft little gasp that only spurred him on.

“Oh Kylo,” You bit at your lips, arched your back for him, “You’re so – yes! – good.”

It was impossible, to gauge how long his tongue was, sometimes. Sometimes it felt as thick and heavy as his cock when he fucked you, sometimes it felt broad and wide, you could never tell. All you knew was he sucked and wriggled his way as far into your cunt as he could, thrusted his tongue deep into you, lapped up your slick and your juices like he was a man dying of thirst. Your hips bucked up against his face in little desperate motions you had no control over, your body just as hungry for the pleasure he gives you as he is of your taste.

And taste you he did, he ran his tongue over and over and over your folds, scooped up all the wetness he could with the curl of his tongue, that very same curl which echoed your toes as your feet rubbed against his sides, tangled in the soft sheets.  

“Mmm,” He coaxed an orgasm out of you, just by sheer pressure of his nose on your clit and his tongue dragging against your gspot.

But he wouldn’t be satisfied with just one, of course he wouldn’t. You were surprised he didn’t want to fuck you right away, didn’t want to come in you. Maybe he would, after he got his fill of turning you into a pliant trembling mess. You were already well on your way for that, a gentle warmth like liquid gold sloshing around in your veins as he pulled himself back up the bed, hand cupping your cunt.

“Where?” He asked, slipping two fingers up into you, making your head loll to the side on your pillow, making it roll towards him so he could kiss the moan off your lips as he fingered you.

“The Baccarat.” You gasped out, “We’re going for tea.”

He rolled his eyes, before pushing your head to the other side so he could sink his teeth into your throat, mark you up in that way of his that was too possessive and controlling. It made you moan.

“Why am I not surprised?” He muttered, adding a third finger into the mix and crooking them inside you, stroking the walls of your cunt as you whimpered and whined, wanting more friction.

“She – honey,” You tried, but moaned instead, sentence choked off. It was getting harder and harder to talk, especially when all you wanted was to beg to be fucked. “We need her to be comfortable, because otherwise she won’t talk.” You managed, and you could feel his expression, could feel the eyebrow raised against your neck.

“Is that what this is? You’re going to get her to talk?” He asked, smirking against you as your back arched some more, toes curling in the sheets, knees wanting to close in around his hand.

“Yes! I mean – oh fuck honey – I mean,” You whined, pressing your chest out, luring him in between your tits, “I’m going to get her to confess.”

Kylo took the bait, nuzzled his face into your cleavage, his thumb swirling little zig zags over your clit. His three fingers slowly thrust in and out of you as he bit at the flesh of your breasts, as he sucked on your nipple. You felt like you were on fire, tingling all over, and your mind was hazy, so hazy.

“You’re good at that.” Kylo said, and for a minute you didn’t even know what he was talking about.

“I’m good at a lot of things.” You replied with a smile, as he withdrew his fingers and wiped them on your hip in a way that made your nose crinkle.

“Hmm, are you?” He asked, dragging your hips down the bed enough to prop them up and slide his big cock in, now that you were properly stretched and warm and melting in a puddle of sex and lust and love. He bottomed out easily, his breathing heavy in your ears. He was so chatty today, in such a good mood today, you couldn’t help but think to yourself as he pushed all your thoughts out of your ears like mush.

“Watch it.” You tugged on his ear with a pleasure weak hand, before his hips began to move and all you could really come up with was, “Yes! Yes, thank you.”

He fucked you until the sun began to peek up over the city skyline, until the sound of traffic competed with the sound of his grunts loud in your ear. He moaned your name, over and over again, a prayer dripping from his lips as he nosed at your cheek, as he bruised the corner of your mouth with his tongue.

He was so attentive, so caring, so good to you, and you told him so.

“Handsome,” You purred, your pussy clenching down hard around him in an effort to make him keen, “My handsome man, look at how perfect you fill me. Do you feel that? Feel what you do to me?”

“Fuck, (Y/N), please – I – ” It’s his turn now, his turn to be overwhelmed with the feeling of you consuming him. Your cunt sucking him up into your body, your hands scratching bleeding marks, stripes of your nails down his back.

You marked his throat up in just the same manner as he had done yours, lips and teeth worrying the flesh there, declarations of ownership. Every part of you belonged to him wholeheartedly – but every part of him was yours just as equally.

“I love fucking you.” He grunted out, a rare display, “I love this pussy, fuck, you’re mine.”

“Come in me, please?” You encouraged, gave him the permission he needs, the praise he craved, a fist tight in his hair as you licked up his pule, licked up the sweat that’s begun to bead against his skin. He’s salty and musky, and tasted like sex, tasted like you. “Please, Kylo?”

He growled, his hips thrusting erratically until they’re not thrusting at all, until he’s just pushing you up up up the bed, up as far as he can get his cock into you. You squeezed his cock with your cunt, milked him for everything he’s worth, as he dropped himself down onto your chest. Your hands slipped over his back, smeared the sweat around as his hips rolled, ground against yours.

“(Y/N),” he still begged, still somehow ached for more, even as you could feel his come spreading inside you, could feel it coating your insides, painting every inch of you.

“Take what you need.” You whispered; voice hoarse as you combed your fingers gently through his hair.

He nodded, tears in his eyes from being so stimulated, muscles on fire as he fucked you through his orgasm, drool and spit stringing from his lips, his tongue as he wrapped his lips around one of your stiff nipples.

“Honey -- !” You hummed, drunk on him.

You came from that, from the feeling of his huge dick pushing his come in and out of you, from the way he rubbed right up against your gspot over and over again, from the way he tugged and sucked at your tits.

Pushing yourself as close to him as possible, your pleasure weak bodies rolled to the side, legs tucked around one another to keep his cock inside you still, inside you for as long as it would take before he softened, before the sweat began to cool and itch, before all his come and your come would begin to leak out of you and soil the sheets.

A crack of sunlight from between the curtains fell across his face. His eyes were so brown, you thought happily. So handsome and deep and dark and mysterious – except not really mysterious, not to you. He blinked at you, content. You smiled at him, lifted a hand to smooth back his hair. He didn’t smile back, but that was okay, smiles weren’t something that came easy to Kylo.

He wound his arms around you, big palms warm and clammy on your bare back, and he shuddered a little, the cool air of morning and the last of his pleasure sliding across his body.

“I want to go in with you.” He said, voice low, deep.

You smiled, cupped his cheeks in your hands and brought him in for a kiss, one that he’s so eager to meet that he accidentally clacked your teeth together for.

“You can’t.” You told him, remembering the promise you had made to Rey.

You at the very least, kept your promises.

Kylo knew this, and he grumbled about it, grumbled and muttered as one of his hands slid around to the star that rested against your chest, the pretty gold pendant that was warm and fogged up from the steam between your bodies.

“I know, but I want to.” He said, deadly serious, even in the playful atmosphere of your post-sex glow. “Are you going to record her?” He asked, nudging the underside of your chin so your head could tip back, so he could softly kiss at your pulse, so he could soothe the angry marks he littered there.

“She’s not stupid, she’ll know that something’s up if I have the phone right there on the table and I don’t touch it at all.” You hummed, cradling the back of his head as he smeared his love against your skin.

“Take my phone.” He suggested, pulling away just long enough to reach across the big bed and grab at his phone, handing it to you even though you wouldn’t have to leave for a good couple hours. “Put it on airplane mode so no one bothers you and leave it in your purse. That way you can have yours to scroll through and it won’t be so suspicious. I’ll be watching from the other side of the street in case there’s trouble.”

You grinned, it was a good idea. You could have the purse right in your lap, or even better, on the side of the table so it would be between the two of you during lunch. You didn’t really like the thought of not being able to communicate with Kylo, but if he was watching you like a hawk then it didn’t really matter too much, you reasoned.

“Do you think she’s running business behind my back?” Kylo asked, deadly deathly serious, so serious that it reminded you of why you were the one meeting with Rey today, and not him. “Tell me honestly.”

“Honestly? No, I don’t think she’s capable of it.” You said, “But that doesn’t mean I don’t think she’s incapable of anything.”

The sun began to rise more fully, and that crack of light broadened into a thick beam that illuminated the scarred side of your husband’s face. He really was so handsome, you thought, with his dark hair splayed out on the pillow like that, his features so strong, so striking.

Sometimes, if you looked too long at Kylo, at his scar, you remember that night. You remember the agony, the heartbreak, the terror of him bleeding out and dying on your floor in the bathroom. You remembered the taste of blood and iron and copper, remembered the tears and the decay and the fury, blind fury that coursed through your veins as you begged and pleaded for the universe to spare him, to keep him with you.

Sometimes, if you looked too long at Kylo, you remembered why he had the scar in the first place. You remembered the murder, how his father still laid at the bottom of a river only you knew, the bottom of a chasm where he was no doubt eaten away, washed away by his own misfortune and poor luck, his own poor choices. You remembered the withered old man who had ordered the domino to drop, the catalyst to form, the chain reaction to take place.

Sometimes, if you looked too long at Kylo, you remembered what you did to him, to Snoke.  

But you’re looking at Kylo, and Kylo was looking at you, and for now, the only thoughts in your head were of how pleased you felt, how warm and relaxed, in his embrace.

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

You got there early, of course.

Dressed to the absolute nines, from your head down to your toes, you sat in a plush arm chair against the window, an interesting glass texture providing some privacy from the onlookers on the street as they walked past. Still, through the window you saw the shape of the cars parked across the street.

Kylo was in one, one of the older cars that you didn’t take out too often so it wouldn’t be so suspicious, and then the car Dopheld had parked. Normally you felt quite bad, just having the driver sitting around and waiting for you, normally you told him to go do whatever it was he wanted to pass the time. He certainly had the funds to shop if he wanted, or to grab a bite to eat where he felt in the mood. But he had insisted on staying right outside, so that’s where he was.

The Baccarat was a charming little hotel, you thought as you waited, posture relaxed but not too relaxed, alert yet not overly stiff. You had a clipping from the morning’s newspaper in your lap resting against one of your thighs where your legs were one over the over, a pen in hand as you went down and across the little checkerboard of clues.

The tea room was very different from the one at the Plaza, not that that was a bad thing. It had an air of looking almost like a high end salon, or like a lobby, not at all like a restaurant. The walls were a champagne pink color, and there were no real tables, rather plush armchairs with circular coffee tables to provide an atmosphere of a more intimate relaxed brunch. The chandeliers were clean and the light reflected nicely off the many crystal vases that decorated the place. You thought there should be something in those vases, like fresh flowers, or any sign or live plants for that matter, but you didn’t care too much.

You did however, take notice of the strange shelving units made of polished silver metal, which housed all sorts of nick-knacks that you assumed were meant to populate the area with visual interest. You weren’t sure how you felt about it all, and returned your attention to the task in your lap, as you waited for Rey to show up.

When she finally did, you were nearly done with the puzzle before you. The click of her heels on the chevron wood flooring was well timed, you thought, as the armchair across from you pulled out and your sister in law sat down.

“Do you like crosswords?” You asked by way of greeting, circling the final clue and folding the piece of newspaper up.

“Am I late?” Rey asked, just a little too shy of defensive.

“Hm?” You replied, finally looking up at her and giving her a warm smile, “No, no you’re right on time.”

Rey fixed her hair and pushed her seat closer to the little coffee table, took a deep breath and looked out the window, only to find the sight of the street blurred and obscured by the wavy glass.

“There was traffic.” She said, her shoulders too square.

“There’s always traffic.” You replied, echoing something she herself had snapped at your husband, only a couple days ago.

How strange, that the dinner was only a couple days ago? That it hadn’t barely been a week since this shitshow had started. It never ceased to amaze you, the irony of the universe. Some months there was nothing of any interest happening, no drama, no scandals – just the work. But some months, some months it felt like there was a new crisis every day.

You wondered if there’d be one today too.

“Do you?” You asked, because Rey still hadn’t answered your question, and you were genuinely curious about the answer.

“Do I what?” Rey asked, too wrapped up in her own mind to know what you meant.

“Like them, crosswords.” You clarified, already watching her, already reading her.

“Sometimes.” She admitted, and you smiled, pleased that your dramatic little exit plan could be executed.

“I tend to do them in the mornings over coffee, but I figured why not pull out one for brunch while I waited.” You smiled, tried your best to be warm, even when you felt no such affection for her.

Rey looked around at the hotel tea room, gestured to the waiter to get their attention. They gave you both a nod, and began wrapping up whatever it was they were saying to one of the other guests who sat across the room at a different set of arm chairs and table.

“Were you waiting long?” Rey worried, and you shook your head, waved her off.

She was so tense.

“No not at all, I just wanted to ensure we got a table.” You explained, making room for the waiter who had just arrived at your table, to place down clean plates and polished silverware, to hand you both menus. “I’m particular about where I like to sit.”

You smiled at the nice waiter, and they left you alone to glance through the different teas and offerings that they served.

“Understandable.” Rey said, looking through the menu herself, which you thought was kind of funny considering she frequents the place. “Do you come here often, to the Baccarat?”

“Not nearly as much as I would like! We tend to favor tea at the Plaza, since Gwen lives there and everything. I think I can count on one hand the amount of times that I’ve been here.” You put the menu down, and folded the white linen napkin in your lap, an action which Rey mirrored automatically.

“Gwen likes the Plaza better too, but it’s hard getting her out of the apartment sometimes, so I ask to come here. Nice change of scenery.” She said, a fond smile gracing her lips.

You felt bad, because no doubt after today, after this week, after all this was over, she wouldn’t be seeing Gwen again.

“Definitely a change of scenery, and their menu is just as varied. I already know what I’m ordering.” You tried to keep the conversation light, tried keeping her as comfortable as possible before all the questions began. Because they would begin, once you both had some tea in your bodies, some sandwiches in your hand.

Tea and sandwiches made everything much easier, you found.

“And what might that be?” Rey asked.

“I was hoping you’d indulge me in sharing the Sultan Abdulaziz.” You smiled, and there was a look of shock on her face for all of a moment before she schooled her expression into something more controlled.

“That’s what I prefer to order, you’re in luck.” She said, and you resisted the urge to bite out an, I know.

“Oh, am I?” You teased, the playful tone in your voice calming her a little, her shoulders softening into the back of the armchair, “Well I’m glad that worked out.”

And as you gave her a smile, and she smiled back, you couldn’t help but think to yourself that she didn’t know what the hell she was in for. 

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

Tagging some palz <3  @adamsnackdriver @dreamboatdriver @kyloxfem​ @heldcaptivebychaos​  @solotriplets​ @formerly-anonhamster​ @lookinsidemyhead​ @candycanes19​ @adamsnacc-kler​ @taylovren-types @whiskey-bumblebee​ @riseofkylo​ @magikevalynn​ @tinyplanet-explorers​ @chelsjnov​ @romancedeldiablo​ @helloimindelaware​ @elfieboxcat​ @laurenshit​ @autumnlovesadam​ @peterisparker​ @mp938368 @hidingp​ @goodboybensolo​ @intrestellarsarah​ @the-marvelatic​ @miasera​ @emily-strange​ @proxyfoxy​ @insanita​ @disaster-rose​ @hazydespair​ @yosoymuyloca​

[cocoaberi]

The Doll Father

She lay naked and bloody on the forest floor. Her eyes so swollen  she could barely see anything.  Her head pounding and her body pulsing  with pain all over.  She wanted to scream but could only grunt.  Her  throat was soar she remembered from being choked nearly to death.  He  meant to kill her...she was for sure he intended to kill her now.

Earlier this very day he invited her to the woods for a picnic. He  proposed to her and put a ring on her finger.  He looked up at her  triumphantly...then she said "No" and handed him back his ring.  She was  sorry for refusing him...but she knew they were not meant for each  other.  She turned around to go home when he snatched her by the hair  and slamming her delicate body to to the ground.  Jumping on top of her,  he punched her in the face three times.  At this point her mind and  body were in shock, she could not move but she could still feel.  She  was aware vaguely of being stripped, then angrily assaulted, cursed and  choked until he had his fill of her.  Spitting on her seemingly lifeless  body, he walked away.

Nine months later, her body mostly healed and now big with child, she sat on the porch with  her rescuer and friend, peeling potatoes.  He looked over at her and  smiled.  She sensed him looking at her and looked him in his painted  eyes and smiled back.  Her friend, Ash, was a peculiar thing...a man  made out of wood a doll actually.  She did not know if he was magical or cursed, she did  know that she loved him for saving her and her unborn child.

 Ashe's  smile widened as his eyes stayed on his lady, Lena's face.  She blushed  under his gaze, then shyly asked, "What are you thinking about?"  He was  thinking of making her his wife, of being one with her.  He wanted to  raise her child as his own.  He was thinking of them as a family.  Loudly sighing he  finally replied, "I was thinking ...what are you cooking me for  supper?"  She looked a little stunned then laughed and threw a potato at  him.  "Fine" she said with laughter still in her voice , keep your  dirty thoughts to yourself!   She tried to stand up from her chair when  she felt a sudden pain and water gushing down her inner thighs.  She  screamed,"Ashe!" but before she could finish his name he  had her in his arms running her to the midwife's house.  She looked  into Ashe's face as he carried her and her unborn child away thru the  woods.  He was moving at an inhuman speed with inhuman strength but then  he was not human.  Still she felt no fear in the  arms of this living doll.  She peacefully closed her eyes as they neared the  midwife's home.

Lena  was putting the finishing touch on their son's birthday cake.  Ashe sat  in a chair near the fire...but not too close. He sat quietly thinking  of the night he ran his now wife and son to the midwife.  He watch his  boy being delivered...he shook his head in disbelief of his good fortune  to have a beautiful loving wife and wonderful adoring son. He smiled at her as she  fussed over the cake.  Lena looked up and caught his eyes on her.  She  smiled back at him.  She thought of how wonderful a husband and father  he has been.  They married soon after their son's birth.  The midwife,  Sarah, performed the ceremony. They did not have a "traditional"  marriage.  Lena was so brutally rapped that she was unwilling to have  intercourse and Ashe, did not come equip with the tools to perform, but  that did not matter they loved each other beyond physical limits and  expectations. She knows she should have died naked and alone on that forest floor, yet she was blessed with an abundant life.  She never took that for granted.

Gently shaking her head out of deep thoughts she called in  their son, "Woodward!" Ashe got up and stood by his wife.  Their son  walked into the room..."Yeah mom what is it?" he then saw the birthday  cake.  He hugged and kissed them both then sat at the table ready to eat  cake.  They laughed and talked about everything and anything well into  the wee hours.  Ashe marveled at how tiny and precious his son was 20  years ago, now he was a big handsome strapping young man.  Ashe taught him much about fighting and hunting. He was a frighteningly fast learner.  Ashe was most proud of teaching his son to be respectful and polite toward others and to not pick on the weak.   He watched his boy grow over the years with a great sense of pride and honor.   He could never have imagined a wooden doll like him, would  become a father.

Woodward wanted to make a name  for himself and help support his aging parents. Though he was an only child when everyone of his friends had many siblings and he had a father that was mysterious and frightening to others always cloaked and covered in public, the boy had a great childhood.  

Two weeks after his  birthday he packed his bags and kissed his mom and dad goodbye to find his  glory.  Their son did make a name for himself.  His hunting and fighting  skills were unmatched, thanks to his father's lessons.  Soon he caught  the attention  of the King and the eye of the king's daughter.  Woodward  sent a message and carriage for his parents.  A messenger read the  letter, " Dear mom and dad...I am getting married and you are invited.  I  want you to attend the wedding and pack up all your things and move  into the palace with me.  Your loving son Woodward."  

Ashe and Lena  arrived at the palace a few days later.  They loved their old home but it  was falling apart so a new home was just what they needed.  They had a  guided tour of the palace and met the countless staff and assistants.   Finally they met their son and his bride to be.  Woodward's eyes searched for his loving parents as they were ushered into the room.    He recognizing them immediately...his mother older and more beautiful and plump than ever.  His dad tall and  threatening with his concealing cloak on.  Woodward always understood why he had to wear it ...to hide his body from prying eyes else he and his parents  could have been accused of being demons and witches and burned alive by a mob.  Woodward was happy he could finally take care of his parents for all the wonderful things they did for him.  He proudly  lead them to meet his boss the King himself.

Upon  entering the King's chambers, the king turns to greet his future  son-in-law and parents when his face drains of color...at that instance Lena's face  crumples and looks like she will scream.  Ashe's face is full of rage.   The king approaches Lena and looks at her as if she is a ghost.  He  stands stunned and stuck to the floor.  He mutters over and over ..."I  thought you were dead."  Ashe no longer able to contain his fury, He did  not know this man, but his wife's reaction when she saw his face, spoke  clearly that he was the man who had rapped  her nearly 30 years ago.  Ash  in a rage grabs the king and slams him against the wall and pounds his  face and chest.   Woodward pulls his dad off the king...horrified and  confused he yells out, "What is going on?" Lena  explains to her son that the King is the man that assaulted her those  many  years ago.  She begins to cry, "I'm so sorry I did not tell you  about it, but I wanted to forget about it all.  He told me his name but  he apparently lied about it to conceal who he really was.  I'm so sorry  my son".  Ashe, stood up beside his son too...sorry my boy.  I never met  this man but I have always hated him for what he did to your mother.  I  could not help myself,  he deserved  to hurt like her those many  years ago. Woodward smiled at his parents and looked at the King, "Is  this true King?" he asked knowing it was already truth.  The king nodded  as he spit bloody teeth out of his mouth. The  King ordered Woodward and his parents to stay put until he was well  enough to talk.  Within a month they were called to the court again.   The Majesty, ordered them to not speak.  He stood up before them and  said quietly, "Please let me speak without interruption."  He looked at  Lena and remembered her before and after his horrific attack on her, "You know Lena I  really did love you.  Your refusal sent me into an abyss of sorts.  I  could not see you being with anyone but me.  I wanted to kill you and I  almost did."He looked at his son Woodward, "My son, I knew who you were  the moment I saw you.  I did not know who your mother was but I knew you  were mine...because you looked just like my older brother before..."   The king stopped abruptly and smiled.  "Son, you can still marry my  daughter she is not a child of my loins...she was adopted and beloved as  a daughter but not a daughter. It seems Lena gave birth to my only true  heir... you."  The King walked slowly over to Ashe as he rubbed his jaw  remembering the blows he took from the wooden man.  The king laughed,  "You know only my elder brother could hit me like that.  It's time I  bring my big brother back.  The king waved his hand and  Sarah the  midwife stood suddenly before them.  Gasps followed her unexpected  magical visit and regal appearance.   The King looked at Sarah and said  sadly, "Sarah bring my brother home, he is the true king after all."    Sarah immediately stepped forth on the king's orders and kissed Ashe on  the lips so fast no one knew what happen.  The cloak that concealed  Ashes wooden body from public eyes fell away ....and everyone was  shocked to see a wooden doll standing before them who was magically replace with a tall man that looked very much like the king.  Sarah took Ashe by the  shoulders and forced him to look at her as he tried to make sense of  what happened.  She shook him a little , " Ashe...your brother wanted  the kingdom so much that he bound me to a deal that turned you into a  wooden man and erased your past.  I watched over you though.  You saved  Lena and made a family and happy home when you should have had  nothing.   The King put the crown on Ashe's head and all the people said  , long live the king!

I  could not sleep and decided to  write this...it needs lots of changing I just did  not want to loose my thoughts on it.  will update it soon.

[aion-rsa]

The Simpsons Season 32 Episode 17 Review: Uncut Femmes

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This The Simpsons review contains spoilers.

The Simpsons Season 32 Episode 17

The Simpsons Season 32, episode 17, ” Uncut Femmes,” is a caper comedy, and criminals Sarah Wiggum (Megan Mullally) and Fat Tony (Joe Mantegna) steal every scene they are in. Over the course of the jewel heist parody at the center of the installment, we learn Chief Wiggum’s wife has a shady past, and the neighborhood mob boss has a paternal presence. They don’t have any scenes together, but they make crime pay off, and prove two or so wrongs can make a right.

“Oh, my hallway-walking God,” the episode opens, as a workplace atrocity leads to a nondisclosure agreement which results in two front-row seats at a Bob Seger concert. The rock star plays himself, but goes against the wind. Yes, this is the Silver edition of his Bullet Band, but when he learns both Homer and Chief Wiggum dumped an overnight field trip with the kids on their wives to make the show, he feels obliged to remind them: a wife, like rock and roll, never forgets. Who knew a Detroit belter like Seger could throw such guilt?

The trip is to a World War II battleship, retrofitted to look like it did back in May 1943. That was the last time it was scrubbed, and the kids and wives get keelhauled into breaking up everything but the barnacles. They swab the decks and are told they’re killing Oxees, which sounds enough like Nazis for Springfield Elementary. Nick Offerman voices Captain Bowditch, who Sarah Wiggum calls Captain Dingdong before robbing his liquor cabinet and sharing a bottle with Marge.  

The police chief’s wife also shares some unexpectedly relatable problems, like the pressures of being married to “a man with a dangerous job he’s just not good at” But her best comic line is about her husband’s health, and how every slice of cheese could be his last. The bonding scene is very effective, warm and witty. Both women give up so much because they are mothers.

Sarah Wiggum gave up a glitzy and glamorous life of crime, like the Ocean’s 8 masterminds. She was the getaway driver on the famed “Hourglass Diamond” heist. Her story is broken down in a flashback sequence with subtitles like “The Grab,” “The Camaraderie,” and “The Double Cross.” To give historical perspective, one of the items which the young thieves steal, while listening to Gwen Stefani’s “Hollaback Girl,” are MP3 players which held over 300 songs. 

In the segment entitled “The Honey Pot,” Sarah explains her own role in the robbery. “The Chump” denotes when she met Clancy Wiggum, then a mere security guard, working his way through one of his many attempts at passing the police academy. “I love a man in a rented uniform,” she says. 

Marge had to miss the one event she gets to share with her sisters’ friends, which includes the crumbs of the crème de la crème of Springfield’s LGBTQ community: Watching the annual Gen Gala on TV and making scathing remarks. Marge is jonesing for snark. She’s got an itch to throw good shade. This would be a blast to hear from Marge, who is “still working up the courage to call a man the B word.” This year’s Gala is themed, “The Audacity.” The prior year was called “The Nerve.  Marge breaks her usual reserve to tell Rihanna she listens “to the clean versions of all your songs.”

Marge is so consistently Marge-like, so clearly defined within the vantage point the series has set up for her. Marge’s first words, when trying to start a conversation with Sarah, are “the top 10 ways of starting a conversation.” When she is kidnapped, she observes whoever had the bag over their face before her was a smoker. Julie Kavner also pulls off amazing physical comedy in this episode, even though it’s vocal acrobatics. When Marge is bound by Sarah’s old gang, she hops away – chair, pole and all – to allow them to scheme. She points to their scheme-board with her high mound of hair, which she later uses to blur surveillance cameras. Kavner’s inquisitive or insistent moans fuel every blue follicle.

To distract the mark, Lindsey Naegle, Marge makes small talk about common household chores the VIP would never do herself, like paying attention to whether you switch delicates to extra warm when you’re doing laundry. “You’re not famous, so you don’t exist,” Lindsey, who pocketed the diamond for herself to buy a celebrity lifestyle, snorts at Marge. Her husband, Springfield’s beloved Rainier Luftwaffe Wolfcastle, takes this gag to an absurd conclusion. Wolfcastle has no idea what the two were talking about when he enters the scene, but he is more blinded by his celebrity. He asks his wife why she’s talking to an empty chair. It’s all a punchline which lands on “somebody stop those nobodies,” a masterful twist of social restraint.

Ultimately, one of the snarkiest lines turns out to be a comment on Marge, when she makes a very surprising appearance at the Gala. But only because “she looks like dirt” walking a red carpet designed for 20 plus-size gladiators to carry Beyoncé. The snide aside comes across as exactly what Marge would’ve wanted.

The episode has plenty of successful throwaway sight gags. Homer closes shop at his post at the nuclear plant with the same kind of cage storefronts lock up with after hours. We’re not sure if this means the workers on the other side are locked in the workspace without emergency supervision for the whole weekend, though.

The kidnapping is first reported by Chief Wiggum’s son, Ralph, who was watch commander on deck. Fat Tony will come to be simpatico with Ralph in hysterically edgy ways later in the episode. They both “know nothing about nothing.” Until he met Ralph, Fat Tony thought putting crumbled Oreos on ice cream would be redundant, but now finds it transcendent. It is like a grooming process; the police chief’s son even begins wearing a matching fur coat. And when a kid behind an ice cream counter tells Ralph not to grab at the Gummy Bears, Fat Tony says “if the boy wants this the boy wants to smooch, the boy will spook smooch.” He could be telling The Bronx Tale. Ralph’s rejoinder, “I love you, scary daddy,” is so in keeping with his character of cluelessly deranged innocence.

When Homer and Wiggum first learn their wives are missing, the police chief immediately blames Fat Tony. The reputed, reported, alleged and convicted crime boss is plainly being honest when he says he would never even consider such a crime. First of all, how would he finish the sentence “it would be a shame if something were to happen to?” 

Wiggum is very important to crime in the town. This episode points out how it flourishes under his lazy watchful eye. Fat Tony loves “Chief Bungles” because he’s a horrible cop. Even Sarah admits her husband is “better at planting evidence than finding it.” But, more importantly to Fat Tony, the chief loves the top cop because he is a selfish man. He’s on the take from Burns, Fat Tony, and we know from past episodes he’s in on schemes with Mayor Quimby. But some things, even a cartoon mob boss cannot forget.

Fat Tony is surprisingly woke in his off hours. It’s the espresso. His men only yell respectful innuendoes at attractive women. The boss not only tutors Homer and Clancy on ways to respect their wives, but takes care of Ralphie while he lets the men fix their marriages. The male gaze is all over this episode, and it gets poked in the eye repeatedly. From WWII books to gender-trading action movie remakes. The real Silver bullet is the truth. Seger’s concert T-shirt is actually a list of things he has to get done to keep his marriage happy, including getting a C-PAP for his snoring.

For Homer, this change is as sweet as a donut, the ordeal makes him notice what Marge looks like when she’s happy. Clancy realizes, for the first time in his long career, that there is a museum in town. At their heart, Homer and the Chief are really only paying attention to their wives for themselves. Oh, and for Bob Seger, they did promise him that. The lesson they learn when confronted with their selfish ways is: “it’s all about us.”

The final part of the scheme earns its subtitle as the exact kind of surprise double revenge twist we have come to expect from this genre. The only difference is what kind of spin the parody will take. Things have a special way of falling on The Simpsons. In a classic early episode, Homer took a memorable tumble down the rocky edges of a cliff in a failed daredevil stunt. So, he knows to get out of the way when Lindsey comes tumbling down the stairs at the Gala. She tumbles long enough for Wolfcastle to find a newer, younger, more trophy of a wife. In real life the fall would have killed her, and Marge would feel terrible. Thank god for animation. Kids, don’t try this at home.

“This isn’t about the cash, it’s about righting a wrong and looking damn good doing it,” Sarah convincingly explains when she lays out the premise of the heist. By the end, Marge declares it “best field trip of my freaking life,” which is what the episode seems to be going for. It’s fun, more fun than most school trips, and it teaches a lesson.

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“Uncut Femmes” is a fun and playful movie satire. It captures the suspense, romance, glamour and pace of a heist film, but puts The Simpsons touch on it. Marge shines in the unexpected, manages to clean house at the same time, and brings Homer into an understanding. The crooks get away with it, and nothing will change. Like so many crimes in Springfield, it’s got Chief Wiggum on the case, and that’s like having no one at all.

The post The Simpsons Season 32 Episode 17 Review: Uncut Femmes appeared first on Den of Geek.

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[capo-cedes]

A Talk

INVOLVED: Mercedes D'onofrio and Bernice D’onofrio TIME FRAME: Tuesday, March 24th, 2020 LOCATION: D’onofrio Estate; New York City, New York NOTES: Nicholas advised Mercedes to speak with his mother about their small spat during their engagement party and she does she she is told, spilling truths to his mother and her feelings.

Mercedes moved through the home fully dressed from head to toe as she always was, now she would have made it her business to wear something that shielded her stomach from her mother-in-law, but the woman already knew the truth. Outside of their staff members she happened to be the only outside person that knew of their child. She sent for the woman hours ago as a way to please her husband; she would sit down with the woman and discuss whatever this issue happened to be. Though she didn’t care much to do so. Walking towards the large sitting area and said “Bernice” respectfully as the full-figured pregnant woman walked up to her, in a skintight red dress and black pumps. “You look lovely as ever” she told her peacefully.

Bernice sat legs crossed in the well-appointed living room. Her son certainly had done well for himself. This house was well outside the normal domain of the mob bosses. An odd and unorthodox choice for the two that resided here. She raised an eyebrow as Mercedes made her grand entrance. Well, it seemed what Bernice had expected the whole time was true. She hadn’t been invited. She had been summoned. She rose to her feet, smiling sweetly, “You’re too kind. You’re radiant my dear. Thank you for inviting me to your home.” 

As the woman rose before her and greeted her properly, she smiled “you are family” she said to her easily “another mother I get the pleasure of clinging to” she breathed. Mercedes sighed softly “which makes me dread this very needed conversation” she said to her with a pout. “But I think we both owe it to Nicky and” she said, her hand moving to her stomach “your grandchild to talk among each other like two grown women” she said. “Without violence” she added sighing again. “Which let me start by saying, I apologize for my actions. That will never happen again. Hormones can drive us to do the worst of things, that was so out of character for me” she told her softly.

Bernice's smile deepened the red in her cheeks. “I am honored.” She said, clasping her hands in front of her body. She brushed at the air, “Please... “ She said with a sigh of her own. “I pushed too hard. What else should I have expected from you my dear.” She said earnestly.  She was Al’s daughter. Even if adopted, she posed the same dark spirit and temperament of the man. “Can we start again?” She asked, lowering her head in perfect subservience. 

His mother’s comment was like another needle puncturing her voodoo doll, a thorn in her side the woman would be. What did she mean by, what else should she expect from her? Pushing it aside she looked the woman in her eyes “we all can stir pots sometimes”, quietly. She was trying to continue this act that everything going in her life right now she was happy about, but she wasn’t. His mother was just another reminder of how much she couldn't stand him because of her. Mercedes nodded her head “I would love that so much” she said despite her true feelings for the woman. “The wedding is around the corner, we need a clean slate” she said, her eyes now on the floor as she nodded her head. “Please sit” she said as she lowered herself down on the couch “would you like anything at all? Water? Wine? Freshly squeezed juice?” she asked her curiously. 

A good-natured motherly smile blossomed on Bernice’s face. “Wonderful my dear. Wonderful.” She nodded, smoothing her dress under hips as she settled herself back down to the couch. “I know… I know… People are more excited for this wedding than they were for your engagement party and they were talking about that party for weeks” she said conversationally. “While I want to be a good grandmother and support you in your condition. I can’t lie, I’d love a nice glass of red wine.” She said crossing her legs. “May I ask a hard question?”

Mercedes looked over at her and she nodded her head, carrying out the conversation, showing her involvement. “It was some party, Al, definitely made it grand” she said with a smile, thinking of the older guy. Al didn’t know how much she endured to make him happy, the wedding had been less about them for months now. She licked her lips and nodded as the servant did just as they were indirectly told and went to fetch the woman a glass of red wine. “I feel the support no matter the actions” she said a small chuckle leaving her. At the woman’s question she nodded her head despite “of course” she told her, curiously waiting.

“Of course. One of his beloveds is getting married. I am surprised we haven’t had a party every week until your wedding.” Bernice chuckled; Al should be honored the children were going through so much for his benefit. This second wedding had to be for the man. Nicholas wasn’t a particular traditional man, and this woman wrapped in a skintight red dress definitely wasn’t. No, this charade had to be for Mr. Maz. She watched the subtle shift in Mercedes as she ordered her staff around wordlessly. Impressive. She uncrossed her legs and shifted, crossing them back towards Mercedes. “Indulge me.” She said, pinching her lips together. “What did I say to offend you?”

Mercedes watched as the maid moved back into the room sitting down the tray with a single glass of wine, and a glass of water with lemon. She sat it down and bowed to the older woman before she told her “if you should need anything else Mrs. Donofrio don’t hesitate” in a soft voice before she turned to Mercedes “you as well… Mrs… Donofrio” she repeated as she moved back to her spot in the room. Licking her lips before she chuckled “I can only let him do so much” she said amused. At the woman’s question she shifted in the seat grabbing the glass and taking a sip of water before she sat it down. “I love Nicholas” she told her truthfully as she looked off into the distance. “I often think people assume all of this is for show. For the exposure. Attention...” she said, looking back to her. She couldn’t find her words right now and that confused her greatly when she gave her overly dramatic speech about her love for Nicholas the words left her before her tongue could move. “I would do anything to protect him and his reputation…” she told her “because I love him that much” she sighed heavily. Red toss curls over her shoulder “you questioned me like I was the unpredictable one in this marriage…” she said a chuckle leaving her. “Nicholas promised me the world…” she said as if he hadn’t fulfilled the promise. “I’m the only one building it so… anytime someone questions the love and loyalty I have for him, it infuriates me” she with glossy eyes. “But uh, I’m loyal” she said nodding her head looking at the woman and plastering a smile “and I thought you were questioning that, my loyalty and love for him. I love him more than life itself” she told her, wiping a stray tear quickly as she smiled again, chuckling as she picked her glass up taking another drink.

Bernice leaned forward and took the glass from the tray. She sniffed at the glass, swirling the red liquid around, then took a small sip. She smiled, fondly at the child before her, nodding thank you. When the girl was gone, she listened companionably to Mercedes. She watched her new daughter in-law over her glass, sipping quietly as she enlightened her. She’d misstepped somewhere but didn’t know exactly how. Absently, Bernice sat her glass down and folded her arms over her chest. She was trying to decide if this was an act, the girl was putting on for her benefit or for her son’s. “Hmmm,” She breathed, “For the latter, if that was what you took from my words I sincerely apologize. I wasn’t questioning your love or your loyalty.” She hated that she hesitated on the loyalty part. But the world they lived in breed, half-truths and disloyalty. “Marriage…” She said then quietly, looking at the woman before her, “Is harder than you thought it would be? Nicholas like most men isn’t exactly what you thought you were getting into? Am I right?” She said softly, reading the words underneath what she had actually said.

The woman apologized and she nodded her head “maybe I should be sorry for misunderstanding your purpose” she told her back in response. “I guess I wasn’t paying close enough attention,” Mercedes told her. She took another sip of her drink and she sat the glass down on the table once more after she had done so. “You could say that” Mercedes told her as she ran her hands down her lap before she looked back up at Bernice now. She chuckled at the woman shaking her head as she averted the woman’s gaze and she said “no” her voice lost behind the very truth she had just spilled and to his mother. Mercedes inhaled sharply and said “yes” to her before she shifted in her chair uncomfortably, she didn’t open up to people and especially not those capable of using it against her if they wanted to. “Work is his life, work is his wife, work is his child” she said bitterly to the woman as she wiped another tear. “He makes time for nothing and no one” she said “and I stay, right here. Loyal as ever, a fool in love” she said pointing to the house. “You asked me if my strength would drown out his passion Bernice, I don’t even have any strength he’s taken it all” she growled. “I have turned into the woman I thought he wanted and needed. I shut up, I stand behind him, I bow, I listen, I planned the wedding” she rambled “I planned the parties, I go to the doctor’s appointments alone” she told her. “Is that a life that you would want to settle for?” she asked her “what about me? Do I matter anymore? Am I important?” she asked her. “I am a joke… I’m hardly the killing machine Al made me to be… I’m a doormat. And a trophy on the wall to admire when he wants…” she said to her as she looked up once more. “I’m Sarah…”

Bernice touched her slightly gray lined temples of her colored hair, with a perfect red tipped fingernail. "Nonsense. I'm old, and quite used to certain indulgences. You have nothing to apologize for. However, it is very gracious of you to do so”. The older woman's eyebrow raised in surprise at her first no... Then she relaxed as the woman confirmed the truth of her statement. She let her speak and marveled at how easily she'd opened up. Was this a game? Most likely. The older woman conceded, but when one is in the stew pot the only thing they can do is cook. She clasped her finger together around her knee. "Mercedes do you want to be that kind of woman. That kind of wife?" She asked, outright, truly hoping the woman would be honest with her.

Mercedes looked to Bernice; she licked her lips at the woman’s words. “I just wanted a family…” she said to her shaking her head as she looked at her. “I wanted a reason and an excuse to escape this lifestyle” she told her honestly. “I always saw him” she smiled as she looked away. “Admired him from afar knowing I couldn’t have him” she chuckled amused. “I knew Al would kill us,” she said softly. “But that didn’t stop me from seeing his beautiful face” she said, staring at nothing. “He was quiet, hardworking, diligent, calculated…” she said softly. “We talked… I saw the love behind his eyes as he spoke about his family” she breathed “I wanted him, and I thought those were the things I was buying into” she told her. “I don’t see that love behind his eyes when we talk about this child” she sighed softly. “He’s not diligent within this marriage” she said softly. “I wanted things to be different. I wanted us to be different. I would’ve done anything to see that happen” she told her. “If I was as hungry for power and dominance like people claimed… I would’ve accept Al’s offer to be Don. I just want Nicholas and our family… I thought he wanted the same thing I think I was wrong.” 

Bernice nodded softly. More and more of her misstep became plain. She described her son’s nature correctly, but only a part of it. Somehow the woman had missed the rest. A failing of most people in love. Especially, the kind of unrequited love she spoke. “I see. But I ask you again, is Sarah’s life the one you wanted? Is it what you truly expected Nicholas to give you? He is most of what you saw… but…” She clicked her tongue raising her eyebrow at the woman. 

“He didn’t love Sarah, or so I was told… why would I want her life Bernice?” she asked her, confused. Mercedes shifted in her seat again and she picked the glass up once more taking a long sip before she sat it back down. “I wanted the American dream” she said to her “don’t you get it Bernice?” she asked her “I don’t want any of this” she said gesturing to the house. “But what?” she asked her curiously, she licked her lips with a sigh and shook her head. “I’m supposed to ignore the other stuff huh? Him and my sister sleeping around? His lack of care where the baby stands?” she asked her. “I’m asking for too much? Is that what you are about to tell me?” she asked.

Bernice frowned, feeling another misunderstand brewing. She shook her head slowly no, but more and more flowed from the girl like water from a burst dam. She gasped, hand covering her mouth unexpectedly. “He did what?” She snatched her glass from the table and down its contents, giving herself time to process the mess her son had placed himself in the middle of. Sighing, she tapped the side of her empty glass with a finger, a scowl on her face. “You misunderstand me again. Why are you behaving like Sarah if that is not who you want to be?  She would have been that perfect little nit wit trophy wife. Yet, he sat her aside. Hell, the boy fucked her and still had their union annulled. For you my dear. And from what you just expressed it wasn’t entirely because you told him too. It was because he wanted to.” She stood, looking down on the woman. “He’s sleeping with your sister. So…” She said, inhaling “Are you going to kill him? Or maybe you’re going to kill Rebecca?” She asked with a sigh wondering if this was all some kind of setup… Maybe the girl was going to kill her. A way of getting her son in line. A crazy but interesting thought.

“I’m not, I am being a wife” Mercedes argued back to the woman “I can’t be Mercedes and his wife I have to choose. Mercedes is a killer; she doesn’t take any shit from anyone and men don’t dominate her. But he is my husband. The love of my life, I have to be his wife and push Mercedes aside so that two born killers can live together in harmony” she said. “I am sacrificing everything I believe in; in the name of love I am not trying to be Sarah. I am trying to let him rule…” she told her. At her next question Mercedes sighed, shaking her head at Bernice, of course, no one listened to her; they only spoke what they thought they knew. They didn’t know her; they didn’t get the picture she was painting. Everyone only saw the articles and the dead bodies, the fur coats and red cars. “I don’t know why I try,” she said softly as she chuckled a little, resting her hand on her cheek, blocking her tears from actually falling. It was the wicked part of their love story, even if she had to, she wouldn’t kill him most likely Nicholas would be the only balls in the room to pull the trigger. “No one will ever understand, the misery in being surrounded by so many people but feeling so alone” she said as she leaned back against the chair looking up at the ceiling. “Alone in a marriage, in a family, in the world because everyone fears you… no friends, no walks along the park… family trips to Aspen” she listed as she blinked hard mascara running down her face. “I wanted to be a teacher,” she said chuckling to herself, “be a mother of 4, and teach, my husband would be a carpenter or a construction worker. And we’d live in a neighborhood where the neighbor baked cookies and brought them over” she said. “I could never touch my sister and live to see another day,” she told her. “And I could never live with myself if I killed my son’s father” she told her outright.

The roller coaster was well into its next turn and Bernice was going along for the ride. Age and wisdom were a burden. One you couldn’t control and the other you could give to everyone.  “You have to be yourself. Yes, that’s a killer. I suppose. That’s also a wife and a soon to be mother. But in all of it you must do it your way. You are too powerful to be less than. And if you try to be you will end up resenting all of this. You can’t be Sarah, so stop acting like her. You want to let my son rule… Well, last time I checked most kings have a queen. You love him. I see that now. Actually, you love him more than I thought you could.” She said, pacing. Bernice sat down beside her new daughter-in-law and laid her hand on her stomach. With a hard sigh. “I told you I wanted Nicholas to be a lawyer, maybe even president. He was my sweet boy. He was. He still is.” She looked away from Mercedes stilling herself. “I thought you were calling me here to put me under your feet. Damn, was I wrong?” She looked back to her, “Daughter, you can have a part of what you want from my son. A part. But if he did become the man you or I wanted, he wouldn’t be here now. I don’t know why he is being so inattentive. It’s actually not like him” she said, removing her hand from the woman. “I’ll talk to him.” She pulled her lips into her mouth, thinking. “I guess the question is do you still want him. Knowing now that he's not the man you thought he was. It’s okay to leave him Mercedes. He’s my son and I love him, but I’d never advise anyone stay where they feel alone and unloved. I can tell you that he loves you, but I can also tell you that sometimes love is not enough”.

As the woman spoke, Mercedes lifted her head up to watch her as she paced. She used her thumb to wipe away tears which didn’t rid her of the actual smeared makeup by this time. She tucked her lips in and sighed softly before the woman joined her, resting her hand on her stomach gently. She looked at her, “Bernice” she sighed “I’ve always told him I wanted a close-knit relationship with you all, I wanted our children to adore you as much as I desired to. I don’t want you or anyone connected to him at my feet” she stressed to her seriously. “Al took my family away from me, but my baby actually shares your blood. It’s different” she told her. When she suggested talking to him Mercedes bit her lip, did she want him to know that she threw all of this into his mother’s lap about him. “I forgave him about my sister, I just wish I could forget it,” she told her. “He told me it was just business. Before the thought of us and I get that, but it causes so much more dread” she said with a headshake. “Everyone is talking about this wedding” she told her looking into her eyes “Al would kill me if I turned away now, I mean for god sakes we are already married” she said sighing. “That would dig a huge hole and it destroys my image of the kids playing football outside with him” she said resting her hand on her forehead. “What he doesn’t want any of this and I am just stupid?” she said having a thought for a moment, the very first time she has ever thought about something like this ever. “Did I trap him with a baby? Does he feel obligated to be with me?” she asked Bernice, biting her lip now.

It had always been obvious that Mercedes was different. For her part Bernice thought the girl was Al’s from another woman. However, that didn’t seem to be the case. She stuck a pin in that information and blushed at the woman’s wanting to be a genuine part of her family. “We really did make a mess of our first encounter. Didn’t we? Well, for my part, from what I know of you, I admire your tenacity. Personally, I prefer women of power. The weak ones make me itch. My own daughter gives me hives” She chuckled. “I want to get to know you better. I honestly wasn’t sure I could.” Bernice leaned back; lips pursed. “Just business? Is that what he said, the little shit.” She clicked her tongue. She grabbed Mercedes' hands, and held them in hers. “No. You misunderstand. Now I don’t know what’s wrong with my son. And no, he is not Mr. Rogers, but he does love his family. You first of all. Him being out here in the sticks is evidence of that. He wants you to be happy, but I think he is struggling with something…” She said thoughtfully. “That said, if you want to leave this life. You have family in the D’onofrio, but Nicholas chose this life for himself my dear. Could you get him to leave it? Maybe, but it may take some time. And please for the love of God don’t think for a second you trapped my son with anything. Think about it. Nicholas has only ever done one thing in his life while knowing the odds and every angle. One thing, my dear, and she’s carrying his child...”

Mercedes smirked and she sniffled softly at her words, and she sucked her tears up as the woman lightened the mood a bit for her. The woman went on to explain what she felt, and she listened to her. His mother would be the person to know him the absolute most, if she didn’t take key, she would be an idiot. She licked her lips and nodded her head at the woman as she laid it out for her. “I am so appreciative of all that he does, I think he misses that point. Nicholas didn’t have to travel down this road with me, but he wanted to. I just don’t know why he’s so drawn to other things” she told her with a shake of her head. “I am afraid of pushing too hard and then, making it all worse,” she confessed. “He’s talked to me about my need for control and me being to dominate. I am learning with him; I am trying to grow as an individual. But he promised me Bernice, he promised that he wanted to start a family and he wanted this marriage” she told her softly. “If you talk to him and get any other feeling that, that may not be true. I can’t stay” she said to her softly “I won’t stay” she told her. “I can’t make idle threats, I’ve done that before this time I’d really have to go” she said sniffling again, as she patted her cheek dry with the back of her hands.

Bernice patted the woman’s hands, mind working like an abacus to measure out all she’d learned. “We’ll see what’s going on with him.” She shook her head, “Nicholas isn’t afraid of strong women.  At least I’ve never gotten that impression.” All this worried her.  Was her son making some ill thought out power play? It didn’t seem likely, but maybe… “He gains nothing to toy with you Mercedes” she said, confidently. “I can tell you that much.” Which was true. At least that’s what she hoped.

Looking at the woman in her eyes she nodded her head again at her “okay” she said having nothing more to really say. Mercedes licked her lips slowly “thank you, for listening” she told her sweetly, thanking people wasn’t something that she ever did but she was grateful for her mother-in-law dearly. She tried to stress these things to her husband, and others but people never listened completely. They only got pieces of what she meant, or they just assumed stuff about her and dismissed all else. “You can’t tell him the gender,” she added randomly. “He didn't show up to the appointment and I refused to tell him the gender until I have the gender reveal party,” she said to her easily. “If we… make it that far” she sighed.

Bernice drew herself from her own thoughts and looked at the woman, truly. There was something honest in her voice that caught the older woman off guard. “Anytime my dear.” She found herself saying and meaning sincerely. “Anytime.” Bernice blinked confused by the woman’s next statement. Then nodded, “Of course he’d miss the appointment.” She groaned.  Nicholas was her baby, but there were certain traits this life and his father had marked him with. She knew that this wasn’t the time to try and explain his behavior, “That’s a fine idea. I’ll tell you what, I’ll even help you plan it.” She grinned.

[honestsycrets]

Masterlist: Ragnar Lothbrok 

↳  All of my fics, imagines and so on containing my king can be found below. Feel free to reblog. 

Daddie’s Den

Flower Fall

⇢  Done || Vikings Universe || wc: 380

Synopsis: During the flower festival, Reader doesn’t receive flowers from a suitor. Ragnar knows how to cure that.

The Help + II

⇢  Done || Professor AU || wc: 2761

Synopsis: Everyone knows how her professor looks at her. Everyone but her. She only knows that he creeps her out.

The Boatbuilder’s Daughter

⇢  Dropped || Vikings Universe || wc: 2695

Summary: Floki’s daughter catches the eye of Ragnar whom has interests in her that are far more than platonic. All she can think of is how she betrayed her love interest Bjorn.

A Healing Hand

⇢ Dropped || Vikings Universe || wc: 1019

Summary: Reader is a healer engaged to Bjorn by Aslaug’s doing. Ragnar isn’t the type to sit back and accept fate.

Breed the King

⇢  Complete || Vikings Universe || wc: 386

Summary: Reader, queen of a tribe of women, captures Ragnar and his warriors. Instead of malicious intent, she decides to breed the king

His Princess

⇢  Complete || Vikings Universe || wc: 1149

Summary: Reader stays behind with her father following Lagertha’s divorce. A small platonic series.

Lothbrok

⇢  Incomplete || Vikings Universe || wc: 3271

Summary: Athelstan notices that Ragnar is bored with Aslaug, his second wife. He decides to help him get a third to uplift his spirits. 

Christmas with Daddie

⇢  Complete || Universe || wc: (?) 

Summary: A compilation of drabbles with Ragnar.

Lost and Found

⇢  Incomplete || Vikings + Modern Universe || 906

Summary: Ragnar and Lagertha come upon a woman of particularly odd dress. It looks... short, sexy. Useless. 

Mitte!

⇢ double shot: gladiator || gladiator!ragnar x princess (twin of alfred)!reader (platonic), ubbe x reader || tw: mention of death, fighting, arranged marriage

Summary: As a princess, you fight to preserve Ragnar’s life as much as he does. The truth is: he doesn’t want it. Just like you don’t want your engagement.

Just Friends

⇢ oneshot: viking au || ivar x reader, ragnar x ivar (platonic) || tw: smut implied

Summary: Ivar wants to have sex with Margrethe. His father knows that’s a mistake.

The Wife of Kalf

⇢ oneshot: vikings || ragnar x reader || tw: mention of cheating, divorce, fighting, crude jokes, bullying

Summary: Your sons from Kalf pick a fight with Ivar Ragnarsson, not expecting that you would come to his aid. 

Ragnar’s Goat: Maisie

⇢ drabble || modern!ragnar x reader || tw: none (?)

Summary: His wife carries the goat in her purse to the farmer’s market.

Dagny

⇢ oneshot: vikings || ragnar x reader || tw: rough childbirth

Summary: Ragnar takes care of his wife after she gives birth to their firstborn daughter.

A New Bond

⇢ oneshot: abo vk || omega!reader x alpha!ragnar || tw: abo dynamics, bonding, breeding

Summary: Reader’s old mate has died, throwing her body into a tailspin when the bonding mark dissipates. Not the best… time… on a boat.

The Third Wife

⇢ two-shot: vikings || ragnar x reader, ragnar x dark!lagertha, ragnar x aslaug || tw: murder, dark!aslaug

Summary: The reader discovers her husband hasn’t been as loyal as he would have had her think when a redhead comes to her door.

Little Rabbit

⇢ oneshot: vikings || ragnar x dom!lagertha || tw: femdom

Summary: Ragnar comes home to his little rabbit, hoping to get a jump on her. She gets a jump on him first.

Behind the Veil [ Mini Crack ]

⇢ mini-series: vikings || ragnar x aethelwulf, ragnar x floki, ragnar x athelstan || tw: crossdressing, complete ridiculousness

Summary: A rendition on Thor and Loki seeking out Mjollnir. Only, they are looking for Rollo– crossdressing as Judith and company.

Gimme, Gimme

⇢ Oneshot || Vikings Universe || wc: 258

Summary: Ragnar carries her over the threshold of their home on a little too much mead. 

Honey Pot

⇢ Incomplete || Vikings Universe || Floki x Helga x Ragnar || wc: 478

Summary: So he might be a little jealous that he was never invited to Floki and Helga’s bed. Floki will do anything for his beloved friend.

Defy the King

⇢  Oneshot || Vikings Universe || wc: 239

Summary: She won’t be intimidated by no man.

Who I am

⇢  Oneshot || Vikings Universe || Floki x Ragnar || wc: 616

Summary: Jealous of Athelstan and Ragnar’s relationship, Floki shows off who he is to Athelstan.

You could do better

⇢ Oneshot || Vikings Universe || wc: 479

Summary: She wants to learn to kiss Torstein in order to attract him. Obviously, Ragnar will be the one to teach her how.

Child of Mine

⇢  Oneshot || Vikings Universe || wc: 1361

Summary: After arranging his death, Ivar is set out on a task to find his father’s former lover-- and his last baby sister.

What is coming

⇢  Oneshot || Vikings Universe || wc: 292

Summary: Gyda is approaching the age of marriage. More and more, Ragnar does not like that. Not one bit.

Familiar Scent

⇢ Oneshot || Vikings Universe || wc: 1430

Summary: Bjorn divorces his wife for another omega. The divorce leaves her in shambles, stumbling around looking for a fuck. Ragnar intervenes.

Sweet Little Lies + II

⇢ Complete || Vikings Universe || wc: 1211

Summary: He has always told her not to come to Kattegat. Though he might have good reason, you’re desperate for his touch. It’s not what you thought it would be.

Calypso

⇢  Oneshot || Vikings Universe || wc: 317

Summary: The witch of this island just wont let him go.

Tight

⇢  Oneshot || Vikings Universe || wc: 569

Summary: Ragnar doesn’t like ropes.

Too Old for This + II

⇢ Complete || Vikings Universe || wc: 1903

Summary: Reader has always wanted Ragnar, her man’s father.

Definitely Too Old for This  

⇢  Complete || Modern AU || wc: 329

Summary: Ragnar welcomes another child into his home-- or he would have if he was in the delivery room.

Nothing Done

⇢  Complete || Vikings Universe || wc: 1001

Summary: Ragnar is a terrible distraction. Every time he comes home from raid you get nothing done.

Not You

⇢ Complete || Vikings Universe || wc: 592

Summary: Ragnar is pouting after finding Reader in Ecbert’s bath with Lagertha. It turns out he was the only one not invited.

 Bad Husband

⇢  Complete || Modern AU || wc: 236

Summary: Your ex-husband drops by unannounced. It doesn’t take much for you to realize why.

My Decision

⇢ Complete || Mob AU || wc: 484

Summary: After you leave your mob boss boyfriend, Ragnar is pressed to make a decision.

Baa.

⇢  Complete || Vikings Universe || wc: 192

Summary: You really hate that lamb.

Stay

⇢ Complete || Vikings Universe || wc: 162

Summary: You always leave him at night.

The Last Lover

⇢ Complete || Vikings Universe || wc: 355

Summary: You’ve always been there for Ragnar, placing yourself to the side. You decide to put yourself first, with Bjorn.

You Know Better

⇢ Complete || Vikings Universe || wc: 686

Summary: It’s not allowed to masturbate in his house! At least... not without him knowing. 

Revenge 

⇢ Complete || Vikings Universe || wc: 469

Worry

⇢ Complete || Vikings Universe || wc: 709

Edits

Cozy Ragnar

[ratherhavetheblues]

INGMAR BERGMAN’S ‘SAWDUST AND TINSEL’ “We’re both stuck, Anne–stuck like hell”

© 2019 by James Clark

     Back in 2011, when (at Wonders in the Dark) I foolishly assumed that Ingmar Bergman was one of a small horde of filmmakers (including, Billy Wilder) after something very new, I was years away from comprehending what he had in store. Over the past year or so, I’ve wakened up a bit, to appreciate the momentousness of the range of his concerns, a range, despite good-will, leaving no impact where it really matters.

A constellation of conundrums of intent began to dawn upon me; and putting in place their dynamic has been quite a ride. But the elusiveness of the innovation has proven to be only slightly recognizable. Therefore, it’s time again to return to Sawdust and Tinsel (1953), which provides remarkable immediacy to those staying the course.

   Whereas oracular figures—in Smiles of a Summer Night (1955), Winter Light(1963) and The Magician (1958)—would afford the thrill of seeing fit to trip up facile enforcement, the balance of power in the narratives remains so weighted against extreme change that understanding would almost absolutely trickle away. Similarly, the mea culpa, in Fanny and Alexander (1982), being brought to bear in terms of “the little world” (and its nagging spoiler, “the big world”), tends to be submerged by the Niagara of sturdy foibles. Then there is the perhaps too vague volcano of acrobatics and juggling, stemming from, The Seventh Seal (1957), and flashing over many subsequent entanglements the dark potency of which being lost on most viewers. The recherche dialogue between Eva and her muse, in Autumn Sonata (1978)—though a crucial clearing—becomes a victim of that protagonist’s hysterical self-importance. The action of silence (most salient in Persona [1966] but also on the move in, The Silence[1963] and Cries and Whispers [1972]), tends to be upstaged by the strong suit of survival. A mystical consummation, like that seen in, Wild Strawberries (1957), tends to maintain the status quo even more rigorously. Therefore, our second attention to this visceral production must be intent upon illuminating, as never before, the sensual structures and energies of players who live or die upon a cosmic scale.

One major expository  response to that singular involvement is to spotlight two minor figures to lead the charge—the two stars of the show being brought to light as auxiliary weight for the previous marvels of poetic intensity. There is, of course, a saga, in this case pertaining to a slipping itinerant circus impresario and his slipping love life; but that’s not where the magic and the lift-off inheres. Careers and romantic complications are a dime a dozen; and they don’t tend to generate game-breakers.

Near the outset, a long-term carnie regales the rather recent owner, Albert, about an event of some rarity which happened 7 years before, involving a husband and wife team of clowns, still in the company. The troupe was set to entertain at a place along the seaboard, where an artillery regiment was engaged in training maneuvers. The flashback covering this crucial action has been given a medium of saturated sunlight in which to carry us on an even longer way from the mundane than killing fields and wandering sensationalism. “Tell the story if you want,” the boss allows (sitting on the driver’s bench of one of his caravans plodding along, early in the morning, drinking beer with the storyteller, and soon falling asleep, missing [as always] a remarkable revelation). “It was a hot summer day… The officers lay on the grass, hot and sweating, drinking out of boredom… Then along came Alma, an imposing woman… Carried herself like a queen, if a bit past her prime.” We see her, alone, on a ridge near the sea, bearing down upon the mere military, and carrying a basket for what might come along. Her dress of straight lines implies a mood not for curving away from her sterling desires. In fact, she is a vision of the goddess or medium, Aphrodite, she of coherent passion. As she approaches the fighting force, their cannonade becomes an imaginary orgy. Then, by way of an officer with cat whiskers in close-up yelling something where there is not a sound, except the cannon blasts, the recent workaday becomes even stranger. Cut to the brain-trust playing cards on the flat rocks. Advantage in the air. Cut to more of those silent mouthings, which disappear with a wave of sharp white space, soon displaying a division by way of the black uniforms. Alma merrily walks right over the improv poker table, spins around and produces an ironic smile and bow to her subjects. (The troopers on the ragged ground are not alert to their being overrun by a sworn enemy, as well as a congenial visitation to a lesser world. A soldier ridicules her, and she ridicules back.) Alma then begins to pull up her dress and challenge the power clique to live up to her powers. (In a cut, her advantageous mis-en-scene has been momentarily rescinded, to convey the human, often failing, interplay with the works of primary creativity.) The innuendo of coitus is taken up by the troopers and their shooting. Back on the topspin, Alma takes off her dress and tosses away her sun hat for the sake of a sunniness very seldom reached. (Such steps of hers like that will be repeated, somewhat, by that sleeping slug, unprepared for a crisis of cosmic proportions.)

Another stretch of fiery sky graces the beach; but disgrace looms, even during her ascendance to the ways of Aphrodite. Breaking the stalemate of mob ridicule and her wielding a secret weapon, an officer orders a cadet to go to her husband whereby more mundane resources would tip the scale and force a retreat. The apparition’s beloved clown and alcoholic, with infrequent rallies, lacks her ambition; and therewith we are to keep an eye on her miseries nearly buried by the ordinary two protagonists. And that Frost (where to start with that?—with Death, in the wings) rallies handsomely, though unevenly, that day. Never without his deathly white, cosmetic coloration (in glaring light he nearly disappears), his first appearance doesn’t seem much of anything. Brought out of the tent to meet the cadet, he mutters, “I once had the opportunity to perform for his Majesty…” [Frost being an exponent of trivial nostalgia in lieu of demanding traction]. (This is a gambit soon to re-emerge, in The Magician. As we work along here, we are impressed by how prepared this sojourn traces back to this film.) Only half-comprehending the dilemma, Frost misses the mark (as Albert will repeatedly miss the mark in the second part of that war-couplet which moves apace with great distinction): “The captain pays homage to me…” The cadet, who had conveyed that, “The captain sends his greetings,” sharpens up the message, to, “Your Alma is swimming naked with the regiment!” This causes his more realistic colleagues to laugh maliciously. A woman angrily confronts that drifter with, “Show you’re a real man! We’ll help you give her hell!” Someone else adds, “We’ll help you tar that saucy hide of hers!” With this, Frost pushes the sort of well-wishers away and rushes to the shore in a frenzy. Adding to his presence, are the pantaloons he always wears, trussed up in such a way that his physical proportions resemble an ostrich or a prehistoric bird. Frost being, in his eccentric and erratic way, also a primordial force, of questionable efficacy. With this crisis in the making, at a strategic point, we have our opportunity to regard this drama being very unlike others in its priorities. These presumed, by convention, also rans, are actually nearly the whole story. Their coming a cropper of the military devolves from the widespread war intrinsically bearing down upon creatures like our two clowns—too strange to readily stomach its stand in canniness; and too frail to mount a viable stand of uncanniness, going somewhere very few of humankind want to touch. Though cast as a problematic item of the preponderant in choices—a “circus and romantic saga”—in fact the action is devoted to a striking disclosure, beyond theatre and almost musical in its dynamic. The putative protagonists, Albert, and Anne, “lovers,” are the true also ran. They are trammeled with being not nearly crazy enough to be creatively balanced. And, therewith, the motif of  the “little world” and the “big world” (explicit in Fanny and Alexander) hits the bricks to make of this entire Bergman filmic campaign, not a setting in relief of domestic exigencies but how the hell one might carve out a rhythm of sanity on a grotesque planet. As such, the entire (independent) corpus of Bergman’s endeavor must be seen as wall-to-wall war movies.

   Frost, with the whole carnie nation delighting in his plight and racing close to his heels, encounters the mob of jeering heroes as he beholds Alma splashing offshore with an amphibian group. His shock, in close-up, is accompanied by a moment of all-out silence and stillness—as if the precinct of primal destruction clamps down for a moment. The white-out of the sun once again endows the chaos with pristine dignity. (Each of such stations emanating singular resources as to the massively ignored and dangerously beloved ways of life.) Then Frost calls out to her (no sound, no subtitles; but the cheesy, calliope circus theme). What was a regal bid to really live now begins to collapse. Jeering (now with the added non-strangers) recommences. Taking off his outer gear and struggling over jagged rocks provides another spew of black laughter. He does reach her, and those groping her drift away. In the capacity of a small but memorable rally, to consign to filmic archives, there is a close-up of him holding her and, as they behold the sea and the sky, they constitute an army of two. As that was transpiring, the cadet gathers up their clothes and hides them in a cravass.  A girl from the circus laughs about that. Frost brings Alma to shore by having her on his back. The visual atmosphere is a slate sea and dark grey sky; and Frost, losing the energy to savor this austere beauty, begins to succumb to unsteadiness in negotiating the rocks while carrying her. Another silence obtrudes, as the couple resemble dying beasts. (The protagonists will prove to be all too human—predictable and presumptuous, leaving us more alerted to the fringes than the center.) The underestimated “clowns” are seen at a distance. The crowd closes in. Alma becomes stiff in his arms, her body like a cardboard sign. A deep drum roll sounds. The captain orders the heroes back to training. Frosts feet, shown in  close-up, become very unsteady. That blazing outburst stages another fanfare to kindred spirits. A close-up finds them strangely glamorous at a watershed. Frost falls, and nearly faints. Another blinding brightness, another drum roll. They’re seen at a distance, on a ridge. (After such effort, this being a premonition of surrender, four years hence, in The Seventh Seal.) A feathery cloud formation becomes a confirmation that much had been well done. Then he falls, seen from afar. One more effort to proceed, and he’s flat on his face. He tries to crawl. (We’ll see Albert in a somewhat formally similar sequence, but with very little concern on the part of the cosmos.) Alma, no longer Aphrodite, fears for Frost’s life. Carnies and the cadet carry him home to the circus tent. Alma angrily (and silenced) reproves the wayward. She begins to cry out (silently covered).

Back to the seat at the caravan emanating this strange event, with Albert, as always, missing in action. He and the driver jounce, due to the bad roads; they look like rather identical puppets. The driver concludes, “Alma began to shriek that we’d done her old man in. We got angry and told her it was her own fault. But we picked him up and carried him back anyway…”

  The last sight of the two who rocked Sweden for a few hours, was Frost being carried by several men of the art of the body, as if he were a white caribou. His head is thrown back and the pan shot moves backwards, as if he’s the subject of a hunt already dead. Seven years beyond this oddity/ odyssey, the driver has rounded out his harangue with, “That’s a woman and love for you!” It is, of course, nothing of the sort, the eyewitness not having a clue of what had really taken place. Here’s the moment to introduce the virtually sterile protagonists, now running the show, very badly—by way of their phony business names: “Alberti” (as in, “Alberti Cirkus”); and, “a fiery Spanish rider astride an Andalusian thoroughbred,” being hopefully antidotes to mask their lack of lyricism, their lack of poetry, their lack of courage. The day we first see them together, they’re entering the town where Albert dragged his wife and two children (from a modest retail business) into showbiz as being, at last, his supposed reality. This venue, in contrast with the puppets and cold and fatigue on the first occasion, musters cinematography of beauty, in the form of a close-up of a wagon wheel moving over a bridge showing its reflection in the water, and an imposing windmill. A rooster crows. A dog barks a welcome. Forward motion in the air. But who’s up for what it takes?

   The mid-20th century “fairground,” a scene of desolation itself, becomes the scene of the staff, many having seen far better days from far better management, announcing to the boss their displeasure in not having been paid for quite a while, with an outbreak of fleas in all the caravans, and lacking viable costumes. (During the hubbub Alma is aghast in hearing that one of her colleagues wants to have her pet bear [and vignette for her work] killed and eaten.)  In response, we receive some idea of the details of Albert’s being unfit for bringing off viable imaginative work. He muses that in America there is a healthy market for circus activity. “In America, circus folk ride through town, while bands play and the elephants trumpet. Everyone puts on their biggest smile and people line the streets cheering. A booming voice announces the show for that evening…” The goofiness of that razzmatazz premise transplanting to rural Sweden, is part and parcel of the goofy business plan in Jacque Tati’s film, Jour de Fete (1949), where a French farm town mailman attempts to wow the citizenry with big-market, American systematics.

On the spot to at least seem to be a businessman, he proposes one of those effervescent, Jimmy Durante circus parades for the permafrost customers, only to be busted, the horses impounded on the grounds of failing to secure a permit. Albert’s other excellent idea—on stronger grounds, in view of the Swedish government lavishing tons of cash for the arts (the theatre building in this tank-town having been designed upon the model of the royal palace)—was to borrow some of the costumes of the rich store, in order to put on a memorable spectacle. But there is a significant more, bearing down upon this disarray, whereby Albert was to pay a visit to his former spouse and (formerly unhappy) former circus partner (now the successful lone tobacconist of the present scene). Sleepy Alberti’s career of running the show into near collapse has inadvertently alerted Anne, the non-Spaniard, at this window of opportunity, that he’ll be returning to retail and she’ll be needing to make very different plans than she had bargained for.

   Albert and Anne constitute, however, not mere perverse dullards and fools, but rather facile, effete revolutionaries lacking the nerve to prepare for what their excitement involves. Each releases a mission statement in face of discouraging mainstream forces. Albert’s ex declares, “I’m happy now. It was always a time of frenzy and fear.” He counters with, “It’s always the same, summer and winter. For me, it’s emptiness.” Encountering rather feminine and arrogant Frans (an actor she meets during negotiations for the costumes; and perhaps her best bet if Albert bolts), she maintains that an earthy matier like the circus is the place to be. “I’ll bet you apply cosmetics. You have beautiful hands… You’re a weakling… You can’t [as he did] treat me like that or speak of my husband that way…” Frans pushes back, “If we were alone, I’d crush you. I’d crush your resistance like a piece of dirty paper.” She quickly attacks, “What play does that come from? Save it for your pale, flat-chested actresses…” Stirring declarations; but hollow. Anne does go in for “dirty paper.” And Albert proposes returning to the good old days. His wife had prefaced the little  reunion with, “All I can offer is pancakes.”

The theatre personnel arrive late. And Frans, having been roundly insulted by Anne en route to a pancake tryst, feels entitled to trip up an inelegant entertainment. Although this very intense incident could be imagined to be (as with the battle on the shore could seem) a simple display of dispatching, by the powers that be, foolish, obsolete eccentricity—road kill—the membrane on tap copiously speaks otherwise, to the horror of so many who don’t care enough, and where that leaves those who do show audacity of sensibility reaching an astounding threshold. That the figures being tracked do not handle their audacity well, is beside the point of this reflection per se. Sawdust and Tinsel offers to us a conveyance inviting the viewer to behold emotion so raw that normal dimensions become shattered and thereby become an intimate challenge. By the time the caravan comes to the little town playing it safe, we notice Alma and Frost having abandoned the realm of Aphrodite in favor of variations of Aphrodite-Lite, the specialty of Albert and Anne. Frost and Albert clearly spend a lot of time getting drunk. Alma has her low-key bear; Anne has her Tarot cards. By the end of the saga, Albert is heard to lament, “We’re both stuck, Anne—stuck like hell…”

Whereas the insulting regiment, at the (double) beginning, never gets to be heard, Frans, showing off to a pretty actress in the troupe (where affluent, educated elites would have honed a range of useful skills), and with Anne astride her horse circling the sawdust stage, he calls out, “Feel alright after our adventure, Sweetheart?” This elicits from Albert, the ringmaster’s, whipping off of the show-offs straw hat. In one of those grand, dramatic ironies Bergman excels in, Albert’s shock and fury at that moment had landed him in depths of pain whereby he had put in his place the smooth cynic. Frans, not expecting lightning from such a source, experiences, almost uniquely, disarray. As he puts his hat on, the girl he brung laughs in his face. The supercilious small-town sensation had, remarkably, retreated. Were Albert truly conversant with squelching vain nobodies, his evening might have included modest rewards from which to invent circus theatre to surpass the sclerosis of the local artistes. But Albert, on a high and afraid of heights, repeats the fun—flashing his whip as if the smattering of Americana Conestoga covered wagons in the convoy endows automatic magic—and Frans, feeding on hate, smashes the pretender to a pulp.

Much about this bloody gore reminds us of Alma’s sunny day at the beach. Frans’ fighting skills (the Artistic Director of the big/ little theatre mired in lostness organizes the bad feelings in terms of a duel, which is to say, a stupid way to die and a stupid way to live) are a reprise of the artillery  display which punctuated the ridicule of Alma. Albert’s baby-peal crying in pain, from a dirty trick directed at his balls, is a reprise of the fake crying of a clown in the first scene of the show, where Frost is now merely ordinary, wielding a ladder (going nowhere—not even funny) and squabbling with the crybaby. The townsfolks (including the ex), recalling the civilian population witnessing Alma’s abortive ascent, present a variation of the universal amusement—most enjoying the massacre, while a few being sickened by it. On the other hand—as with the conscripts to the nation—the theatre employees show 100% satisfaction, in their prissy way. Distributed about this maelstrom, we have Anne thrown from her horse, due to a guy in the last row throwing a missile hitting the thoroughbred; Alma’s gig with her bear totally washed out by the late-comers from civilization wandering across the ring (and, to worsen her latter days lot, yelling to hapless Albert, “That’s it, Albert!”); and the ringmaster both humiliated and on a roll of visceral courage, hopelessly misplaced.

   At the end of the fight, Frost becomes a voice of the status quo: “Ladies and gentlemen, the show is over. Thank you for coming this evening…” Albert’s nightmare finds him in the role of an abused bear, in a bearpit. On gaining what he’d call consciousness, he grabs his pistol and shoots Alma’s bear. You could say, that was the last bit of integrity this company would see. But, for what it’s worth, the tug of creativity is hard to entirely kill.

The circus caravan is on the move later that night. Frost and Albert are walking along in crepuscular light and crepuscular mood. Albert maintains a depressive glare, never looking, nor, once again, listening to the outer limits of life itself. Frost, an artist to Albert’s merchandising, speaks up, with, “Yesterday afternoon I had a dream while I slept off the booze. I dreamt that Alma came to me and said, ‘Poor Frost, you look tired and sad. Wouldn’t you like to rest a while?’ Yes, I said. ‘I’ll make you small [smallness virulently in effect already] as a little unborn child. You can climb into my womb and sleep in peace.’ So I did as she said, and crept into her womb, and I slept there so soundly and peacefully, rocked to sleep as if in a cradle. Then I got smaller, until, at last, I was just a tiny seed, and then I was gone.” Frost had not gone much further than hysteria in that initial struggle. But his dream carried him to the frontiers of creativity, which is to say, a fresh start upon getting real, the precinct Alma inhabited when an instance of Aphrodite (which failed to find traction). Alma, from the cozy confines of their caravan bed, interrupts, “Stop trudging along out there! Come inside and sleep!” Frost, the alcoholic Everyman, explains to the bemusing navigator, “You see? She can’t sleep without me beside her!”

Here we come to an unexpected minefield. Do the fidelities, at this stage of the careers of the once-briefly brave, still reach the point of magic? Or do those gentle moves conceal a crime? The dream of starting again seems to tell us, “Yes.” Bergman, being one very, very tough dude, is not one to settle for sort of. Does his investigation (and that of a host of other investigators) leave room for leveraging the daily juggle where the daily acrobatics have startled? Sort of. But the film wants us to consider hostile armies that aren’t going away.

After Frost, the unfocused family man, goes to bed, Albert comes to a halt, and Anne (not needing to go to bed) has her moment of truth, which is something else from a moment of vision. (Along a trajectory of job-shopping with Frans in his dressing room and beyond, in the light of Albert bidding for a less American Dream, she doubles back, in memory, to catch Frans rehearsing a drama that could only avail as a purgative. “I am but a poor jester in this farce of dark shadows. Her deceitful heart, her frailty, even her taunting indifference, turn my world upside down every day and every hour…Art that Count Badrincourt of Chamballe, or the most miserable of wretches? Farewell, O world…May my tears water my poor grave…” The intruder that is Anne is positioned behind a damaged backdrop, and we see only part of her face breaking through the musty garbage in knowing to be something better. [Far from Aphrodite; but a physical key still in play].) There they are (Anne and Albert), in the dull light, now apprehensive. (While Albert was carried out of his sawdust bailiwick—a position repeating Frost’s unconsciousness after breaking down in aid of Alma—Anne was busy gauging Frans’ cheek. A few years later, in Hour of the Wolf  [1968], a woman at a party gauges the cheek of an effete rebel, whose confused bid to manage there being no heaven costs his life.) Each manages a wan smile. And they walk along that pregnant roadway and its links coming close to the dance of death, about to be fully unveiled in The Seventh Seal. Our guide’s dramatic genius presents a disaster without recourse, while, on a wider front, things could improve.

[sf-christiandoyle-blog]

She looked into me and saw something better. She forgave me for all my sins that I had yet confessed.

Christian stood over the heap of the man he had just beaten and tortured. Great drops of blood fell from his knuckles, falling to the concrete floor of the warehouse. The young man had been avoiding the job for weeks. Marshall had arrived in San Francisco nearly three weeks ago, and Christian had located him within the first forty-eight hours. A usual for him. Yet Christian stalled. He pretended to have difficulty with locating the fifty-three year old man, father of four. Ribera had another job lined up for Christian as soon as he gave Marshall his warning. One that would send him to Puerto Rico for nearly two months. Christian had just returned from Australia not even a week before Marshall’s assignment came. He didn’t want to leave Lyla, so he sabotaged. It was dangerous. Extremely dangerous to do this, but he didn’t care. He didn’t want to be apart from Lyla. And how would Ribera know if he was having difficulty with finding the man? Ribera was in Sicily, Italy.

A whimper came from Marshall. Christian swallowed hard, focusing on the sounds of the city. He could hear sirens in the distance. They were heading in the opposite direction. False hope for Marshall. His beating was over though. He had received his warning. “It’s alright,” Christian assured the man in a hushed voice, his voice lacking any real comfort. This wasn’t a place for comfort. This wasn’t a place for emotion. Only detachment. “You have three days,” he whispered quietly, walking across the room to the duffel bag. He grabbed a hand towel and began wiping violently at his bruised knuckles. “Three days to deliver to me the debt you owe in full or you’ll pay with your life.” Dry blood was caked onto his flesh, seared into the lines of his skin. He grabbed the bottle of water and rinsed his hands one at a time before wiping them again with the towel. “If you try to flee the city, your family will be killed. Your wife, Macy. Your children: Joey, Max, Jill, and Lacey. Your house is being watched as we speak and if you try to contact them. If you warn them, they will die. Am I clear?”

Slowly, Christian turned around to face the man. Marshall had managed to sit up on the floor now. He was frightened, blubbering. He spluttered blood from his mouth, shaking his head with difficulty as he tried to to look at his torturer through swollen eyes. “P-please,” he begged. Christian asked him once more if he was clear. He asked Marshall if he understood what he was saying. The young man spoke with such authority. He was calm and stoic; dressed in an expensive suit while he tortured the older man. He tossed the towel aside and walked to Marshall, crouching down in front of him.

“Hey,” he said in a gentle voice when the older man whimpered once again as Christian touched his shoulder. “Easy, easy. I’m not going to hurt you now. Listen. All you have to do is get what you owe Ribera by Saturday. That’s it. Do that and you’ll be on your way home to your family. I swear. They’ll be safe and you’ll be safe.” Christian stood up and yanked the man up in swift motion. “Better quick so the pain doesn’t hit you in waves,” he explained when Marshall hollered in agony. “You go make plans and we’ll meet here in three days, okay? Same time as today. Don’t try and be foolish and flee the city. I’ll find you. I’m an amazing tracker.”

Marshall assured Christian that he had no intentions of doing so and then he left the warehouse. After the man was gone, Christian changed out of the expensive suit and into his gym attire. Lyla believed that he was a personal trainer at a local gym. He used this as an excuse for his bruised knuckles most of the time. After cleaning up the mess in the warehouse, Christian headed out into the chill of the January morning. He was startled to find a limousine pulled up beside his car. Slowly, he walked towards the two vehicles. The driver got out and opened the door for him. Christian sat down his bag and slid into the back seat of the stretched car. His breathing caught in his throat when he found himself in the presence of Ribera. He didn’t speak. He never spoke to the man until he spoken to.

“Hello, Christian,” Ribera said carelessly, staring out the window at the docks. “Such a dull place to do business,” he continued, his accent hanging over the words. “Smart place though. Very loud. Hides the screams. We saw Marshall leaving. You beat him well. I doubt we’ll have any trouble from him now?”

“He’ll be compliant,” Christian said in a somber voice.

“That should have been the case three weeks ago,” Ribera said without hesitation before handing Christian a folder. Christian assumed this was his new target. As soon as he opened the document, his heart sank into the bottom of his stomach. Bile coated the cavern of his mouth and he felt like he was going to vomit. He clutched tightly at the manila folder. He stared down at the beautiful face of his beloved. Lyla Novacek. Immediately, he closed the folder, unable to look at her. Unable to let her beautiful face be seen in the presence of Ribera. “Did you think I wouldn’t learn of this, Christian? You’ve spent the better part of your time here in California for the last year. You’ve been slacking with your tasks. Stalling. You never stall. You are diligent in your work. This isn’t like you.”

“Ribera,” Christian said, adjusting himself against the leather seat, slowly putting distance between them, but also turning so he could face the man. “I do my job.”

“Three weeks,” the Italian mob boss said. “It took you three weeks to warn Marshall. Less than three days is your normal rate. You aren’t doing your job, Christian. And now I have leverage. This beautiful woman.” Ribera tapped the folder. “Now, I know what your weakness is. Now, I know how to make you compliant. I helped you all those years ago. I saved you from prison, remember that? You swore your allegiance to me. You promised to work for me and I promised to protect you. I have fulfilled my half of our agreement. Do your part or this beautiful woman will pay the price. Do you understand me?”

“Yes,” Christian said quietly. Ribera handed off a large envelope - his new job.

Christian sat behind the wheel in his Range Rover, fumbling to send a message to alert Lyla that he would soon be arriving home. Ribera was officially an issue. For the most part, Christian had did everything the man had asked of him and then some, but the man had continued his tyranny without reprieve. For thirteen years, Ribera had threatened Christian for all the he had. And this now extended to the one thing the he loved above all. Lyla. Fear gripped the man, paralyzing him. A bone chilling fear had consumed him and he couldn’t shake it. He was afraid. Truly afraid for the life of the woman who was to be his wife. How could this be? How had he let this happen? Christian had always been such a careful man. He knew the answer of course. Love had distracted him. Lyla had distracted him. She had made him feel whole again. She made the voices in his head silent; the guilt that he felt for all the horrible things he had committed seemed to subside when she was around. She was his salvation.

Ten minutes passed before the man arrived home. He knew what he had to do. God, he knew. And he knew it was going to break his heart. And her heart. It was going to rip them apart. It would sever their relationship. It would ruin them. But this had to be done. He needed Ribera to think that Lyla meant nothing to him. If the man thought she was just a distraction, something to pass the time, then he wouldn’t use her as leverage. “Lyla?” he called out as he came through the door, his voice shaking slightly. Christian inhaled deeply as he walked down the corridor and into the living room where he found Lyla on the couch with their dog, Freya. Another shaky breath came from him. He cleared his throat, avoiding eye contact. She was so beautiful. He couldn’t look at her just yet.

“Baby?” she called out in a questioning tone.

Cautiously, Christian sat down on the opposite side of the couch. He longed for her touch. He needed her. He needed to feel her warmth. To kiss her lips. Her perfume could send the fears that were consuming his mind away for the moment but he refused to give into his desires. He had to focus on what was best for her now. On her safety. Not his wants. He couldn’t be selfish. He let out a low breath and turned his eyes away from her, terrified. “I…” He stopped. How could he tell this lie to her? No. He had to. It had to be said. She needed to believe that this happened. This was for her own good. For her safety. “I cheated on you. I slept with Alexa.”

Look at her. You gotta sell this, he said to himself. Christian pushed his gaze up in her direction. Holding a cold stare as he watched her beautiful face morph into despair.

Lyla's smile instantly vanished. After a moment of silence, her lips parted to release a hoarse laugh. "You're lying to me," she said, her voice breaking. It was weak and desperate, her tone pleading with him. She didn't move from where she sat. "Christian, you're lying to me," she said finally, her tone sharp and demanding. It was killing him. Hearing her plead with him to tell her the truth. And he wanted to. He wanted to tell her that this was a lie. That he didn’t actually betray her. That he didn’t sleep with Alexa, who she had voiced her concerns about. He wanted to take away all of her fears and throw them out the window and carry her to their bed. But he couldn’t. He had to break her heart so she’d let him go. "I am telling you the truth," he said in a quiet voice. “I forgive you,” said Lyla within seconds. "Please don't do this to me again. I forgive you," she said in a shaky, desperate voice. “You what?” he asked, dumbfounded. He sat there in utter confusion as Lyla spoke the words he never thought he would hear. Lyla always said that cheating was the one thing she couldn’t forgive. He thought this would send her away and here she was… his beautiful baby, forgiving him. He crouched his torso forward, his head bowing. His fingers kneaded the back of his neck while he contemplating what to do next. This hadn’t gone according to plan at all. “Don’t,” he said sternly. Almost hatefully. The word came from him as soon as she told him she forgave him for the second time. He raised up and then stood. “Don’t forgive me.” He covered his mouth for a moment as he was overwhelmed with emotion. “I’m… I’m falling in love with her. It wasn’t just one time. I’ve been seeing her for a while now.” “No,” Lyla choked out, unable to hold back the tears that were brimming her eyes. The woman proceeded to scream at him, swearing that she hated him. She slammed her small hands into his chest, thrusting him away from her. “Get out,” she shouted from the top of her lungs. “Go be with her!” Unable to control the anger that was taking over her, Lyla grabbed the lamp from the table beside the couch and swung it at Christian, it hit the wall behind him, he ducked to block himself from the shards of glass. He knew. As soon as he said he was in love with Alexa, he knew that did it. He had successfully broke her heart to the point where she would let him go. And it destroyed him. He could feel his heart twisting into despair and it was painful. Devastatingly painful to watch the woman he loved, the woman he wanted to make his wife, look at him with lost eyes as he told her he loved another woman. It was a lie, of course, but Lyla believed him. Lyla always believed him. He wanted to apologize, to tell her he loved her, to give her some sign that this was all a mistake and that someday he would make it right and explain it to her, but he couldn’t. Because he knew she would forgive him. If he gave her a scrap of hope or a hint that he was lying now, she wouldn’t let him walk out the door. So, Christian stayed silent. It killed him to stay silent, but he did. He stared at the woman he loved more than anything in the world for another moment before walking out of their home. His heart was falling into the pit of his stomach. He knew he was giving up the very best thing he had ever had but he also knew it was the only way to ensure her safety. After he closed the front door behind him, the man let out a long sigh, trying to hold off the grief that was trying to consume him. “I love you, Lyla,” he said aloud. “Please forgive me, baby.” He stayed rooted on their front porch for several minutes. He didn’t want to go. This was his home. She was his home. But he had no choice. He wiped the dampness from his eyes and forced himself to climb into his car, driving away from their home. He drove away from the life had been building with Lyla. Reluctantly, he made travel plans for Puerto Rico to fulfill his new job.

[hellomissmabel]

Manhattan Mistress part 1

MASTERLIST

Pairing: Bucky x reader, Steve x reader, Tony x reader and OC!Casey (daughter of Y/N and Tony)

Summary: It’s election season and things are about to get heated. Y/N Rogers, previously Y/N Stark, is the daughter of the late mob boss of Brooklyn. She took over when her father died and runs the streets with a firm hand, although no one knows it’s her pulling the strings. Money must roll, especially when it comes from her ex-husband Tony Stark. Tony secretly endorses Steve Rogers’ campaign, currently running for alderman and seemingly oblivious to what happens behind the scenes of his so-called happy marriage. But then Bucky, Y/N’s oldest friend, shows up to win her back and decides to stir things up a little.

Word count: 3.236

Warnings: the reader doesn’t shy away from foul language and talk of sex, murder and infidelity.

A/N: my fingers have been itching to write this story! It’s much, so much darker than what I usually write. Dedicated to my favourite mob AU writer @caplanbuckybarnes. Congratulations on the 1.3k followers! Enjoy sweetie!

“I’m so happy you could make it. She’s been looking forward to spending some time with her daddy the entire week, she never stopped talking about it.”

Tony laughs lightly, his brown eyes lightening up as he scoops Casey up in his arms. He twirls her around before hoisting her over his shoulder, her beautiful curls dangling wildly in the air as her shrill giggles fill the atmosphere with so much glee you can’t help but break into a bright smile, shaking your head at their silly antics. She takes after Tony in so many ways, from her dark hair and piercing brown eyes to her analytical take on the world and even her sassy character.  She’s still so young and yet it’s already as clear as day that Casey Stark is in fact her father’s daughter. At least she has inherited some of her mother’s quirks.

“Daddy has missed his favourite girls so much! You have no idea,” Tony exclaims heartily and you suppress a haughty laugh. There used to be a time when he couldn’t stand the sight of you and vice versa. You love each other too much for your own good, not to mention you’re considerably younger than him, the source of many teasing remarks from certain enemies and even a couple friends although none of them have lived to see another day. But watching Tony pepper her tiny face with feather-light kisses, it’s so refreshing and it does things to your heart you wouldn’t believe. It flutters even higher as he makes these little and utterly adorable noises causing another fit of giggles to erupt from his daughter’s lips.

“My beautiful baby girl,” he purrs in a ridiculous voice, his fingers excitedly attacking Casey and engaging her in a tickle fight. “My beautiful baby girl and her insanely gorgeous mother.” He then looks up at you expectantly, giving you that look he knows will win you over, a look of melted gold that makes you weak in the knees. The only thing left to do now is flash his dazzling trophy smile and you’re a goner for sure. Fortunately he doesn’t but you can sense there’s an urgent question brimming his lips.

“What do you want, Tony?,” you sigh dramatically and he shoots you a knowing smile. Planting a chaste kiss on his temple, you sit down at the breakfast table, nibbling on a strawberry dipped in chocolate sauce before indulging yourself with a glass of fresh orange juice.

“Mind if I keep her for the weekend?,” he inquires, ruffling Casey’s hair whilst taking a seat opposite of you, pulling your daughter in his lap and bouncing her on his knee, her miniature fingers playing with his indigo tie. “I also thought that maybe we could host her birthday party at my place. She can have as many friends over as she likes and you don’t have to worry about the expenses, I’ll take care of everything for you. Unless you and Steve have already made plans, I don’t mean to impose.”

You shake your head, chuckling softly. “No, we didn’t make any plans yet, Tony. Steve’s busy running a campaign, as you are well aware of,” you say matter-of-factly, taking a moment to appreciate the sight of your ex-husband joking around with your daughter just like old times. A lot has changed since you ended your toxic relationship and things have definitely changed for the better. No more throwing mud or making a snarky comment about something trivial, you can finally breathe again.

“Tony, you were a lousy husband but believe me when I say, and I’m only going to say this once, you are an amazing father. I’ll come pick her up on Monday, you two have fun.”

You gently bump Casey’s nose with your finger and allow Tony to take your hand in his, softly grazing his lips over your knuckles, gingerly placing a kiss as his neatly groomed scruff tickles your alabaster skin. He momentarily closes his eyes. “I love you, Y/N,” he mutters against your skin before letting go of your hand and tenderly pecking Casey’s cheek who is still completely engulfed by his presence.

“I know you do, Tony,” you reply quietly, your eyes staring at the ground below. “Believe me, I know.”

The drive towards the Rogers’ mansion isn’t long and the music on the radio doesn’t seem to please you, blaming the January cold for your sudden change in mood. You can’t seem to shake the thoughts of Tony and Casey and about how happy they were together. It makes you wonder why on earth you ever got a divorce before memories of lonely days and even lonelier nights start flooding your eyes with stinging tears and you remember quite clearly why you were so eager to sign those divorce papers. Not to mention all the bruises when conversation got a little heated.

You were eighteen and fresh out of high school when your boyfriend Bucky Barnes skipped town after your late father threatened to kill him if he ever laid a finger on you again. He didn’t like the idea of his Manhattan princess fooling around with an errant boy from Brooklyn, working a couple side jobs for your dad so he could provide for a living since both his parents died when he was younger. If your old man had only known it would drive you straight into the arms of Tony Stark, his right hand and most valued business partner, he would’ve thought twice before meddling with your love life.

You were way too young and unprepared to get hitched let alone be a mother. But if it hadn’t been for your beautiful daughter Casey, the apple of your eye, to keep you company on your darkest of days, you would have felt even more isolated. She’s also the only reason why you decided to continue the legacy of the mob life and why you stayed with Tony for as long as you have.

There’s not a single thing happening in this city that you don’t know about and there’s not a single thing you’re not involved in, although you stay clear from trafficking drugs and girls, it’s despicable and right up Loki Laufeyson’s lane. Too much blood had been shed on his behalf until your father forced his hand, killed his mother and made him sign a peace treaty. Oh, if he only knew it’s the Manhattan mistress calling the shots in Brooklyn and that he’s been your bitch all this time, he’d probably make a beeline for the executioner.

Truth is, no one except for your inner circle knows the truth. Ever since your father died, rumours about his successor have been keeping his associates too busy for them to notice his prissy offspring has taken matters back into her own hands. The new mob king could really be anyone at this point  but that doesn’t mean business can’t run as smoothly as it did before his decease. You’d like to keep everyone in the dark for as long as possible, not out of fear for losing their trust or respect but out of pure spite. These men are just a bunch of stuck-up, old-fashioned bastards with a stick up their ass and nothing but red on their ledger. They always used to look down on you and pity your father, a son would have been a much more convenient turn of events and yet here you are, screwing everyone over as we speak.

Even your Stevie doesn’t know what his dear wife is up to when he’s busy charming the audience with another inspiring speech and his winning attitude. You’d rather not involve your beloved husband in all the nitty gritty stuff that overshadows most of your life, he’s just too much of a soft-boiled egg to be able to handle the shit going down on the street. Besides, it would most definitely cost him his career and you your marriage because nothing good ever comes from the mob life, you learned that the hard way.

Grimacing as you pull up the driveway and get out of your car, you are greeted by Steve’s four-legged, furry friend Dodger and his new companion Trixie, the puppy Steve got Casey for Christmas. Once inside, you head straight for the kitchen and open up a bottle of your favourite wine.

“A little early for alcohol, isn’t it?,” Nat calls out from behind the grand piano in her typical sultry voice. She decided to grace you with an impromptu visit and you smirk at her, offering her a glass as well which she gladly accepts.

“I just dropped Casey off at Tony’s place,” you explain, taking a quick sip from the red liquid, revelling in the sensation of it caressing your throat with a pleasurable burn, the rich aftertaste lingering in your mouth and invading your senses with its delicious familiarity. You still have no clue how you survived 9 freaking months of pregnancy without even a single drop of your favourite liquid.

“Fair enough. She still looks at him like he hung the moon?”

You nod and Nat simply shrugs in reply. No further words are exchanged as you both sit at the kitchen island, staring at the screens of your cell phone light up with new messages and  finishing your drinks in silence, occasionally giving each other a sideway glance.

“You texting dear Stevie?,” Nat asks mischievously as she wiggles her eyebrows at you suggestively. “The sex still mind-blowing or has our favourite politician been hit by a dry spell as of late?”

Word got around fast and it would be unwise to trick your best friend into believing the brick in your stomach that’s been dragging you down for the past two months never even existed. Ever since your childhood sweetheart Bucky returned to the land of the living, you have been living the life of a refugee. Conveniently enough he took up a job as Steve’s bodyguard, accompanying him on all his official visits until a couple of street rats tried to harass you on your way from a (shady) business meeting. Steve didn’t take it too kindly even though you tried to brush if off as a one-time misfortune. The next morning he decided Bucky would be of more use protecting you and he has been reassigned to you ever since.

Of course Steve is aware of your shared history but that doesn’t make him think of Bucky any less. They seem to get along just fine, as if they’ve known each other for ages already, which feeds your concern all the more. But there’s no need to worry excessively, at least not yet.

“Don’t pry, Nat, we have a healthy sex life. There’s something extremely arousing about that clean-shaven poster boy exterior and it feels just so good to sit on that self-righteous face of his you have no idea,” you admit before casually drawing a generous amount of wine.

She snorts at this, obviously amused by your statement. “Damn, Y/N, feeling blunt are we? I remember a time where you went at it like a pair of sex-crazy rabbits and knowing Tony, I believe he was rarely dressed for the occasion, if you know what I mean,” she retorts with a cheeky grin, sarcasm lacing her words sweet as honey but the sour undertone does not escape your attentive ears.

“And now I have a wonderful daughter. Nat, I know where this is coming from. I love Casey and I love Steve,” you reassure as her eyes squint in suspicion, shooting you a wary smile, “I’m not going to fuck up a long-term relationship, again.”

“I’m sorry,” she concedes with a deep sigh, reaching across the table to take your hand in hers. She gives it a gently squeeze before speaking again, this time more cautiously. “But be honest with me here, Y/N, I need to know. Do you have anything to do with Sharon’s disappearance?”

The question takes you completely by surprise, it is as if she’s taken a knife from your kitchen drawer and stabbed you in the back while you weren’t paying attention. “Why do you ask me?,” you spit out, venom fighting its way towards the tip of your tongue.

“She’s dead, Y/N, that’s why I’m asking you. Clint told me so and I have no reason to doubt him. If he tells me she’s dead, she’s dead. I take his word for it.”

“I can’t say that I have.” Your jaw is set tight, your gaze as sharp as a razor, cutting through her stony exterior. For a minute, her mask of indifference slowly slips from her striking features.

“So it is true, I can see it in your eyes,” she hisses back at you. “I didn’t think you had it in you. Bucky took care of it, I presume? He would give his life for you, so I wouldn’t be all too surprised to hear he got rid of that nasty serpent for you. Doesn’t change the fact that you now also have blood on your hands, little birdie.”

Little birdie, it’s been a long time since anyone called you little birdie. It was always Tony’s favourite pet name for you and Steve quickly picked up on it as well. But never Natasha, she thought it to be too sickly sweet for a woman with your particular skillset, your particular ambitions.

“Natasha Romanova,” I whisper through gritted teeth, “You do not understand the severity of the situation.”

She doesn’t flinch but she does let go of my hand. Nat pours herself another glass and greedily devours it without so much as blinking an eye. “Then explain it to me,” she says dryly, “Or our friendship ends here.”

I swallow thickly at the sting of her words slowly conquering my mind. “You mustn’t tell anyone,” I insist, cupping her hands with mine. Her gaze softens and I know she is willing to hear me out. “As you well know, Steve and I went behind Peggy’s back long before she got sick. I was his mistress and I’m not proud of it.”

It’s how I earned the title of Manhattan mistress. It was a well-known secret that for two consecutive years I was the other woman in Steve Rogers’ life up until his wife Peggy was diagnosed with cancer. Not a fibre in my body wanted to put a stop to the relationship – by that time I had already fallen head over heels in love with the man – yet I albeit begged Steve to let me go because there’s nothing more appalling than go behind the back of a terminally ill woman. He did as I asked him to but couldn’t stay away for long and one month later he was barging down my door, teary-eyed and trembling from having walked all the way from his Brooklyn home to my Manhattan penthouse in the freezing winter cold.

For a long time you though you only offered him some kind of a physical release for all his pent-up frustration but slowly you had also wormed your way into his heart and that night alone was enough proof of his undying love for and devotion to you. It’s safe to say you are very determined to keep it that way.

“But, you see, it’s only a matter of time before he cheats on me as well. Look at it as an insurance policy,” you stated as you took the stem of your glass in your hand and swirled the wine around, too preoccupied by the subtle glow of the deep red in the early evening light to notice the dirty look Natasha send you.

“He wouldn’t dare. The things that man did to clear his name after the scandal broke out, he wouldn’t dare bring more dishonour on his already blemished name. He loves his job way too much for that to happen.”

You draw a long breath, exhaling slowly as you smooth down the skirt of your sapphire dress, Steve’s favourite because it matches his eyes. “My dearest Natasha, I can’t risk losing Steve. You’ve seen the way Sharon looked at him and I have no intention whatsoever to get surprised like a deer in the headlights. She did however see it coming yet made no attempt to escape my gun. But I took no pleasure in it, I did not enjoy taking her life.”

“And you asked Bucky to dispose of her dead body.”

“He’s the only one I trust to deal with the matter discreetly. He’ll keep his mouth shut.”

“Y/N, he’d take a bullet for you if you’d ask him to. Of course he’ll keep his mouth shut.”

“Don’t say such things, Natasha,” you scowl at her. “Steve, he would,” you start but she promptly cuts you off, raising a perfectly manicured red fingernail to silence you.

“Oh cut the crap, Y/N. I get it, Steve’s a wonderful husband bla bla bla. Even Tony would put his life on the line for you, he’s a sucker for your charms and everyone knows you’re that motherfucker’s weak spot. Hell, they even tried to use it against him. But not Steve. He might care for Casey like she’s his own daughter but don’t be mistaken, Y/N, politics have changed him. He’s not the same man who was married to Peggy, the man you fell in love with.”

She shakes her head at your foolishness and you can’t believe her nerve. You can take a lot of shit from a lot of people and that includes your best friend, but this is way out of line and you intend to make it perfectly clear to her that she won’t pull this trick on you twice without suffering the consequences.

“Don’t you ever dare speak like that about Steve or else I will order your execution and have your head on a silver plate by noon. Steve worked very hard to get this far up the food chain. No one, not even you, is going to take that away from him. From me. We’re a family now, Steve, Casey and I. If anyone messes with my family I swear to God they’ll pay for it.”

You finish your rant with a frustrated groan. Nat looks at you flatly, sighing exasperatedly and looking at you through thick black lashes. “If you want Steve to commit, why not get pregnant again?”

She grins wickedly and you grace her with your most conniving smile. “I’ve thought about that, too. Unfortunately it didn’t work for Tony but then again nothing ever seemed to work for that man, he could never keep his hands to himself even before we got married,” you murmured, more to yourself than to Nat. “So what makes you think it’ll work for Steve?”

She looks at you unabashed, a glint of surprise sparkling in her eyes like gold tinsel on a Christmas tree. “Steve wants children, he never got the chance with Peggy. Besides, you’ve always liked the idea of a picture perfect family, a white picket fence and 2-and-a-half kids. You’ve already got Casey, what’s keeping you from getting knocked up again? I bet you’ll have a lot of fun in doing so.”

You nod wordlessly, no harm done in trying, right?

“Mark my words,” she adds mischievously, “He will love you forever if you give him his own child.”

Part 2: the friction

I honestly have no idea who to tag so I’ll just go with: @beccaanne814-blog @mellifluous-melodramas @mrshopkirk @winterboobaer @kiwi71281 @a-little-hell-to-raise @unpredictable-firecracker @marvelingatthewonder @emilyinwonderland3 @hardcorehippos @iiharu-kunii @knittingknerdy @winterwolf57 @dontbeamenacetotheforce  @shamvictoria11 @theoneandonlysaucymo @bovaria @marvel-lucy @marvel-ash @thedragonblood

[cocoaberi]

The Doll Father

She lay naked and bloody on the forest floor. Her eyes so swollen  she could barely see anything.  Her head pounding and her body pulsing  with pain all over.  She wanted to scream but could only grunt.  Her  throat was soar she remembered from being choked nearly to death.  He  meant to kill her...she was for sure he intended to kill her now.   Earlier this very day he invited her to the woods for a picnic. He  proposed to her and put a ring on her finger.  He looked up at her  triumphantly...then she said "No" and handed him back his ring.  She was  sorry for refusing him...but she knew they were not meant for each  other.  She turned around to go home when he snatched her by the hair  and slamming her delicate body to to the ground.  Jumping on top of her,  he punched her in the face three times.  At this point her mind and  body were in shock, she could not move but she could still feel.  She  was aware vaguely of being stripped, then angrily assaulted, cursed and  choked until he had his fill of her.  Spitting on her seemingly lifeless  body, he walked away. Nine months later, her body mostly healed and now big with child, she sat on the porch with  her rescuer and friend, peeling potatoes.  He looked over at her and  smiled.  She sensed him looking at her and looked him in his painted  eyes and smiled back.  Her friend, Ash, was a peculiar thing...a man  made out of wood a doll actually.  She did not know if he was magical or cursed, she did  know that she loved him for saving her and her unborn child.   Ashe's  smile widened as his eyes stayed on his lady, Lena's face.  She blushed  under his gaze, then shyly asked, "What are you thinking about?"  He was  thinking of making her his wife, of being one with her.  He wanted to  raise her child as his own.  He was thinking of them as a family.  Loudly sighing he  finally replied, "I was thinking ...what are you cooking me for  supper?"  She looked a little stunned then laughed and threw a potato at  him.  "Fine" she said with laughter still in her voice , keep your  dirty thoughts to yourself!   She tried to stand up from her chair when  she felt a sudden pain and water gushing down her inner thighs.  She  screamed, "Ashe!" but before she could finish his name he  had her in his arms running her to the midwife's house.  She looked  into Ashe's face as he carried her and her unborn child away thru the  woods.  He was moving at an inhuman speed with inhuman strength but then  he was not human.  Still she felt no fear in the  arms of this living doll.  She peacefully closed her eyes as they neared the  midwife's home. Lena  was putting the finishing touch on their son's birthday cake.  Ashe sat  in a chair near the fire...but not too close. He sat quietly thinking  of the night he ran his now wife and son to the midwife.  He watch his  boy being delivered...he shook his head in disbelief of his good fortune  to have a beautiful loving wife and wonderful adoring son. He smiled at her as she  fussed over the cake.  Lena looked up and caught his eyes on her.  She  smiled back at him.  She thought of how wonderful a husband and father  he has been.  They married soon after their son's birth.  The midwife,  Sarah, performed the ceremony. They did not have a "traditional"  marriage.  Lena was so brutally rapped that she was unwilling to have  intercourse and Ashe, did not come equip with the tools to perform, but  that did not matter they loved each other beyond physical limits and  expectations. She knows she should have died naked and alone on that forest floor, yet she was blessed with an abundant life.  She never took that for granted. Gently shaking her head out of deep thoughts she called in  their son, "Woodward!" Ashe got up and stood by his wife.  Their son  walked into the room..."Yeah mom what is it?" he then saw the birthday  cake.  He hugged and kissed them both then sat at the table ready to eat  cake.  They laughed and talked about everything and anything well into  the wee hours.  Ashe marveled at how tiny and precious his son was 20  years ago, now he was a big handsome strapping young man.  Ashe taught him much about fighting and hunting. He was a frighteningly fast learner.  Ashe was most proud of teaching his son to be respectful and polite toward others and to not pick on the weak.   He watched his boy grow over the years with a great sense of pride and honor.   He could never have imagined a wooden doll like him, would  become a father. Woodward wanted to make a name  for himself and help support his aging parents. Though he was an only child when everyone of his friends had many siblings and he had a father that was mysterious and frightening to others always cloaked and covered in public, the boy had a great childhood.  Two weeks after his  birthday he packed his bags and kissed his mom and dad goodbye to find his  glory.  Their son did make a name for himself.  His hunting and fighting  skills were unmatched, thanks to his father's lessons.  Soon he caught  the attention  of the King and the eye of the king's daughter.  Woodward  sent a message and carriage for his parents.  A messenger read the  letter, " Dear mom and dad...I am getting married and you are invited.  I  want you to attend the wedding and pack up all your things and move  into the palace with me.  Your loving son Woodward."  Ashe and Lena  arrived at the palace a few days later.  They loved their old home but it  was falling apart so a new home was just what they needed.  They had a  guided tour of the palace and met the countless staff and assistants.   Finally they met their son and his bride to be.  Woodward's eyes searched for his loving parents as they were ushered into the room.    He recognizing them immediately...his mother older and more beautiful and plump than ever.  His dad tall and  threatening with his concealing cloak on.  Woodward always understood why he had to wear it ...to hide his body from prying eyes else he and his parents  could have been accused of being demons and witches and burned alive by a mob.  Woodward was happy he could finally take care of his parents for all the wonderful things they did for him.  He proudly  lead them to meet his boss the King himself. Upon  entering the King's chambers, the king turns to greet his future  son-in-law and parents when his face drains of color...at that instance Lena's face  crumples and looks like she will scream.  Ashe's face is full of rage.   The king approaches Lena and looks at her as if she is a ghost.  He  stands stunned and stuck to the floor.  He mutters over and over ..."I  thought you were dead."  Ashe no longer able to contain his fury, He did  not know this man, but his wife's reaction when she saw his face, spoke  clearly that he was the man who had rapped  her nearly 30 years ago.  Ash  in a rage grabs the king and slams him against the wall and pounds his  face and chest.   Woodward pulls his dad off the king...horrified and  confused he yells out, "What is going on?" Lena  explains to her son that the King is the man that assaulted her those  many  years ago.  She begins to cry, "I'm so sorry I did not tell you  about it, but I wanted to forget about it all.  He told me his name but  he apparently lied about it to conceal who he really was.  I'm so sorry  my son".  Ashe, stood up beside his son too...sorry my boy.  I never met  this man but I have always hated him for what he did to your mother.  I  could not help myself,  he deserved  to hurt like her those many  years ago. Woodward smiled at his parents and looked at the King, "Is  this true King?" he asked knowing it was already truth.  The king nodded  as he spit bloody teeth out of his mouth. The  King ordered Woodward and his parents to stay put until he was well  enough to talk.  Within a month they were called to the court again.   The Majesty, ordered them to not speak.  He stood up before them and  said quietly, "Please let me speak without interruption."  He looked at  Lena and remembered her before and after his horrific attack on her, "You know Lena I  really did love you.  Your refusal sent me into an abyss of sorts.  I  could not see you being with anyone but me.  I wanted to kill you and I  almost did." He looked at his son Woodward, "My son, I knew who you were  the moment I saw you.  I did not know who your mother was but I knew you  were mine...because you looked just like my older brother before..."   The king stopped abruptly and smiled.  "Son, you can still marry my  daughter she is not a child of my loins...she was adopted and beloved as  a daughter but not a daughter. It seems Lena gave birth to my only true  heir... you."  The King walked slowly over to Ashe as he rubbed his jaw  remembering the blows he took from the wooden man.  The king laughed,  "You know only my elder brother could hit me like that.  It's time I  bring my big brother back.  The king waved his hand and  Sarah the  midwife stood suddenly before them.  Gasps followed her unexpected  magical visit and regal appearance.   The King looked at Sarah and said  sadly, "Sarah bring my brother home, he is the true king after all."    Sarah immediately stepped forth on the king's orders and kissed Ashe on  the lips so fast no one knew what happen.  The cloak that concealed  Ashes wooden body from public eyes fell away ....and everyone was  shocked to see a wooden doll standing before them who was magically replace with a tall man that looked very much like the king.  Sarah took Ashe by the  shoulders and forced him to look at her as he tried to make sense of  what happened.  She shook him a little , " Ashe...your brother wanted  the kingdom so much that he bound me to a deal that turned you into a  wooden man and erased your past.  I watched over you though.  You saved  Lena and made a family and happy home when you should have had  nothing.   The King put the crown on Ashe's head and all the people said  , long live the king! I  could not sleep and decided to  write this...it needs lots of changing I just did  not want to loose my thoughts on it.  will update it soon.