#sicilian cousine

[rudegoose]

currently googling “how to survive thanksgiving dinner with my dad’s polish-jewish family and my mom’s italian (sicilian)-catholic family”

[darksouls2yuri]

literally have at LEAST 100 cousins i cant even count them all nor have i met even a fraction of them. my moms last family reunion alone had 60 people show up we have 3 separate pictures from it bc we couldnt all fit. my dad has an unknowable amount of family members bc he wont even tell me about all of them bc they fight like crazy (appalachian feuding). my moms family was catholic so her great grandma had 12 kids. and then they all had multiple children except for my grandma and my aunt trinia

[joanieebaez]

big day for italians

[grimoiremanifest]

weird little fact about me - my name is an amalgamation of 'vaguely united kingdom'. my first name is irish, my middle is scottish, and my last is english. fuck like, i didn't even realize this until recently but the name i go by (Griffin) is Welsh.

[brightlotusmoon]

Cómo picar a un italiano 🤌🏻

[theschurething]

Cousins

“My cousin is promoting a week where you don’t eat dairy or meat.” Joe’s eyes roll back. Oh yeah. I forgot again. WHICH cousin. My dad was the eldest of 10 children born in the south of the Netherlands. My mom was the third child in a family of 4 with Sicilian roots. Her mother was one of 8 children. Do the math. I have a LOT of cousins. 20 first cousins on the Dutch side and many different types…

[scoutofmymind]

i just saw you reblogged an Anora post😍 would u ever be interested in writing a reader x Luigi prompt inspired by that movie? love your writing girl you are just so fantastic

Losing Dogs — { Luigi x Reader }

Content: NSFW - MNDI, sex work, rich as fuck Luigi, Dancer!Reader, p in v, come eating (whoooops), reader is addicted to uncertainty.

Wc: 7,158 (This is an unfinished work, I’m willing to continue if requests for it are substantial, but for the sake of keeping it on Tumblr and not posting it on Ao3, I had to stop where I did 💕)

Notes; Luigi Mangione, heir to a Sicilian real estate empire and alleged regular at underground poker clubs where he watches rather than plays, never expected to find himself falling for a dancer at Sapphire.

Click here for part 2

"It's actually funny," Luigi mumbles, more to himself than his companions, wedged between his two cousins fresh off the plane from Sicily.

Tony, the giant of the family, shares Luigi's sharp features but stretched larger, like someone had taken Luigi's face and expanded it to fit a bruiser's frame. Then there's Lorenzo — shorter but somehow taking up just as much space, his body a testament to long hours at his father's dockyard; the scar splitting his right eyebrow catches sunlight every time he smirks. “First time on American soil in what, five years? And this is where you had to come firs-“

The door is swung open, the facade is deceptively plain — just black marble and smoked glass, a discreet Sapphire etched in gold above the door marks this as their destination.

The bouncer, a mountain in a tailored suit, doesn't bark or posture like the ones on cheaper doors. He just stands there, radiating quiet competence, his earpiece gleaming. "IDs," he requests, somehow making the single word sound both polite and non-negotiable.

His eyes linger on the Italian passports, but his face betrays nothing.

Inside the antechamber, it's all dark wood and soft amber lighting and a woman in a pencil skirt recites the house rules with practiced efficiency: no phones on the floor, no photographs, minimum table service in VIP is $500, and — she pauses here, sliding elegant paperwork across the marble counter — there's the matter of the $200 per person convenience fee that will be withdrawn immediately.

Tony balks slightly at this. "Two hundred just to walk in?"

"It's to ensure our clientele maintains a certain standard," she explains, her smile professional but cooling several degrees. "The amount is credited toward your evening's entertainment, of course."

Lorenzo elbows Tony, muttering something in rapid Italian about American prices, but Luigi slides his card across, knowing this is how places like this filter out the tourists and trouble-makers.

Through the second set of doors, bass pulses like a heartbeat, but it's still muffled, promising rather than announcing, and the air smells of expensive perfume and aged whiskey, not beer and desperation.

The main floor unfolds before them like a fever dream in black marble. Sapphires reputation for being high end suddenly makes visceral sense — everything gleams with the kind of wealth that doesn't need to announce itself.

The lighting is precise, strategic; LEDs trace abstract patterns across coffered ceilings while hidden spots paint the stages in liquid gold. "Dio," breathes Tony, his complaints about the entrance fee forgotten.

Three circular stages dominate the space, each with its own constellation of private tables, but it's the architecture that catches Luigi's eye — the way the room seems to spiral inward like a nautilus shell, the tables far enough apart that conversations stay private, close enough to feel intimate with the performance space.

A hostess materializes — there's no other word for how smoothly she appears — in a black dress that costs more than most people's monthly rent. "Gentlemen, will you be joining us at the bar, or would you prefer a table?" Her eyes flick to Lorenzo's Rolex, Tony's Brunello Cucinelli jacket, making rapid calculations.

"Table," Lorenzo says before anyone else can speak. "Something close." His English is heavily accented but the universal language of status needs no translation.

She leads them through the crowd — if you can call it that. The usual press of bodies you'd expect in a club is absent here.

Instead, there's space, carefully crafted distance.

Men in suits that cost more than Beamers speak in low voices, and a tech billionaire Luigi recognizes from CNBC sits alone, staring into middle distance while a dancer performs with the kind of grace that suggests formal training.

They're led to a half-moon booth with a perfect view of the main stage. The leather is butter-soft, the table's surface black glass that seems to swallow light, with a subtle panel of buttons for service inlaid near the edge.

"Your server will be with you shortly," the hostess says, then hesitates. "And gentlemen? I'd recommend staying for the next set."

That's when Luigi notices the music tumbles into something that isn’t the typical club thunder — instead, it's something classical, deconstructed and woven through with electronic elements; Chopin's Nocturne in E-flat major, he realizes, but reimagined as something darker, more modern.

The server approaches with the same calculated grace as the hostess, but there's something different in her manner — a hint of genuine warmth. "Welcome to Sapphire. I'm Aria." She sets down crystal water glasses with practiced precision. "Our special tonight is the 1982 Macallan, though—“ her eyes drift meaningfully to Luigi, "We also make an exceptional Manhattan.”

Before anyone can order, the lights shift — subtle at first, then with purpose.

The deconstructed Chopin fades into silence, the main stage, empty moments ago, now holds a single figure in darkness, and the murmur of conversation around them dies without prompting.

A single cello note cuts through the quiet, followed by another, building a melody that feels both ancient and startlingly modern.

As the music swells, light bleeds onto the stage, revealing her.

Her whose movement matches the music's duality — classical technique fractured and reassembled into something hypnotic.

She doesn't dance around the pole so much as she seems to bend gravity to her will, each transition so fluid it looks like liquid mercury.

Luigi notices something else.

The crowd's reaction.

These men, who deal in billions and shape markets with a phone call, are completely still. It's not the typical attention of a gentleman's club — it’s the silence of an audience witnessing something they don't quite understand but can't look away from.

Both Tony and Lorenzo order bottles with the casual arrogance of men used to throwing money around, and Luigi can't tear his eyes away long enough to ask about their other cocktails.

He's never been much for bourbon, but right now he doesn't care — the performance has him in a trance that no spirit could match.

It's not long before he hears his cousins acting up, murmuring something to each other in their native tongue, that lyrical Italian that Luigi understands but rarely speaks, his own command of it lost somewhere between private schools and college lectures.

“Where's her tits?” Lorenzo mutters, Tony leaning in to complain right behind him, “I thought this was a strip club?”

Luigi furrows his brows, the spell broken.

He turns his broad chest toward them both, pausing only to acknowledge the two women who parade over their bottles of champagne with divine precision and grace, their movements a stark contrast to his cousins' crude commentary. "You buy a fuckin' room if you want tits," he growls, flicking his finger first in Tony's direction, then Lorenzo's, each gesture sharp as a warning shot. "Don't put a bad name on us, cugini — Papa has investments here."

The cousins exchange glances but settle back, chastened more by the mention of their uncle than Luigi's reprimand.

On stage, the music shifts again — something even darker now, all cello and static — and her routine evolves with it, the control is absolute, each movement deliberate yet somehow wild, like watching lightning decide where to strike.

The pole becomes less prop and more partner, an extension of her artistry rather than its center, and Luigi finds himself leaning forward, elbows on his knees, aware that he's staring but far past caring.

He notices details his cousins miss — the way her muscles tell stories of dedication, how her face reveals nothing and everything at once.

There's mathematics in her movement, philosophy in her form.

A sharp sound of crystal meeting crystal breaks his concentration — Lorenzo, already refilling his glass, the champagne sloshing slightly over the rim.

The cousin catches Luigi's glare and shrugs, muttering something that sounds like an apology but isn't while Tony's attention has already wandered to one of the cocktail waitresses, his earlier complaints forgotten in favor of more immediate distractions.

Reluctantly, the music fades and she descends from the stage with the same fluid grace that marked her performance, moving through the club like water finding its path, stopping at tables where regulars sit with their crystal glasses and dollar bills.

Luigi, needing air — or space— or both, makes his way to the bar, leaving his cousins to their champagne and their increasingly loud discussions about Italian soccer to a couple of women who couldn’t care less, but would open a ear to anything if it meant getting them in a private room.

"Sanpellegrino," he murmurs to a bartender, suddenly wanting clarity rather than clouds. The sparkling water arrives in a glass with lime, and that's when he sees her — the girl who was just on stage —materialized a few seats down, leaning across the bar to speak with the bartender.

Her right hand rests on the polished wood, and there, in delicate script across her inner wrist: "God is dead."

Before he can stop himself, the words leave his mouth, soft but clear: "And we have killed him.”

Your head turns, eyes finding his with an intensity that makes him forget the rest of Nietzsche's proclamation, and for a moment, the club, his cousins, everything else fades away.

You tilt your head slightly, a subtle smile playing at the corner of your mouth. "Most people just ask if it's about Satan," you grin, your voice carrying a hint of amusement. "Or they try to save my soul."

Luigi takes a slow sip of his sparkling water that tickles his nose, appreciating the irony. "Nietzsche would've had thoughts about both responses." He gestures to the empty seat between them. "Though I doubt he ever imagined his words would end up here.”

"Oh, I don't know," your voice becomes airy and light, sliding onto the stool next to him, closer than the one he'd indicated. "The death of God, the birth of tragedy, eternal recurrence — seems fitting for a club where people come to forget." You eye him, take inventory of his posture, what he’s wearing, and the sparkling water he’s drinking. "Besides, what better place to question values?"

Luigi finds himself leaning in slightly, aware that this conversation is rapidly becoming more intriguing than anything happening on stage, or back at the table with his cousins. "So, you studied philosophy?" he asks, though it's more statement than question.

"Columbia," you answer, then add with a knowing look, "Before you ask — yes, this is how I pay for it. And no, I'm not looking for rescue from this life of sin."

The directness catches him off guard, but he appreciates it. "NYU. Comp Sci.” he offers in return. "And I wouldn't presume to rescue anyone who quotes Nietzsche.”

"Let me guess," your eyes scan him with amused precision, "You were more Camus than Nietzsche?"

Luigi can't help but smile, caught between surprise and appreciation. "The Myth of Sisyphus was my thesis," he admits. "Though these days I'm pushing more rocks up hills than contemplating them."

A glance over his shoulder reminds him of his cousins' presence — they're still at the table, but their attention has shifted to their phones, probably already bored without the promised spectacle they came for, or having scared the girls enough to deny them private rooms.

He feels a shift in the air as one of the floor managers approaches — the kind of interruption that seems inevitable in a place like this, and you notice too, but instead of immediately pulling away, you reach for a cocktail napkin and a pen from behind the bar.

"Speaking of eternal recurrence," you scribble over the napkin, "I'm here Thursdays and Fridays. If you want to continue our discussion about the death of God, or-“ you slide it toward him, "the birth of tragedy."

•

Thursday.

Oh, Thursday, Thursday, Thursday.

"Happy thirsty Thursday, bitches!" Julia's voice rings through the dressing room as she weaves between vanity stations, balancing a bottle of Prosecco.

You're perched on the counter, nose nearly touching the mirror, wielding your liquid eyeliner with the precision of a surgeon — or at least attempting to.

"Honey," Julia pauses behind you, pressing a cool glass into your hand while gently easing you back from the mirror, which has begun to fog from your focused breathing. "Don't you make enough for some contacts? I swear you're going to give yourself a repetitive stress injury.”

You accept the prosecco without turning from your reflection, then the shot she presses into your other hand. The old rule echoes in your mind — drinking before shifts is bad business — but tonight feels different.

It wasn't any one thing that set this mood — but maybe it was the way your boots crunched through dirty ice on your trek from the subway, or how the wind cut right through that orange and brown balaclava your mother had knitted, sent from Santa Monic with a note saying "stay warm".

You sit by the bar, chin propped on your fist as you survey the crowd through half-lidded eyes.

The regulars hunch over their drinks like old friends, while first-timers betray themselves with darting glances and tentative sips. Music thrums through the floorboards —some nameless pop song stripped down and remixed until only the bassline remains, vibrating in your chest like a second heartbeat.

His "Hey" materializes beside you, soft enough that it nearly dissolves into the din. You don't need to look to know it's him — that particular shadow in charcoal grey wool.

He's shed the usual entourage of boisterous cousins, and there's something different in his approach — a hesitation in steps that usually claim every room they enter.

You turn, "Sanpellegrino?" A ghost of a smile plays at your lips as the glass catches the low light. His face is different tonight — something raw beneath the polished exterior, like fresh paint that hasn't quite dried.

"About last week," he begins, easing onto the barstool as if it might disappear beneath him. "The, uh — your number - it -"

"Let me guess." You slide his drink across the mahogany with practiced grace. "Either your suit met an untimely end at the cleaners with it still in the pocket, or one of those cousins of yours lifted it."

Breaking your cardinal rule — never give your number to a customer — only to have it vanish feels like the universe's personal punchline.

Seven digits sacrificed to whatever deity presides over dry cleaning.

Luigi's grimace tells you everything. "Dry cleaning," he confesses, shoulders dropping slightly. "My housekeeper has a scorched-earth policy with receipts. By the time I realized-“ He lifts the glass, ice clicking against crystal. "I spent the week with Camus instead. Came strapped with counterarguments about the fundamental absurdity of existence."

You find yourself fighting back a smile.

In five years of working here, you've had countless men try to continue conversations, usually with tired lines about destiny or missed connections, but none of them ever showed up having done philosophical homework.

"Well," you say, leaning against the bar, "you did make it on a Thursday. That's something Sisyphus would appreciate — the eternal return and all that." You glance at the clock, then back at him. "Let's hear your defense of absurdism.” You find yourself reaching for his hand, your usual pitch tumbling out like second nature. "We could continue this conversation somewhere more private?"

The words hang there for a moment, and you watch his expression shift from philosophical intensity to something more certain.

In the private room, you move sinuously to music that's now more vibration than sound, while he dissects existentialism with the intensity of a doctoral candidate defending his thesis.

Even as you straddle him, skin gleaming in the low light, he's animated — one hand conducting an invisible orchestra while the other remains fixed to the armrest like it's been superglued there. His voice never wavers as he explains how Sisyphus's comprehension of his eternal task is actually his triumph over the gods.

"— and if we examine the boulder as a metaphor for societal expectations—" He's still lecturing while you execute a move that's earned you countless thousands, your body folded into an artful display of flexibility, each movement a masterpiece of calculated seduction.

"Babe," you cut in, flowing back into his lap with liquid grace. You press your palm against his chest, feeling his heart racing beneath expensive wool. "Are you even into this?" Your voice carries equal parts amusement and genuine curiosity. For the first time tonight, he falls silent.

Luigi freezes mid-sentence, mouth still shaped around 'existentialism,' blinking like someone emerging from a trance. "What? Of course I'm- Why would you think-"

"Because I've been doing inverted crosses and Russian splits for fifteen minutes, and you're more invested in French philosophy than the fact that I'm practically naked in your lap."

Color floods his neck, creeping up like watercolor on wet paper. "I just- I thought- You seemed so engaged in our discussion last week, and I spent days researching, and-" He drags fingers through dark curls, leaving them charmingly disheveled. "I'm completely fucking this up, aren't I?"

You laugh, soft and genuine, settling deeper into his lap as your arms drape over his rigid shoulders. "Most guys in here pretend to be intellectuals to get closer to the dancers. You might be the first one pretending not to notice my body to prove you actually are one."

"I notice," he blurts, then looks like he wants to dissolve into the leather seat. "God- I mean, I'm extremely aware. I just thought if I-"

"Luigi," you interrupt, oddly moved by his fumbling sincerity, "you can appreciate both Camus and tits. The universe is absurd enough for both."

His laugh is nervous but genuine, shoulders finally releasing their tension beneath your touch. "I suppose that would be a false dichotomy." Then, after a pause where his eyes actually — finally —trace your silhouette, "Though I have to admit, I'm finding it considerably harder to focus on French existentialism now that I'm not actively trying to ignore-“

"My existence preceding my essence?" You smirk, rolling your hips in a way that makes his breath catch, his head resting on the crushed velvet back of the chair beneath him, his eyes stuck on yours in a narrow gaze.

"That's — uh - that's Sartre, not Camus," he manages, hands still firmly gripped on the armrests like they're keeping him anchored to reality.

"Look at you, still managing to be pedantic." You run a finger down the cable knit of his sweater — Hermès, you notice, because of course it is. "You can touch me, you know. Club rules allow it in private rooms, and I'm giving you permission. Unless you'd rather discuss Kierkegaard's views on anxiety?"

His hands finally leave the armrests, hovering uncertainly near your waist. "I actually did read some Kierkegaard this week too," he admits, and you can't help but laugh at his commitment to the bit. "But maybe,” his hands finally settle on your hips, warm through the thin fabric of your tiny, ruffed lace bottoms, "we could table the philosophical discussion for now?"

"There he is," you murmur, noting how his pupils have dilated, his cheeks having gone pink, his aura radiating like a halo around him in the soft neon light of the shared private room, another dancer nearby with a regular client. "Though I have to say, this is the first time I've had to actively encourage a client to be less respectful."

•

Three months in, and you're lounging by his infinity pool overlooking Central Park. The Upper East Side condo had been a surprise — you'd known he was wealthy from his clothes and manners, but this was old money, generations of it seeping from every handcrafted molding and imported marble tile.

You adjust the Van Cleef he gave you last week — "Just because," he'd said, as if dropping $50K on jewelry was as casual as picking up coffee, and you run your fingers over the spine of Thus Spoke Zarathustra, thinking about power dynamics and the eternal dance between giving and taking — every gift, every dinner, every weekend in the Hamptons — you catalog them mentally, like entries in a ledger.

Not because you're calculating, but because you've learned that everything has a price, even if it's not immediately apparent.

Luigi looks at you like you're an answer to a question he never knew to ask, and when he kisses you, it's reverent, like you're something precious. When he talks about the future, it's with a certainty that would be frightening if you let yourself think about it too deeply.

But you've spent years understanding the transactional nature of desire.

Even as you feel yourself falling into the gravity of his affection, there's a part of you that remains detached, analytical. You recognize his love — it's evident in every gesture, every thoughtful gift, every time he shows up at the club just to drive you home after your shift, never asking you to quit, never making demands.

Your own feelings are more complicated.

You care for him, deeply even, but there's always that voice in the back of your mind tallying the cost of everything, wondering when the bill will come due, because it always does.

It's not that you don't feel love — it's that you've learned to view love itself as another form of currency, something to be exchanged, measured, quantified.

You’re snapped out of your daze when Luigi emerges from the townhouses study nook, still clutching his Advanced Algorithms textbook at his side. He's in his final semester, juggling classes with the machine learning research project he's hoping will revolutionize his family's investment firm.

The place isn't his — it's his parents', who spend most of their time at their place in Puglia.

"My brain is absolutely fried," he groans, collapsing onto the lounge chair beside you, a loud sigh following. "If I have to debug one more recursive function or optimize another binary search tree, I might actually lose it."

You close your Beauvoir and look at him with amusement. "The heir apparent to the Mangione empire, defeated by code?"

"Don't," he mumbles into the cushion. "Papa’s already called twice today to remind me about graduation expectations. Apparently, anything less than building the next revolutionary trading algorithm would be an embarrassment to five generations of Mangione bankers."

You run your fingers through his hair, and he leans into your touch like a cat — for a moment, you see him as he really is, not the polished future tech innovator, not the philosophy-quoting client, but just a 24-year-old kid trying to live up to impossible expectations.

Moving from your own lounge chair to his, you settle into his lap with a practiced grace that blurs the line between habit and performance, your hands splayed across his chest, and you can feel his heartbeat quickening beneath your fingers.

"What would you think if -“ you lean down, pressing kisses along his collarbone, tasting the salty skin of spring and expensive cologne, "I were to treat you tonight?" Your voice carries the same silky tone you use at the club, but there's something else there too — something that makes you uncomfortable if you think about it too hard.

"Mm?" His voice is gentle, soft but frayed around the edges. You can hear the weight of those endless phone calls with his father in it — arguments about the family's ventures, about graduation expectations, about codes both computational and criminal that you don't yet know about. "How so?"

You kiss your way up his neck, buying time, wondering when exactly you started using intimacy as currency, even outside of work.

His hands settle on your hips, and they're trembling slightly — from exhaustion or desire or both.

"Let me take care of you," you murmur against his jaw. "No thinking about algorithms or binary trees or whatever your father wants-“ You feel him tense slightly at the mention of his father, but you continue, "Just us."

He draws back just enough to study your face, and there's something in his gaze that makes your breath catch — like he's reading between the lines of your carefully constructed script, past the glitter and practiced smiles to something you thought you'd buried deep enough that no one would find it.

His thumb ghosts across your lower lip, and you brace yourself — waiting for him to name the thing you both see; how you turn every genuine connection into a filed entry, every moment of vulnerability into a debt to be repaid.

Instead, his voice comes soft as a confession, “You don't have to earn your place here, you know."

The words land like a punch to the chest, stealing your breath mid-motion.

Because isn't that exactly what you've been doing all these years — keeping a running tally, maintaining equilibrium, treating your heart like a balance sheet?

Even here, you're performing mental arithmetic — calculating the precise exchange rate between vulnerability and safety, between affection given and security received.

You recover with the grace of long practice, muscle memory sliding you back into familiar patterns. "Maybe I just want to," you say, but there's a tremor in your voice that betrays you, a hairline crack in carefully maintained armor.

His hands come up to cradle your face like you're something precious, something breakable, and he's looking at you with that devastating combination of tenderness and insight that makes your flight instincts scream. "Tell me what you're thinking," he whispers into the space between you. "Really thinking."

And that's the problem, isn't it?

You're thinking about debt and worth and the price of everything. You're thinking about how many private club dances it would take to equal the necklace around your throat. You're thinking about the way his family's wealth feels like a weight even as it lifts you up.

You think about the way he watches you – not just your body moving through practiced routines, but the quick flash of your wit, the sharp edges of your mind. How he's never once suggested you quit, never tried to "save" you from choices that were always yours to make. How he handles your thoughts with the same reverence others reserve for your curves.

And somewhere beneath the ledgers and calculations, beneath the careful arithmetic of survival, something dangerous is blooming — something that tastes like truth and terrifies you more than any amount of nakedness ever could.

So instead of words, you answer with your mouth against his, and for once there's no performance in it, no mental tallying of what this kiss might be worth.

His fingers thread through your hair like he's memorizing you, and for one crystalline moment, you let the numbers fall away, let yourself exist in the simple miracle of being wanted exactly as you are.

"May I ask something?" Luigi whispers softly against your lips, his palms pressing into your back as if he could somehow draw you closer, make you more real.

"With those manners, you can do just about anything, Lu." you murmur, rolling your hips against his with an urgency that would never appear in your calculated club performances.

"Well," he clears his throat, and you can feel him stalling beneath you. His request had tumbled out rushed and nervous, like ripping off a bandaid, words escaping before he could think better of them. "My parents are coming back from Sicily soon — they do usually in spring." He looks at you sheepishly, sweat beading on his brow. "And we do this dinner-“

You lean up slowly from his neck where you'd been losing yourself in the essence of him, in this space where things are simple. Where there are no student loans crushing your shoulders, no club schedules dictating your nights, no complicated family dynamics lurking beneath perfectly polished surfaces.

"Mm, is that so?" you murmur, studying the way his throat moves when he swallows, the tension gathering in his jaw.

"It is," Luigi says, blinking up at you like he's emerging from deep water. His fingers find the strings of your bikini, twisting them absently — an unconscious tell, like he needs something physical to hold onto while his usually precise mind fumbles for words.

This is the same man who can explain market derivatives or quantum entanglement without breaking stride, but now his throat works visibly, precision failing him when it matters most.

"And- well," he swallows, those clever fingers still tangled in thin strings against your skin, "it wouldn't necessarily be about meeting them - you know- as much as it would be about - uh..."

You can't help the smile that spreads across your face, oddly touched by this glimpse of the infamous Luigi Mangione – who can debate quantum mechanics in three languages – tripping over a simple invitation. "Are you asking me to be your dinner date?"

Your mind immediately unfolds a scene worthy of Gatsby — crystal chandeliers refracting old money whispers, wines older than your grandmother, silverware that could pay off your student loans. You know whatever you're picturing probably falls short of the actual Mangione world, but you let yourself imagine anyway.

His hands are still at your hips, thumbs brushing against bare skin in that absent way of his, like touching you is as natural as breathing. "Not exactly," he admits, and there's something in his voice that makes your heart skip. "I'm asking you to be my date. Period."

The implication settles between you like morning dew — delicate but impossible to ignore.

"Luigi," you breathe, and for once, you're the one struggling for words. “I-“

He shifts beneath you, spine straightening as one arm anchors you against him. His other hand finds your cheek, and those eyes — amber-bright, search your face with an intensity that sends a shiver through you, despite the winter bleeding into a blazing spring.

"I'm asking you to let me introduce you to my family. Properly. As the woman I—" He stops, and you can see the gears turning, watch him weigh each syllable with the same meticulous protection he applies to his billion-dollar code. "I care so much for you."

The words hang between you, heavy with everything he's not quite saying, and you realize this might be the first time in his life Luigi Mangione has chosen imprecise language.

That "care" is a placeholder, a variable waiting to be defined by something larger, something neither of you are quite ready to name.

The words hover between you like smoke, dense with unspoken weight — family legacies, billion-dollar empires, carefully segregated worlds. You think about everything you've heard whispered at the club about the Mangione name, about old money and new power, about the precise way Luigi has always kept his family's orbit separate from your shared nights.

And yet here he is, offering to bridge the gap.

"What do they think of me?"

Something flickers across his face — subtle, but you've learned to read the micro-expressions that betray his thoughts. "My sister already likes you," he says, each word measured and deliberate, his fingers still tracing absent patterns on your skin. "She says you're different — real."

But you notice the careful omission. "And your parents?"

Luigi's jaw tightens just enough to catch the light differently. "My mother," he begins, then seems to reset. "She's traditional. Concerned about appearances. But she'll come around."

The weight of what he's not saying about his father fills the space between his words. "And your father?"

His eyes catch yours, something dark and protective flashing in them. "My father is calculating. He's had his goons look into you." Luigi's fingers press slightly harder into your hips, like he's trying to hold you in place against some unseen current. "He knows about the club. Your student loans. Everything."

"Of course he does," you murmur. You're not shocked about him knowing your connection to the club — given his investment portfolio, that was inevitable — but the thought of strangers dissecting your life still leaves you feeling raw. "And?"

"And he thinks you're either a liability, or an asset. He hasn't decided which yet." Luigi's honesty cuts clean and quick, but his thumbs trace gentle circles against your ribs like an apology. "That's part of why this dinner is important. He'll be watching how you handle yourself."

"A test?" The word tastes bitter.

"Everything's a test with him."

There's something in his voice — not quite resentment, not quite resignation, but somewhere in the territory between the two.

You wonder how many tests Luigi has passed, failed, or refused to take over the years.

You stare down at him, your hands settling over his where they anchor you at your hips. The world seems to quiet around you — just the whisper of leaves in the breeze and distant city sounds filtering through the moment like white noise.

He doesn't shy away from your scrutiny.

Instead, those eyes hold yours with an intensity that makes your breath catch — pleading, vulnerable in a way that seems almost impossible for someone born into his world of calculated moves and careful masks.

But you can't help but appreciate the absurdity of it all.

Your first real conversation had been about existentialism, of all things — you'd challenged his clinical view of human behavior as merely predictable patterns, and he'd been intrigued by your passionate defense of life's beautiful chaos.

Now here you are, living proof of his father's worst nightmare

An unpredictable variable in their carefully ordered world.

Luigi, heir of Marco Mangione, a rich, sophisticated in his own right, business mogul of some sort — important and wealthy enough, you know, for one of his three children to buy the club dancer he’s been seeing for three months a fifty thousand dollar piece of jewelry between an eggs Benedict breakfast and an Eleven Madison Park dinner.

But also Luigi — who showed up at 2 AM after your shift with mint chocolate chip ice cream melting in his Maserati's cup holder, because you'd texted about craving it.

Luigi, who got brain freeze from eating too fast while you both sat in his parked car, you still in your platform heels and him in his $5,000 suit, sharing a single spoon and laughing about nothing.

The duality strikes you; the man who moves billions through digital empires with a keystroke is the one who remembers how you take your coffee. The Mangione heir, and the boy who gets adorably flustered when you wear his dress shirts around.

Then, your mind drifts back to last week's conversation with Julia.

You'd been perched in your usual spot on the dressing room counter, legs swinging, while she sat at her vanity.

"Saw your boy at Paradiso," she'd said, casual in that deliberate way that meant it wasn't casual at all.

Your hands had stilled on your stockings.

Paradiso.

Not just a casino — the casino. Where million-dollar hands were dealt in back rooms and real business happened over whiskey and poker chips.

"He was with his father." Julia had turned then, arm draped over her chair back, dark eyes serious despite her light tone. "Spitting image, those two. But Luigi wasn't playing." She'd paused, checking to see if you were really listening. "He was doing that thing he does — you know, when his brain goes all Beautiful Mind? But he wasn't counting cards. He was watching. Patterns. Players. Money movement."

"His daddy kept introducing him around," Julia had added softly. "To men who looked like they buy countries.”

You realize that this uncertainty is something that fuels your curiosity further — and if you're honest with yourself, it's part of what draws you to him.

You'd seen that same distant look Julia described, but in softer moments; Luigi calculating the exact trajectory needed for a paper airplane to sail from your bedroom window to the fountain below, his hands moving through the air as he mapped invisible vectors.

Or the night he'd gotten excited explaining market microstructures, his brilliant mind spinning beautiful patterns from chaos.

But there's another side to those patterns now.

Its power flows, influence matrices, the invisible algorithms that govern his father's world — and Luigi reads them all like sheet music, even if he never talks about the song they're playing.

His hands tighten slightly on your hips, bringing you back to the present moment; to those brown eyes still watching you, waiting for an answer about a dinner that suddenly feels like more than just meeting the family.

You wonder if he's already mapped out all the variables of this moment.

The invitation isn't just about meeting his mother, enduring his father's scrutiny, or bearing his siblings judgment. It's about acknowledging what you've been carefully not discussing — that falling for Luigi Mangione means entering a world where dinner parties are strategic moves and casual observations can carry the weight of corporate empires.

You think about the way he looks at you sometimes, like you're a glorious aberration in his ordered universe.

"You're thinking too hard," he murmurs, and there's that smile — the real one, not the calculated curve he shows to his professors and business partners. "It's just dinner."

But you both know it's not.

You trace your fingers along his jaw, feeling the slight tension there. "Your father's going to hate me.” you say, but what you mean is: I see the patterns too, even if we don't talk about them.

His eyes darken with something between worry and pride. Because you do see — maybe not the complex mathematics of power and influence that he tracks, but you see him.

The brilliant mind that draws patterns out of mayhem, and the heart that chose disorder anyway.

•

You could spend forever like this with him, lost in the heat of morning light. Luigi's head falls back, eyes half-lidded and languid, looking at you like you're some Renaissance masterpiece come to life.

The months together have stripped away any need for performance, leaving only this raw, honest thing between you.

"You need—" Your words dissolve into a gasp as his hands map the contours of your skin with quiet worship, your hips working over him in gentle circles. "T-to help me pick out a dress."

He lets out a low sound from deep in his throat, his palms steady against your back as he guides you down. The world tilts, and suddenly, he’s above you — lean muscle and sun-warmed skin, haloed by the morning light streaming through the windows. “Mhmm,” Luigi groans, the gold chain around his neck swinging with each rhythmic thrust.

You grasp that same chain, pulling him closer, and he quickly obliges. “Tell me how good it feels,” you whisper against his lips. For a moment, his hips falter, an uncoordinated tempo, but he quickly regains his rhythm. “You’re too quiet today.”

Usually, Luigi would be breathless and chatty, his praise flowing like a devoted worshipper at the feet of a saint. But today, you can sense his anxiety, and it stirs your own.

“I’m sorry, baby,” he breathes, his spit-slicked kisses trailing over your chest, warm tongue tracing your nipples before moving to your neck. “You know you’re my-“ he’s cut off by another low moan, “my sweet girl.”

You’re not convinced, studying his features to find some sort of hidden answer there, but all you can assume is that he’s nervous about the party — about his parents, his grandparents, his siblings, distant relatives — and it does nothing to ease your own nerves.

He whimpers, truly whimpers, your body filled with warmth from the inside out, Luigi riding out the last of his orgasm for every bit it was worth and yet you’d gone rather ridged, shoving his chest down slowly between your legs. “Clean up your mess.” You murmur, more as a demand, which you’d learned rather quickly Luigi liked very much being told what to do.

He’s eager, always.

He first trails his tongue along your thighs, descending to the mess he left inside you, threatening to stain the sheets. “Good boy,” you whisper, running your fingers through his hair—this wouldn’t be the first time he’s tasted himself from you, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last if you had any say in it. “What’s with the radio silence?”

Despite the sight before you — the devotion, the raw intimacy — you can't help but ask.

“I-I’m just tired, I guess.” Luigi is lying, of course; a tired man doesn’t have sex for three hours. He stares at you, his eyes glossy and his mouth slick with his own pleasure, making it hard to take him seriously, yet he looks at you as if he has something to prove.

“Is it about the party?” you ask, gently wiping his mouth with your thumb. “Be honest, Lu.”

He blinks at you several times before allowing himself a slow nod, still lying there between your legs. In this moment, you're both stripped of your usual armor — him without his tailored suits and careful control, you without your practiced distance.

"Should I just-" You close your legs and sit up, leaving him there on sheets. Even now, part of you still wants to solve this for him, make it easier. "Not go? Would it just be easier if I didn't?"

"No." Luigi rises quickly to his knees, crawling across the vast expanse of his bed toward you. The California king makes your studio apartment mattress feel like a child's cot in comparison. "Baby— fuck," he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, a gesture so uncharacteristically unpolished it makes your chest ache. He shakes his head, sighing. "I'm just — yeah, of course I'm nervous." His hands lift in frustration, fingers splayed like he's trying to grasp the right words from the air. "This is the first time I've ever done this."

You turn to look at him finally, having kept your gaze fixed on the Manhattan skyline outside his window. It's easier than seeing him like this — mouth still glistening, cheeks flushed, all his careful composure undone by pleasure and something deeper. "First time you've done what, Lu?"

There's a weighted silence between you, his eyes meeting yours before darting away like he can't quite hold your gaze. It reminds you of those first nights at the club, when he'd try to maintain that perfect Mangione composure while coming undone beneath your hands.

"I've never introduced anyone to my parents." The admission hangs heavy. Luigi's had his share of lovers — you both know this, have discussed the parade of socialites and models that graced his bed through high school and beyond.

But none of them made it past the velvet rope of family approval.

None of them earned a seat at the Mangione table.

You see it now in the slight tremor of his hands, the tension in his shoulders — he's not just afraid of his father's judgment or his mother's disapproval.

He's afraid of the worlds colliding; your straightforward honesty meeting his family's carefully orchestrated performance, the raw truth of what you share together being dissected under crystal chandelier light.

“Fuck.”

[snake-spire]

I woke up this morning and checked my phone. I was so confused on why it was almost 11. Then I remembered that I was up at like 2 am coloring.

Anyway I hated my first Arthur design and so I fixed him (and shirtless for a bit of a posing study and because freckles.)

Also had a design for human John in mind and I found this really gorgeous top that I wanted to draw him in, so half Filipino and half Sicilian John 🫡 (I was thinking of my little cousin lately as well so he’s very specific)

And then the rest of my goofy sketches, including more private eyes, Noel and Faroe

[sexhaver]

Maybe it only exists in this one area (I'm willing to capitulate to that), but how do you explain a lot of the instances where women get custody of the kids in divorce court? My cousin almost didn't get custody of his kids even though their mother was on meth and fucking random guys in hotel rooms with the kids in the room watching. He has no history of physical or emotional abuse, no recorded drug history, no criminal history and had to appeal for custody. To me, that is some level of misandry. But again, I am willing to admit I am wrong here.

oh my god. what year is it? hello? that stat was only ever true if you looked at all cases including ones where the dad never even asked for custody, if you narrow it down to cases where both parents asked for custody the dad gets a favorable arrangement most of the time. so really the biggest obstacle to men getting custody (assuming they even want it in the first place) is that they figure it's pointless applying for it, in part because of MRA memes like "men never get custody". come on dude, this is like the Sicilian Defense of "misandry" discourse

[shrimperini]

I was looking at your character refs for the cores

and I noticed that Rick has Italian ancestry

I then proceeded to burst into laughter at the thought of the cores in a scene that actually happened to me

it goes like this:

Wheatley: *cooking for the gang at his house* oh there’s not enough noodles for everyone…

Rick: no prob, I’ll just go get more—

Wheatley: nah I’ve got it! *snaps them in half* there! More!

Rick:

*my cousin has Italian ancestry and my gramma decided to mess with him by doing that. She had him go out and get more noodles afterwards dw lmao*

This is SO funny bc im italian and i break spaghetti all the time. I feel like some of my compatriots would kill me for this lol #yolo

BUT YEAH I LOVE THAT SCENARIO rick is like. 3rd gen italian (more specifically Sicilian) and he is very Passionate about his italian heritage i think. He loves his nonna and i imagine he broke spaghetti while helping her cook as a kid and she lectured him HARD 😭😭😭

[latinare]

This is a really vague question maybe you have some insight on.

I'm monolingual; I very casually study Spanish, ie duolingo, very slowly reading Harry Potter in translation, bantering with my mexican coworkers, etc, but I'm barely past where I was ten years ago in college. My grandparents native language was Sicilian, and so that's really been the dream to someday learn Italian. But for where I live, Spanish is a very practical language, and Italian really isn't. I'm scared to stop the small amount of Spanish study that I currently do and lose it, but at the same time it's not my ultimate goal. There are really only so many hours in the day.

How much Spanish do I need to learn before I can put it to bed and start clawing my way through Italian? Can you think of any benchmark I could use? I realize it's not an either/or situation, but I was hoping you might have some advice as someone whose language journey seems to be much more advanced that my own.

Thanks for your time and any thoughts you might have!

This is a good question and I think one all language-learners struggle with. I don't know that there's one good answer, but I have a few thoughts that may or may not be helpful.

When you study something, even if you have to set it aside at some point, you don't lose it completely. The next time you pick it up, it's easier and quicker to get back to where you were. It's okay to study cyclically.

You can study things in the cracks of your day. I have Latin vocab pinned above the sink to learn when I'm washing dishes, and I translate posts for this blog while I'm nursing my baby. I read Geoffrey of Monmouth when I have ten free minutes and feel like it. It doesn't look like enough time to study a language, but it adds up.

Studying a second language in the same family can be fascinating because they share cognates (cousin words) and grammar elements. Digging into this can deepen your understanding of both. (Sicilian and Spanish are both from the Romance branch of the Indo-European language family.)

Finding a way to work a little Spanish into your week may help you retain what you've already learned. (Maybe leave Harry Potter in your backpack to read when you're in a queue or waiting room?)

One of my personal language-learning benchmarks is being able to understand spoken humour, so I'd contest that bantering with coworkers in Spanish makes you more than monolingual. :)

Ugh, I feel like I'm not saying much that's concrete. I really hope you get to study Sicilian though! Best of luck with both, and any future linguistic endeavours too!

[peakyswritings]

Abomination || Tommy Shelby x OC

Summary: where Tommy’s stay in Sicily takes a dark turn.

Warnings: supernatural elements, mentions of violence, mentions of killings, English is not my first language.

A/N: didn’t make it before midnight, but here it is! My writing is a bit rusty to be honest, but I really wanted this to be out. Originally this was supposed to have three parts in total, but I’m not sure whether I’ll fully write the other two or write something short about them. I’m leaning more towards the second option, since it’s late already.

Nina Ferrante is the OC from my Tommy Shelby x OC series Heart, Body and Soul. This is a spooky!AU.

AU MOODBOARD

A shiver shook Tommy’s back as a gust of wind entered from the open window, the night breeze carrying the smell of wet grass and jasmine. He took a deep breath, trying to let the scent soothe his raging nerves, but the way his undershirt was uncomfortably sticking to the sheen of sweat covering his body made it a rather difficult task. It seemed to him that his nightmares had become even more frequent since his arrival in the small Sicilian village.

A marriage of convenience, the union of two families to avert a war so bloody it would easily wipe both of them off the earth. A mechanism Tommy knew too well, but which until then had never involved him personally. He had taken too high a risk, travelling there on his own. But much to his surprise, he hadn’t been killed the moment he had stepped on the Italian territory, and the Ferrante family had treated him nicely enough. As for the girl he was supposed to marry - Agnese, his former enemy’s niece who lived in the adjacent house -, she was kind, and beautiful. Things could’ve been much worse. They were disconcertingly good, in fact.

Yet, Tommy couldn’t shake off a weird feeling. It would come without warning, taking the shape of a tingling sensation on the back of his neck, or of a weight sitting in the pit of his stomach. A terrible anguish would fill the air, engulfing his whole body, wrapping around his throat, making it hard to even breathe. And then it would fade. Maybe it was his mind playing tricks on him, maybe it was his instinct trying to tell him there was a danger lurking in the corner, one he hadn’t taken into account. Maybe he just needed to get out of that place.

Another shiver shook his frame as he walked barefoot down the hallway, passing the room of the only member of the Ferrante family he hadn’t had the pleasure to meet yet.

Her door was open.

He had never seen her, nor had he ever heard the sound of her voice. There were no photographs of her around the house, and no objects belonging to her. He had even questioned her existence, at some point. Until she started to make her presence known. She seemed to only come out at night. Sometimes the faint sound of her footsteps echoed in the empty hallway, only to fade as she walked down the stairs. Sometimes the sad melody of a piano reverberated through the walls, breaking the silence of the night.

Her family never spoke about her. Her name was like a curse, a forbidden word no one in that house dared say out loud. The only things he had heard about her came from her cousins, but those things he could hardly believe. They ranted about malevolent powers and deals with the Devil, they told tales of horror and dread so preposterous he often questioned the girls’ sanity. They had an impressive imagination, that was for sure.

The conclusion Tommy had come to was that the poor girl was probably mutilated. That was the most plausible explanation for why she was so isolated. And considering how superstitious those people had shown to be, it would also explain the malicious things her cousins said about her.

Tommy squinted his eyes, but the darkness on the other side was too thick for him to get a single glimpse of what was inside. He shouldn’t pry, he knew he shouldn’t. But there was some sort of magnetic pull luring him, enticing him to get closer, to take that forbidden step and cross the line that separated him from the unknown. It was calling him. He had always had a taste for the forbidden, after all.

A sharp noise coming from downstairs pulled him out of his trance. Tommy had got so distracted by his musings he had almost forgotten the reason why he had come out of his room. The nightmare had left him with a throat so parched he felt like he had swallowed sandpaper. And it appeared he wasn’t the only one awake in the house. He walked down the imposing stairs, step after step, his heart starting to race, his stomach starting to churn. There it came, that feeling. But it didn’t stop him.

In the dim light of the kitchen, a young woman was standing near the window. A cascade of dark hair fell down her slender back in rebellious waves, almost shining in the warm hue. She was holding a steaming cup in her hands, and although Tommy couldn’t see her face, she seemed to be deep in thought. He walked further into the room with slow, hesitant steps. After all the questions he had racked his brains with, there she was, in the same room as him. He didn’t know what to expect.

For a moment he thought about saying something, not wanting to scare her with his sudden appearance. But she sensed his presence before he could make it known.

“Blood moon,” she noted, tilting her head.

Tommy tried to catch a glimpse of her face from the reflection in the window, but the glass offered him nothing more than a blurred image. As if capturing his unspoken prayer, she turned around to face him, the white robe she was wearing brushing slightly against the floor. His breath hitched in his throat.

She was beautiful.

No, not just beautiful. Enthralling. Captivating. More than words could ever express.

Bringing her cup to her lips, she carefully took a sip, but her eyebrows furrowed immediately. Grimacing, she placed it on the table with a thud. “Not sweet enough.”

Tommy observed her as she added an impressive quantity of honey in her tea. It was strange, to finally be able to put a face to someone who up until then had been almost an abstract entity, a name without a shape.

Her brown eyes looked him with a glint of amusement. “You want tea?”

“No, thank you,” he shook his head, his throat feeling even drier. “I just… I just needed water.”

“Help yourself.”

Still somewhat muzzy, Tommy filled a glass with tap water, glancing at her from time to time.

God, he needed to get ahold of himself.

He cleared his throat, pondering his next words. “How come I’ve never seen you around, eh?”

She picked up the cup with both hands, taking her time to take a sip and test the sweetness. “I’m a lonely creature,” she said, the hint of a joke in her voice. “And I enjoy my nights way more than I enjoy my days.”

It made sense. In the Ferrante property, night was the only time someone could get some quiet. “They’re peaceful.”

“Peaceful,” she hummed, as if tasting the word on her tongue. “Yes, I guess they are,” she conceded, shrugging slightly. “Until they’re not.”

Tommy blinked, trying to make sense of her words. She spoke cryptically, following a thread she had woven in her own mind. She was unusual, he had to admit. He could almost see why there were certain whispers about her.

“Your cousins say some interesting things about you,” he said, leaning against the kitchen counter.

“I know,” she raised her eyebrows. “It appears I am some… abomination.” She flashed a smile, and for a moment Tommy got the impression that her white teeth looked a lot like fangs.

He really needed to sleep.

A heavy silence fell into the room. Putting down her cup, the young woman approached him with light, measured steps. The scent of lavender and something sweet filled his nostril, making his head spin. A magnetic pull even stronger the one he had felt before washed over Tommy, and it took all his self-control in order not to reach out to her. She placed a hand on his arm, causing a chill to run down his spine. Despite having held the warm cup for a while, it was icy. Freezing. He could feel the cold through the long sleeve of his shirt, it set deep into his bones, leaving him almost paralysed.

“Go to sleep, Mr Shelby. It’s a dangerous night to wander around.”

When Tommy walked down the hallway the morning after, her door was closed again. The conversation he’d had with her felt like a distant dream, like a figment of his imagination. He also vaguely remembered the melancholic music of a piano had woken him up at some point during the night, but even of that he wasn’t sure. He felt so numb he couldn’t tell the difference between what was real and what was not.

Some important news had shaken the Ferrante property, that morning. The papers reported Stefano and Vito Spinietta had been found dead in a field in the outskirts of the village. An animal attack, they said. The Spinietta family had many enemies, but it would’ve been impossible for a human being to cause the damage that had been caused to the two brothers.

Sitting on the sofa of the living room, Tommy looked at the photo printed on the journal he couldn’t read. The sons of the Ferrantes’ biggest threat, dead. He wouldn’t be surprised to find out his hosts were behind it.

Suddenly, something else caught his attention. The majestic, untouchable piano placed just a few feet away from him was open. And it looked dirty. He furrowed his brows, getting up to get a closer look.

Crimson marks stained the white keys.

Heart, Body and Sould tag list:

@zablife @queenofshinigamis @raincoffeeandfandoms / @justrainandcoffee @call-sign-shark

@kmc1989 @babayaga67 @kmhappybunny240 @diorrfairy @mariaelizabeth21-blog1

@gaslysainz @brummiereader @loverhymeswith @fairypitou @prettywhenicry4

@mysticalbouquetwolf-posts @woofgocows @girlwith-thepearlearring @goblinjnr @outlanderuniverse

@citylights31 @neonpurplestars89-blog @outlanderuniverse @red-riding-wood @evita-shelby

@look-at-the-soul @gathania93 @wonderlanddreamer @thelastemzy @meadows5

@mischievouslittlecreature @seedlings-stuff

General Tag list: @iamngoclinh08 @lilywinchesterlove @fandom-puff @capitanostella @caelys

@lucillethings @peakyxtommy @queenofkings1212 @lyarr24 @kmc1989

@call-sign-shark @jomarch-wannabe @ce1iat @areyenotfondofmelobster @red-riding-wood

@optimisticsandwichgladiator @lunarubra

Tommy Shelby tag list: @50svibes @bellabarnes1378 @jbrownta

[luulapants]

I think the fatal flaw in most mobster stories is that people go right for the big brand name mafias: the Italians, the Yakuza, the Russians, the Irish. Like, oh gosh, sure I'm sooooo scared of a Sicilian mafioso, as if he doesn't have ten layers of management oversight to contend with. Tell me your character owes money to the Russians, as if the Russians aren't too busy buying out Fortune 500 CEOs to dirty their hands with gambling debts.

If you want the real juicy fucked up mob drama, you gotta go niche. That's where the scary shit is going on. Bosnians. Laotians. Salvadorians. That's small business fuckery right there. Sure the guy threatening to break your legs has a boss, but the boss is his cousin's husband on his mother's side and his father's best friend's nephew. He's got no real accountability. You tell me your character owes money to the Gabonese mafia, I'll actually fear for their life.

[tankgotstuckinthecircusgate]

i was laughing at godfather and now where am i. thinking bout moretti's being a godfather to eddie's cousin and sicilian (it?) compari culture (insert a pic of sunboy smoking)

[persephinae]

i swear to CHRIST every time Italians/Mediterraneans are brought up, people outside of those countries think they're Northern European

PLEASE LOOK AT THIS MAP

DO YOU SEE WHERE AFRICA IS?

DO YOU SEE WHERE SICILY IS? (HINT IT'S THE ISLAND AT THE BOOT OF ITALY WHICH IS PART OF FUCKING ITALY)

THESE ARE MY COUSINS

YOU WOULD THINK THAT THEY'RE LATINO BECAUSE THEY'RE MORE DARK SKINNED THAN NORTHERN EUROPEANS BUT THEY'RE SICILIAN AMERICAN. MY RELATIVES CAN GET EVEN DARKER THAN THIS

SOUTHERN EUROPEANS GET FUCKING DARK BECAUSE OF THE MOORS AND THE ROMAN EMPIRE

EVERY TIME YOU GUYS DO THIS IT MAKES ME WANT TO CHEW GRAVEL

LATINOS IN LATIN AMERICA/MEXICO ARE NOT THE ONLY BROWN PEOPLE WITH LATIN BLOOD. WHERE THE FUCK DID YOU THINK LATIN AMERICANS CAME FROM?? FROM FUCKING SPAIN!!!

PLEASE CAN WE NOT ERASE PEOPLE I BEG 😭😭😭😭

WHEN YOU GUYS DO THIS SHIT YOU INVARIABLY ALSO ACCUSE ITALIANS OF SPRAY PAINTING THEIR TANS AND IT PISSES ME THE FUCK OFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF

LOOK HERE'S THE MAP AGAIN IN CASE YOU MISSED IT

👆👆👆👆👆👆👆👆👆👆👆👆👆👆👆👆👆👆👆👆

[evita-shelby]

Not so different

For @peakyswritings and their fic's first anniversary!

Luca x Eva ft Nina Ferrante x Tommy

It was considered improper in Luca’s family to wear black to a wedding, but Eva’s husband had not said a thing about it, so she continued her custom.

Besides, the dress was a work of art and Eva had cultivated that image of otherworldly being thanks to the high pedestal Spinietta had placed her on.

A living saint who will be interred in the Vatican with her godfather and the lucky man she chose as her husband.

The Ferrantes were allies, possibly distant kin on his mother’s side and when Riccardo was told what Stefano had been up to, the Boss had to send his witch and his most promising Capo.

“Leave it to Shelby to make trouble.” Luca shook his head with a laugh after she regaled him the full story the jilted ---but relieved--- bride and her sisters had told her as they welcomed them to their home. “He always had a thing for Sicilian girls, when I lived in England everyone knew he’d marry Greta Jurossi, God rest her soul, no matter how much her father tried to drive him away.”

Luca knew the groom, a Romani gangster from his father’s city whom Luca and his brother had grown up with. It was Tommy Shelby’s own aunt who had been Luca’s sweetheart when he was a young man, something that Eva did not mind.

Not because the witch has overcome her jealousy ---the day Eva no longer wants to wring a woman’s neck for getting near her man will be when she is dead and gone--- but because Luca knows better than to trifle with her. Much like Birmingham and New York, there were quite a number of women here he’d slept with, but Eva’s baby fever ensured her husband barely even registered his exes were there.

“How did you manage to sleep with so many women in this village, if you have only been here twice?” the witch asked knowing he’d have nowhere to run sitting here in the pews as they waited for the mystery bride.

“Good girls like bad men, pussycat.” He smirked with his olive-green eyes sparkling with pride. “Why do you think Tommy is marrying his host’s daughter and not the one selected for him?”

They don’t continue speaking about Luca’s irresistible charms when the bridal procession begins. Even with the veil covering her face, Eva knows the girl is a beauty, one with a soul to match it and more than met the eye.

There was also that Nina had a spark of rebellion, something that set her apart from her cousins even if they shared looks and traits. Men like Luca and Tommy seek someone who challenges them, who intrigues them and cannot simply conform to the standard their societies have for women.

Italy is not so different than Mexico.

Though Eva had a vastly different upbringing, she was still expected to marry and have children and have no other dreams than keeping tradition. Eva was lucky that her family flouted convention and ensured she had the same education as a man and that she had as much freedom as a son would.

Nina Ferrante had her parents who loved and protected her even when she went against the grain, Shelby will be the man to let her have the independence a spirited woman like her desires.

As long as the Changrettas and the Shelbys remain tenuous allies, Eva would wish them all the happiness in the world and the fortitude to survive its troubles.

It is not until much later when they are properly introduced.

Luca takes the lead knowing he is being sized up by Shelby, and yet as they stand there viewing each other as potential threats, Luca’s congratulations hold a note of sincerity. They weren’t always enemies, once upon a time the Changrettas and the Shelbys were friends and neighbors before they were rival gangs.

“My family sends their congratulations as well. My stepmother was very happy to know you were able to find happiness after Greta’s passing, especially with someone more deserving than the barmaid and the whore your brother tried to marry.” Luca has two intentions with his words, the first was to hurt Shelby for sport and the second to give the bride a heads up should Shelby take up old habits.

A different person could tolerate infidelity, but in families like theirs an infidelity could cost the offender their life. Even if the bride forgave him, the Family would not.

“I have seen the two of you will be happy together, the two of you were meant to find each other. I hope you can visit us in New York soon, though not as lovely as Sicily, it has its charms.” Eva smoothed things over with the newlyweds or did what she could to assuage Nina’s fears.

The bride thanks her, though still unsettled by Luca’s words and Tommy Shelby’s change in demeanor.

They do not meet again until John Shelby leaves Angel beaten and bleeding on the shop floor. And all because Shelby’s secretary had become involved with Luca’s younger brother.

Shelby did not rein in his brothers when asked and now this was escalating to something no one wanted. You would think this business with the Russians would give Tommy Shelby a chance to keep his family on a leash until it was over.

“He wants your father-in-law’s territories; Lizzie is just an excuse. I fear he doesn’t understand the scale this war could be.” Nina, now older with children, an Oxford education and accustomed to her role as Mrs. Shelby, does not beat around the bush as they meet for tea in Birmingham’s city center.

“Your husband is as resilient as a cockroach, dear, he has cheated death so many times he and his brothers think they will do so again. If this war happens, I will be forced to take part for my husband and children’s sake and I promise you, it will wipe the Shelby name off the face of the earth.” The witch would give up her soul for Luca’s victory, if this war came to pass, there is nothing she would not do to ensure their enemies are all dead.

Luca has no qualms killing children, and whatever feelings he had for Polly Gray won’t save her either. If Angel or his father were hurt or killed in Shelby’s pursuit of power, no one, not even the family cat would be spared.

“What can we do to stop it?” the Italian woman asks swallowing her fears and seeking a better course forward. She has not lost her spark of defiance, or else she wouldn’t be here behind Tommy’s back.

“The same thing our families have always done to secure peace and prosperity, we bind our families through blood.” The witch sips her tea as if nothing out of the ordinary were happening there. Eva’s grown too used to negotiating truces with her status as the deity advising the Spinettas. “Though it will be a while until our children are old enough to marry each other, you have a young brother-in-law and I have an English cousin worth her weight in gold. Lizzie’s marriage to Angel will be part of bargain, or Shelby will have no allies when the Russians fuck him over.”

“They used to call me a witch back home, you know.” Nina takes it all in stride. “They ate their words when they met you and saw all that Stefano and his family had said was all true. The Spinettas are right to fear you, you and Luca could easily take the crown from them.”

The witch smiled, “Oh these mortals have a way of branding what they don’t like as witchcraft and when the real thing arrived at their doorstep, they found themselves too scared to speak.”

She’s the strega who will curse them to the deepest pits of hell or the benevolent santa who will make all their wishes come true. She is not Eva to anyone save her family these days.

“But, yes, we do plan on taking their crown. Your husband can have England if he helps us take America.”