#vladimir i hope you fucking die soon

[charyou-tree]

Russian propaganda pushed by the Kremlin has "infected" part of the Republican base, a senior GOP congressman has said, as indications grow that a vital U.S. military package for Ukraine will come up for a vote with U.S. lawmakers this month. "I think Russian propaganda has made its way into the United States, unfortunately, and it's infected a good chunk of my party's base," House Foreign Affairs Committee chair and Texas Republican, Michael McCaul, told Puck News.

If you're wondering why so much "Fuck you if you vote for Biden!" chatter has been going around social media, that's why.

Meanwhile, in Europe:

A Russian-backed "propaganda" network has been broken up for spreading anti-Ukraine stories and paying unnamed European politicians, according to authorities in several countries. Investigators claimed it used the popular Voice of Europe website as a vehicle to pay politicians. The Czech Republic and Poland said the network aimed to influence European politics. Voice of Europe did not respond to the BBC's request for comment. Czech media, citing intelligence sources, reported that politicians from Germany, France, Poland, Belgium, the Netherlands and Hungary were paid by Voice of Europe in order to influence upcoming elections for the European Parliament. The German newspaper Der Spiegel said the money was either handed over in cash in covert meetings in Prague or through cryptocurrency exchanges. Pro-Russian Ukrainian oligarch Viktor Medvedchuk is alleged by the Czech Republic to be behind the network. Mr Medvedchuk was arrested in Ukraine soon after the Russian invasion, but later transferred to Russia with about 50 prisoners of war in exchange for 215 Ukrainians.

When y'all share "Why bother voting, they're all the same?!?" propaganda, this is who benefits, Vladimir Putin, who's really hoping that he can bully the democracies of the world into letting him conquer Ukraine, and then move on to the rest of eastern Europe.

Georgia in 2008 was our annexation of the Sudetenland, Crimea in 2014 was the modern invasion of Czechoslovakia, and the 2022 invasion of Ukraine was the 21st century's equivalent to the 1939 invasion of Poland.

This is most likely our last, best, chance to stop World War 3 before it starts. Please vote for whoever isn't taking Putin's bribes, whoever in your country actually still believes in elections and isn't trying to install themselves as a far-right dictator. I'd rather not be drafted to go die in the trenches because we all couldn't agree that this was bad enough to work together to stop.

[llynwen]

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[therealvinelle]

What if the entire human cast were turned into vampires? (those who stay human throughout the saga)

Well, the first question we must ask ourselves, is who’s turning them? Who would do such a thing?

It’s a very stupid thing to do, after all, and a surefire way to earn yourself a visit from the Volturi.

Now, who in the post-Breaking Dawn world would want to turn all the humans near the Cullens into vampires, ensuring another confrontation between the Cullens and the Volturi?

Answer is, drumroll-

The Romanians.

As of Breaking Dawn, the Volturi are extremely vulnerable. Jane, Alec, even Chelsea have all been neutered. Renata is Schrödinger’s shield. She might work, might not. The more time they’re given to regroup after this, however, the worse news for their would-be usurpers.

Now is the time for a rebellion, but there’s no rebellion without Bella. Bella, unfortunately, is in a coven led by ultimate pacifist Carlisle, and Carlisle isn’t going to greenlight storming Volterra with an army. It’s time to get creative.

This could go many places, but the path of a biting spree in Forks and La Push is certainly one of them.

So, Vladimir and Stefan bite the entire human cast, and open Pandora’s box.

One of the first things to happen, I think, is that Billy, Quil senior, Emily, Kim, and Rachel are killed, maybe even before their transformations can complete. They would not want to live as vampires, to them vampirism is a fate worse than death. A mercy killing before they can hurt anybody would be the only way out.

As for the rest...

This would break the secret.

In this globalized age of internet, viral videos, and live TV, several hundred people all falling mysteriously ill with the same inexplicable symptoms, screaming and begging for death for days, slowly turning into something else as baffled doctors watch, before becoming massacring demons that tear the hospitals they’re in to pieces within minutes and proceed into the streets, killing everything in sight-

Aro hasn’t had a headache like this since ever.

This doesn’t even have to do with the Cullens anymore, though they’ll have to testify that they had nothing to do with this. Caius will be out for blood, though, any blood, and his ire will fall upon them.

This, of course, is the part the Romanians did it all for, because everyone knows that the Volturi are corrupt and would execute them regardless of guilt, so the Cullens will have to bring a new set of witnesses to this confrontation. And this time, of course, the Volturi are showing up to get massacred. Stefan and Vladimir high five each other.

And this time the odds are entirely in their favor.

In Breaking Dawn, standing by the Cullens was a suicide mission. No one knew Bella would be able to pull off what she did, none of the arrivals even knew she even had a gift when they agreed to come. Carlisle gathered only his bravest and most devoted friends.

In this scenario, now that everyone knows Bella’s gift neuters the Volturi, every single vampire who’s ever wanted the Volturi gone are going to want to be there. From random nomads to Maria with her newborns, everyone who’s anybody is going to want to be there, and they’re likely already squabbling over who gets to be top dog as soon as Aro’s a pile ashes.

And Aro can’t avoid this.

He can’t barricade himself in Volterra because there are hundreds of newborns loose in Washington. If he does nothing this will mean that the Volturi rule is officially void. They can’t enforce their law anymore, they may be alive down there in Italy but the era of the Volturi is over in all the ways that count.

If he goes to Washington, he can’t avoid the Cullens for the same reason as above. If he doesn’t collect their testimony to ascertain their innocence it’ll mean they’re now above the law, which in turn means that the Volturi don’t have the strength to punish them.

He has to go to Washington, and he has to deal with the Cullens.

Now, Carlisle may think the best of everyone, but even he would know the plot of the movie 300 when he sees it. The Romanians showed up at his doorstep, they totally didn’t create all those vampires wink, oh and here are eighty thug vampires who are already drawing straws on who gets to kill which Volturi.

More, what happened in Forks and La Push is only a taste of what’s to come.

Not only are the Volturi needed to help stop this madness, but if they should fall then what happened in Forks and La Push will only be a blip on the radar against the chaos that will be unleashed. It’ll be a genocide of the human species.

And Carlisle will have a culpability in that. The reason why this mass vampire creation tragedy is happened in the first place is precisely to see the Cullens go to war against the Volturi.

Last problem, it would be a massacre of the Volturi. Carlisle is a pacifist who cherishes life, even if it there would be no repercussions to the Volturi falling, forty-something vampires would still be killed.

I think at this point it would be unconscionable for Carlisle to allow this confrontation to happen. Question is, how to prevent it?

I have no doubt that the Romanians would be filling Bella’s head with conspiracy theories and what have you, for starters, explaining how her family will never be safe while Aro lives. It would be effective, even if Bella is told by Carlisle what this means for humans she’s not necessarily going to internalize just how bad that would be. Bella also has the problem that she romanticizes her love for Edward, to the point where she i Eclipse would let his family die if it meant she could keep him. Letting civilization fall to protect her lover would be acceptable to Bella.

More, the Cullens like humans well enough, but they’re not altruistic.

Likely, they would be convinced by the Romanians and the other vampires there that this was a fight for liberty, the human population would be fine, this is really no worse than Heidi fishing 40 people a week, we’re just more honest about it! The Cullens would want to be convinced, because the Volturi are scary and have proven evil in the past. If they’re not overthrowing them, they’re not just agreeing to live in danger, they’re agreeing to be slaughtered. It’s been established, to them, that Aro’s just itching for an excuse to kill them.

Carlisle can make his plea that they fuck off to Isle Esme while he alone stays behind to testify to Aro, so there’s no Bella at the confrontation. They’d refuse both because there’d be nothing stopping Aro from killing their allies and then coming after them when they’re alone, and because there’d be a real chance they were leaving Carlisle to his death.

Besides, with Bella’s gift they can hold the Volturi hostage, act nice or she’ll let these 80 vampires kill them. Nevermind that the vampires would just attack the Volturi anyway, and Bella couldn’t not shield them.

Bella and the rest of the Cullens aren’t going to go along with Carlisle.

Now, if Carlisle were Aro, the hard but effective solution here would be the Didyme route. Kill Bella, one life to spare the many.

Carlisle is not Aro.

What options does he have, then?

He could sneak away to intercept the Volturi, speak with Aro, hope to in some way initiate talks. It’d be a desperate, futile gamble, one where even if he gets Aro to listen it still won’t make their army-shaped problem go away, because Bella will never believe it if Aro says “we’re friends now! No quarrel! I’m definitely not going to kill you at first leisure if you let your army go.”

It’s an empty lead.

I think, given everything, Carlisle would swallow down the bitter taste of irony, call up his old friends whom he can still rely on, such as the Irish and the Amazonians, and ask very nicely if they would - sigh - like to witness that the newest Cullen-Volturi encounter goes over peacefully. The shapeshifters should be on board as well, after what happened to their loved ones and the countless other innocent humans killed or turned, they’ll never forgive the Romanians and not Bella for standing with them either.

So Aro shows up, and there’s Bella and the Romanians with an army of thugs, and there to the side is Carlisle with his tiny squad of witnesses. Who, should a fight break out, will try to defend the Volturi and get themselves killed in the crosshairs.

There’s a long silence.

Everyone is giving Carlisle their most exasperated eyerolls, his own squad included. Carlisle wishes he was rolling his eyes too, but the situation is a bit too serious for that. He just stands there feeling very uncomfortable.

Quite damningly for Bella, if she now allows the fight to happen that means the shapeshifters will be killed. None of the Cullens are particularly keen on the fight now that Carlisle’s likely to die.

Frankly, I think this would be an unbearably awkward encounter where absolutely nobody acknowledges aloud the reason why they’re there, or what was supposed to happen, and act as if it’s a normal trial, for the several first few minutes.

The Romanians know this is it, this is their chance, so right about the time where Aro is saying “How excellent that we’ve established the Cullens didn’t do it! Who, then, could the culprits possibly be?” they launch their attack.

All, at this point, depends on Bella’s reaction. If she keeps up her shield, then a glorious battle occurs, and most if not all Volturi die, the Carlisle squad are also goners, and most if not all of the Romanians’ army die as well.

The thing is, to win the Romanians don’t have to win - they just have to make the Volturi lose. So, even if they’re wiped out, if they can take out the key members of the Volturi then the Volturi will still have lost.

And this is where Aro’s planning enters into the equation.

Would he bring his key players to what was certain to be a slaughter? Would he even come himself?

Is it not perhaps wiser to send the twins, who in a fight without their gifts would be the first and easiest to be killed, to a secret location? Hope that, should the Volturi fall, then they can at least hope to take Bella down with them so that Jane and Alec will be able to keep the world from succumbing to a fiery hellpit?

And Jane and Alec couldn’t do this alone. They’re kids, for one thing. More, there are no men like Aro. His gift and personality both have been how he kept the vampire world under control for over a thousand years. It is a romantic notion to go down with your ship, burn with your empire, but it’s an impractical one. And Aro is nothing if not practical.

If he doesn’t show up to the trial it’ll just be sending his Volturi to be slaughtered, and as I explained above, not going at all isn’t an option either.

I think the twins would be safely whisked away to some faraway place, while Aro arrives with plans for an effective escape for himself and the core members, and as many vampires Chelsea was able to get to redshirt themselves.

This, in turn, means that even if Bella doesn’t use her gift, it’ll still be a slaughter. Alec and Jane aren’t there.

In the scenario where Bella doesn’t use her gift, this forces the Cullens to fight alongside the Carlisle squad and the Volturi. The odds are not so uneven as they originally were. Could be Aro still escapes, or given the tipped balances he could try and luck it out, to increase the odds of his side winning.

There are many outcomes this battle could have, but the Volturi would not escape unscathed from this. No coven would, the fighting would only end when there was only the victor remaining.

I, personally, like the outcome where Carlisle and Aro both survive, and find themselves living with a new world order. The secret is out, the Volturi are a shadow of what they once were, and the Cullens can never live as humans again. The two form a tentative alliance (because at no point has anything been cleared up between them) to keep this new world from descending into interspecies war.

Edward, now a Volturi, wonders where it all went wrong.

(There’s also the outcome where Renesmée joins her grandpa’s squad as a teen rebellion thing, and since no one wants to harm her the fight is cancelled. 

Aro repeats his ramble about nukes and missiles, the vampire community needs him to smooth things over and have Chelsea make all world leaders adore vampires or it’s over for all of them. Carlisle supplies in that poorly scripted random member of the audience says exactly what the magician needs him to way, “Yes absolutely the humans have weapons that can take us out!”

It’s awkward for everybody.)

[angelaiswriting]

Arranged (3 of 3) | Anatoly Ranskahov

[Photo by maadhuri g from Pexels]

✏️ Pairing: Anatoly Ranskahov x fem!OC

✏️ Summary: in which Zoja gets caught in her father’s schemes for power and success and gets sold off as part of an arrangement for an arranged marriage with Anatoly Ranskahov. The catch? Both Zoja and Anatoly end up catching feelings.

✏️ A/N: I hope this isn’t too rushed :’) Enjoy and thank you for reading!

✏️ Warnings: NSFW, so 18+ only (mentions of mafia / illegal stuff and violence + oral m/r and f/r, vaginal fingering, vaginal sex)

✏️ Word-count: 14,307

<< Part One <<  |  << Part Two <<  | Part Three

♚

Zoja crawls her way underneath his skin. It goes slow at first, but then a little faster, and a little faster, until all he can think about is her. Her in Monaco, and all the foreplay they had without actually pushing things that one step forward. Her trying to bake him a cake for his birthday—and failing, although that’s not something she likes to be reminded of. Her in some of his old clothes, smelling like him after an accident involving some paint and one of his men. Her at the dacha, as she shows him her horses while her twin sisters try their best not to cling on to him somehow.

It’s a weird state of mind at first. Anatoly Ranskahov hasn’t exactly grown up promising anything to anyone that isn’t Vlad or his men, after all; but at the same time it’s not that hard to get used to this new state of things. And although he set off on this journey with the fear that reconciling both his business and spending time with her would be impossible, he’s now finding that they’re both slowly changing. She’s not on one shopping hunt after the other, and he’s not with his head shoved into work only anymore.

And despite the fact that his brother is pressuring him into dropping their fucking offer before I grow fucking old and die, it’s good. And Anatoly knows he’s gonna strike her up with that deal soon anyway—he just wants to enjoy these last moments of peace before it’s all over.

“You seem distracted,” Leonid says, pouring him some more vodka before doing the same for Vlad. “Having second thoughts about our deal?”

They should be celebrating the new deal with Leonid Zuev, a way to settle old disputes now that the Ranskahovs are finally starting to dip their feet into the rest of the city and the surrounding territories as well. Gromov is not alive anymore, after all, and those who are left don’t see why they should be keeping the division of the city into sectors alive.

“My brother’s been thinking with his dick only for a few months now,” is what Vladimir replies, sending a warning glare in Anatoly’s direction while tipping his head back and letting the vodka slide down his throat. But Vlad can’t say anything more direct right now, and Anatoly reasons that maybe it’s for the best—he’s in no mood to talk about his feelings for a Volkova right now, especially since he’s still confused about them in the first place.

Zuev’s second in command snickers at that, grins an ‘I’ll drink to that’, before emptying his shot and going back to paying attention to the woman in his lap.

Things move quickly after that: Zuev stands up without a second thought, calls one of his men over and waits for him to come back with a woman by the arm.

“This is my best girl, Ira!” he says, gesturing for her to walk around the table and settle in Anatoly’s lap. “A gift, to celebrate our new alliance. Although I’ll want her back in one piece before you leave. I’m sure she’ll be able to help you with your problem,” he winks.

And Ira is nice, she really is. Piercing blue eyes, shoulder-length hair, two round breasts his own brother can’t stop staring at. But Anatoly also has… Damn, it’s weird even for him to admit that. But he has a woman at home—and she truly is at his place now, probably watching TV or eating take-out with Sergei. Sergei, who should have been here if he hadn’t been appointed to look after Zoja when Anatoly’s not there to do it himself—he’s the one he trusts the most after his brother, after all… So, his loyalties have changed now, and he finds himself turning down something he would have gladly agreed to before signing a deal with his soon-to-be(-dead) father-in-law.

He’s careful to word himself in such a way not to come off as offensive, though. Getting to this point with this motherfucker has required quite the effort, and risking causing a scene for some woman with an alliance that’s been in the making for longer than necessary is definitely the last thing he wants or even needs.

Still, Zuev’s gaze turns glacial, and Vlad’s ready to cut in before anyone else can pounce.

“And I mean this with no offense,” Anatoly continues with Ira still in his lap and his hands still in hers from when she had tried to pull him with her. “But I have a girlfriend I’ll be marrying soon and she’s not into our kind of business. I wouldn’t want her to misinterpret when she finds out.”

The chatter in the room quietens down and slowly, all eyes are on him. Truth be told, both Anatoly and his brother should have expected such an offer, but in the spur of the moment, neither of them slowed down enough to actually consider it and come to the meeting prepared.

“A Ranskahov getting married?” There’s a confused smirk on Leonid’s face, when he finally sits back down and takes a drag from his cigarette. One of his men snickers, but a look from Vladimir is enough to shut him up. “Never in my life would I have even dreamed of hearing such news.”

Ira smiles. “She must be a lucky one if even I can’t have you for a night.” She traces the line of his jaw with a finger, manicured red nail gently scraping his skin as they stare into each other’s eyes.

“Ira is a pro, she—”

“No need, Lёnja,” she interrupts him, shifting her gaze from Anatoly to Vladimir, sitting in his chair with an arm perched against its back and a cigarette between his fingers. “I don’t mind the baby brother, either. We can still celebrate.”

The ride back home isn’t exactly awkward, but Anatoly can feel his brother and his best men’s eyes on him the whole time even without tearing his gaze from the road ahead.

“I can’t believe you risked blowing things up because of a girl,” Vlad groans, typing away on his phone when it lights up with a notification. “She’s a fucking matter of business!”

“A girl even you care about, brother,” he retorts. “You think I don’t know you two binge stuff on TV and then talk about it? When was the last time you opened up to a woman you’re not banging and who’s not a prostitute?”

That’s enough to shut him up—and to prevent the three men cramped in the backseat of his car from saying anything. The rest of the drive is spent in silence, with the only exception of the radio humming in the background.

It’s not like Anatoly could have reacted any differently. It was a surprise for him as well, but he guesses that he does care about his Zojka. They butt heads sometimes, but they’ve also grown much closer than he had expected during that first, awkward dinner. Spending time with her is now something he always looks forward to, and he’s somehow not ready to ruin that. Not after working so much for it, or at least that’s what it feels like.

The house is silent when he walks in behind his brother. The lights in the living room are on, as is the television, set on mute, but neither Sergei nor Zoja are anywhere to be seen. Only the two Dobermanns come running up to them, nails screeching on the floorboards as they slip when they make a turn around the couch.

“Imagine if she’s ended up having the fun you passed up on,” Vladimir manages to joke before getting a slap upside the back of his head just as he’s petting his dogs. “C’mon, don’t be an ass, I was just kidding.”

“Go to bed before I make my shoe meet your ass.” And although Anatoly is just half-serious, half-playful, Vlad does as he’s told.

The thought does follow him as he walks down the corridor and toward his room, though. Would she ever? Would she ever dare cheat? Would she ever leave him for another man? It’s not like their relationship is exactly built on love, although there for sure are more feelings between them than there were at the beginning.

Still, there’s laughter coming from his bedroom, and indistinct talking as well, the closer he gets to it.

“What are you two doing?” he questions, leaning against the frame of the door of his bathroom and almost snorting at the sight he’s met with—Sergei with a pink, fluffy headband on, sitting on the closed toilet, and his left hand in Zoja’s as she files his nails as she kneels on the floor in front of him.

“Suffering.”

“Oh, shut up, Serёzha!” she chuckles, smiling up at Anatoly from behind a green face mask. “He complained about being stressed—”

“I did not!”

“—so I thought a spa night could help.”

“I’m going to quit this bodyguard shit after tonight.” But a look at Sergei’s face and it’s clear his are just empty threats.

“And go back to dealing with his boring men?” she gasps, pointing a thumb in Anatoly’s direction almost as though he weren’t really there.

He squares her with a look before finally meeting Anatoly’s expectant one. “She put all these things on my face. You have no fucking clue, Tolik. How’s that even relaxing?”

“She walks through the shops of half of Moscow to relax. Women are just built differently,” he shrugs his shoulders in reply, walking back into his room to take his suit off.

Ten minutes later, Sergei makes his exit and Zojka comes out of the bathroom with a clean face and a grin on her lips.

“Did you also slip into my t-shirt in front of him?” Anatoly asks, laying in bed while scrolling through his phone. Not because he’s actually looking at anything, be it clear, but just because he’s not ready for her to know he’s been lying there doing nothing while waiting for her.

She laughs. “Is that jealousy I hear in your voice?”

But then she’s taking his phone from his grasp and the smile on her face is too suggestive, and he just can’t keep his face as straight as he hoped it would be.

“How was your meeting?” she hums, straddling his lap and leaning forward to press a kiss to the corner of his lips. “You smell like weed,” but he doesn’t see the way she scrunches up her nose.

“Sasha smoked with Mirik and a bunch of Zuev’s guys.” He finds himself replying before actually realizing he’s opening up so easily, but it’s something he’s grown used to by now, during all the weeks they’ve spent together. His hands trail up her arms and slid underneath the sleeves of his shirt for a second.

“And you taste like alcohol,” she continues after a kiss.

“We also drank,” he smiles, hands moving down to grab her hips and hike her up a little.

“So you had fun.”

With her kisses slowly moving from his cheek down his neck, it’s hard to focus and think.

“Some of us more than others.”

“Did you also fuck?” she asks, lying down with her chest flush against his and propping her weight up on her elbows to look into his eyes. “Serёzha said there’s usually some sex involved as well.”

“He’s right,” he sighs, a hand coming up to caress strands of hair away from her face and behind her ear. He can’t even bring himself to be pissed at Sergei for snitching about stuff with her because maybe it’s best if she learns some things early on. “Vlad fucked their best girl. Although,” and he lets his hands slide over the curve of her ass before giving it a light swat, “I already have you here.”

“We haven’t fucked yet, though,” she muses, sitting up straight and grinding down against him.

He’s half-hard in his boxers; and it also couldn’t be any other way, when he has a pretty woman—his pretty woman—wearing nothing but a loose t-shirt of his, sitting on his lap.

“We haven’t,” he agrees, and there’s no hiding that smirk that grows on his lips at the sight of her—nipples slightly pebbled under the cotton of his shirt, hair loose, face completely bare as she stares at him with a naughty spark in her eyes.

“I’m still trying to understand if you don’t want to,” she ponders, grinding slowly against him, “or if you’re just waiting for some mythical ‘perfect moment’ the same way you are when it comes to that offer you had to make me forever ago.” She traces the cross in the middle of his chest, and he tries his best not to shiver.

“I never want to ruin the moment,” he simply replies as he slips one hand down her belly and straight between her legs. But she tuts her tongue at him and slides further down between his legs.

“Tonight’s my turn,” she grins, nails gently raking down his chest. “And while I’m at it,” she continues, shimmying further down the bed and hooking her fingers into the elastic band of his boxers—now an unexpected part of his night attire, “I want you to fess up. I’m tired of waiting.”

Plotting Daddy Dearest’s death is not exactly something you can say over a blowjob, but he doesn’t say that. He can’t, not when she’s pulling his underwear down and smirking up at him like she’s about to make him meet God. Which she is—it’s not the first time she’s settled between his spread legs the way she is now. 

“You’re just as impatient as Vlad is,” he chuckles instead, lifting his hips just enough for her to take his boxers off completely.

“Someone’s gotta be,” she hums, lips pressing right into the juncture of his hip as she trails a finger up the underside of his dick. “If we all had to wait around while you take your sweet time before you act…” Her gaze meets his, and it’s playful—and also a bit mischievous, but he doesn’t see that immediately, not when her cool fingers trail down to his balls before wrapping around the base of his erection. “Maybe I should give you a taste of your own medicine,” she decides, placing a sloppy kiss against his vein, lips stretching into a grin as her words register in his mind.

“You would never.” But she would, right? That’s the truth, and he knows it. And she knows he knows. She’s grown a pair in the time they’ve spent together, and he can’t help but be proud of that. That’s why he lets her do—or, at least, that’s what he tells himself.

She shrugs, and licks a stripe from his balls to his tip. “I’m powerful enough to afford challenging the big, bad Anatoly Ranskahov,” she muses, humming, the tip of her tongue teasing just underneath the head of his cock. “So yeah, I think I’ll run the risk.”

He’s in her mouth, then, and he loses the ability to say shit. It’s just the head, but her tongue is hot as it swipes against the underside of his tip and she’s still holding eye contact, and her gaze on him makes a shiver shoot down his spine as his hand automatically moves to her head.

“It’s cute how you shut up when I do that,” she giggles, peppering kisses down his length, one hand sliding up his chest until she’s swiping a thumb across his nipple.

“Zojka…” he halfheartedly threatens, voice suddenly strained when she gives his glans a suck.

She chuckles right around him, then, and the sensation makes him squeeze his eyes shut and a groan slip past his lips. “Who’s impatient now?” She leaves a sloppy kiss right below the cat head tattooed on his lower abdomen before she suckles a hickey into his skin. “Cute,” she shrugs when she looks up again and the sight of her, the look in her eyes, just makes him want to pull her up to him and kiss her breath and her sanity away.

Her mouth is back on his dick, then. Her tongue licks him up from base to tip again for a few times before he’s slipping past her lips.

A strangled fuck crawls up his throat when he feels her take more of him, her tongue flattening against his underside just as her hand gently twists him at the base. “Zojka,” he calls out, blindly tightening his grip in her hair—he doesn’t know whether he should risk it and just push her down, get to the part where he can feel her throat around his dick at her own pace.

But he doesn’t, he has no time to, because she’s already pulling up and off of him with a pop! sound that makes him open his eyes and tilt his head up.

“What am I?” he groans, impatient, as she slowly strokes him. “A fucking lollipop?”

She laughs at that and for a moment she just lies there, breathless, her thumb spreading the pre-cum that’s started trickling out of him all around. “Start talking, baby,” she replies instead, when she can catch her breath again and stops chuckling.

Baby—he’s taken aback by that name, and also a bit confused because… Anatoly Ranskahov? ‘Baby’? But then she’s suckling his head again, and her tongue moves down to his frenulum, and he can feel himself start tingling everywhere in his body, the sensation slowly spreading from his core outwards.

“The deal, Tolya,” she calls him, humming against him, lips kissing their way down his length.

“Vlad and— Fuck.” She licks one of his balls then, right before gently pulling it into her mouth, and his brain short-circuits for a moment. Vlad and— What? For a few seconds, he has no clue. He lies there, with her mouth on his balls and her hand stroking him up and down—slow, with just enough pressure to let him know she’s there, but not enough to make him beg, leaving him half-way there.

He can’t even believe he’s playing her game in the first place, but at the same time, when his thoughts come back to him, he wants to do it. Wants to tell her. Because he knows that if he doesn’t, something will happen. He has no clue what that ‘something’ might be, but he doesn’t want to find himself in his bathroom at two in the morning fisting himself to orgasm.

“Anton—”

She chokes around him at hearing her father’s name, and when he looks down at her, after managing to force his eyes open again, the expression of disgust is as clear as day on her face.

“We’re not— Shit,” he groans when she flattens her tongue against the head of his cock and licks until he’s in her mouth again. “Not sharing— Fuck, just like that.” He pushes her head down a little more, until she’s almost gagging around him, but he can barely hear her above the sound of his own heartbeat and the inexorable approaching of his orgasm.

She moans when he groans out her name—breathless and rough, it scratches up his throat when he throws his head back, his eyes screwed shut, her mouth back to focusing on his glans. He’s so close to shattering; to tearing apart at the seams as she works him up, one hand around him and the other gently tending to his balls.

“We want him out.” He doesn’t even know how he manages to push those words out, but things slow down again when she pulls her head up and he’s left with only her hand stroking him and twisting when it reaches his tip.

“No more deal?” she asks, eyebrows set into a frown of confusion, but Anatoly doesn’t see it as he pants, gaze barely able to put the ceiling into focus.

“No, you stay,” he moans when she takes a ball into her mouth again. “With me.” That last part is whispered—he’s too out of breath to put more strength into telling her where she belongs—if she wants that, that is. “We just— want him gone.”

He’s almost there, almost at the point of no return, and for a moment a part of his mind fears she’ll slow down again, that she’ll tease him just to then pull back. But she just takes him deeper, throat now more relaxed than it was before, and her hand gives his thigh a gentle squeeze.

As if on mutual accord, his grip on her hair tightens—he’ll probably have to apologize later for messing it up, but now he’s so lost in his pleasure—and in the orgasm he can already taste in the back of his throat—that he can’t bring himself to care. He tries to meet the bobbing of her head at first, before he just pulls her down, nose now flush against his pelvic bone, so that he can do it himself.

The room is swimming in his grunts and in her moans, and his head is swimming in the feel of her—her breath against his skin, her throat constricting around him, her hand moving up his chest, nails grazing, until she swipes a spit-slick thumb across his nipple and—

His fuuuck is drawled out when he ejaculates down her throat, toes curled and skin breaking out in gooseflesh he barely has the presence of mind to even be aware of. Both of her hands move down to his hips as he twitches in her mouth and she fights to breathe, but then she’s pulling up, his grip still strong in her hair, but not focused on keeping her down anymore.

He doesn’t see her swallow; doesn’t see the way her thumb wipes away the cum that trickled down one corner of her lips, just as he doesn’t see the way she sucks it clean.

He feels her lips kiss their way up his body, however. Light and wet, and hot, although they make him shiver deep in his bones somehow, until she’s on his neck, breathing just below his ear, her thighs straddling his. He can feel her, and how wet she is.

When she pulls up a bit and cradles his face in her hands, he finds himself opening his eyes, still a bit out of breath. She’s smiling and after a second too long of staring, she closes the distance and pecks his lips.

“What do you mean you want my father gone?” she murmurs right against his lips.

For a moment her words don’t register in his mind, and he just lies there, boneless, staring up at her—her eyes, her parted lips, her tousled hair.

“Tolya?”

But then she’s kissing his neck again, and his hands get out of his post-orgasm bliss before his brain does and they grab on tight to her hips. He still regains his presence of mind fast enough, though, and in a heartbeat he’s hovering over her, holding her jaw in one of his hands.

“You said you’d get rid of him if you could,” is what he says, thinking back to that night they spent in Piter. He could control himself on the outside—he grew up doing it, and after a while it becomes second nature—but his heart is beating wildly in his chest, in something that almost tastes like fear. And he finds himself being hit by the sudden realization that he doesn’t want to have to get rid of her, too, if things take the wrong turn. “Even if it came to killing.”

“I did, I—” but she stammers and for a moment she tries to avert her gaze from his, but his grasp on her is too strong for her to turn her face.

“Did you have a change of mind?”

Her exhale trembles against his upper lip and he watches on in silence as she closes her eyes for a moment, probably to ponder her words.

“It’s an easy question. Yes or no, Zojka.”

“It’s not an easy answer to give, though,” she complains, swatting his hand away, although without much success. He still lets her go and sits back to let her sit up as well. “I’m not like you, I’ve never…”

“You won’t be the one doing it.”

“So what? Am I the one calling the shots? Same shit.”

He tilts his head in confusion, and maybe even in surprise, because her hatred toward her old man has always burned as strong as acid. “Are you backing out? You didn’t seem to have second thoughts in Piter. What changed?”

“Nothing’s changed!” she’s quick at replying, and her hands come up to rub at her face. “I just… This is… real.”

“What did you expect us to do? Do you think we got to where we are now by saying empty words and making empty threats?”

“No, I…” She sighs, and he stares as she tries to fight with herself—get up or stay on his bed? Move away from him or remain where he can easily grab a hold of her? “Suddenly death sounds too definitive.”

He moves to sit back on his ass this time and bends his legs so that he can rest his arms on his knees. The house is silent, despite the fact that they forgot to close the door of his bedroom and that Vlad is probably still up.

And she’s sitting there, in front of him, her back against the headboard of his bed as she hugs her knees to her chest. She looks so small as she tries to find her words—to agree with his offer or to tell him to fuck off—and she’s so different from the stubborn Zoja he knows her to be. Stripped bare in front of the prospect of possibly signing a death sentence.

“Zojka,” he calls, and her eyes fleetingly meet his for a moment. “I won’t let him threaten me, my brother and our men.”

“I know,” she whispers.

“You know what we do, and you know I won’t let a threat stand in my way.”

“I know.”

Silence works its way in between them, then. He never tears his eyes from her, but she does—she stares in the direction of the bedroom door. He barely notices how it’s almost three in the morning when he looks at his nightstand out of habit when his phone vibrates with an incoming notification.

“Vlad only accepted to wait because I told him you’d be on our side. That you were on our side.”

“I am! I’m just—” A sigh, and then she’s rubbing her face again, huffing when strands of hair get caught between her fingers and end up in her eyes. “I’m scared.”

“Of what?” He’s genuinely confused. “You’re safe with me. You have nothing to be scared of.”

“Why don’t you get his men on your side?” she asks after a long moment of thinking. “You isolate him, strip him of his protection. I know Lёsha’s always been more on my side than he’s been on my father’s, and the majority of his men are more into his money than they are into him.”

He’s the one sighing this time. He should have listened to his brother, shouldn’t have believed some rich girl to truly get her hands dirty when the times would call for that. Vlad was right, for once, and he was wrong. “It all boils down to how much you despise him,” he says. “How much is that?”

She shrugs her shoulders. “I just think death is too easy a way out, in general.”

“Zoja—”

“There’s places you can send him to. Places he won’t be able to come back from. You threaten him, you or your men, and—”

“What did he tell you?”

Her eyes meet his, and he can read the conflict behind her expression—the moral need to fight to keep her father alive, and the simmering embers of the hatred she grew up feeling for him. “If it doesn’t work, and he gets out of it alive, he will know I was in on it.”

“We never miss.” Frustration is slowly starting to boil in the pit of his stomach, but he’s also trying to remind himself that this is someone from a different world than his. That this is someone who grew up hating Daddy, but who is used to spending his money anyway. That the dirtier she’s ever been is when she falls from her saddle into a puddle of mud.

“What if—”

“We won’t,” he insists. “Now the question is, will you snitch?”

Three days later, he’s still thinking about the look in her eyes when she told him that no, she wouldn’t snitch. Ever. That she’s with him as long as he’s with her. And what bothers him is the fact that she hasn’t been at his place in the past few days; that she’s gone back to the dacha, taking Sergei with her, and that when she came back this morning, she didn’t do more than send him a text.

Wait for her to come to you—but he didn’t listen to his brother this time. The fear she might have spilled the beans was there, in the back of his throat, despite the fact that Sergei reassured him she hadn’t said even a vague word on the topic at home, and that she had butted heads with the house’s security men just to let Sergei stay.

It’s a weird feeling—he realizes as he sits in his car, waiting for her. To be afraid of what a woman might do fuck him up. But he’s spent the past three days thinking about her hinted counteroffer, and he’s found himself considering it more and more. It doesn’t matter that Vlad is so stubbornly against it; Anatoly somehow doesn’t want to risk losing her.

He doesn’t move from his seat when the back door swings open as she says an unenthusiastic ‘hey’ before throwing her duffel bag onto the back seat. But then she’s smiling when she closes the passenger door and buckles her seatbelt next to him, and he’s left wondering what might be going on inside her head.

“I’ve been thinking about your counteroffer,” is the first thing he says. This time he’s the one avoiding her gaze and staring straight ahead, at the back of the car parked in front of his. He doesn’t miss the sound she makes when her breath gets stuck in the back of her throat, waiting for him to continue. “I don’t think it’s that bad.”

She’s quiet for a while, then, but eventually her left hand stretches out to cover his right one on his thigh.

“Trying to convince you to agree on having your father killed was the wrong thing,” he goes on, turning his hand to interlace his fingers with hers. “He’s still your father after all, no matter how big of a dick he is.”

“Thank you.” And although she tries to mask it, the soft sigh she lets out still reaches his ears.

“Things might go wrong.” It’s a warning, although she must know that… right? Things might go wrong and we’d have to kill him for real—but he doesn’t finish that thought out loud. “But I still care about you and I don’t want to lose you over a piece of shit. Not if we can work around it.”

She nods slightly, and the smile on her lips is shy and tired. His hand moves up to the side of her face of its own accord, and she lets him cradle her, tilts her head to lean into the open palm of his hand.

“I’ll talk to my brother, convince him to give this a try.”

“Thank you,” she says again and turns her head to leave a kiss on his palm. “I’m sorry I disappeared,” she continues. “And that I took Sergei with me. I should’ve talked with you instead of running away.”

“I guess we both needed this time to think things through.”

“Yeah,” she nods. They’re silent for a while, but when the alarm system of a car in the distance goes off, she speaks again. “Anyway. Serёzha said we’re going to Mirik’s for dinner. Who the hell is Mirik?”

Anatoly didn’t see that happen, but Zoja ends up getting along well with Miroslav, so much so that Mila, his man’s heavily-pregnant wife, sits down next to him at some point and asks him if he thinks they’ll ever stop talking about horses.

“They’re loading the washing machine and still talking about fucking races. Please, do something,” she pleads, but there’s amusement in her eyes, and they both laugh it off. But then Varvara calls her over, and he watches as the two try to tear the two new unexpected friends apart.

He doesn’t even remember whose idea it was, to organize a dinner so that he could officially introduce Zojka to his best men and their partners, but he’s glad they’ve gone through with it. When he first met her, he didn’t think Zoja would ever truly fit in, but now he sees her and Mirik banter about some race’s end result and he can’t bite back that smile from spreading on his lips. Mirik and his fucking horses, venting off with his arranged wife, Varja and Anna occasionally cutting in—it truly doesn’t seem that bad.

“Who would’ve thought?” Valera sits down next to him, in the same chair Mila occupied just minutes ago, a cigarette in his hands. “I thought she’d be a spoiled pain in the ass, but apparently even Anna confirms she’s nice.”

Anatoly laughs at Sergei’s muttered Oh, but she does know how to be one when she drags you shopping! “She’s not that bad, no.”

“Vlad said everything’s still on hold, though,” Vasja cuts in, pouring himself a shot of vodka when he sits down. “Has the plan about the old man changed?”

“Yeah, we’re considering a different approach.”

“Why? That plan was good. You know I’m always ready for it, I’m just waiting for your sign.” But Vasja wasn’t there, at the meeting with Zuev, and apparently no one told him about the incident with Ira. “What? Don’t wanna upset her?”

It’s then that Sergei elbows him in the ribs and Sasha mutters something under his breath at him. Something Anatoly isn’t supposed to hear, but that still awfully sounds like he probably loves her.

He’s still mulling those words in his head when Sasha, Vasja, and Valera go outside for a smoke after Mila spots the cigarettes, and he’s left at the living room table with Sergei. He wishes his brother were there, but then at the same time it’s not up to Vladimir to smile at the way Zoja tries to blend in with his men’s women. At the way she smiles, and looks at him every once in a while, almost looking for his approval or just to make sure she’s not doing the wrong thing.

“Do you think we can be happy?” he asks all of a sudden, truly turning to look at Serzh this time, and finds him already staring.

He shrugs, downing his shot. “I think you already are. Haven’t seen you look at a woman you’ve been with the same way you look at her. Ever. I think she is, too.” He seems to bite his tongue for a while, but eventually just pours himself another glass and shrugs a shoulder again. “You weren’t there, at the dacha. She was a completely different person than how she is when she’s at your place.”

Anatoly drinks, too, and for a moment he looks at Zoja again. It’s not even out of the corner of his eye this time; he fully turns his head and stares at the way she’s lost in conversation—no more horses, Mirik is outside as well, but something she has in common with Mila and Anna, for sure.

“I think you’ve also slowly changed,” Sergei continues, studying his friend. “I don’t know what happened in Monaco, but—”

“I think I’m falling in love with her,” he blurts out, halfway through his next shot of vodka. The words are out there before his brain has the time to think them through, and the sound of them makes him stop mid-movement as realization hits him hard.

Even Sergei is silent for a while, and they both drink together, and sit at opposite sides of the table.

“She doesn’t know anything about our world. And she’s just as stubborn and impatient as Vlad. And sometimes I wonder if this whole thing will end up getting us all killed,” he continues, but he’s only half there; the rest of him is lost in thought. “But I wake up next to her and I think things will be okay. And when I’m out, I can’t wait to be back. And when I’m back, and she’s there, it’s like I know inside me that things will be okay. And now she’s here and the girls like her, and Mirik’s spent the whole night obsessing over stuff we don’t know shit about with her. And I look at her and I swear to God I’ve never been more at peace than I am right now.”

“Shit, when did you get so deep? Where the fuck is my brother?”

But they both chuckle and sigh, and drink what’s left of their vodka.

“I think you should tell her,” Sergei eventually says. “And no matter how much Vlad complains, I think you should not let her go.”

♕

Zoja is staring at the pear-shaped amber in her engagement ring when her father gets up and leaves the table. The jewel is hardly ever on her finger during her day-to-day life, afraid as she is to ruin it, but she’s figured tonight’s a good occasion to wear it. To show her father she does have a ring; that maybe Anatoly cares about her more than her father ever thought he would. And she knows it’s hardly even possible to begin with, but she wants him to fear what might happen. Wants him to fear the fact that the man that got to have her as part of a business deal might care about her more than he was originally supposed to at the beginning.

No one spared it more than a glance, though, aside from her mother, who really had to be mean and say Anatoly could’ve done more. He should’ve given you a diamond, she said. Diamonds are forever—but Zoja didn’t tell her love isn’t. That she has a billion diamond jewels, but her husband’s still fucking someone else anyway. Her husband’s gifting diamonds to someone else, now. A cold stone’s not gonna warm your heart when you’re all alone in your room she would have told her, but she didn’t.

When she eventually looks down at her phone at the fourth ring, it’s Anatoly’s the name she reads on the screen. The device has been vibrating in her lap for a while now—she knows because she’s already missed a call.

“I thought you had already died,” is the joke she’s met with when she picks up the call. “Took you a while. How’s dinner going?”

She sighs, casting a quick glance at Alёna, sitting awkwardly opposite her at the table while their father fights with her husband just behind the door. “In perfect Volkov fashion: not without drama and some rats.”

He’s quick at catching up with what she means, after all the time they’ve spent together and all the things she’s confided in him with. “I thought they had been shunned.”

“We all did. I guess they just decided that showing up for the wedding was a good way to get back into the family,” she shrugs, eyes never leaving her sister’s while the twins try to catch her attention—Is it Tolik? Can you tell him we say hi? When’s he coming over next? Do you think he’ll want to come ride horses with us? “Maybe they just need money, who knows.”

“You’re a fucking bitch, Zoja. No wonder you had to be given away to find—”

“At least my man didn’t try to ruin us, you stu—”

“Girls, enough!” It’s the first time their mother’s spoken tonight, and Anatoly must hear her irritated voice from the other end of the phone call, Zoja is sure of it. “Lena, shut up. Zosja, take your call outside or hang up. And you,” she points a finger in the general direction of Viktorija and Veronika, sitting at either of Zoja’s sides, “finish your vegetables.”

Zoja doesn’t wait around to hear Alёna’s reply, nor to witness the twins’ annoyed reactions at having to finish eating something they so passionately despise. She stands up without a word, grabs her coat, weasels her way out of Vika’s tentative grasp, and walks right out of the private dining room of the restaurant and onto the terrace.

“Is it always like that?” Anatoly’s voice, and the chuckle that follows his words, catches her by surprise, although she’s never once pulled her phone away from her ear. She almost forgot he was still there.

“Yeah. It would’ve gotten worse had we been at home. My father knows how to control himself when we’re in public,” she replies with a sigh, fighting back the tears of frustration and against the sudden need to scream into the darkness of the night as the first snow of the winter slowly falls from the sky like sparse flour. “I just wish we could be done with this farce already. We’re not even a real family at this point, so why do we have to play this travesty before the wedding? Couldn’t we just, I don’t know, sign the papers and call it a day?”

There’s a moment of silence on the other side of the call, only interrupted by someone laughing, and Zoja finds herself biting the inside of her cheek, suddenly regretting spitting those words out. He’s definitely with friends, and she feels so bad at the idea of dumping all her frustration onto him right now.

“Would you prefer that?” he tentatively asks. “Instead of a wedding in grand style, I mean. You know I can organize that if you want.”

Next thing she knows, she’s stuttering, every now and then eyeing the patrons outside on the terrace or down in the gardens. Because yeah, on the one hand, who wants to celebrate with people one has always despised? But on the other hand… “No, I think I want to do things right. And not for…,” she groans, sitting down on a freezing cold wrought-iron chair that makes her teeth clatter and she tries not to mess up her make-up by rubbing her eyes. “Not for the business thing—I don’t give a rat’s ass about that or my father.”

“Always classy,” he laughs. “Maybe we’re having too much of an influence on you.”

She, too, laughs at his attempt at lightening up the mood. If anything, it does take her mind off of her sister’s unexpected come-back with a husband their father promised to kill the next time he saw him; of her mother’s sour mood, and of her father’s uninvited company. “I wanna do things right with you. Even just… you know, just us. You, Vova, Serёzha, and your people,” she eventually continues, more serious this time. “It would’ve most likely taken me longer to marry you under normal circumstances, but we’re here now anyway, and I really like you… I just… don’t like the people in my life, that’s all, I told you.”

“Am I throwing salt on the wound if I say I don’t like the people in your life, either?” he asks—and, right after, she hears Vladimir in the background yell That makes three of us!

“Nah, it’s just a good sign you won’t make me put up with family meetings once I’m your wife.”

“My wife. I weirdly like how that sounds.” She can practically hear the grin in his voice, and she can even picture him within her mind’s eye. It’s almost like a Grinch-esque grin, and it’s probably one of the most sincere expressions she’s ever seen on his face. “You know I’d spend the whole night on the phone with you, but shouldn’t you be going back now?”

Aleksej is standing a few meters away when she turns around to check if her father has come out to look for her—which he hasn’t, but that’s no surprise. Just like his eldest daughter, he has a way of ruining get-togethers.

“I don’t want to. My father’s brought the woman he’s banging under my mother’s nose,” she finally admits. “There might be more drama going off if I have to sit in front of her like nothing is going on even for just a minute longer.”

“What if I came over? Crashed the party? We have a drink and then I steal you away,” he offers, keys already jingling in the background as he moves around. It’s sort of thrilling to know he’s ready to drive to the other side of the city just for her; it makes her giggle behind her freezing hand. “What do you say? How’s it sound, Zoja Antonovna?”

“Sounds like an offer I can’t refuse, Anatoly Borisovich.”

The smile is still burning bright on her face when she walks back to her parents and her sisters and that goddamn French mistress and her father’s closest men—all people she’d rather not see, aside from Lёsha and maybe a couple other security men she’s grown up with at the dacha. Alёna’s husband is nowhere to be seen, but Zoja has lived well even without him all these years, so she’s not going to miss him, although her sister’s presence at the table is still a surprise. Part of her thought she’d be gone, too, by now.

Chatter starts up again over their desserts and although she wouldn’t have been once, Zoja’s now proud to admit she truly doesn’t listen to a single word of what’s being said. She looks over the twins’ shoulders to check what they’re coloring in the coloring books they brought along to keep themselves entertained, and she steals glances at her phone’s notification panel, stupidly waiting for a message that won’t even come, not when Tolya’s most likely driving already.

She doesn’t notify anyone of his arrival—partly because she wants to see her companions’ reactions to seeing such a man in such a place, and partly because she really does want him to drag her away and she’s not ready for anyone to stop him from doing so. Not that the people at that table would ever be able to stop Anatoly Ranskahov from doing anything he sets his mind to, that is, but…

The atmosphere is back to being tense soon enough. Camille says something in broken Russian, and her mother butts in to remind her of her place, and before Anton can say anything, the two women are fighting at either side of him.

It’s quite the show—one in her thirties, the other in her fifties, but both of them are fighting like cats or like teenagers. It’s surreal considering who they are—or who they’re supposed to be—and where they are at the moment. Zoja and Alёna exchange a look—the first amused one of the night—and they try not to drag the attention onto themselves by chuckling too loud at the bomb finally going off.

Anton’s men watch on in embarrassment and one of them even tries clearing his throat just as Vera asks Zoja Do you think they’ll beat each other up? with big eyes on her face.

“That’s a great question, Veronichka,” Alёna whispers, leaning forward on the table to laugh with her youngest sister just as Vika stares Camille in the eye and tells her that ladies don’t fight like roosters. It sends Anaton’s men into a fistful of laughter, and Anton doesn’t know what to do to de-escalate the situation anymore.

That’s probably why no one stops Anatoly when he walks into the room, his face quickly turning into a mask of confusion as he tries to take in the mess that’s going on.

But then Zoja’s mother spots him when Zoja stands up to greet him, all her things in her hands, and her face turns even redder, if possible. “Of course, you had to ruin the night, Anton! First you take your bitch along, then invite this criminal over!”

“Anatoly Borisovich, I apologize. I didn’t know my daughter—” but his voice is drowned out by some more bickering, and then by the twins talking over each other as they exclaim Anatoly’s name in an attempt to get his attention. If anything, he waves them hello and smiles their way—and Zoja’s sure that has made Vika and Vera’s night, after their incessant asking about him.

“What the fuck’s going on here?” Tolya asks her when she grabs his hand and quickly pecks his cheek.

But she’s laughing, and she has a hard time telling him she’s not even sure, that that was a bomb bound to go off sooner or later and that she didn’t expect for it to happen here, tonight, in front of her father’s men, but it did. Even Lёsha’s trying not to get caught laughing, but when they meet each other’s gaze, it’s impossible to hold back.

“Take me home,” she chuckles, turning to look at her older sister one last time. They smile at each other and for a moment she thinks back to the night Alёna left the house for good—to they way they both cried on different floors of the house, and to their father’s angry voice coming from downstairs.

Then, she turns around and lets Tolya drag her away, his hand holding tight on to hers as they make their way outside.

It’s a relaxed drive back ‘home’—she wasn’t supposed to call it that, and Tolya was definitely not expecting to hear her calling his place home, but it still keeps a smile on their faces as she explains what happened, what went wrong. That her suspicions were correct and that her father truly is shagging the maid—and that that Freddy Leighton she was wearing the first time she met her really was a gift from her lover.

But then she’s telling him about the ruined dinner, and the experimental food Anton’s friend has come up with when he opened the restaurant a few years back and that she really didn’t enjoy. About how hungry she is, and how badly she needs a drink for no other reason than just drown her family shenanigans in alcohol.

“You should’ve been there,” she says when he pulls up at a drive-thru after they both decided French fries will surely make the night better, numb out with salt and unhealthy fats the sorrow of yet another night spent where she doesn’t belong—not anymore, at least. It’s a weird realization, but one Zoja finds herself accepting more than willingly. “You would’ve made the night more interesting.”

He chuckles, placing his order through the intercom when the car in front of them finally drives further, before pressing on the gas and picking her hand up again. “I’m sure,” he scoffs, intertwining his fingers with hers. “Your mother surely was welcoming when she saw me. Here’s my respectable son-in-law!” he mimics, completely turning over what the woman actually said. “That’s what she said, right?”

They both laugh for long minutes at that and Tolya’s hilarity only dies down a little when he picks up the bag and cup being handed to him before driving away.

“At least you’re not the one who’s cheating,” she smiles. There’s some uncertainty behind the look in her eyes, but the look he sends her when he pulls up into an almost completely empty parking lot puts her mind to ease.

He shrugs and unbuckles both of their seatbelts before awkwardly pulling her over the console and into his lap with a grunt, her back against the car door and her arm pressing into the steering wheel, her feet up on her seat. “I know you can’t be stopped, but I shouldn’t have let you go.”

She smiles at that, presses a kiss to his cheek before leaning forward to fetch the fries he moved onto her seat. “All you had to do was ask. I would’ve been happy to skip this dinner,” she replies with a shrug of her shoulders before feeding him a fry. “We could’ve stayed at your place,” she goes on, eating a fry herself.

“Yeah?” he hums, taking a sip of coke through the red straw before taking the box of fries from her hands. “And done what?”

The look in his eyes says it all. The way he’s looking at her, the way his left hand tightens its grasp on her side, even the way his lips curl up into half a smile and half a smirk—it makes her shiver in anticipation right in his lap.

“I don’t know,” she answers. “A continuation of what your man interrupted when we came back from the gym the other day wouldn’t have been so bad...”

His grin widens at that and as he leans back against his seat a bit better, he pushes a fry past her tinted lips. “Your father’s wife and mistress were about to slit each other’s throat, and you were sitting there thinking of me on my knees?” he chuckles and then hums when she leans forward and her lips brush against his ear.

“That’s a view I’d die for,” she whispers, pressing light kisses into the skin of his neck before pulling back up and going back to eating. “Although I was thinking more about you between my legs,” she continues, and when she meets his eye, she adds, “above me.”

She watches the way his Adam’s apple bobs first up and then back down when he swallows, and the way the look in his eyes almost hardens, in a way, makes her clench her legs together.

“We didn’t have much luck with that so far,” she says, grabbing the cup of coke from his hand to drink. Sucking through a straw isn’t sexy, but they maintain eye contact and she can only hope he’s picturing her lips wrapped around something else, something bigger—something his. “I think it’s about time the big, bad boss shows me, not anyone else, what he’s capable of. I didn’t think he’d be waiting for our wedding night to...”

“Say it,” he almost groans when she lets her sentence die into silence. She feels the way he readjusts himself underneath her; it would be pretty hard to miss—the way he pulls his hips back for a moment before sliding forward, the way he’s slowly but surely started to press up against her through both their pants.

It would be a lie to say she’s not just as affected, almost like a teenage girl with her first crush—between her legs, in her lungs, in her heart. “Fuck me,” she whispers finally, pushing the last fry into his mouth and then pressing a kiss to his lips before he has the chance to chew.

He shoves the empty box onto the backseat and puts the cup into the cupholder between the front seats before talking. “Is that you finishing your thought or you asking?”

Her breathing is quick and she tries her best not to look down at her lap, at the way his right hand is moving from her knees, up her thighs, before it insinuates between them and cups her sex through her clothes.

“Maybe a bit of both.”

His fingers undo the front buttons of her pants, but then he plays with the hem of her panties for a while, before she whines and wiggles her hips against him, her personal way to try and tell him to fucking touch her already.

“You know, when I first met you,” he says, sucking his fingers clean and then finally slipping his hand into her panties to tease her entrance with his middle finger, “I thought you’d be a stuck-up daddy’s girl.”

She cackles at that, but then the breath gets stuck in her throat when he flicks her clit and she lets her head bump back against the cold window with a badly contained moan. “You couldn’t have been farther from the truth, Tolya.”

“Yeah, I’m seeing it more and more every day.” The smirk on his face is teasing when he slips his middle finger past her slick folds and inside her. The position is not the most comfortable, and it must be even less for him, but she’s suddenly fluttering around him and she doesn’t want him to stop. “Such a proper lady…” he tuts, pulling her head closer until their lips are barely brushing, “and yet she’s getting fingered in a car. By some bad, bad guy.” He hooks his finger inside her and makes her moan.

“Weird how life goes sometimes,” she whispers, her lips moving against his, before he kisses her.

It’s soft and slow at first, but then he gets more insistent. He swipes his tongue against her lower lip before deepening the kiss and soon enough she can barely focus on his finger and the tiniest movements her position allows for.

Then, his lips move down along her jaw and the side of her neck, when she tilts her head back and tries to put the roof of the car into focus under the orange-y light of the streetlamp they parked right in front of. Her head is swimming, and she can feel the way her slick seeps onto her panties when he pulls his finger out of her and uses it to circle her clit again.

“So corruptible,” he groans into her skin, smiling at the way she gasps when he touches her just right. “I was thinking about you, too, earlier,” he continues, his attention never leaving her bundle of nerves as he suckles a tender spot on her neck.

“Yeah?” It’s barely above a whisper, no real strength left in her bones, but she still finds it in herself to wiggle her hips just enough to readjust her position, accidentally hitting the horn for half a second, but at least he has more room for movement now.

He hums against her, and his nose skims its way up her neck until he’s breathing her in. “Funny how I can’t stop thinking about you even when I’m with my men. You make the prettiest moans,” he says, and he’s accidentally rewarded by one, low in her throat as she gets closer and closer to her release.

She can feel her orgasm slowly build inside her—in her toes and in her fingers, and in her belly, and every-fucking-where in her body. “I do?”

He nods against her, but she’s barely aware of it. Her eyes have already slid shut, and she’s gripping tight on to him—one hand around his wrist and the manicured nails of the other digging into his knee. She can barely feel the steering wheel digging into the side of her arm, for that matter; all she knows is that her breath is getting shorter and shorter and that his name has already started falling from her parted lip.

“I’m always thinking about the way you say my name,” he goes on, finger slipping in-between her folds once again before moving back up to her clit. “Like a fucking drug.”

She moans again, and he’s back to saying something but she doesn’t hear it over the blinding pleasure of her orgasm finally going off behind her closed eyelids, her heart beating erratically in her ears. She jolts back to reality with a gasp only when she accidentally honks the horn again, and he chuckles, and she swears to God that’s the prettiest sound she’s ever heard in her whole entire life.

“Fuck,” she whispers to no one in particular, fucked-out gaze barely able to focus on the cars driving by on the adjacent road and that she can see through the passenger’s window. If she were in her right mind, she’d wonder whether someone might have seen anything, but she’s not, so she doesn’t.

“Yeah,” he laughs, pulling his hand out of her pants and sucking his finger clean, never once taking his eyes off of hers. “We’ll also do that.”

“Now.” She doesn’t beg, and yet she does now. She stares into his eyes and begs him with a look. And, again, she swears to God she only wants him—weirdly enough—and that she wants him now. Needs him now, after all the almost-there’s they’ve gone through just to get interrupted every single time.

But he surprises her by replying with a firm No. “I’m the criminal your mother says I am,” he says, “but I’m still enough of a gentleman not to fuck you in my car on our first time together.”

It surprises her, it really does. And it’s not even in a bad way, despite the fact that she’s sitting on the edge of her seat for the whole drive back to the Ranskahovs’ mansion. It’s just unexpected, and probably not how she imagined him to be. But it’s still a nice feeling, to know he’s already thought about it maybe, and that he considers her more than just some wife he’s managed to snatch through a business deal.

But then she’s stumbling backward into his house as he’s kissing her breath away, and she has no clue what she was thinking about in the car anymore. There’s just him, his tongue brushing against hers, his hands pushing her coat down her arms and onto the floor. One hell of an expensive piece of clothing, discarded like that; it would make her giggle if she weren’t already busy elseway. It’s like finally getting rid of one layer of who she’s always been for everyone—someone else’s representative, a piece of forced elegance swept away by tattooed hands.

She’s barely aware of someone hollering at them in the living room—Vlad or Serёzha or whoever Tolya had over before coming to pick her up. Although she does briefly think about the fact that he dropped everything just because she was having a rough family reunion and the realization makes warmth spread everywhere in her body. But then he picks her up and wraps her legs around his waist, pushing her heels off her feet, and her brain short-circuits.

The only thing she’s aware of before he kicks the door of his bedroom closed is a Don’t be too loud! yelled from the other end of the corridor; then, it’s just the two of them.

Who’s in the living room? she’s tempted to ask, but when they part from the kiss and she sees the hunger in his eyes, all words leave her mind.

“If they interrupt us,” he pants, setting her with her feet back on the floor and tugging her blouse free from the waistband of her pants, “I’m fucking you through it.”

She moans against his lips at that, doe eyes wide open and looking into his—and she knows he’s serious. And the more he pulls on her clothes to undress her, the less she finds herself caring about stupid what if’s if that were to really happen.

He rids her of her blouse with a swift movement of his arms, and then his hand is snaking around her, trailing up her back following the line of her spine to unclasp her bra, forcing gooseflesh in its wake.

“If they complain about us being loud,” he continues, letting her bra fall to the floor before ripping off his shirt she’s somehow managed to unbutton, “I don’t want you to quieten down.”

“Noise, noise, noise,” she groans, pulling her pants and panties down in one go and stepping out of them. “I’m so fucked out I have no clue what you’re talking about.”

He laughs at that, his face cradled in her hands as he gets rid of his pants. “You’re something else entirely,” he chuckles against her lips before picking her up again and letting her fall onto the mattress.

She watches him kneeling between her spread legs, and he’s hard already. And suddenly she’s back in his car, even if just for a moment, and she can feel his erection pressed up against her, and she realizes he’s been driving with that between his legs, and she moans out. Loud. And she can’t stop it—she’s been waiting and wanting it for so long, now, probably since back then, in Monaco, when his brother tore him right out of her grasp with a phone call.

Lost in her reverie, she misses the moment he kneels down and spreads her labia with his thumbs, but she does feel his tongue swiping up between her folds.

“You’re still so fucking wet,” he groans above her moan, and all she can do is hide her face behind her hands and think back to the way she has come over both her and his pants, ruining them. “You drive me fucking crazy.”

Then, he’s eating her out. It’s not slow like the first time; it’s messy and noisy, and he doesn’t tease her like he always does. He suckles on her clit and pushes two fingers inside her, and he touches her so fucking good that those two fingers turn into three before her heart has the time to adjust to the sensations.

Tolya, Tolya, Tolya—his name’s leaving her lips without her even noticing, but he basks into it, and moans when she calls him. And her fingers pulling on his hair make him groan right against her, and she’s breathless, and his fingers are deep enough to brush against that spot she can never reach with her own, and oh my god.

Her orgasm crashes over her like an unexpected wave, and the quick build-up suddenly snapping like an elastic band leaves her breathless and thoughtless as her back arches off the mattress and her hips try to escape his assault.

He fingers her through it, and she’s barely aware of the way he’s sucking hickeys into her flesh. She whimpers when his nose bumps into her overstimulated clit, and when his fingers brush against that spot inside her, and when he calls her name. Zojka. It drives her fucking insane, and her mind is so empty she doesn’t even remember there’s people in the other side of the house, watching television or drinking together or listening to the way she forgets even her own name.

Metaphorically, that is, because when he calls her ‘Zojka’ she knows nothing else, and she pleads him wordlessly to come up to her and let her do things to him or for him to do things to her. And not just with his fingers, but with that dick she’s spent so much time sucking off.

She’s seen and felt and touched the size of him, a bit longer than he is girthy, and veiny, and she just wants it to fuck her up. She wants him to fuck her up—although, in all honesty, he probably already has in more ways than one.

“That was quick,” he hums against her cheek, wet hand caressing up the side of her body as he keeps his weight propped up on the opposite elbow. “I didn’t even have the time to really touch you…”

He’s smirking, amused, when he brushes his thumb across her nipple and she finally opens her eyes and looks up at him, and the look on his face makes her want to both wipe it off and laugh with him.

“I was still worked up from earlier,” she replies breathlessly, taking his face in her hands to kiss him. It doesn’t last long, she needs oxygen after all, but it’s enough to finally shut him up for a moment.

But then he’s pressing down against her, the underside of his dick snuggled between her labia, and what she wanted to tell him slips from her mind with a moan. He rocks gently against her and the way he drags himself against her clit makes her see stars as she tries her hardest to keep a grip on herself.

“Zojka,” he breathes, the skin of his face hot when he leans his forehead against her right temple. All she can manage in response is a barely-there hum before he continues as her fingers dig into the muscles of his back, “If I’m too rough, I need you to say it.”

He’s already grabbing a pillow and putting it underneath her butt when she manages to gather her thoughts enough to speak. She doesn’t even remember the last time she was with a man fully—it wasn’t in the almost six months she’s spent with Tolya, and it wasn’t in the six months prior, either.

“Or maybe I want it rough for once in my life,” she says, voice more steady than she thought it would be, but then he’s slowly pushing himself inside her and her voice turns into a drawled-out moan, her fingernails dragging down his biceps when he leans forward above her. “I’m still not leaving this room tomorrow anyway, so who cares if I’m sore?”

His chuckle is breathless, and her thumb comes up to smoothen out the frown settling between his eyebrows with how hard he’s focusing on at least sheathing himself inside her slowly, giving her the time to get accustomed to him.

Her moans go from breathless to soundless as she clamps down around him and then when his hands slide under her back to hold onto her as he finally bottoms out.

The moan he breathes into her ear makes her shudder and clench down harder around him. For a moment he stands still, and she can feel him throb just once before he kisses down her neck and pulls himself back up.

That of him kneeling between her legs, deep inside her, his hands on her hips as he stares down at where they’re connected, is a sight she’ll always remember—although also definitely one she’ll find herself getting accustomed to. She stares at the way the skin of his neck and upper chest is slightly reddened, and then at the way he smirks down at her spread-open pussy before pulling his hips back and pushing back into her with a quick movement.

The sensation makes him moan, and she does, too. He manages to find that spot inside her that her previous hook-ups only did at the end of their encounter—if they did, that is—and he makes sure to bump into it again when he repeats the motion. While it still robs her of her breath, it’s slow and controlled at first, almost experimental as she gets accustomed to him—and him to her. Their moans are almost synchronous, and she feels herself contract around him every time he lets those noises slip past his lips.

But then he moves his gaze from between her legs to her face and her half-closed eyes, her eyelids too heavy with tingling pleasure to stay fully open, and she sees it. His smirk, and the look in his eyes, and how naughty it is as he rubs slow circles into her hip bones every time he pulls his hips back.

“Now there’s gonna be something else about you to keep me distracted when I’m trying to work,” he grins breathlessly, hands moving from her hips to her thighs. His fingertips press hard into her flesh when he pulls her legs up and around his waist. He leans forward a little more, then, his weight resting on his elbows at either side of her face, and the change in position makes her feel impossibly fuller as he slides in deeper, and all she can do is arch up into him as she moans. “Fucking made for me,” he groans before taking one of her nipples into his mouth and pulling.

The air wheezes out past her lips when he sucks on her nipple. She tugs on his hair—something she’s learned he loves, but also something she couldn’t stop herself from doing anyway—and tightens the hold of her legs around his waist, and she swears the sensation is so strong that she feels him in the back of her throat.

He kisses and sucks lovebites into her skin, but then he trails a hand down her body and circles her clit with a sticky finger a couple of times and she’s so overwhelmed by it all that she comes again. It’s quick and breathtaking, but still not enough to rob her of her ability to think this time.

Still, it’s him biting the flesh in the crook of her neck that pulls her back to the here-and-now, and she moans so loud she’s sure everyone in the house must hear.

“Fuck,” he groans, voice barely above a whisper, his forehead pressing against her skin when his movements stutter as the walls of her vagina convulse around him. “God, you’re so sensitive,” he says before kissing her, bucking hard into her and making the air puff out of her nose and against the skin of his face in a grunt. “You’ll be the death of me,” and he’s probably serious when he says it.

“You’re just—” she attempts to speak, but the head of his dick hitting her just right only makes moans roll off her tongue. “Fuck, right there.”

She’s not even aware of the way her nails rake down the skin of his back, nor of how tight the grip of her legs around him is, but he still doesn’t seem to care.

“There?” he asks, his forehead barely brushing against her lips as he looks down between them at the way he’s pistoning hard into her.

She’d love to have a peep, too, but then his thrusts become hard and focused, and he’s hitting that spot every single time, and her toes curl and her back arches so much her breasts press into his chest, and she barely even remembers how to breathe out something that’s not his name.

“So. Fucking. Tight,” is the last thing her ears pick up on, each of his moaned words punctuated by a thrust, before the way his pelvis hits hers and the way his cock drags back and forth inside her makes her brain shut down.

She comes hard around him when he not-so-gently bites her neck again and soothes the sting by suckling the same spot, and it’s so intense she doesn’t even have enough voice to scream or moan or grunt. Her body breaks out in goosebumps and everything goes silent for a minute underneath the white explosion going off behind her closed eyelids.

He’s still thrusting back and forth—she’s barely aware of it. It’s overstimulating—and overwhelming—and it renders her a moaning and whimpering mess underneath him as he chases his own high.

He comes inside her before he can even think about pulling out, and he moans her name—Zojka. It’s always that; it’s always Zojka, and even now it doesn’t fail, it tears another moan up her throat and right into the crook of his neck as she clutches on to him tight and her vagina spasms around him, milks him dry.

It takes them both endless minutes to come back down to Earth, and in the meantime she never lets go of him, and he still thrusts sloppily into her, almost unaware that he’s actually still doing it. Eventually it gets too much, and the tight embrace they’re in makes it so that he’s inadvertently teasing her clit with each thrust.

He pulls out reluctantly, and for a moment he just lies there, above her, his forehead against her collarbones and their sweaty skins sticking together. But then he gets up and sits back on his haunches, and she opens her eyes just in time to see the way he’s staring at his cum trickling out of her still lightly spasming pussy and down onto his pillow.

“I don’t think I’ll be able to not fuck you again tonight,” he admits, trailing his gaze up her body until it meets hers as he absentmindedly pushes his come back into her with two fingers. He’s out of breath, and sweat glistens on his skin in the light of the lamps. “Or the next week.”

Her laugh is breathless, too, and she barely has the strength to stretch her arms out towards him to prompt him to lay down with her.

It’s silent for a while as they lie there in each other’s arms, breathing each other in as they give their hearts—and their whole systems, for that matter—the time to calm down, go back to normal. But then she moves slightly and she can feel him—both the ghost-like sensation of his dick inside her and that of his cum cooling uncomfortably between her legs. She should get up, grab a washcloth and clean herself, but she feels boneless and light and it’s just so good to lie there with her head on his chest, her hair sticking to his sweaty skin and his tattoos.

“So…” He eventually clears his throat, his fingers still blindly tracing patterns on the skin of her back. “You ‘really like me’, huh?” he says, quoting what she told him through the phone at the restaurant.

It makes her chuckle under her breath, and she turns her face slightly to hide it in his chest before eventually pushing herself up on an elbow to look down at him. Her smile is so big it almost hurts her cheeks, but then it softens when his hand comes up to push her hair back from her forehead.

“That’s the only thing that stuck with you?” she smirks, leaning down to press a chaste kiss to his lips, her thumb caressing his cheek as her hand cradles the side of his face. It makes her feel well, the fact that he looks as fucked-out as she feels.

He shrugs a shoulder, turning his head into her palm to leave a kiss to her skin. “You kinda do when a pretty lady tells you so, yeah.”

She chuckles, and eventually quietens down again. Her eyes trail across his features, almost as though she’s trying to commit every little detail of him, every little freckle, to her memory. “I kinda thought it was obvious, after all the time we’ve spent together. And, you know, the things we’ve… we’ve done.” She looks away, suddenly shy without a reason, but there are so many butterflies going off inside her that she can barely think straight.

“Don’t you dare go shy on me,” he laughs, taking her chin in a hand and turning her face back to him. “No need to, Zojka.”

“I think I’m in love you,” she says instead, gazing down at his kiss-swollen lips and absentmindedly brushing a finger across her own. She still feels him; still feels his kisses in the tingling sensation in her lips, and all she knows is that she wants more.

“That’s good.” His smile up at her is soft and his hand moves from her chin to her own and gently pulls her fingers away from her lips so that he can kiss her again. “Because I know I do.”

♚

The New-Year fireworks in Venice are a spectacular show Anatoly doesn’t even pay attention to, not when he’s leaning against the frame of the French window, freshly married to a wife that’s standing with her bare back to him as she leans on the balustrade of the balcony.

The plan was to dress up and go out for dinner—they even have a reservation in a high-end restaurant they booked weeks ago, but they apparently didn’t show up. Instead, they got dressed—he in the bedroom and she in the bathroom, so that she could quickly finish with her make-up without having to go back and forth. But then he saw her standing there, in that golden dress of hers that truly doesn’t leave anything to the imagination, and he couldn’t help himself. Couldn’t keep his hands off of�� hers.

He can still feel the way she rode him not so long ago. The marks her nails left behind on his chest, left bare by his unbuttoned shirt, still tingle, in a way.

“Aren’t you cold?” he asks when she finally calls his name, tells him she knows he’s standing there and that he’s staring at her.

Her hands come up to rest on his when he hugs her from behind and hisses low in his throat at the way the contact between his marked chest and her skin makes it sort of burn. It’s a good feeling, actually, and he finds himself craving for more.

“Not yet,” she hums, turning her head to the side to peck his lips. “These fireworks are amazing, don’t you think?”

He smiles and lulls her gently from side to side, breathing in the smell of her and him mixed together, and that of the night, of the gunpowder of the fireworks firing up the night and the lazy snow falling from above. “I wasn’t exactly watching that,” he admits.

She giggles. And he loves it; he loves it even more when he’s the one who caused her hilarity. “We’re paying a shit ton of money to stay in this hotel just so that we could enjoy the show, and all you look at is me?” she asks when she turns around in his arms and slides her hands all around his waist, underneath his shirt and jacket, so that she can hug him.

Her skin is cold, but he figures they can stand there just a few minutes longer.

“You’re the only show worth enjoying.”

She’s taken by surprise by his unexpected words, by his blunt honesty, but then her face eases into a smile when she shakes her head in disbelief. “Who would’ve thought?” she hums. “Anatoly Ranskahov is such a lovey-dovey husband.”

“I know how to be a billion other things, too,” he groans in her ear, amused, before mock-biting her ear lobe and picking her up in his arms. “But a douche that lets his wife get sick isn’t among them.”

“Oh, it’s not even that bad,” she half-heartedly complains when he takes her back inside and closes the window, locking the Venetian night outside.

“Don’t wanna risk it,” he shrugs, cradling her face in his hands when he puts her with her feet back down on the floor. “Plus, I have news.”

She hums in question as she presses kisses against his lips, her hands sliding up his back to pull him closer to her. He was right—now that she’s back inside, she can feel how cold she got while standing barely dressed on the balcony of their room, but it’s still something she’s not going to tell him. “Yeah?”

“My brother called,” but he can barely focus when she’s trying to kiss him, even less when she makes him walk backward until the back of his knees hit the mattress and he falls to sitting.

“What did he say?”

She pulls the skirt of her dress up and straddles his hips, and he can’t stop her when she pushes him down onto the bed to lean over him and leave sloppy kisses on his neck and the upper part of his chest.

Maybe we shouldn’t, not now, but he can’t exactly push those words out of his mouth because then she grinds down against him and he suddenly remembers her panties are still in the pocket of his suit pants. “Your father is finally in our grasp.”

She pulls up like a spring. It’s still only enough for her to look him in the eye, but it’s still enough to instill a spark of worry into the back of his mind.

“Still alive?”

He nods.

“Which means we’ll be taking over his business when he’s been weakened enough?”

He nods again, his hands moving from the back of her knees to her hips and then her waist. 

“Good,” she smiles, kissing him for real this time. It’s slow and sloppy, and he can feel himself starting to strain in his pants the longer he kisses her back. “I told you there was another way.”

He’s the one humming back in response this time, just before he rolls her over and switches their positions to one in which he’s on all fours above her. “It’s a good thing I listened to you.”

“Well, I’ve always said I’m not just a pretty face,” she bites back, all smug, smiling up at him as her hands undo the closing of his pants. “I’m just sorry it won’t be as fast as Vlad wanted.”

“Don’t think about my brother right now, please,” he chuckles as he nips the skin of her neck, making her moan softly when he suckles on an old hickey she didn’t bother enough to cover up with make-up. “Let me just reward my wife the way she deserves,” he continues, already sliding down the bed to kneel in front of her.

“Fuck, Tolya,” she groans when he pushes her dress up to her waist. “I love the sight of you on your knees for me.”

“I know you do, Zojka. You’re the only one I’ll ever kneel for,” he grins, and it’s almost a mischievous look the one he has in his eyes, but then he dives in and all he can hear is the way she gasps in surprise when his tongue licks up between her folds.

Feedback is always welcome if you want to drop old me a line, it helps me get better at writing 💛

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[urlocalbunny]

Hello ! I hope you passed the exams you took. I am happy to be able to reapply. My question about boys is this : let's say the boys and Eloise can go to an amusement park at night. Wich amusement would the boys prefer ? (Ferris Wheel, ghost train, roller coaster) Have a good day or a good evening !

This headcanon was ready and I tried to post it but tumblr was hungry and ate it. I'm really upset and sorry for the delay but i got upset and took some time from it~

Aaron:

He likes the Ferris wheel and the games where you get prizes🥺.

As in Aaron is not vocal about any toys they go in until the ride begins. He's not boring, boy has good conversation and he CAN flirt.

He laughs and yells normally like everyone else, of course, but he's fine with whatever and he only cares about kissing Eloise and eating churros until his cheeks are chubby. Until...

I want one ticket, please." He grabs the water gun and shoots the targets easily, handing Eloise a big wolf plushie, blinking his eye and smiling as in "it's a secret, but I'm giving this to you because I am an actual wolf. Nice, huh?"

Eloise is full of bags and Things She Said "I Want It" And She Got Them™, then he looks up.

"I like the ferris wheel." Eloise runs to buy tickets and tackles people to get them if it's over. No regrets. Her man wants ferris wheel.

As soon as his feet are off the ground, he dangles them and giggles. "That's so nice. Does your tummy feel cold?"

When they're watching the view from above, Aaron sighs longingly while he looks at the forest and the manor. Then he turns to her and his little eyes are shining uuuugh. "I'm so glad I met you, my beloved."

The day ends with a sweet, heartfelt kiss and a hug.

Raphael:

He likes the rollercoaster. The worse it is, the funnier it feels. Spinning around and feeling the wind whip your face while you can't see a thing is freaking crazy!!!!!

He squeezes Eloise's hand while they tighten the security bars and his head spins while the cart approaches the peak. And then.

"ELOISE, HOLY FU-" "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH" and they fall into oblivion. He laughs his ass off while everyone screams in horror, and he throws his arms around as he feels himself being driven upside down and sideways until he has to gasp for air and his legs feel funny because that's just So. Much. Fun.

Eloise is yelling like crazy and praying for people he doesn't know in languages he doesn't know and he doubts that exist. She cursed a lot and for a moment he felt her hand squeeze his chest while trying to find support. He was red all over from so much laughter.

"RAPHAEL, ARE YOU OKAY?" he hears Ivan yell in the front, probably from the spot they waited on. He yelled back as much as he could before speaking.

"THIS PARTICULAR TOY IS INCREDIBLE AS FU-" "HELP ME YOU SILLY BATS"

He stepped down with a bounce on his step, Eloise by his side, grasping his arm for dear life. He heard the others approach them as he smiled.

"you said fuck."

"I would never say foul things. Eloise won't let me. ||("

Beliath:

He loves the scary rides with the cart. He sits on it and he pats his side so Eloise can climb uncertainly. She huffs. "You're gonna yell so quick. Gosh."

"BWAH" "UAAAAAAAAAAAAAH." "And that's on being such a liar."

The ride begins smoothly and so does Beliath, holding her hand and kissing her in the darkness, trying to play it cool and saying he will protect her of the ghosts and then the cardboard ghosts fall off the ceiling.

"I'M LEAVING. I'M LEAVING. DON'T TALK TO ME!" He holds Eloise close as she sighs, leaning into her seat.

"tell me how can a literal demon be scared of cardboard. I guess a moron will always be a moron." "Don't talk to me like that! That was scary and nothing prompted it. The next one won't be scary because I know."

After a good bit of screams and Eloise being squeezed like a pillow, they finally seemed to be ending their ride. However, one of the poor actresses let her plastic eyeball fall from her forehead and it went rolling near the carts. She went to get it, but Beliath noticed her.

Seeing a running monster with a hand over their third eye yelling "WAIT!" wasn't really good for his heart. He hopped out of the cart and left running and screaming a high-pitched sound.

The result was Eloise laughing her ass off in the cart while the others waited with confused faces. Ethan would never let this die. They're immortal.

Vladimir:

Baby likes the bumper cars so much! He'll spend his WHOLE TIME there if he can.

Every time he crashes he starts laughing heartily. Tries not to crash with all his might tho, just to annoy Eloise.

"Your car is supposed to crash!" "Too bad it does not, right?" "You'll see!"

He becomes a child, smiling like a little rascal as he races through the other cars and Eloise crashes behind him. His eyes glimmer when Eloise laughs behind him and mocks his long legs perched up on the toy.

He even has the odd urge to mock the boys waiting near the toy. Aaron curses back and laughs a booming laughter while Beliath covers his face with his hair trying not to laugh too loudly. Ethan looks grossed out and Ivan is already red and crying of laughter.

After a good chase, he turns his car the wrong way on purpose and smashes against Eloise's car, making her yell. They laugh together for a while but soon they make up a plan to smash everyone's cars >:).

They end up crashing against everyone at least once before the ride is over. The others look at him quizzically only to be met with the usual Vladimir. "What is it? Is something the matter?"

When they begin to walk home that night, Vladimir stayed behind with Eloise and held her hand, giggling as if they had a secret to hide. His pearly white teeth shone under the gaps on the tree branches. He winked at her, skipping home.

Ethan:

HEAR ME OUT I'VE HAD THIS IN MY DRAFTS FOR FOUR MONTHS I PROMISE. I'll paste this here.

The others go in another rides and he lifts his index finger to his lips and smirks, raising his other hand with the palm up. She looks back at the group in line for a roller coaster, but she holds his hand instead. She's his chalice anyway, they should try to get along more even if they were friends already.

Ethan runs through the crowd practically dragging Eloise, first to a churros tent and then to a less noisy place that was up a few flights of stairs. The guy stops skipping and walks slowly until they're in line for another toy that doesn't seem full of people yet.

"What is this? It's high, isn't it?" She asks with concern, eyeing him suspiciously. He shrugs, rolling his eyes and smiling as if she didn't know about real fun at all. "This, little pest, is a Flying Coaster."

"Why is it called like that?" "You'll see when we're on it." He says as he pays for the ride this time. They get up in it and he's practically buzzing. Eloise notices he hid the churros on his coat and when the security employee moves back to her place, the cart leans forward. She gulps. "Ethan, why are we looking at the floor?" "Chewrrows?" "You're chewing churros in out deathchairs?" "Nuish One, haha!"

The toy starts Actually Moving™. She then realizes they were a little higher up as her finger grazes the top of a tree three times her size. Then it's too late. "SON OF A- UAAAAAAH!"

Ethan laughs like he didn't in a long while and watches the moon from the highest point in the roller coaster while gulping down his churros as Eloise curses and kicks. At some point they look down and see Beliath's terrified eyes staring at them as Eloise curses at them too. "YOU FREAKING CLOOOOOOOOOowns!"

When they get down from the toy, he thinks Eloise will be mad and regrets his decision, but then she leans into his arm and starts laughing. Her hair ia disheveled and she grabbed his other churro (it was for her don't let him trick you) with the prettiest smile he had seen in a while.

"... Suddenly I feel weird. The roller coaster made me nauseous, let's get the fuck out of here." "I think it's your heart, Ethan-" "Shut up, you demon."

Ivan:

He likes easy rides, don't @ me. Eloise is in the amusement park with him, he won't go apeshit like he did before. He must be... CaReFuL wItH HeR. But with a little coaxing, he mumbles that he likes the Twister Rollercoaster and Eloise digs completely.

He jumps like a little kid twice and pays to enter, sitting close to her. Since it's kind of late, the front seat is just the two of them. He looks at her tenderly and holds her hand. "Will you be fine, babe?" "Yeah, don't worry about it."

The ride begins to move and Ivan kicks around a little and squeals. Eloise giggles, holding his hand as best as she can. He squeezes back, smiling like that made his whole year better.

As soon as the carts begin to go down the line, he yells in excitement and lifts his hands, looking at Eloise. She's just as excited, screaming in joy as the carts spin around. He wished he could take a picture of Eloise looking like a pineapple with her hair upside down.

"you look like a pineapple!" "Don't make me tell you how you look, please!" They laugh at some woman yelling a funny sentence and screech when the cart seems like it's going to derail in the dip. A camera flashes several times during the loop and he thanks the gods above for that.

When they make it back, Aaron is tapping his foot on the floor. "You both could've flies into space!" "You don't mean that. Look." He lifts the picture of Eloise with red luminous eyes and a ominous smile while Ivan straight up yells towards the camera, both upside down and with their hair messy.

The picture gets framed by Vladimir. Eloise isn't allowed to take it off by votes.

[jenifersaturn]

Loyalty (has always been a flimsy thing)

Lovino’s eyes are closing. The wound is too deep, and the blood is flowing slowly from his torso. He holds back tears of pain and makes sure to stay as silent as possible. The gun feels heavy in his hand and his grip is still strong even through the blood loss. He is ready to shoot anybody that dares to approach before the help Antonio is sending him arrives. He doesn’t even know if that help will arrive, much less if it will arrive on time. He can only hope by this point.

The world seems blurry and his head is hazy. Securing the cloth he is using to stop the blood from leaving his body he lets out a hiss of pain. It hurts so much, so fucking much. He wishes the pain just ended but refuses to give in to the exhaustion and the need to just take a nap. A little voice in his head whispers to him that a little short nap never hurt anyone in the past. He tries his best to ignore it.

He is almost at the brink of falling asleep- dying, he is almost at the brink of dying when he hears a noise in the distance. He doesn’t know whether it is from a friend or from a foe, so he grips his gun and raises it, pointing it to the doorway in front of him. His head quickly whips to the left alongside his hand, pointing at the left of the room where another doorway stands.

The man that stands there is significantly handsome, with spiky and quite unnatural blond hair. He just looks at him, as surprised as he is; it takes him no longer than three seconds to remember who he is. That the man is not just a stranger. He still has a firm grip of the gun, but he doesn’t want to shoot.

“Ma-Mathias”, the man’s name comes out forcefully from his lips. He can barely breathe nor talk without feeling the blood rising through his throat and he is probably going to die today but he doesn’t want to die like this oh god just save him and it hurts like hell.

Matthias looks at him noticing the wound. The moment the man steps forward Lovino moves the gun if only a little, making a garbled sound of warning. They are enemies, and Lovino isn’t letting him get near him.

“Lovino, hey. I’m not- I am not going to harm you in any way. Look, that’s- that’s a lot of blood”, even Mathias looks unsure about what he is about to do. “Please, let me help you. I know we are on different sides but I owe you my life and you’re my friend.”

He isn’t that convinced, but if he doesn’t receive help soon he is most definitely going to die. He doesn’t want to die, so he slowly lowers the gun.

“Good”, Mathias says as he approaches him.

The blond man lowers himself to his knees, taking out a medical kit from one of his many pockets. Lovino can’t help but feel immensely grateful when Mathias stabs him with morphine, because the pain had been hellish. He rapidly relaxes as he feels expert hands working on his wound, having already cut the cloth around it. It stings a bit, but even then the only thing he truly feels is how cold the needle is.

It seems Mathias isn’t happy about him relaxing, because just when he is about to give in to sleep the man slaps his face gently.

“Hey, Vino. How have you been lately?”

The question barely registers, and he takes a few seconds to answer it. “M’fine, have been better”. And he has been better. Right now he just feels drowsy, and sleep seems like the best option. He knows that he shouldn’t, he could die, but he is exhausted and sleeping seems so important right now.

“How’s it been going with Antonio?”, because if Mathias remembered it right, Lovino and Antonio were dating.

“A’stupid a’sever, I love ‘im though”, he tries to answer as clearly as he can, but it comes out more rushed that he thought it would.

Mathias’ hands suddenly stop moving as they grab the scissors and cut the string connecting to the needle. He winces at how weird it is to feel the string move through his skin, but relaxes again in less than five seconds. He tries to look at Mathias as well as he can, because his head is pounding, and the walls are moving.

“Thank you.” No more words are needed. Mathias nods and then stands up, fast, and begins to leave.

He stops at the doorway to the left.

“It was nice to see you again, let’s hope we can meet again in different circumstances”, there is longing in Mathias voice and he can’t help but agree.

He wants to reunite with his friends again, regardless of which side they’re on, and eat Mr. Zwingly’s chocolate as Mr. Edelstein discusses with them how annoying some musicians he knows are. He imagines Matthew having arguments with Yao over the slightest thing, while Alfred spends time with Arthur preventing him from even approaching the kitchen. Ivan would be seated next to Gilbert on the couch as the latter tells his brother Ludwig and Feliciano about his latest endeavors. Mathias would brag about his latest hits to Tino, Emil, Berwald and Lukas while Kiku spends his time cuddling with Heracles as he talks to Sadiq and Gupta about politics. Lovino would be with Antonio whining about the loudness of the reunion before going to the kitchen to start preparing food. Ferdinand would be there too, with João at his side. Vladimir would arrive only once Feliks and Toris arrived themselves. Raivis and Eduard would arrive together, yelling at each other but eventually getting drunk enough to declare their undying brotherhood to anyone and everyone who would listen.

But Lovino knows war isn’t fair, and even in his fantasies he thinks about the fact that not everyone will get out of this war alive. That they are not that lucky. Have never been that lucky. In the foggines of his mind he remembers his twin brother’s words of despair, uttered in that horrible mansion with no sense of time and space, about how daunting everything truly is. About how meaningless things can be sometimes. That he doesn’t understand how wars can be fought when there’s obviously more important things to fight for. Lovino agrees.

As he hears the faint sound of footsteps and someone he is sure is shouting his name, the world finally goes dark.

Mathias doesn’t know what he just did. He had been about to sneak into the enemy camp when he saw Lovino, weak, defenseless, bleeding and potentially dying. He had to help him. He knew he shouldn’t have, he wasn’t stupid. Romano Vargas was in their kill-on-sight list thanks to his uncanny abilities to kill people with their own weapons. Personally, he thinks it suits the italian: using his enemies’ own weapons to kill them seems like the sort of poetic justice bullshit Lovino would love. The thing is, he had hoped nobody saw him. When it came to traitors and treating enemy soldiers they had strict rules.

Mathias doesn’t want to be executed. He might be a high ranking soldier, an Oberst, but he isn’t as ready to die for his country as others. Defending his people to death is definitely one of his goals, but he does it for the people themselves, not his land. He isn’t that patriotic. The blond doesn’t really believe he would be able to live knowing he let one of his oldest friends die from blood loss, especially knowing he could have been able to prevent it.

Now he wishes he knew how to explain this to the familiar finnish man pointing a shotgun against his head.

“Nice going there, Den” the sneer in Tino’s voice is clear. They had never gotten along and they wouldn’t even try to see each other's faces if they could help it, but they were ordered to work together and Tino is dating Mathias’ brother so they can’t really do anything about it. “Do we have a tiny rat in our ranks?”

He swallows, “Look, Tino, it isn’t what it looks like-” the cold feeling of the shotgun against his head makes it somewhat harder to speak.

“I didn’t see you healing our enemy? Nursing him back to health?” and Tino sounds so judgemental. “He might be our friend, but we are in a war, Oberst Kohler! A war! We got no time to go around helping the men that are helping to massacrate our soldiers, our people!”

“But it was Lovino! It wasn’t just a random man! It was our friend, someone we spent hours, days, weeks,and years alongside with!” Mathias takes a deep breath, because he is this close to having a panic attack. “Vino saved our lives dozens of times, I am just… returning the favor. This is the last time I do this, Tino, I promise. Please, please, don’t tell anybody. I am no traitor, please.”

Mathias can’t help it and his voice breaks towards the end of the sentence, but the pressure of the shotgun against his head disappears and when he looks at Tino the man looks conflicted, resigned and his eyes adopt the softened look that is mostly reserved for Berwald, Lukas and Emil. Tino lets out a sigh before the hardened sharp look is back.

“Just this once, Mathias. If I see you doing something so stupid again, I won’t doubt it. Not even once.”

“I know.” The words leave his lips softly and weakly, a murmur that he knows Tino barely catches.

They leave a bitter aftertaste, because Mathias knows in a deep part of his heart that if the occasion arises again, he will help with no doubt.

He realizes something in that moment, and it is that despite the fact that he is one of the best fighters from their mismatched group of friends, he wasn’t made for war. He isn’t strong enough for it. Perhaps none of them were, he reflects, maybe they just had different reasons and that helped them fight. Mathias just wants to go home alongside Lukas, and he can only wonder what Tino wants as he looks at his stoic figure walking across the field (and Mathias knows that beyond that stoic exterior Tino is just a soft sappy idiot). 

He takes a deep breath and the exhales. He grabs his gun close to his chest before continuing scouting, decidedly ignoring what Lovino’s presence means.

(He hears the shots and goes running back to his camp and they have to move further back because somehow the Spanish forces managed to ambush them. He feels bad for the dead, and he can feel Tino’s judging gaze, but Mathias decidedly ignores all of it and tries to help as much as he still can).

Lovino wakes in the morning, two days later. He feels sore, has a headache, his torso still hurts a fucking lot, and he can barely open his eyes without hissing like a goddamn cat. He is half pressed to blame Antonio for this, but he resolves that maybe it is not the best time, and that Antonio technically didn’t have anything to do with it. Still, he wants to blame someone, and the man who did it is already dead.

He blames (and thanks) Mathias, for nursing him back to health. The field medic doesn’t even let him sit up, which irritates the hell outta him, and the fact that he hasn’t seen Antonio since he woke up worsens his mood. He tries to take deep breaths, no need to explode at an innocent soldato’s face.

The moment Antonio crosses the door Lovino opens his mouth to say something insulting but interrupts himself after noticing the blood in the other’s uniform. His worried eyes quickly turn to scan his fiancè’s body, noticing Antonio fiddling with the hem of his uniform, but no injuries are in sight. Antonio is just as worried as he is. 

“Come, tomato jerk, give a goddamn hug before I change my mind” he says, already seated, as he extends his hand to him. Antonio doesn’t even doubt it and he suddenly has his arms full of a Spanish man. The emerald eyed man is obviously trying not to mess up with his injuries, and Lovino readjusts his posture slightly so his lover doesn’t hurt him accidentally. “I’m sorry for worrying you.”

“I thought you’d die. The moment I kneeled there, in front of you, and held your hand. When you told me to go on without you, that you were going to be fine and that you only needed a gun...” Antonio lets out a sob, muffled by Lovino’s neck. “It felt like a goodbye. I thought when I came back you would be dead and the medic would arrive too late, and I couldn’t stop thinking about it.”

There is desperation lacing tomato jerk’s cracked words as he goes on, so Lovino hugs him tighter and murmurs reassuring words to him to try and calm him down, and when that doesn’t completely work he interrupts him.

“Toni, per favore, listen to me. Common mio amore, listen to me.” His italian accent becomes more marked, and Antonio stops talking completely, panting slightly. “I’m alive, and here, and at your side. I won’t leave in a very fucking long time and you’ll be so done with me that in our next life you’ll hate me. You can’t get rid of me that easily, tomato jerk. Never.”

“I’d never hate you, Vino. Never.” Antonio slowly lets go, standing up and wiping off his tears. “The medic says you’ll be able to fight again in about two weeks. He says he can’t give you longer since we have a deadline to get back this sector, but you may rest meanwhile. I do have a question, though.”

“I don’t know whether to be happy to get permission to do no shit, or be angry that I am bound to a fucking bed for two damn weeks. Whatever, ask away.” As there is no one there but his fiance he decides he is still childish enough to lay down and bury his face in his pillow in an act of pettiness.

���When the field medic got there you were already treated. He has asked around the camp but it seems it wasn’t one of them. Would you be able to name who did it?” Antonio asks, tilting his head in curiosity. 

He is fucking adorable, Lovino aggressively decides.

He wonders a bit, and even entertains the thought of telling Antonio the truth but ultimately puts it aside. Knowing Mathias saved him would probably affect Antonio’s efficiency in the field if they go against him again.

“Way too hazy, I remember little about it, I do remember he was blond, but that’s all. He asked me questions, to keep me awake. I think I ended up talking about you at some point?” He answers, making sure to hesitate a little. Lovino knows how to lie well, he had to learn when he was a child. But Antonio usually knows when he is lying.

“I’ll ask around then, coulda been one of the members of the 158th Regiment, since they’ve been around patrolling” the Spanish man thinks out loud before zeroing his eyes in the Italian. “I’m glad you’re alive”, he mutters softly.

“Me too.” And Lovino can only remember the times in which he would have answered with a I’m not. “Me too, Toni. Me too. I am happy you’re here.”

“By your side? Always.”

[aaello-w]

DP Plot - Storyline help

So I was writing a fanfic where full Danny and Pariah fuse (like Dan) and I had two options one this prompt which I will post right here or Insane!Danny straight up V*res Pariah's core (for a valid reason I swear) because he is insane. I did this because I want the reader's to know Danny is fucking crazy and is basically the Bill Cipher of the DP universe. So lemme know watchu think PLEASE!

The leader of the frost giants sighed in contemplation as he listened to the older halfa words.

"You're insane Vlad. Waking the Great One up in such a manner is sure to taint him and giving your record for these things I'd rather not risk it."

"And for how long do you intend to keep him asleep? Surely you must have realized that he WILL die if he doesn't come out of this soon, Frostbite." Vlad argued.

"His core may be fractured but it still functions as long as it remains here! He will be fine. Nocturne has agreed to keep him in a stable condition."Frostbite growled signaling to the jar containing a blue crystal orb. Although retaining its round shape it was in shards as if in need of an adhesive to keep it together. The current adhesive was a small purple misty band.

"Its. Been. Thirteen. YEARS!" Vlad growled back. "He hasn't aged a day but his peers are already courting. At this rate, they may as well die before he has the chance to crack an eye open. What do you think that'll do to him?"

"What do YOU think fusing his core with that BEAST's will do to him?" Frostbite stalked over to Plasmius and grabbed his shirt. Bringing his face close. "Our cores are our very souls, Plasmius and for him its that and his heart. As his godfather, I understand that you want him to live but if we do this how sure are you that he will even survive? How sure are you that he would remember who he is? That he wouldn't become a beast just like him?" The silence was tense and neither said a word. "The updates from Nocturne show that the Great One is stable but even HE won't be able to fix this if you mess up.'

"I know him. He can overcome it. He defeated Pariah once so I'm sure he can do it again." Frostbite saw the certainty in his red eyes and released the older halfa.

"Very well." He sighed defeated. " I'm sure you've seen Lord Clockwork about this matter before you came to see me." The Frost Giant took his silence as a yes. "I see, so I would not be mistaken to assume you have brought the materials needed for the transfusion?"

"You know me too well," Plamius said with a smirk. While the ring of rage and the crown are in your possession correct" Frostbite nodded. "I've gotten the old tyrants core right here." He said as he pulled out three thermoses from his bag.

They were not like the others that Frostbite had ever seen the Great one use. Instead of silver and green, these were purple and red. They had a see-through chamber in between their torsos. The one to the left contained a core, not unlike a sea urchin. It was somewhat round but was covered in deadly looking spikes dripping with a tar-like liquid the Frost Giant hadn't seen before while the one to the right was filled with ectoplasm. The middle one remained empty. They were placed on a console on some sort and tubes were plugged to their side both leading to the middle empty thermos.

After the setup Plasmius reverted back to Masters causing Frostbite to lift a furry eyebrow at his clothes. He was wearing a deep red hazmat suit. Vladimir turned to face him covering his face and greying hair with hazmat face protection.

"Just to be safe. I don't want my signature to interfere with this and this will keep it from doing just that. After we bring him in here I need you and everyone in the vicinity to be cleared out of at least this cave. Can you get that done?" Vlad said fixing his grey gloves.

"I believe so but I must warn you if I remove him you must work fast. Without his core, if his body thaws he'll die." 'And I'll kill you.' Was a threat that Masters understood. "Nocturne has also been informed so the Great One is also being prepared subconsciously to be awakened."

"Don't worry about that." He held his hand out to the Frost Giant who reluctantly gave Vlad their Saviour's fractured Core. " Bring Daniel and place him on the table. Like you said we need to work fast." Frostbite left immediately.

The old Halfa looked at the core and sighed. 'I can't believe he agreed to this.'

"Are you ready for this Daniel?" He asked the blue broken shards that only slightly resembled the orb they once were. 'Please work.'

He gently placed the core shards in the vacant thermos causing to shine bright blue as it floated in its container.

"Skulker. The gauntlets."

The hunter deactivated his invisibility and handed him the glove like machine now modified not to remove the ghost from a person but to modify the structure of one. It had taken the better part of the thirteen years to create these changes but he had done it.

"I still need you on standby... Just in case it fails." Skulker simply nodded and became invisible.

"Plasmius." Frostbite had returned and was carrying his charred body covered in white sheets. The scars hadn't healed and to the untrained eye, he was just a victim to a horrible fire but that was far from the case.

He was so willing to give his life for so many and nobody besides some of the frost giants, Clockwork, himself and Skulker knew he was still alive. Even his family and friends had mourned and forgotten him.

"Are you ready?" Frostbite asked as he laid the boy down and hooked him up to the medical equipment he had summoned to the room. The heart monitor showed his pulse and heart beat which moved like they were in slow motion.

"The question is - Is he?" Vlad asked softly at the sight of the younger halfa. It still made his stomach curl at the sight of him like this. He couldn't believe the boy had lived through the entire ordeal, even if he was less human than he was, to begin with. That catastrophe would and should have killed anyone.

"We have an hour for the transplant so I advise that you use your time wisely. The people in these parts have been distributed elsewhere so no one will interrupt us now." The Frost Giant locked the doors and sighed suddenly looking much older as he glared at the man. "Vladimir if this fails..."

"It won't," Vlad said firmly. "I may have done many crazy things in the past but I do love Daniel as if he were my son. I would be lying to say that I'm not s-scared to fail but that's because he does not deserve that." He stated and if anyone heard his stutter no one mentioned it. "Okay. Let's begin we have already wasted too much time."

After entering the password into the machine it the ectoplasm began to slowly drain itself into the blue core's chamber as the same happened with Pariah's core. The blue core pulsed almost uncertain to accept before it began to sink the mix.

Thirty minutes in, the heart monitor spiked and Danny began to twitch.

"I thought you said an hour!" Vlad said as he watched the boy's face contort in pain. He felt horrible the boy was in an uncomfortable rest for more than a decade and the first thing he feels during his 'resurrection' is pain.

The thermoses began to tumble violently, cackling with electricity that promptly shocked Vlad who tried to stabilize it. Both the chambers on the left and right proceeded to drain their content at a rapid pace some how suffocating the halfa's core. Pariah's core fading as it drains.

"Plasmius, what's happening? Is this supposed to be happening?" Vlad remained silent as he began to rapidly type on the keypad on the controls. "VLAD!" He roared.

"Look would you be quiet! If you haven't noticed, I'm trying to save his life." Vlad hissed.

The core shards began to lose hue and fade as they made no sign of coming back together. His core, his heart, was failing.

It was obvious that Frostbite was restraining himself to a great degree but he could see that Vlad was also under pressure as he could potentially lose the boy. He thought about where he would have been if he hadn't taken the brunt of the blast. If the people had listened to his warnings. If they hadn't caught him. He would have had more time but fate seemed to work against him. Even now Vlad kept trying to work through this. He may look like one but he wasn't a monster.

The beeping grew erratic and the thermos to the right (containing the ectoplasm) crashed causing the chamber to explode. As if that wasn't shocking enough another ghost appeared beside Vlad and created a shield to protect Vlad, himself and The great one from the blast. It was the hunter ghost, Skulker.

"Vlad we need to stop, if we continue we'll only damage it further. Remove his core." Skulker said.

"NO! We can't, I can't turn my back on this, on him. Not again." Vlad's voice heavily dripped with an emotion the frost giant had never truly heard on the older halfa. Guilt. Honestly, it made Vlad look older than he actually was.

He didn't want to make assumptions on fear that he might get angry that this halfa was actually acting on force hope and impulse and the fact that they were not alone, but he decided he would deal with it if, no, not if, when they revived the Great One.

The beeping had not stopped but there was a reaction from the Great One who was heavily panting. The shards had began to descend into a bluish purple with flecks of red in the broken shards which were slowly sealing themselves with the tar like essence of Pariah's core. Vlad seemed to notice this and gave a sigh of relief and shrugged Skulker off.

"Look now it working h-"

The last two thermos crashed with Daniel's core in it. A ghostly wail erupted almost immediately.

So that's it peeps that or Danny v*res Pariah's core. This version makes Vlad the staple father figure. Quick and easy. The other version Danny seizes the throne by force and honestly threatens Fright Knight into serving him because Danny doesn't want to kill him even though he kills the general draguar ghost in charge of his torture almost immediately. (Because Danny does not like his tongue chopped off.) So what do you guys think?

[diarrheaworldstarhiphop]

 Leaked audio recordings allegedly from Russian mercenaries in  Syria capture deep lament and humiliation over a battle in early  February where US forces killed as many as 300 Russians.

Published by Polygraph.info, a  website that's funded by the US government, the audio recordings  paint a picture of Russian mercenaries essentially sent to die in  an ill-conceived of advance on a US-held position.

 The Pentagon described the attack as "unprovoked" and started by  pro-Syrian government forces that crossed over the Euphrates  river, which functions as a border between US-backed and  Russian-backed forces in Syria.

 The Pentagon claims about 500 men began to fire on the  position, and the US responded with air power and artillery  strikes. The audio from Polygraph seems to confirm those  details while giving some insight into the feelings of the  defeated Russian forces.

 Also apparent in the audio is the Russian mercenaries'  displeasure with how Russia is handling the situation. Initially,  Russia denied its citizens took part in the clash. Later, a  spokesperson admitted five may have died. Last week, Russia's  Foreign Ministry said in a statement that the fight left "  several dozen wounded," and some had died. Russian voices on tape  report losing 200 men "immediately."

 Since then, the Washington Post has  reported that it has leaked audio confirming that a close ally of  Russian President Vladimir Putin secured permission from the  Kremlin before advancing on the US forces. Russia is thought to  use military contractors, and not their proper military, to  maintain deniability for acts of war and to conceal the true cost of fighting  from the Russian people.

 The audio recordings that allege to belong to Russian military  contractors back up reports from Reuters, Bloomberg, and the  Pentagon that roughly 100, if not hundreds, died. Reuters  reported that advance's purpose was to test the US response.

 Their accounts also align with how the battle went down,  depicting an unprepared column of troops meeting an overwhelming  air response before helicopter gun ships strafed the remaining  troops.

"The reports that are on TV about … well, you know, about Syria    and the 25 people that are wounded there from the Syrian f***    Army and -- well ... to make it short, we've had our asses f***    kicked. So, one squadron f**** lost 200 people …right away,    another one lost 10 people… and I don't know about the third    squadron but it got torn up pretty badly, too... So three    squadrons took a beating… The Yankees attacked… first they    blasted the f*** out of us by artillery and then they took four    helicopters up and pushed us in a f*** merry-go-round with    heavy caliber machine guns….They were all shelling the holy    f*** out of it and our guys didn't have anything besides the    assault rifles… nothing at all, not even mentioning    shoulder-fired SAMs or anything like that…So they tore us to    pieces for sure, put us through hell, and the Yankees knew for    sure that the Russians were coming, that it was us, f***    Russians… Our guys were going to commandeer an oil refinery and    the Yankees were holding it… We got our f**** asses beat rough,    my men called me... They're there drinking now… many have gone    missing… it's a total f***-up, it sucks, another    takedown….Everybody, you know, treats us like pieces of sh***    ... They beat our asses like we were little pieces of sh***...    but our f*** government will go in reverse now and nobody will    respond or anything and nobody will punish anyone for this...    So these are our casualties…"  

"Out of all vehicles only one tank survived and one BRDM    (Armored Reconnaissance Vehicle) after the attack, all other    BRDMs and tanks were destroyed in the first minutes of the    fight, right away."

"Just had a call with a guy; so they basically formed a    convoy, but did not get to their f*** positions by some three    hundred meters. One unit moved forward, the convoy remained in    place, about 300 meters from the others. The others raised the    American f*** flag and their artillery started f*** ours really    hard. Then their f*** choppers flew in and starter f***    everybody. Ours just running around. Just got a call from a    pal, so there are about 215 f*** killed. They simply rolled    ours out f*** hard. Made their point. What the f*** ours were    hoping for in there?! That they will f*** run away themselves?    Hoped to f*** scare them away? Lots of people f*** so bad    [they] can't be f*** ID-d. There was no foot soldiers [on the    American side]; they simply f*** our convoy with    artillery."

This is an older post i had kicking around of the alleged audio leak from a member of the Wagner Group, which is/was(lol) the mercenary group of Ukraine/Crimea/Donbass/Donetsk veterans sent to Syria to fight a clandestine war against the Islamic State on behalf of the Russian government.

Once the Islamic State was beaten to a point of near defeat at the beginning of 2018, Kurdish and American observers east of the city of Deir Ezzor noticed a buildup of troops and armoured vehicles on the eastern bank of the Euphrates River, the bulge or point by which the Syrian Arab Army attempted to head off YPG/Kurdish expansion into ISIS held land to the south east of the Euphrates.

at this point, it became clear that without soft, spongey isis to grow territorial control into, the Syrian loyalists confronted the fact that the US backed Kurds were now the major obstacle to the reintegration of all of pre-war Syria’s territory back into government hands. What’s more, in the race to defeat ISIS, the Kurds took the big prize of capturing the largest oil fields and production sites that lay on the eastern shore of the Euphrates. This is a massive, critical disadvantage to the Syrian government and a tremendous boon to the fledgling Kurdish rojava.

So, at least with Kremlin awareness or even approval, the Russian Wagner PMC group begins a lightly armed assault on the YPG to attempt to capture the conoco oil refinery just outside the grasp of Syrian control.

It’s important to note that while the SAA and loyalist “ISIS Hunters” were bogged down at the eastern shore of the river in their push to extend control to the opposite shore of the river, it was reported that United States special ops infiltrated the conoco oil refinery just outside the frontline, to capture it for the Kurds who had yet to even reach the area, as they too were bogged down by ISIS defenses just north east of the city in their own previous effort to reach Deir Ezzor before the SAA did. A stunning strategic victory and dramatic cucking of the hard fought effort by the SAA and the loyalists, only miles away, to puncture ISIS lines. With the Refinery captured, the USA could firmly plant their boots down and declare the eastern shore of the river for it’s Kurdish allies.

But nonetheless, via wagner group, up to 500 loyalists decided to test the waters and see just how much the United States would defend against any assault from loyalist held territory

What followed was, as you read above, a vicious obliteration of the PMC group. Once gunfire and light artillery began to land on Kurdish posts around the gas/oil plant, the USA began a dramatic, furious response. in a matter of hours, 100 or more Russian mercenaries were dead in an overwhelming and relentless aerial assault

so yes, that would be MULTIPLE AC-130 gunships circling Wagner group from above, raining hell down as various other jets and helicopters strafed the light, armoured infantry unit

Official counts state 100 killed but soldiers in Wagner suggest that upwards of 215 or more, just about half of the entire force, were liquidated “right away” along with all the vehicles they brought to the fight.

Several days later, reports arose of upwards of 300, or more than half of the 500 mercenaries were killed.

(SOURCE)

No wonder the survivors mercs were finding themselves licking their wounds and drinking heavily soon after

The Yankees attacked… first they    blasted the f*** out of us by artillery and then they took four    helicopters up and pushed us in a f*** merry-go-round with    heavy caliber machine guns….They were all shelling the holy    f*** out of it and our guys didn't have anything besides the    assault rifles… nothing at all, not even mentioning    shoulder-fired SAMs or anything like that…So they tore us to    pieces for sure, put us through hell, and the Yankees knew for    sure that the Russians were coming, that it was us, f***    Russians…

Analyzing the nature of the counter-attack, it’s apparent that the USA decided to keep up the counterattack, even when elements of Wagner’s attack force were in disarray or retreat. Usually the USA would give such an assault a lashing and let them retreat, but in this case the United States meant to send a message to the loyalists and, by extension Russia, “don’t fuck with us.”

And to most geopolitical observers, that the USA is here to stay.

[chosenmindset]

ChosenMindset - The Passion Of The Flame Inside Of Me - by Vlad G

1.Good heart living in toxic parts

2.Emotions caused by fear

3.Hell’s cycle

4.Depression killed the kid

5.Mentality of a lion

6. Inner piece of a lion

7.A message for your mindset

Good heart living in toxic parts

The inner rage of a child is one that is developed from birth.. A sense of hate that is fed by the toxic parts of earth. Growing up in poverty I couldn’t tell the difference between fun and dumb, gum and rum, and my fam did their best to keep me away from drugs and guns. Being the oldest son got me feeling like I am the chosen one because my older sisters born before me have put the pressure on me like I am the only one. As a child I was only trying to survive the cold and chase the cool, be like Simba from lion king and be a leader who rules. What is the cool? As I got older I seen why drugs were boomed, Children were doomed and making it out of the struggle was hope we knew wasn’t coming soon. Now the question is what is self? Why must I go to a therapist to learn about me and he just getting paid to learn about you. It is hard to understand us humans and we will forever be confused. We all got a fuse and the wrong spark will blow you up but the right spark may light you up so you can shine like a star. The goal is to be on top and higher than the clouds that used to bully us with it’s pouring rain.. And I hope one day I can conquer this pain.. or you can say this flame..

Emotions caused by fear

Having to put my ego at check because this year I pushed really hard to hit my peak. Breakdown after breakdown I can see myself dying inside, not able to let go of the pain and feeling caged in my head and wanting to escape outside. Being stumped trying to find my purpose in a head that is as crazy as a circus.Trying to avoid being alone in my head by going wild with different women in my bed.  Is lust really a cure for loneliness ? Maybe at the moment but I know for sure it isn’t permanent. It may numb the pain but that will never go away. Probably damaging your spirit the more bodies you try to slay. I want peace and love to stay but it’s axed by the feeling of fear I develop by them racing thoughts I get everyday. Hitting 100 on the dash because it’s a fast life and I’m not afraid to die, and if I’m pulled over I’ll just be cussing out the police like I am daring them to put a bullet in my eye. Exploding in city daring a nigga to kill me, when all I want is somebody to hear me. Comfort the tears from the trauma that I’ve had to deal with on my own. The sadness, madness, and feeling of self destruct left me stuck. I want to feel at peace and have these memories fade away but I know I want to keep the good ones but flashing back on them have been overshadowed by the bad times and it makes me scared of life because I feel like I’ve been living in a nightmare the whole time.. Young trying to hit my prime in a land where they won’t let you shine. I must wake up and face reality and find my peace and maintain that mentality.

Hell’s Cycle

He got to a point where that rage has took over him. Demons control him and the person he thought he would become is nothing more but the worst version of him. At this point he has convinced himself that he’s crazy and nothing but a madman and no matter what anybody tells him, he remains a sad man and them pills ain’t working so he out here moving like a zombie who is depressed feeling like he has no motive or purpose.. gotten himself in his own hell, his own jail, and nobody can bail him out cause it’s only him who can figure out how to get out of there. With this depression and being in a society where his skin color has him feel the severe oppression.. It should be his mission to recover and his desire to get better, but he got caught up in his own ways, doing those drugs that made him feel good back in the old days and now he has dug himself in a deeper hole and his mind has wandered away. Lost soul becoming helpless… stuck in the institution where he won’t get any real help cause everybody is selfish. Family trying to fix him but he see there is nothing wrong but he start to cry cause he don’t feel like he belong. A weak man who can’t even enjoy the small pleasures of listening to his favorite song or eating his favorite food. I want to help him.. Tell him he needs to get out of there and find his faith..  I can’t reach him though he’s stuck in hell’s cycle.. Nothing I can do but pray and hope somebody give him a bible.

Depression killed the kid

He was walking one day thinking about his life and how he has failed.. then he started to realize he was starting to feel old and frail.. Living day to day hoping one day that things will change overnight. Scared to take a leap of faith he just wasn’t feeling right. As he started to realize he had no love in his life he started thinking about taking flight.. The leap of death. This is the end.. Hoping if he dies that God will forgive him for all his sins. Contemplating this decision he starts to take shots of gin.. Reminiscing over his life the crying then starts to begin. He wants to end it all because he doesn't ever believe he will win.. Battling them demons inside they forever have been convincing him.. He has made the decision that his life is not valuable and this is the end. He gets to the bridge he takes the leap and before he hits the ground he opens his eyes to take a peak and right then and there he wakes up with the bottle of gin next to him and realize that the decision to end his life wasn’t meant for him.

The mentality of a lion

You ever have a bad day a sad day and a type of day that make you want to go on a mad craze. Shit wild how you get back to back bad news and you can’t even gather your emotions to stay cool. Gotta be resilient or else that anger will consume you. Being in a state of mind where you can fuck up and you want to give up, fighting your emotions inside got you taking punches to your gut, and you need to clear your mind because those messages just torn you up. Close your eyes and wait… just know this feeling you have is not here to stay and that it is all temporary and it will go away.. You got a mentality to be great, fuck the negativity and the hate.. Don’t let these people or them situations control your fate. Be patient you gonna get that smile back..You gonna see those toxic emotions can’t hold you back. I know it’s hard but don’t ever forget your worst day means the next day has to be better. Remember cloudy rainy days is only temporary weather. Now keep moving and continue this journey on your path because the road to peace is within yourself and only you can put out the flame to your wrath..

The inner piece of a lion

To understand my pain is to understand my brain, I don’t feel pain anymore and I don’t see love the same way I used to. I love my people but I hate the system that has tricked them into believing the Lord is our enemy and that we must remove him to bring equality. Equality isn’t a  realistic goal and equity should be the real change we should be chasing for. I am a speaker for minds like mines, minds that care and minds that doesn’t want to be scared. The loss of someone is a pain that can be hidden until you truly understand the meaning and by that point it is too late to try and control it, you are in tears , you are in pain, and you can’t stop that mental pain in your brain. Life has now become meaningless and now you want to give up, but that is not the purpose for you… your suppose to continue the fight and beat the system, beat the numbers they use to define you, use your creative insight on the world to create change. There is no such thing is I can’t because you’ve been created by a God who has given you all the power in the world to show you can. The journey to peace and happiness starts with yourself and once you open your eyes and wake up from the nightmare you will begin to see what is destined for you. As for me , I’ve gotten my peace a long time ago and I’ve found my happiness recently, now my purpose in life is to maintain both and continue to motivate others to find their own destiny.

A message for your mindset

I’ve realized that humanity doesn’t care about your sanity and most people only care about their own vanity. Still being controlled by what hollywood, society, and media throws at us, they control your perspective and the pop culture that’s suppose to distract you from all of this has influenced you to be drugged out by the new heroin in a pill and when you overdose the doctors prescribe you a medication that has the same side effects but with a psychosis that makes you depressed so you won’t get the same thrill. We are in the age of anxiety and we are starting to feel the illnesses of our ancestors, but being more conscious and aware, looking in the mirror not recognizing who you are no matter how long you stare, with God’s throne being dethroned we are in need of more blessings in the air. We lack empathy with others and so when you're hurt I can’t even cry with you because as a man I’ve been taught crying is weak so I can’t be vulnerable with you. Conquering my own fears so I can’t help you with yours but I can tell you it is easier to accept your flaws and not look at yourself as your own enemy. As difficult as loving yourself may be it is the best remedy. Clear the head and rid of the toxins trying to kill you and stop your progression. Being ill isn’t your fault and learning how to take care of yourself is the best lesson. Gotta keep fighting even if you don’t think you have anything left and you need to keep living and try to enjoy every last breath. The passion of the flame only has the desire to burn you down so create your own wave so you can cool down..

- Written by Vladimir Gaetan between the times of June - September in the summer of 2017.

© 2018 Vladimir Gaetan

[1badthing1goodthing]

#3

The bad thing.

This story from NPR: A Trump Swing Voter Looks Ahead.

I don’t know why I read this.

We are supposed to be listening to each other more, right? I mean, that is the popular thing to say. It’s what Obama told us to do. It is what, as an educator who hears more and more stories from teachers of students literally refusing to even hear other points of view in their classrooms these days, I do want to tell children to do. At least in a learning environment, you sure as hell don’t have to agree but you should be open to listening. So even though I don’t actually believe that people who have been oppressed have any responsibility whatsoever to listen more to their oppressors, as a teacher, sometimes I want to practice what I preach. And NPR is good at laying out stories in a matter of fact way, a way that probably wouldn’t make me too mad. 

That’s the reason I gave myself for clicking on it. But after reading it, I realized the actual reason was probably just because I’m an idiot, and I thought the “looks ahead” portion of this headline meant that this swing voter had realized the error of their ways after seeing the Cabinet of Incompetence and Ill Will that Trump is trying to get into place, or after watching his ridiculous shit show of a press conference that proved he only ever wants to campaign for the rest of his life and has developed absolutely no interest in actually governing. Maybe they looked more into who Vladimir Putin actually is and what he has done and it’s left them a little scared. Maybe they’re ready to apologize and move forward with us.

You already know, dear reader, that that was not the case.

I can’t get this short and simple story out of my head because it feels personal. Jamie Ruppert is my age, living in my corner of my home state. She’s one of the people who broke my heart into pieces when I saw Pennsylvania go red on election night, the final dagger in my soul. She seems sweet. She is quick to report that she voted for Obama twice. That she loves gay people. She might have been my friend in high school. 

After thinking about Jamie Ruppert for quite some time, I’ve realized that I don’t hate her. John Lewis tells us we shouldn’t hate, and so I’m not. I don’t hate Jamie Ruppert. But god, she makes me frustrated.

The reason she voted for Trump is the reason that so many millions of Americans say they voted for Trump. Because of the economy. Because she wants more things to say “Made in the USA.” Because she misses the blue collar jobs that Pennsylvania used to find so plentiful in our coal mines and steel mills. But the thing is, SHE IS DOING WELL! Her husband has a job that pays well enough for her to stay at home with her two, soon to be three kids! They JUST BOUGHT A HOUSE!

Jamie Ruppert is literally living the American dream. But because the America around her doesn’t look exactly the same way as it did when her parents were her age, she looks her American dream right in the face and says, eh, you know what? You are just not good enough.

You voted for Obama twice, Jamie Ruppert. You said you didn’t want to vote for Hillary because she promised more of the same, which you all of a sudden realized you didn’t want anymore. But you also said you care about the economy, Jamie. Obama helped fix the economy. Helping bring us out of the recession, job growth, decreased unemployment, all of it! We still have a lot to do but goddamn our dollar is strong as hell right now! HE DID WHAT YOU WANTED!

Of course, we all know that when someone says it’s about the economy, the ACTUAL reason is a deep rooted misogyny and racism that they can’t face. But still, for the people like Jamie who seem sincere, who want those blue collar jobs back, I mean, I get that. We all want that. But here’s the thing. They have been gone for so long?

Jamie, you and I both grew up in Northeastern Pennsylvania in the 90s, right? Did you also go on a coal mine tour as an elementary school field trip? We did that because the mine was empty. Because it is a vestige of our past. The Steamtown Mall had a coal powered train in the food court out of nostalgia, not out of pride in a surging industry. A fading paper distribution company named Dunder Mifflin is a more accurate portrayal of the Scranton/Wilkes-Barre economy.

Billy Joel produced a song about the factories shutting down in Allentown in NINETEEN EIGHTY TWO FOR CHRIST’S SAKE.

Coal mining, the auto industry, maybe they can come back in some way. Come back meaning, not die completely. That’s at least what the auto industry seems to be doing. And lord knows coal is still cheap as hell and we still use a lot of energy. But it’s never going to be like it was. It hasn’t been for decades. Why are we pretending like all of a sudden in 2017 it’s just happened?

And say you really did believe that the blue collar jobs of white Republicans’ wet dreams could come back. Do you really believe that Donald Trump, a Yankee billionaire, is going to do that for you? Even his Make America Great Again hats were made in China. You know why? Donald Trump knows how to make money. That’s all he cares about (along with being liked). Nobody who’s as greedy and selfish as Donald Trump is ever going to choose a more expensive and risky option just for labor’s sake. China, Indonesia, Vietnam. They make our products cheap and fast. We buy them. American businessmen make money. That’s what made Donald Trump. He isn’t going to change it.

Sure, he’ll keep making these announcements about companies keeping jobs in the US because of him, even though most of those companies made those decisions without any input from Trump whatsoever. But it’s good, free PR for those companies to go along with it, so hey, they won’t complain. And they’re satisfying, easily digestible stories for the American public. They make more of an impact than just saying “We added howevermany jobs to the economy this month.” That’s just a number. A plant keeping jobs in Michigan, that’s a story. It’s brilliant, really. It’s effective. But that doesn’t make it real. Those stories are still just tiny drops in a very big bucket, and the water filling that bucket isn’t changing.

And by the way, when those blue collar jobs were making America great? Guess what actually made them great. *whisper shouts* UNIONS. And if you think Trump is going to bring back unions, well, then I really don’t know what kind of drugs you’re on.

It’s just so enragingly disingenuous to say you care about the economy when all you actually care about is a nostalgic fantasy. Because there is a lot that DOES make America great. We continue to be the innovative business leader of the world. The technology that now sits in the pockets of children and adults from sub-Saharan Africa to the Middle East was first created in America. Not that the San Francisco tech world is that perfect either (lord knows none of those devices were actually MADE in Mountain View or Cupertino), but still. There are exciting things happening. Young people are rebuilding Detroit. There are industries (like renewable energy, say) that are just WAITING for young excited people to develop and innovate in. And those innovations could then possibly lead to blue - collar - jobs.

And one last thing. If you care about the economy? If, unlike Jamie Ruppert, you ARE still affected by the recession, and all of Obama’s economic progress still means jackshit to you? Or if you’re doing okay but still hurting? Banks, and billionaires like Trump, are your enemy. Then BERNIE SANDERS is your guy, not Trump. He understands why the recession happened. It was his WHOLE THING. And yeah, I know, Bernie didn’t win, but you’d think you’d want to still follow his advice. And his advice was: don’t be fucking idiots, America.

We didn’t listen.

I know, of course, that people like Jamie Ruppert just don’t care enough to think about all of this. They lead comfy enough lives that they don’t have to. She probably doesn’t watch the news much. She’s about to have three small kids. It’s a busy life. She had just enough time to look around her and think about how America, and her little corner of it, looks different than it used to. And the anxiety that produces? That’s enough. That’s enough to ruin it for everyone else.

Even though those changes that make one person anxious–they could be another person’s entire future. It could mean people get to dream dreams that they were never able to before. It could mean greater equality, better justice, which, by the way, often leads to a stronger economy. In all organic systems, diversity is good. Diversity is necessary for survival. Change could mean America continuing to be the freest, most successful nation on the planet. It could mean so much.

But Jamie probably doesn’t know enough of those other people. Those people that see a different America as exciting instead of worrisome.

So the anxiety lives on.

The good thing.

Times are tough. You might not have loved Obama as much or as thoroughly as I did. I get it. It’s fine. But god, his farewell address? We all deserved that. We deserved that last bit of eloquence and level headed-ness, intelligence and class. We deserved taking some time to just splash around in the joy of his and Joe’s friendship, and in the way he looked at Michelle and the way she looked back, the way his young daughter full of black girl magic clapped and wiped her eyes. And if you didn’t let yourself enjoy even that–well, I hope there’s something in your life that makes you happy. Because we need to cherish those things. Or else we’ll all break.

[angelaiswriting]

The Assistant (1 of ?) | Vladimir Ranskahov x reader

[original picture: pinterest i love these fucking hands]

✏️ Pairing: (eventual) Vladimir Ranskahov x fem!reader + probably other pairings, I don’t know yet, we’ll have to wait and see.

✏️ Requested by Anonymous: Y/N–hacker, big mouth, even bigger attitude–is the new addition to Fisk’s team. Sent to help the Ranskahovs, she immediately gets on Vladimir’s nerves. But as time passes, they start to take a liking to each other, even if none of them is willing to admit their feelings. Yet.

✏️ A/N: bitch yeah. Special thanks to @therealcalicali : thanks to her sweet message, I managed to rewrite this chapter and make it completely different (the first version sucks like probably nothing else in the universe) and now I like it. Hopefully, Anon, you’ll enjoy it too!! A small heads-up first, though: I wouldn’t count on quick updates if I were you. I’m still having some shit going on at home and I’m also a slow writer, so yeah. I hope to make this a good story, though!

✏️ A/N 2: the title is most likely not definitive. Hopefully, I won’t have to change it, but maybe I will have to, to make it and the story fit well together. Also, my brain goes on auto-pilot when I have to write for Vladimir (bc I need to fangirl, too haha), so I don’t exactly know what I was trying to prove with this chapter, but I still love it... so pls don’t come for my head haha

✏️ Warnings: violence, mentions of an erection (haha it wouldn’t be me otherwise), so 18+ only !!! or so help me god!

✏️ Word-count: 2,678

REQUESTS ARE OPEN IF YOU WANT ME TO WRITE FOR YOU 💛

CHAPTER ONE: RULES

Underground fights had always fascinated Vladimir Ranskahov, even when he was a kid back in Moscow. Part of the reason was that they were illegal, but there was also something else, some sort of aftertaste that lingered in his mouth even when he’d go home and lay in bed. They made his body buzz with unleashed energy and if that couldn’t be considered his drug, he really didn’t know what else could.

He had always been a regular, even in his hectic first weeks in New York: he had had to start from scratch, but he had managed to make himself a name. He was strong, he never lost; he was like Ivan Drago, with the only difference that there was no Rocky that could beat him, not if he sparred with Tolik.

It had been a long day at work and he was glad he had managed to find the time to escape into the fighting underworld. There was something there, something that lingered in the air and mingled with the smell of sweat and blood, that took all his worries and threw them out of the window. It was relaxing, almost rejuvenating. It kept his mind busy and his body ready for every eventuality–and, hopefully, smashing Fisk’s bootlicker face in would be one of those eventualities.

If it hadn’t been for his brother, who had dragged him away from places like that years ago, he would still be fighting. Obviously, there was no need for Anatoly to know he still hung out at such places: he would pointlessly worry and he would take Vladimir’s only pastime right out of his grasp. It didn’t matter he loved and cared for Tolya, he was not going to give up on this, for he needed it–he needed it more than vodka and sex and cigarettes, more than money and probably more than air. It had also been one of the only ways he’d managed to survive back there–rule number one: avoid its name–and he was not ready to let fighting go–rule number two: always be ready for history to repeat itself.

So, as he walked through the crowded space, he lit himself a cigarette with a smile on his face. He didn’t smile often, but this life… Oh, this life! It brought him back home, where he and others had used to fight like rats–rarely to the death, most often to first blood.

Oh, boy. Oh, fuck. He could feel it: the adrenaline starting to kick in, sending his brain in override. He almost didn’t feel the smoke of the cigarette as it sank down in his lungs and then made its way back up and out of his nostrils, like a bull in a cartoon.

Jesus fucking Christ.

He didn’t even feel people bumping into and shoving him as they tried to reach the makeshift ring in the middle of the place. It was like floating in the air, like being a kid on Christmas day–he had never felt that way on Christmas day, but he thought that was how he’s feel had he had the right family.

The vibrations of his phone buzzing in the rear pocket of his suit pants didn’t even make its way to his brain, for Vladimir’s eyes had already zoomed in on the fight going on before him. It had to either be to death or knockout, for first blood had already been drawn and the fighters didn’t seem to be willing to stop.

Blood rushed to his fingers and it almost felt like being there, throwing punches and dodging hooks. The muscles in his back almost spasmed and even though the movements were imperceptible, the sensations were real: he was back in Moscow and he was seventeen. He had been foolish enough to challenge someone twice his age just because the guy had called him ‘a snotty kid’–which he had never been, for he had never had the time nor the chance to be a kid, let alone be snotty. So, he had thrown in his metaphorical glove and had been lucky enough, for the other one–Moscow’s underworld champion–had picked the challenge up.

He had been an idiot and Anatoly had kept on reminding him for months after the fight. That night he had come home with a purple face, a half-closed eye, a split lip, a pulsing eyebrow, a bloody mouth, but holy fucking fuck, he had got out victorious from the fight. He had been on edge for days after that and he had never been called a ‘snotty kid’ again. Nothing had ever made him feel higher than the knowledge that he had accidentally beaten Moscow’s biggest moron.

Therefore, watching the two sparring men in front of him made him feel at home. If he focused enough, he could even erase the English voices and shouts and replace them with Russian profanities, just like that night.

His phone started to buzz again and this time he felt it against his buttcheek, but still chose to ignore it. This was his safe heaven and he wasn’t going to let business or any other thing slip into it unwelcome.

Just as the vibrations stopped, the bigger guy fell to the floor, unconscious, blood slowly dripping out of his nose like a fat, red worm. The winner, a taller but thinner red-haired guy, spat blood and a tooth to the floor and with a scream, raised both his fists to the ceiling and planted a foot on the looser’s stomach. Then, in his victory- and adrenaline-induced rage, he spotted Vladimir. That fucking well-dressed son of a bitch was staring at him and his sight seemed to zoom in on the blonde’s scarred face like in a movie. He decided he didn’t like that guy’s smirk, nor the forgotten cigarette hanging from one corner of his mouth, dusting ashes to the ground.

This was no place for rich motherfuckers.

He kicked the other man’s side with his boot and the man groaned. He groaned even more when a couple of viewers dragged him away from the center of the room: still half-unconscious, he weighed like a truck as his feet dragged themselves on the floor.

The ginger spat again and took a step forward, pointing at Vladimir with an accusing finger. “You, dick,” he half-yelled: his voice sounded as broken as his split front tooth. “What are you staring at, motherfucker?”

Vladimir’s hands had a will of their own as they tightened into fists and he had to unclench his crossed arms. His cigarette trembled between his lips before falling to the ground. He stepped on it, slamming his foot in an angry attempt to put it out.

“What did you call me?” He had to fight against his brain, for it had been ready to switch back to Russian. And he sure as hell didn’t want that carrot top to use Russian as an excuse to get out alive from that place.

The other spat blood and saliva to Vladimir’s feet–he didn’t know if that was a tic or a way to insult him, but he didn’t care. “This place is not for people like you.”

‘People like him’. Vladimir burst out laughing. What did that even mean? That it wasn’t for mafiosi? Or former fighters? Human traffickers? Drug traffickers? Killers? He’d put that man’s victory to shame just by using his pinky finger. He laughed again.

“To the death.” The gingerhead raised his chin in a derogatory gesture before picking his guard back up.

Rule number three: never back out of a fight.

Vladimir smirked. “I am not sure you want to leave world so soon.” His accent was as thick as the blood splattered on the floor, but at that moment he didn’t care. Hand-to-hand spoke only one language and it was that of blood and the last time he checked, Russians and Americans bled the same. Nonetheless, he still took off his suit jacket, carefully folded it and laid it on the ground before he let his phone fall on it.

“I don’t die,” the other snickered, throwing a couple of punches through the air to show off. “No rules, just what plain death can say.”

Volodya nodded as he grabbed his gun. It was a comfortable weight in his hands–cold, but nonetheless still alive, still blood-thirsty. He checked the number of bullets–just to show off–, took the safety off, aimed and smirked before he put the safety back on and the gun back in its holster. He wasn’t planning on using it, but ‘no rules’ meant ‘no rules’ and if that brat thought he could win dirty… well, Vladimir had grown up playing dirty, so he’d show him was real shit looked like.

“C’mon, what are you waiting for?” His opponent was bouncing his weight from one foot to the other, his fists high up in front of his face. He was panting as he tried to intimidate Vladimir Ranskahov–had he known who that guy was, he had never picked up a fight with him. “Throwing in the towel, are we?”

Vladimir never took his gaze off the other’s smirk as he unbuttoned his sleeves and rolled them up his arms. The thin cotton seemed to be on the verge of bursting as it stretched on his biceps. Too bad no one there knew the meaning of his tattoos, on display under the neon lights hanging from the low ceiling.

Fools, he thought. Motherfucking fools that thought insulting and challenging people like him would end the day in a hospital bed and not on a stainless-steel table in a morgue.

He positioned himself before the red-haired guy, a couple of inches taller than him, but not as strong, not as quick, not as knowledgeable. His leg hurt from the fight with the bigger guy, an older bruise was perched on his shoulder and half of his face had turned yellow from an older fight. His fists were too wide apart, just like his feet, and his guard was too low. Vladimir would have managed to break his nose even with his eyes closed.

The opponent threw a punch, which Vladimir dodged. Then he threw another and another, left, right, left. Vladimir was dodging them all effortlessly, bouncing on his feet, getting out of the other’s way.

He was still waiting to make his move, checking the other’s weaknesses–or pretending to be doing that. He sat on a much higher level: that guy had made the mistake of challenging a shark when all he was, was a fish. His only luck was that today had been a great day for Vladimir: he and his brother had gotten their money, received a cargo of twelve women, and, better than anything else, there hadn’t been a meeting scheduled with Fisk’s bootlicker, Wesley. He felt like he could spare this one life.

But then the other started to insult him, calling him a weakling, a girl, and Vladimir didn’t see anything anymore. He had stopped being a person and had become pure rage–so big and furious it was indescribable. Its blood-thirst had become his own, its fury had become his fury, his blindness had become its sight. It had taken him three punches to knock out his challenger: one to his left cheek, the other to his stomach, the third had been a hook from below to his nose.

The ginger top had fallen to the ground like a sack of potatoes, unconscious, his nose broken. And just like that, he remembered the other’s words: ‘no rules’. For a moment he had been on the verge of using his gun: he was going to drill him with his bullets and then leave him on the ground until he bled to death. But he wasn’t going to use that upper hand, not even when he had been called a ‘dickless Russian scumbag’–had that guy seen his dick, he would have choked on his tongue.

He bent down above the opponent, contemplated snapping his neck broken, before bursting out in another laughter. “Tell him to come back to me when he’s grown into a man, I will kill him then,” he laughed, picking up his jacket and phone and making his way out of that place.

Hell’s Kitchen night traffic welcomed him when he came back into the world. It was like being re-born again: he felt new as the chilly air reached his lungs and a smile plastered itself on his lips. Vladimir Ranskahov stretched his neck from side to side, rolled back his shoulders and heaved a sigh.

What a great day to be alive!

He could feel himself half-hard from the fight and the adrenaline and grinned as he thought of going home, down a couple shots of vodka, hopping into the shower and jerk off–it was too good a day to worsen it with a whore. He couldn’t even feel the stinging sensation in his knuckles as he made his way to his car, sat inside and gripped the steering wheel with more force than it was needed.

Right then, his phone went off again on the passenger seat. A look at it and he groaned–Tolik. He ignored rule number five (never let anyone ruin your post-fight glow) and accepted the call.

“What?” he groaned, starting the car and getting out into the street. He put his phone on speaker, threw it back onto the passenger seat and lit himself a cigarette before rolling down the window to let the cool night air in.

Tolya swore under his breath. “Where the fuck were you? I’ve been calling you for hours, motherfucker!”

Volodya grinned, his eyes still veiled from the bliss that had overcome him after the fight. “Out, having fun.”

“Keep it in your pants next time. There was an emergency meeting back at the garage and you and your dick should’ve been there and not in some chick’s cunt.” His Russian ran fast on his tongue, it dripped anger from every word, shooting bullets at Vladimir’s fourth rule.

Boy, was his brother wrong! Vladimir laughed. “Jesus, brother, don’t ruin my mood,” he managed to say when all he wanted to do was groan like an animal. “Should have waited tomorrow morning.”

“Wesley wants to see us tomorrow, so you’d better be there. Sex can wait.”

“You should fuck more often, brother. When was the last time you banged someone? Your dick will dry out,” he laughed, his shoulders relaxing as his apartment complex came in sight.

Anatoly cussed him.

“Why an emergency meeting?” Vladimir asked, changing subject and parking in his lot. Sure, they had been having some problems lately, but nothing too big and definitely nothing Fisk should be worried about.

“Wesley will bring a chick.”

He snickered. “And? If he wants to fuck in front of us, I’m not against it. It might be his chance to show me he has a dick and is not ball-less.”

“It’s not his girl. Rumor has it she’s some hacker that works for him.”

There was silence as he walked up the stairs and into his apartment. Why did that matter? She could be a whore by profession and he would still be uninterested.

“Look, be there. I don’t want to end up in trouble just because my stupid brother ditched me. The weasel said not to mess things up and I don’t want to. I need you there tomorrow. You can do whatever you want after the meeting, but if you don’t want that girl to hack into our business and fuck us up, you’ll be there.”

“Yeah, fine.”

His mood was ruined, his half hard-on wasn’t hard anymore, and all he could feel was the pulsing pain in his knuckles. If there was something he knew for certain, that was Wesley’s and Tolik’s ability to fuck his mood any time they wanted.

And if that girl set her mind to fuck their business... She’d better start praying.

>> chapter two >>

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I wanted to wait to post this, but... HAHAHA when do I ever listen to my goddamn brain? Hint: never.

Feedback is always welcome. Contrary to what I said I wanted to do in another post, I still don’t have a plan for this story (I’m so sorry), so if there’s something you want to see in this story or if you have suggestions in general, feel free to contact me :)

It’s so weird to know that ‘mafiosi’ is still ‘mafiosi’ in English haha this fucked me up as I was writing

TAGS (to be added to or to be removed from any list, shoot me an ask. Same goes for ‘Bratva’)

Everything: @idhrenniel @saibh29 @fuckthatfeeling @aya-fay @pebblesz892  @mblaqgi

Bratva (people not on the lists but that might still be interested): @sweetvengeancee @theranskahovs @brobachev