(no subject)
I just realized that I'll never finish this so I'll just post what I have left and step away from it.
Mafia fic (yes, still the same one)
del p/montella with a bit del p/zizou
ale pov
I saw a lot of things in France; it was everything that they say it is. Romantic, stunning, el belle. The language there, like sweet wine urging your to curling your tongue and when you sound each word it holds a lazy vibration, so you stress the word, making it your own. It was wonderful, especially with a person like Zizou as company. He was my only friend when I first came here; you practically introduced us, how ironic. The French are just like everyone else, so easy to trick, I worked as a minor part of the Police Force but in reality, I’m still working for Zizou. In France, nobody really knows that Zizou is the head of everything, so we could roam around the streets with out actual papprazzi’s chasing after us. I wished you were here when I saw them, Henry and Pires; the musical energy they radiate, the way those two matched each other’s rhythm in every way. Zizou was amused at how I openly expressed my admiration of their art, Pires would play the piano with his quick fingers and Henry would use his voice to match the notes; slurring the words, curling them around your body even though it’s a sound. It was truly fantastic, I’ve never thought I would like this bluezy type of music, but I fell in love with it just like everyone else whose ears have heard their music. They reminded me of us and I wonder if they were lovers, though I don’t know where we stand anymore, not after that night. By the way they communicated, Zizou bet they were just good friends but I corrected him, they are much more then friend. I smugly gestured to the matching emerald rings on their index finger.
Zizou was a fabulous host. Day by day, I would spend a few hours of my day working at the office then go home and enjoy the rest of my evening with him, drunk on him and his speech. He was everything you were not; tall, handsome, wise, patient, I could go on forever. I was even convinced that I was in love with him. The truth is, unknowingly he filled my need for romance and the absence of you in my daily life. The night you were caught, I was drinking the wine Zizou provided, feeling so giddy that I swear I remember twirling and laughing at the simplest things. I was completely unaware that miles away you were struggling against the strong grip of Alessandro Nesta’s lackeys as the man himself cocked his guns and screwed the silencer on professionally announcing your execution with the grim glare reflected off the smooth metallic of the magnum. I even fucked with Zizou that night, he’s even fucking better than you in bed, his cock is bigger. But in the final stages of my climax, I moaned your name. Just a crack in my disguise, a crack big enough for Zizou to know that I’m still thinking of you after the two years of romance with him. The word ‘Guilt’ played on me again.
I never knew how you escaped with just one single bullet wound on your shoulder. Talk on the streets said that you fought dirty and kicked Nesta in the balls; I nearly laughed when I heard that, but the situation at hand acted as the imaginary bucket of cold water; an old kind of fear, but not any less bone chilling. The questions appeared in the form of an Inzaghi. He came to my house in France; the elder Inzaghi. The Inzaghi brothers never bear any good new, if they turn up at your doorstep, you better be prepared. He asked me where you were hiding; I thought he was shitting me. That’s how I knew you were a traitor, a worm, to quote yourself, ‘one of those government dogs.’ Despite just knowing, feeling that you were there being so distant to you then, I didn’t tell him. My initial shock was enough to let Pippo Inzaghi know that I wasn’t lying. I’m smarter now, I know how to lie, cheat and disguise myself, which is why I had to avoid Zizou. He’s just like Paolo, you know. Calculating, calm, smart; that’s how he got where he is, everyone knew he planned Barthez’s murder and just like Paolo, he wouldn’t get he hands dirty. But it wouldn’t matter, if there was anyone who cared, they were dead before the bullet drilled into Barthez’s skull.
I look at you now, like a statue of those angels; they’re all derived of pupils, stony and cold, just like you. I can’t even remember the time when they were once smiling, you used to smile so bright it would take forever for that image to burn out in my head. Now, now, there’s nothing more then the cold crimson surrounding your body, matted into your hair, sinking into every line the tile floor and no matter what, there’ll be traces of you here; on this spot where your life slips out of emergency medics’ hands just like the blood that’s flowing rapidly out of the three bullet hole in your unprotected chest.
They turn your head at my direction, your empty eyes looks at me and I stare back; my eyes as dry as ever. I’m affected by this, hell, it fucking hurts. It hurts like a nagging bitch, dully reminded me that I’ll never see you wake up in the morning again, that it’s the end and you’re gone forever; no more mooching off your wine when you’re not looking even though I know you know but I do it anyways. I won’t be able to taking your hands in mine own when we fuck. No, no more fucking at all. The only thing I’ll be able to do is to look at you for a mere second when you’re in eternal sleep on the beds of your coffin and I’m passing by to pay my respects. I’ll be thinking of you waiting for me on the other side with the red sun rising.
Mafia fic (yes, still the same one)
del p/montella with a bit del p/zizou
ale pov
I saw a lot of things in France; it was everything that they say it is. Romantic, stunning, el belle. The language there, like sweet wine urging your to curling your tongue and when you sound each word it holds a lazy vibration, so you stress the word, making it your own. It was wonderful, especially with a person like Zizou as company. He was my only friend when I first came here; you practically introduced us, how ironic. The French are just like everyone else, so easy to trick, I worked as a minor part of the Police Force but in reality, I’m still working for Zizou. In France, nobody really knows that Zizou is the head of everything, so we could roam around the streets with out actual papprazzi’s chasing after us. I wished you were here when I saw them, Henry and Pires; the musical energy they radiate, the way those two matched each other’s rhythm in every way. Zizou was amused at how I openly expressed my admiration of their art, Pires would play the piano with his quick fingers and Henry would use his voice to match the notes; slurring the words, curling them around your body even though it’s a sound. It was truly fantastic, I’ve never thought I would like this bluezy type of music, but I fell in love with it just like everyone else whose ears have heard their music. They reminded me of us and I wonder if they were lovers, though I don’t know where we stand anymore, not after that night. By the way they communicated, Zizou bet they were just good friends but I corrected him, they are much more then friend. I smugly gestured to the matching emerald rings on their index finger.
Zizou was a fabulous host. Day by day, I would spend a few hours of my day working at the office then go home and enjoy the rest of my evening with him, drunk on him and his speech. He was everything you were not; tall, handsome, wise, patient, I could go on forever. I was even convinced that I was in love with him. The truth is, unknowingly he filled my need for romance and the absence of you in my daily life. The night you were caught, I was drinking the wine Zizou provided, feeling so giddy that I swear I remember twirling and laughing at the simplest things. I was completely unaware that miles away you were struggling against the strong grip of Alessandro Nesta’s lackeys as the man himself cocked his guns and screwed the silencer on professionally announcing your execution with the grim glare reflected off the smooth metallic of the magnum. I even fucked with Zizou that night, he’s even fucking better than you in bed, his cock is bigger. But in the final stages of my climax, I moaned your name. Just a crack in my disguise, a crack big enough for Zizou to know that I’m still thinking of you after the two years of romance with him. The word ‘Guilt’ played on me again.
I never knew how you escaped with just one single bullet wound on your shoulder. Talk on the streets said that you fought dirty and kicked Nesta in the balls; I nearly laughed when I heard that, but the situation at hand acted as the imaginary bucket of cold water; an old kind of fear, but not any less bone chilling. The questions appeared in the form of an Inzaghi. He came to my house in France; the elder Inzaghi. The Inzaghi brothers never bear any good new, if they turn up at your doorstep, you better be prepared. He asked me where you were hiding; I thought he was shitting me. That’s how I knew you were a traitor, a worm, to quote yourself, ‘one of those government dogs.’ Despite just knowing, feeling that you were there being so distant to you then, I didn’t tell him. My initial shock was enough to let Pippo Inzaghi know that I wasn’t lying. I’m smarter now, I know how to lie, cheat and disguise myself, which is why I had to avoid Zizou. He’s just like Paolo, you know. Calculating, calm, smart; that’s how he got where he is, everyone knew he planned Barthez’s murder and just like Paolo, he wouldn’t get he hands dirty. But it wouldn’t matter, if there was anyone who cared, they were dead before the bullet drilled into Barthez’s skull.
I look at you now, like a statue of those angels; they’re all derived of pupils, stony and cold, just like you. I can’t even remember the time when they were once smiling, you used to smile so bright it would take forever for that image to burn out in my head. Now, now, there’s nothing more then the cold crimson surrounding your body, matted into your hair, sinking into every line the tile floor and no matter what, there’ll be traces of you here; on this spot where your life slips out of emergency medics’ hands just like the blood that’s flowing rapidly out of the three bullet hole in your unprotected chest.
They turn your head at my direction, your empty eyes looks at me and I stare back; my eyes as dry as ever. I’m affected by this, hell, it fucking hurts. It hurts like a nagging bitch, dully reminded me that I’ll never see you wake up in the morning again, that it’s the end and you’re gone forever; no more mooching off your wine when you’re not looking even though I know you know but I do it anyways. I won’t be able to taking your hands in mine own when we fuck. No, no more fucking at all. The only thing I’ll be able to do is to look at you for a mere second when you’re in eternal sleep on the beds of your coffin and I’m passing by to pay my respects. I’ll be thinking of you waiting for me on the other side with the red sun rising.