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elmartillosinmetre · 4 months

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Vida de Chaikovski

[Piotr Ilich Chaikovski retratado por Nikolai Kuznetsov a principios de 1893 (detalle). / D. S.]

Akal publica en castellano un monumental trabajo biográfico sobre el autor de El lago de los cisnes y la Sinfonía Patética

El escrutinio sobre la vida de los grandes artistas no cesa nunca. Más allá de la diferente valoración que de su obra vaya quedando según las épocas, pareciera que los hechos objetivos de una biografía deberían resultar inamovibles, pero lo cierto es que están sujetos, además de a los nuevos hallazgos, a los cambios ideológicos, sociales y políticos, que condicionan extraordinariamente la visión que se tenga de los periplos vitales, en ocasiones a causa de sesgos involuntarios o incontrolables, a veces por manipulaciones incluso descaradas.

Contra unos y otras, sesgos y manipulaciones, ha luchado Alexander Poznansky en sus trabajos de toda una vida sobre Piotr Ilich Chaikovski (1840-1893). En 1991, este estudioso nacido en Rusia en 1950 pero que ha desarrollado casi toda su carrera en Estados Unidos, había publicado ya una biografía del músico con el título de Tchaikovsky: The Quest for the Inner Man, nunca traducida al español. Aunque todo lo que allí se publicaba, que contradecía muchas de las anteriores versiones sobre el artista, ha sido corroborado a medida que los cambios políticos en Rusia permitieron el acceso a documentación antes vedada, Poznansky decidió rehacer en cierta medida su libro para incorporar material nuevo y profundizar en algunos temas que en el trabajo de 1991 habían quedado marginados. El resultado ha sido vertido al español inmediatamente por Akal gracias a la traducción de Juan Lucas.

Es esta una obra biográfica, no de análisis musical, que se basa en una ingente documentación de correspondencia, diarios y memorias, lo que permite al biógrafo poner a su personaje a hablar muchas veces en primera persona. El punto de partida de Poznansky es puramente factual: todo aquello que no puede ser corroborado por documentos inequívocos es desechado o planteado en función de las hipótesis más verosímiles, que siempre son presentadas al lector de forma abierta. Poznansky tiene que desmentir muchas veces los datos y valoraciones contenidos en la primera biografía del músico, la muy sesgada que escribió su hermano menor Modest, una de las personas más cercanas al compositor, que ocultó y falseó la homosexualidad de Chaikovski (orientación sexual que era la del propio Modest), pero también las manipulaciones que los historiadores soviéticos hicieron del músico (muy conservador en lo polìtico), convertido en 1940 en “un abanderado del progreso de la humanidad”, o trabajos mucho más recientes y validados por la academia, como los de Roland John Wiley, nada menos que el redactor de la entrada correspondiente al compositor en el prestigioso Grove, y que en 2009 aún fantaseaba sobre las auténticas causas de la muerte del músico.

[Chaikovski. Vida. Alexander Poznansky. Traducción de Juan Lucas. Madrid: Akal, 2023. 728 páginas. 43 €]

Por suerte ya no es necesario luchar por demostrar la homosexualidad de Chaikovski. Pero Poznansky hace algo más que aportar una montaña de citas y datos que lo corroboran. Plantea la cuestión desde otro punto de vista: si es cierto que el decoro social en su época impedía hablar abiertamente del tema, la sociedad rusa era en general tolerante, y, aunque formalmente penadas, en la práctica, las relaciones homosexuales no se perseguían judicialmente. Añádase a esto que Chaikovski nunca sintió su orientación sexual como un lastre, una desviación enfermiza o, mucho menos, un pecado: era algo por completo natural en él. De ahí conviene derivar que la personalidad sin duda neurótica del compositor no es achacable a un problema de aceptación de su orientación sexual, algo que se repetía antiguamente hasta la saciedad. Sus fijaciones homoeróticas hacia los adolescentes (compañeros cuando era joven, alumnos y criados después, hasta su sobrino Bob, la gran pasión de sus últimos años) y sus aventuras sexuales en cada ciudad en la que ponía el pie, las hizo siempre compatibles con una conducta social equilibrada, que no provocó jamás un escándalo y en la que no hay rastro de psicopatología alguna. Algo ambiguo queda el tema de la pedofilia (muy evidente), que Poznansky parece confundir con la pederastia: es decir, la atracción por los púberes era innegable, aunque no hubiera abusos, lo cual también podría replantearse habida cuenta la relación de superioridad que Chaikovski tenía con muchos de los jóvenes con los que mantuvo relaciones.

Poznansky usa el escalpelo en todas las otras cuestiones problemáticas de la vida de su biografiado. Así en su insensato matrimonio con Antonina Miliukova, y su deleznable comportamiento posterior hacia ella, que se juzga sin tapujos (“el compositor destruyó la vida de Antonina con su conducta irresponsable y egoísta”). Por supuesto en su larguísima relación (epistolar) con Nadezhda von Meck, su generosa mecenas, analizando todo lo que se sabe de la ruptura, que descarta por completo la idea de que fuera el conocimiento por ella de las tendencias sexuales de él: aunque faltan datos fidedignos, Poznansky apuesta por una combinación de factores, entre los que los problemas económicas y de salud de Nadezhda habrían sido claves. Por suerte también, tampoco deben combatirse ya las “grotescas fantasías” sobre el supuesto suicidio del compositor, a las que se dio veracidad hasta hace bien poco. Poznansky indaga hasta donde los documentos le permiten en esos últimos días terribles del compositor, postrado por el cólera en una San Petersburgo otoñal, desvelando posibles negligencias y errores que habrían favorecido el fatal desenlace.

Más allá de todo eso, el retrato de Chaikosvki que nos pintan estas páginas es el de un hombre de un sentimentalismo exacerbado (rozando lo morboso), incapaz de vivir solo, necesitado de un afecto constante, manirroto, jugador de cartas y bebedor, atormentado a menudo tanto por su perfeccionismo (sólo de su última sinfonía afirmó sentirse realmente satisfecho) como por el temor a provocar el sufrimiento de sus seres queridos; también el retrato de un músico consciente de su valor, enamorado de Mozart, que se aburría con Wagner, más cercano a la belleza sensible y sensual de las cosas que a la sublimidad intelectual, cuya obra tardó en imponerse entre la crítica (Cesar Cui funcionó como su gran némesis) y que triunfó allá donde puso el pie (incluidos los Estados Unidos) pero sobre todo cuando muy tardíamente empezó a dirigir. Un hombre como tantos, un artista como pocos.

[Diario de Sevilla. 14-01-2024]

#alexander poznansky #piotr ilich chaikovski #akal #libros #books

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theranskahovs · 6 years

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Haunted *Piotr x Reader*

A/N: this is based on this post

•

Ghosts and entities were a familiar topic for you. You’d had enough experience with them to be able to tell when they were around, and when you came home one day you could tell something was definitely here.

You waited for a few days to see what needed to be done, in a wary coexistence with whatever decided to visit you for a bit.

You’d wracked your brain trying to figure out why they’d joined you out of the blue. You hadn’t bought any used furniture or objects lately; you didn’t go anywhere out of the usual; no one close to you had died; you didn’t forget to close your circle. Hell, you just changed your rock salt containers around the apartment, what did this thing want?

They didn’t seem to be aggressive, aside from some light wandering at night. For days you’d asked what they wanted, and on the fourth day of wondering you kept seeing and getting the word benevolent. Happy at the breakthrough, you lit a candle and brought out your pendulum.

“Alright bud, you know the deal. Let’s do right or clockwise for yes, and left or counterclockwise for no. Ready?” You paused, the candle flickering manically. “Show me no.”

Feebly, the pendulum moved left. “Can you show me yes?” Slightly stronger, it swings right.

You smile to the air, “You’ve been telling me about benevolence a lot lately. Are you benevolent?”

There’s a pause, and your hand is steady as it moves clockwise. “That’s good to know, I was getting worried. I’d like to know why you’re here.”

“Did you follow me from somewhere?” No.

“Did you end up here during my casting?” No.

“Did we know each other in this life?” No.

What else could it possibly be doing here? “Are you here for a reason?” Yes.

You take in a big breath, at least you’re getting somewhere. “Do you need help crossing?” No.

“Are you here to teach me something?” Yes.

“A life lesson?” The pendulum doesn’t move and the candle stills. You wait, watching for a flicker of the flame. Nothing moves.

You set the pendulum down and blow the candle out. “You could’ve said goodbye first.”

•

You’d been watching closely for signs the entity was harmful. Nothing bad happened, but you did realize they were a little shit. Whenever you needed something, the item would disappear and show up once you’d forgotten about it.

You also noticed that whenever you did spells, they’d be there. They must’ve not known much about witchcraft in their lifetime, because they always watched you closely. You suspected they even helped a bit, providing energy when they could.

When you’d be studying and forgot to make dinner, your cupboards would be open when you’d leave your room, or some kind of food would have fallen out, almost like they were reminding you to eat. Whenever you’d hear their wandering at night, you’d ask them politely to stop and they would. The whispering or voices you’d hear always stopped when you talked back, as if they were just lonely.

After a while, you fell into a routine like normal again. The ghost was welcome to share your space with you, permitted they acted benevolently.

•

While your ghost encounters were happening, you’d begun to talk with Piotr, and eventually started dating him.

One day you invited him over for the first time, and you weren’t sure if you should mention the ghost or not.

When you let him in, he instantly tensed up, but didn’t mention anything. It took him a few weeks before he finally talked to you about it.

“I think your apartment is haunted,” he told you seriously. He didn’t know if you even believed in the supernatural, and was afraid you’d laugh at him for suggesting it.

You couldn’t help it, you laughed. “I know, it’s been around for a few months now.”

Piotr’s shocked. “You knew? You let it stay?!”

“Yeah! It’s nice. Like a roommate.”

Piotr isn’t sure. “It always feel cold and anxious. It felt like I couldn’t breathe.”

“That’s weird, it’s always peaceful with me.”

That wasn’t all you noticed. When Piotr would come over, his things would get moved around. When you’d be cuddling with him, he’d jump and tell you about how something pulled his hair or his clothes, or pinched him. He wasn’t wrong, the next day he’d have a strange scratch or a bruise like a fingerprint. You didn’t want to tell him you thought your ghost was getting jealous.

•

Eventually, Piotr started spending the night at your apartment. You’d learned to sleep through the wandering and the voices, but Piotr couldn’t get used to it. In the mornings he’d mention how he’d had terrible nightmares and sleep paralysis.

“I can put up a dream catcher for you or something? I’ve already put agate on the headboard and under the mattress, and salt.”

“No. It needs to go,” he tells you seriously.

“Let me talk to it first. It really is nice, I swear,” you try to reason with Piotr. You start speaking to the ghost, “Please stop giving Piotr a hard time, I don’t want to have to sage you away.”

Piotrs turns to you, “That’s it?”

You smile at him, “Now we wait.”

•

After that, Piotr didn’t mention the ghost anymore. He told you he thought it was gone. But you knew it wasn’t. They still sat with you when you were at your altar, and you still communicated through the pendulum sometimes. You would let Piotr believe the spirit was gone, but in all honesty you didn’t mind having them around.

#something from the counter falls and you sarcastically say; you could at least help with rent. another item falls in defiance #send me headcanons and preferences 👋👋👋#this definitely fits in w the witchy!S/O fics bc im allowed to write some things for me sometimes you hoes.#writing #piotr veselov #piotr kuznetsov #x reader #imagine #piotr daredevil #daredevil imagine #daredevil one shot #daredevil season one

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archivistbot · 4 years

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Statement of Piotr Kuznetsov, regarding Regis II.

Statement recorded direct from subject, 6th November, 2016.

Statement begins.

Z 334383-1 [3466; 6th November, 2016]

Piotr (STATEMENT): Oh my god. It’s like I’m seeing things. Realizing things. And these things, they’re… not like before. They don’t have to be.

I’m afraid. I’m not sure if I’m ready to talk about this. I’m not sure I should. My head is too heavy. I don’t sleep. And these eyes… they… they don’t let me rest. They follow me wherever I go.

#the magnus archives #abot ocs #ask #Anonymous

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enzomartinelli · 3 years

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Piotr Ilitch Tchaikovski 🎼🎹🇵🇹

Comemoração do 181º aniversário do nascimento de Tchaikovski em 1840 Retrato de Tchaikovski por Kuznetsov, 1893 Piotr Ilitch Tchaikovsky, compositor russo – Nasceu a 5/7/1840 e celebra este ano os seus 181 anos, aqui retratado pelo pintor Nikolai Kuznetsov em 1893, ano da sua morte, quando o compositor tinha 53 anos. Em contraste com outros compositores russos seus contemporâneos, conhecidos…

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#compositor #em português #Enzo Martinelli #Musica #tchaikovsky

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opera-ghosts · 3 years

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Kuznetsova, Maria (1880–1966) Russian soprano whose vast repertoire, expressive voice, and powerful acting place her in the highest rank of singers in the early 20th century. Name variations: Mariya Nikolayevna Kuznetsov; Marija Nikolaevna Kuznecova. Born Maria Nikolaievna Kuznetsova in Odessa, Russia, in 1880; died in Paris, April 26, 1966; daughter of Nikolai Kuznetsov; married to a son of Jules Massenet.Maria Kuznetsova was born into the brilliant cultural universe of late tsarist Russia, a world of profound contrasts between glittering balls, ballets, and operas, and the oppressive poverty and illiteracy of the peasantry. From Maria's earliest years, the newest ideas in music, literature and the theater were discussed in her home. Her father Nikolai Kuznetsov was a highly regarded painter whose portrait of the composer Piotr Ilyitch Tchaikovsky has become universally recognizable. Initially, Maria showed great talent as a dancer, and she first appeared on stage in ballet at St. Petersburg's Court Opera. Soon, however, she decided to become a singer, studying for a number of years with Joakim Tartakov. Her 1905 operatic debut at the Mariinsky Theater as Marguerite in Gounod's Faust was an unqualified triumph. Acclaimed as a star, Kuznetsova took part in several operatic premieres, including that of Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov's The Legend of the Invisible City of Kitezh on February 20, 1907. Her starring roles over the next few years included Tatiana in Eugene Onegin, Traviata, Madame Butterfly, and Juliette in the Gounod opera Roméo et Juliette. Starting in 1906, she began to sing outside Russia, performing in both Berlin and Paris.Paris quickly became Kuznetsova's second artistic home. Much beloved at both the Grand Opéra and the Opéra-Comique, she appeared in various French roles, including Chabrier's Gwendoline (1910) and Massenet's Roma (1912), as well as in the standard roles of Aïda and Norma. In 1909, Kuznetsova's international reputation was further enhanced when she made her debut at Covent Garden. That same year, she crossed the Atlantic to perform at New York City's Manhattan Opera House as well as in Chicago. In 1914, Kuznetsova returned temporarily to dancing, appearing with great success both in Paris and in London, where she created the role of Potiphar's wife in the Richard Strauss ballet Josephs-Legende. She also sang the role of Yaroslavna in the first British performance of Aleksander Borodin's Prince Igor. Given at the Drury Lane Theater and conducted by Sir Thomas Beecham, this was the legendary "Russian season" that introduced a wealth of new Russian opera and ballet to the English-speaking public.As a Russian patriot, Kuznetsova felt dutybound to return home at the start of World War I, performing on stage as well as in benefit concerts for the war effort. In 1916, she braved the Uboat-infested Atlantic to perform once more in the United States. On her return to Russia in 1917, she saw her country first overthrow tsarist tyranny and then quickly descend into anarchy, with the year ending in a seizure of power by the Bolsheviks. Determined to escape the Communist regime and Vladimir Lenin's proletarian dictatorship, Kuznetsova succeeded in fleeing by ship to Sweden, having disguised herself as a cabin boy and then hiding in a trunk. Virtually penniless, she supported herself in her Swedish refuge for the next several years by giving song recitals with the tenor Georges Pozemofsky, also performing as a dancer during the same program.By 1919, Kuznetsova's career was once more on track when she was invited to sing major roles at the Copenhagen and Stockholm opera houses. In 1920, she appeared again on the stage of Covent Garden, and the same year she settled in Paris, which had been transformed into a center of emigres from revolutionary Russia. Married to a son of the French composer Jules Massenet, Kuznetsova was a major personality in the social and artistic life of interwar Paris. Versatile as ever during these years, she not only sang operatic roles, but also appeared in operettas and even experimented with a new career as a motion-picture actress. In 1927, she took on another role, as impresario of a new opera company comprised largely of Russian emigres, the Opéra Russe, which survived until 1933 when it succumbed to the economic depression.During the Opéra Russe's relatively brief but brilliant existence, Kuznetsova was not only its director but its unchallenged prima donna. Specializing in the Russian operatic repertoire, it had Paris as its base but made guest appearances at major opera houses throughout Europe, including Barcelona, London, Madrid, as well as at Milan's La Scala. In 1929, Kuznetsova and her company toured South America, presenting several previously unheard works in Buenos Aires, including Mussorgsky's The Fair at Sorotchinsk and Rimsky-Korsakov's Snegourotchka (The Snow Maiden). As late as the mid-1930s, Kuznetsova was still singing professionally. In 1934, she replaced the celebrated Conchita Supervia for a performance of Franz Lehár's operetta Frasquita, and in 1936 she undertook a strenuous and successful tour of Japan. After her retirement from the stage, she accepted an assignment as artistic advisor of the Russian operatic repertoire at Barcelona's Teatro Lirico. She lived the final decades of her life in Paris, dying there on April 26, 1966.Boasting a repertoire ranging from the entire body of Russian opera to Salome, Aïda, Norma, Mimi and Gounod's Juliette, Kuznetsova not only possessed what critic Alan Blyth has described as a "gleaming voice and shimmering vibrato," but also was a famously beautiful woman whose stage charisma was legendary. Added to this were her talents as a dancer, which led some of her contemporaries to compare her artistry to that of Isadora Duncan . Many have described her superb acting talent as being equal to that of the legendary basso Fyodor Chaliapin. Highly expressive both as a singer and an actress, Kuznetsova left as a tangible legacy only 36 recordings, both acoustic and electrical, made between 1905 and 1928 for the Pathé and Odeon labels. Fortunately, all of these performances are of the highest artistic quality and have been transferred to the compact disc format in Pearl Records' compilation Singers of Imperial Russia. Critic Albert Innaurato has called Kuznetsova "one of the great singers on disc [whose] records have a fragile, tender allure, the glamorous magic in her sound closely fit to a musical sensitivity that is hard to match."

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theranskahovs · 6 years

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fourth

{the color of his eyes is blue enough to drown in. he is turning you into a clichéd love-wrecked being. you’re drowning, always sinking. down, down, down}

•

You barely know anything about Piotr, yet it feels like you’ve known him for years. You know the way he folds clothes (on the rare occasion he chooses to), the way he cracks his knuckles when he’s bored or anxious, and how to make him smile.

You’re familiar with his fears, his hopes, but there’s so much more perceive. You want to know him as well as you know yourself.

Everything starts somewhere. For now, you’re happy with the realization that there’s minuscule flecks of blue in his eyes, hidden amongst the hazel.

#2-5-18 #writing #piotr kuznetsov

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theranskahovs · 6 years

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A Proposition *Part 3*

Request: “I need more of “A Proposition” I loved it so much” + inspired once again by my favorite anon V’s asks (1) (2)

Warnings: smut mentioned (not nearly as bad as last time), swearing

Word Count: 3k

A/N: *softly, as an afterthought* dream symbolism and premonitions, bitch. (this is most likely the last part, unless V or someone else sends me an ask that completely flips my world around)

Part One

Part Two

“Hello.” Hearing his voice surprises me, but in a way I expected it. I can’t help but feel a twinge of annoyance at him- this is already the second time he’s shown up at my house unannounced, technically an intruder. He’s lucky he forgot to give back my knife.

The visits are beginning to happen like clockwork. It’s been almost a month since the last time I saw him, except strangely, this time he’s alone. I don’t even question why that is.

He smiles- a lopsided grin that could light up half of New York if only he did it more often- and all traces of anger I feel toward him are fading. I smile back, and Piotr kisses the remnants of a scowl from my lips.

You wake up feeling more than a little disappointed. The dream is foggy already, and by the time you make breakfast you can’t recall what happened in it.

You’d caught yourself thinking back on the Russians’ second visit more often than you’d like to admit. More specifically, about Piotr. As his footsteps faded from your room and then you heard your front door shut, you suddenly felt weird about the whole situation.

It was almost as if you wanted him to stay, and that in itself was strange for you. You were used to these types of nights, reveled in them, actually. Yet you wished you knew why you wanted him to spend the night, or how to ask him to, or even if you should in the first place. You’d wasted enough time pondering those questions even though the answers weren’t hidden.

You knew Piotr wasn’t the kind of guy to hold you close and whisper his deepest secrets to you after sex- he’d already made that clear. Even if he was, you didn’t have to be a psychic to predict it wouldn’t have ended well.

He had even more blood on his hands than you, there’s no way that would mix better than oil and water. People like you two- who only did things that benefited them, and who didn’t care how detrimental those things were- didn’t get love affairs.

That didn’t stop you from imagining it, though. Somehow, the hope made the longing worse. But you managed to put him out of your mind, instead spending your waking hours completing new jobs.

You weren’t ready to admit it to yourself yet, but secretly you knew you weren’t going to do business with Vladimir anymore. Your web was already woven too deep, and you had to get out before you got stuck.

When you returned home from your latest business venture, you found a threat. It was from your former employer, and if you had a name for him, you’d use it. But sadly, you didn’t. He was a ghost, and you seemed all too easy to track down.

In plain handwriting, indistinguishable, on a small piece of paper taped to your mirror, read;

The rendezvous need to stop. I was promised Ranskahov’s head. I haven’t received what I’m owed. We’re always watching.

A shiver goes down your spine, and you angrily rip the note from the mirror and toss it in the trash. You didn’t fear him. You weren’t giving him any kind of satisfaction.

There’s a loud knock on your door, and you jump. You hurriedly search for your gun, then remember it’s still in your bag from earlier in the day. The familiar weapon melds into your palm, and you make your way to the door. Cautiously, you look through the peephole.

You’re almost as shocked as you would be if you saw someone with a machine gun; Piotr’s standing there, looking uncertain, almost ready to turn around and leave.

You open the door and let him in, locking it quickly behind him. “Why haven’t you left?” He asks, wringing his hands together.

“What are you talking about?” You ask.

“Did he not tell you?” Piotr questions, searching your eyes. He’s met with only confusion, and he sighs in frustration.

“Of course he fucking didn’t,” Piotr spits out, scowling.

You shrug, shaking your head. You have no idea what he’s talking about. “Vladimir didn’t tell you about the guys watching this building. The ones I killed.”

“The job I was hired to do,” you mention. “To kill Vladimir. They’re watching me.”

He nods. You’re about to yell at him for not telling you sooner, for risking himself to kill them when it’s your problem to deal with. But you don’t. Instead, you pull him into a hug, wrapping your arms around his neck.

You can feel the tenseness of his form slowly fade, until his hands come up to rest on your back. “Thanks you,” you whisper. It’s been so long since someone cared.

“It’s not safe here,” he states, abruptly moving out of your embrace, words sharp.

The long-awaited words pop out of your mouth, “Stay, then.”

He shakes his head with a chuckle. You feel ashamed you’d asked, of course this was a mistake. “That won’t help. Come to my place,” he offers instead. So you do.

I leave the home I’d formed no attachments to with only a few small bags. My plants would have to be left behind, and the simple furniture and useless decorations. On the kitchen counter, I left a note for the Ghost- that’s what I’ve taken to calling him now- full of challenge and contempt. “Fuck you. You’ll never find me.” Where I would’ve signed my name, I sealed the message with a kiss, my dark lipstick staining the paper. It reminded me of blood. What an omen.

Piotr opens the door for you, letting you walk in first. “Chivalry isn’t dead,” you joke, turning back to raise your eyebrows at him.

You take in the minimal apartment. It wasn’t as messy as you expected, and it wasn’t furnished beyond the necessities. A reminder of the similarities of your lifestyles.

As he helps you set your bags down, you turn to him, putting a hand on his arm. “Please don’t get your hands dirty for me,” you tell him softly. You don’t expect anything from him, you don’t need anything from him.

He smiles slightly, shaking his head. “It doesn’t make a difference anymore.” You know the feeling.

Your hand moves to his neck, thumb rubbing his cheek. “Thank you,” you repeat, not knowing how else to express the sentiment.

“Of course,” he breathes out gruffly.

His head dips down, kissing you as you step closer to him. It feels better than last time. There’s no trace of roughness or anger, and Vladimir isn’t here to fight with him or challenge him.

His hands push up your shirt, then tug at your hips, pulling you impossibly close to him. The thought of money doesn’t even cross your mind as you let him pull your shirt off, then you watch his go next.

The only thing on your mind is him as he leads you to his bedroom. You unclip your bra without a second thought to compensation. You get his belt unbuckled, waiting for him to kick his pants and underwear to the side.

When he sits at the edge of the bed and pulls you to straddle him, you’re glad he came to your apartment. Later, when you’re crying out his name in muffled pants and ragged breaths, you’re not thinking about Vladimir, or his money. Even later still, as Piotr brushes your hair off your face, you realize you’re glad you didn’t.

For a few weeks you stay in Piotr’s apartment, having no other choice. You expect the Ghost’s accomplices are searching high and low for you, you have to assume that.

It was a wonderful few weeks, filled with more orgasms than you could count, and late night talks with Piotr about anything you could think of. Who would’ve thought?

Not leaving the apartment was driving you crazy, though. So to repay Piotr for letting you stay (and also to have something to take your mind off the incessant worry that’s been creeping up on you lately) you’d taken to tidying up and cooking.

This particular night you had a stir fry going, and the food sizzling away in the pan was enough to make your stomach growl. In addition to the wonderful smell drifting through the rooms, Piotr was impatiently waiting for it to be ready.

You’d tried to distract him by showing him the games on your phone, and he was absorbed in Jelly Splash when you heard a knock on the door. Your eyes meet, both confused at who it could be and neither wanting to think the worst.

He gets off the bed where you’d been lounging, and holds his palm out to you, telling you to stay in his room. After waiting for what felt like hours in dreadful silence, you hear heavy footsteps come in.

“Can you fucking believe-” The person starts, and you immediately recognize the voice as Vladimir’s.

Your chest tightens. You didn’t plan on explaining this situation to him, and it was obvious that he wouldn’t be happy with it.

Piotr’s voice is uncertain when he replies, “What’s wrong? Why did you come?”

That’s when Vladimir realizes something isn’t right. He notices the dust that usually covers everything is gone, objects and clothes aren’t scattered on the floor, and something is cooking. And it doesn’t smell terrible.

Vladimir tilts his head, scrutinizing Piotr with a mocking smile, “Do you have someone over?”

Piotr anxiously rubs the back of his neck, “Uh-”

Vladimir gets his answer when you pop your head around the corner of the doorjamb, clad in only Piotr’s big flannel. You figure now’s a good a time as any, right?

Vladimir sees you, and instantly gets angry. Piotr’s face falls as he turns around and spots you. Vladimir shoves at Piotr’s shoulder, “How much are you paying her?” Piotr stays silent. “Hm?”

“He’s not paying me anything,” you admit. Vladimir’s eyes flick to yours and he narrows them.

“So you’re just playing house?” He asks, tone biting. You can sense the hurt beneath the anger.

“Not exactly-” You start to explain the Ghost and the threats to him, but he shakes his head.

“Was I asking you?” He spits out, gaze staying on Piotr. You bite your lip, glaring at him.

Piotr just crosses his arms, not knowing what to say. Vladimir looks back at you, shaking his head ever so slightly. He turns to leave, and thinking better of it, swings his arm out and knocks a lamp over.

You both flinch at the smashing sound. “Fucking whore,” is all Vladimir says before he slams the door.

“YOU WERE THE ONE PAYING ME, ASSHOLE!” You shout after him, hoping it’s loud enough for him to hear.

You huff out a breath, tears of anger prickling at the corners of your eyes. You sink to yours knees and start picking up the bigger pieces of the broken lamp quickly. A small shard of the lightbulb grazes your palm, and you let out a frustrated sob. You’re messing up even cleaning up.

Piotr puts his hands under your arms, pulling you up. You hug him tightly, making sure not to let blood drip onto his shirt. This all feels like one big mistake, and there’s way to make it right. It’s like an endless loop of making mistakes to fix the ones before.

“Hey, it’s alright,” Piotr comforts, but all you feel is wrath and now you’re crying and it’s embarrassing and-

“Stop,” Piotr tells you. “It will be alright.” You nod into the crook of his neck, feeling your hair muss up under his chin as you do.

He convinces you to have some of the stirfry you made, and it helps calm you down, but you’re still radiating anger and nerves all night. You fall asleep that night with the words on your tongue, this is all a mistake.

Out of an indescribable cloud of white, Piotr’s world comes into focus. He’s confused at first, but then he sees you. You’re sitting in the beat up leather armchair that’s by his bedroom window. He remembers when he bought it for $25.

You’ve got your legs curled up under you, watching the dusk approach with an intensity he can’t measure. When he focuses behind you, he notices the sun doesn’t look normal. It’s a dark, apocalyptic, burning red, but you’re watching it like it’s the prettiest thing you’ve ever seen.

Your hair is pinned up in a way he’s never seen before, and on your head is a crown of plain sticks. Suddenly, you sense his presence and turn to him, a smile on your face.

“C’mere,” you beckon him, patting to the space on the armchair next to you. “Come watch.”

He heeds your command, perching on the arm. “Watch what?”

You ignore his question. “It’ll be better than it looks, I promise.” There’s a giddy excitement apparent in your voice.

“What do you mean?” he asks, confused and not feeling right.

He reaches out, about to place his hand on your shoulder. His fingers meet the exposed skin, and you vanish into thin air in the same instance that his vision goes dark.

The sensation of falling is suddenly all too real, and his stomach flips as fear surges through his veins. Panic is all he feels, all he knows, and all he’ll remember.

Piotr jumps awake, heart pounding. His eyes struggle to adapt to the darkness of the room, but through his curtain he sees the faint orange of the sun’s feeble attempt to rise.

He angrily shoves at his pillow, willing the adrenaline to leave his system. He tries to go back to sleep, but instead of fatigue he’s left with a creeping feeling of dread that won’t leave.

The next morning, you wake up unusually early. You don’t feel like going back to sleep, so you get up to start a cup of tea and maybe read a book. You open the cupboard to grab a mug and a piece of paper falls out.

Your heart immediately starts beating fast. You wonder if Piotr’s the kind of guy to leave love notes, oh, you really hope he is. You turn it over. In the now-familiar scrawl it reads;

We’re always watching.

You put your head in your hands, the thought of tea long gone. What could you possibly do? The Ghost is going to kill you. Maybe if you had the help of the Russians... but Vladimir would never agree to help you.

They could be coming for you right now. The Ghost never gave a time frame for you killing Vladimir, but you’re sure the sand in the hourglass has got to be close to gone by now.

Your thoughts go back to Piotr, sleeping peacefully at the early hour. He didn’t deserve to be caught up in your mess. Now you’ve put him on the hit list by staying here and somehow getting caught.

The thought hits you like an epiphany- I’ve got to leave. As soon as you think it, you’ve already made up your mind. You go back to Piotr’s bedroom, not bothering to be quiet- he can sleep through anything.

You find your bags and start putting clothes back into them. It took some time, they’d slowly started becoming integrated with his. You’d gotten comfortable living with Piotr.

As you’re packing, you wonder where you can go. East Coast is out of the question. I’ve always wanted to see LA. Or maybe Oregon, live a quiet life in a cottage in a coastal forest with a dog, practice being normal again.

Piotr shifts in his sleep, and you freeze. You only relax when he turns over and starts snoring again. You wonder what you’re going to tell Piotr when he wakes up. He’d try to get Vladimir involved again.

You make your way back to the kitchen. You set the Ghost’s note out, and search for a pen. Underneath the Ghost’s writing you scribble;

I’m so sorry.

There’s so much else you want to say, but you don’t know how. If you say it, your heart would break. So you don’t. Leave him to wonder what’s in between the lines, you couldn’t put it in words even if you tried.

I left at 5:17, as the kitchen clock told me, but it’s never right. There was no dramatic I-love-you, no solemn kiss to his cheek. I just spared him a final glance, and left. I almost didn’t think about him as I locked the door on my way out. Sometimes that’s just the way it is; I prefer it. I left the second home I’d known with a bittersweet smile.

Piotr wakes up to the cold bed, the dread still curling around him like wisps of smoke. He calls your name softly, still groggy. He makes his way through the house, panic growing when he can’t find you.

His eyes fall on the note, and he picks it up, reading it quickly. He knows you’ve left, but he still clings to the hope that you’ll come back in a few minutes, or you’ll be laying next to him in bed, waking him up from this terrible dream.

His mind sets about to bringing up all the memories of the last months, even though he doesn’t want to relive them just yet. There’s times where your passion matched the red of the sky in his dream, and nights clouded in a haze of alcohol- all he remembers is your smile and not being able to catch his breath from laughing so hard.

Then there’s 3 a.m.’s blurred by pain, and so much blood as he no longer has to patch himself up. He can’t forget early mornings with his gift of a bouquet of flowers and pancakes made by you.

You were the real ghost. In and out of his life before he could really appreciate it, disappearing on a morning where the fog made it look like you were walking right into the clouds. But it wasn’t a love affair.

#writing #marvel #marvel one shot #marvel imagine #Daredevil #daredevil one shot #daredevil smut #vladimir ranskahov x reader #vladimir ranskahov imagine #Vladimir Ranskahov #piotr x reader #piotr daredevil #piotr veselov #piotr kuznetsov

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theranskahovs · 6 years

Text

A Proposition *Part 2*

Request: Babe!!! I just read that fic where the reader is trying to kill vlad by pretending to be a stripper and its. so. GOOD!!! Can you please write a part 2?? where reader is eventually Piotr’s gf or something.. 🌹 Also adding: ‘•Vladimir would most likely scare you into submission honestly. He doesn’t care if you’re bratty or not, he’s going to punish you either way.’ well that’s fucking hot😳 could you maybe write a one shot about this pretty pretty please? Warnings: intense smut, of course. swearing. Word Count: a fucking novella 4k A/N: it doesn’t end as reader being Piotr’s gf, so sorry if that bothers anyone. but I did make it so you can easily tell reader prefers Piotr over Vladimir, so maybe if there’s ever more to this it can easily lead to that.

Part One

It’d been over a month since you’d seen them both. It was a relief, you’d let yourself hope they forgot about your deal. And yet, you still waited anxiously for Piotr and Vladimir to come back.

That’s not to say you could’ve forgotten about them, though, no. Exactly a week after your encounter with the Russians at the club, you received the $10,000 you were promised. When you were told they’d been keeping tabs on you, you expected them to get your phone number, maybe shoot you a text of Howdy! We’ve got your thousands of dollars for not killing our boss and then fucking him! Get it when you have time! But no, you got no text, email, fax, carrier pigeon. When you came home exactly 7 days later after the incident, you found a bag of money on your kitchen island.

When you saw the money, you felt a chill go down your spine. You thoroughly inspected your apartment after, knowing the kind of people you were dealing with. Hell, you even stayed at your friend’s for the next few days, that’s how shaken up you were.

And yet, you still wanted to see them again. You told yourself it was because of the money Vladimir promised you’d make from each of your encounters, and you let yourself believe that. But truly, you would’ve wanted to be with them again, even if there was no money involved. Whether it had anything to do with the way Vladimir was finally an equal match for you in terms of attitude and boldness, or the way Piotr fucked you so well, you couldn’t tell.

By now, it’d been over a month since you’d seen them, but you knew they were always watching. At first, it wasn’t as obvious as a pile of money on your counter. But you knew they were there, at first by intuition, then by glimpses on the street and around your apartment. To an untrained eye, it would’ve gone unnoticed, but you knew the men that seemed to be watching you as you turned your back had too many strange tattoos and telltale accents.

You were grateful they were watching out for you. They knew your original employer had to be angry enough to kill you since you didn’t keep your promise to finish Vladimir off a handful of Fridays ago. You definitely finished him in another way, you think to yourself with a huff of laughter.

Today was the first day you’d mostly pushed it out of your mind, instead spending your day doing errands and buying groceries (with the money you made. You almost felt proud at having earned it so easily, doing something you’d normally do for free. It felt empowering, to say the least).

So when you finished your errands, lugging your bags of groceries and purse into your apartment, all that was on your mind was a hot shower and Netflix. Those plans vanished when you stepped in the threshold, knowing something wasn’t right.

Hesitantly, you grab the knife you keep in the potted plant by your door, gripping the familiar handle in your palm. Cautiously, you enter your living room. You’re greeted by Piotr smoking a cigarette on your couch and Vladimir sampling the alcohol in your cupboards.

“Glad you could finally make it,” Piotr greets with a chuckle, watching intently as you try to appear calm.

You set your knife on the kitchen island, next to the glass of whatever Vladimir is drinking. Vladimir pulls you into his side with one arm, pressing himself close to you. “Hello, princess.”

You don’t say anything, just take his glass out of his hand and down the remaining few sips; you knew you’d need it to last the night. He chuckles, taking the glass back from you when you’re done and putting it down. “Not happy to see us?” He asks, hand stroking your side.

You are, you’re so incredibly happy to see them, but you’re determined not to show it. He accepts your silence and leans down to kiss you. You pull away, placing a hand on his chest. “Wait, how much?”

“What?” He asks, confused.

“How much,” you repeat. “How much are you paying me?”

He understands what you mean instantly, and laughs. He leans back against the island, still stroking your side. “How much do you want?”

“Depends on how high you’re willing to go,” you say with a smile, knowing you’ve got to get the most money out of him.

“We will not get anywhere like this,” he tells you.

“Alright. Then I want $2000,” you tell him.

Piotr whistles and Vladimir raises his eyebrows at you. “Bit much, no?”

“It was $10,000 last time. I’d say you’re getting a hell of a discount.”

“You were trying to kill me last time,” he points out.

“I can try again if you like. Since it seems to be a kink of yours?” You smirk at him, knowing he’s going to give you what you’re asking for.

He scoffs, “$2000 it is, then.”

“Yay!” You exclaim happily as he leans down to kiss you quickly before you can pull back again, holding you tight to him as the taste of liquor mingles between your lips.

He starts walking you backward, to where your bedroom is (you assume he already knows your apartment’s floorplan, which is slightly unsettling, but you try to forget that and think instead about getting your 2000 dollars). He decides it’s too clumsy walking with you, so he picks you up as if you’re a sack of feathers and continues walking.

He breaks your kiss to nod his head towards your room, for Piotr to follow. “Grab her knife, we will be needing it.”

“What-” You begin to protest, but he presses his lips against yours, a trace of a sinister smile on his face.

Your hands reach for his spiked up hair, tugging roughly and reveling in the hiss Vladimir emits. He pulls your hair just as roughly, growling at you, “No. We are in charge.”

You tilt your head at him, a challenging smile on your lips. “Is that the character I’m being paid to play for the night? Someone submissive?”

Vladimir readjusts you in his arms as he kicks open your bedroom door. Piotr speaks up from behind him, “Soon you won’t be playing part, kitten.”

Vladimir drops you at the edge of your bed, and you bounce slightly on the mattress. You lean up on your elbows, waiting for what’s about to come, too timid to ask.

You’re suddenly all too aware of the sweatpants and tie-dye t-shirt you have on from your day of running errands. You wished they would’ve come on a better day when your hair in its messy bun wasn’t so tangled, and your half-hearted attempt at makeup wasn’t so obvious.

Vladimir makes eye contact with Piotr, nodding at him. Piotr grins, striding to the edge of the bed, like a predator ready to pounce on prey. Your heart jumps in anticipation as he holds up your knife, watching it glint in the faint lamplight.

Once he’s sure your gaze is on the knife, he flips it in the air and catches it, spinning it gracefully around his fingers. He leans over you, kissing you too delicately, and it puts you on guard. A second later you feel a tug on your shirt, and hear the rip of the cotton as your knife meets the material.

Your stomach is exposed to the air, and both men seem to drink in the new expanse of skin that’s been revealed to them. Vladimir chuckles at your plain bra, “You should buy lingerie with the money.”

You scoff at him, defensive, “I was doing errands! It’s not like you warned me you were coming.”

Piotr hovers over you, knife pressed flat against your chest. “I hope you are not arguing.” He lowers his voice conspiratorially, “He hates that.”

You grit your teeth, tempted to fight back. You just shake your head, wanting him to continue on with whatever plan has him so excited. “Good,” he confirms, pulling the ripped shirt off your frame. When he’s done he tosses it at Vladimir’s head with a laugh, leaning down to give you a kiss.

He kisses you deeply, hands cupping your face. The knife is in one of his hands, and it’s tilted away from you, but it’s still so close to your features that you want to shrink away from it. You’re almost worried he’ll forget it’s there, but he wouldn’t, would he?

His thumb strokes your jawline and your legs come off the bed, wrapping around his torso where he’s hovering over you. He smirks into the kiss as you pull him closer to you.

“Alright,” Vladimir huffs out, and Piotr lifts himself off of you to look at Vladimir. He doesn’t look happy; he’s scowling, and if you were correct, jealous? Piotr holds his hands up in mock surrender, rolling off to your side to lie next to you.

Vladimir kneels at the end of your bed, eyeing you, deciding what he wants to do with you first. He slips your sweats off your legs, almost like you’re a ragdoll. “Hand me that,” he grunts at Piotr.

When he gets the knife in his possession he brings it to your chest with such carelessness you’re terrified he’s going to stab you, but he just lifts the middle of your bra up in the front between the cups and cuts right through it. He helps you slide it off your shoulders and tosses it to the side somewhere.

“He has not figured out how to get them off with his hands yet,” Piotr whispers to you, and you giggle. Your laugh trails off when you see the angry glare that Vladimir is directing at Piotr.

Vladimir’s hands go straight to your chest, where they knead and grope roughly at your exposed breasts. When he leans down to kiss you his stubble scrapes at your skin, and he bites your lip. You didn’t expect or want him to be gentle, but it’s a stark contrast between the two men (if you could even call Piotr “gentle”).

He starts to kiss a path down your neck, biting and nipping at all the skin he can. He kisses all the way down to the seam of your underwear. You know what he’s going to do, and he smiles up at you, wanting you to challenge him.

But you ignore him, staying silent as Piotr leans over to kiss you again, rolling your nipple between his fingers. As he’s doing this, Vladimir cuts your underwear off.

You’re completely exposed to them now, and it makes you want to shy away from their burning gazes. You’re holding your breath, waiting for someone to do something to take this further.

It unsurprisingly turns out to be Vladimir, who picks a scarf off your floor with a mischievous glint in his eyes. He ties it around you, and for good measure finds some similar garments to tie your hands to the headboard with.

“Makes it more fun, does it not?” Piotr asks, slipping his shirt over his head, and completely pulling the scarf over your eyes.

“Let’s play a game,” Vladimir suggests. “You have to guess which one of us is touching you. If you win, you get rewarded. If not, you get punished.”

You know you can’t do anything but nod, so that’s what you do. You feel them shuffling around on the bed, trying to confuse you. Your senses are in overdrive, trying to make up for your loss of sight by listening to any signs that will tell them apart.

The first thing you feel is the cold metal of your knife, it goes from your neck to your breast, swirling around your nipple. From there it trails down your side, leaving goosebumps in its path. Then it scratches you, leaving you to jerk away in uncertain fear as it continues down your body, stopping between your legs. You know there’s got to be your wetness on it, and it has you smirking at the thought that one of the boys is probably licking it off, tasting you.

There are a couple seconds of nothing, giving you time to think about who it was. Piotr is more skilled with the knife- it felt like a steady hand. And Vladimir wouldn’t have simply scratched me, he would’ve wanted to see blood.

“It was Piotr,” you say surely.

“Good job, kitten,” Piotr says, pecking you on the lips.

There’s more shuffling, and you know they’re just doing it for show. There are fingers moving from your stomach up to your neck, and from there a hand is pressed against the base of your neck. He’s pushing up slightly so it’s hard to breathe, and when you’re seized with fear you instantly know it’s Vladimir. Of course, he wants nothing less than a reaction out of you, and a terrified one at that.

“That’s Vladimir,” you say, taking in a large breath of air, and simultaneously missing the imposing weight of his hand on your throat.

The man in question simply grunts in response, giving your breast a squeeze as it falls silent again. Other than a wailing siren down on the street below, the only sound in the room is your anticipative breaths and the rustle of your comforter.

The next touch you feel is a hand going up the side of your leg, and someone is pressing open-mouthed kisses up the inside of your thigh, stopping when they’re at the apex of your legs.

“Piotr,” you groan, knowing he would’ve wanted to tease you. You also didn’t feel Vladimir’s stubble on your thighs (you won’t admit that you really want to, either).

“Yeah,” he confirms, letting it fall silent for Vladimir to announce the verdict.

“Good girl,” he starts off. “You did perfectly, but we find it more entertaining to punish you anyway.” You can’t see his face, but you know there’s a proud smirk on it; he always feels the need to be in control, and right now he knows he is.

“Vladimir-” You start to protest, hands pulling at the surprisingly tight knot Piotr tied between your scarf and the headboard. You feel his hand reach back up to your neck, tightening once, quickly, and it’s gone before you know it.

You feel shuffling on the bed, knowing Vladimir gave Piotr a silent command. Someone is between your legs, spreading them further apart. Judging by the lack of harshness, you assume it’s the latter.

Like before, he presses wet kisses up your thigh, laying a heavy hand on your hip and massaging it. His mouth meets where you want it most, tongue tentatively raking through your wet folds and swirling around your clit- it feels divine.

You sigh, trying to tangle your fingers in his hair, but remember the bound predicament your wrists are in. His tongue circles your entrance, and then there are two fingers inside of you. You press your hips closer to him and are met with resistance.

“Don’t move too much,” Vladimir warns, and you feel the knife pressed against your lower chest.

Piotr’s arm drapes across your hips, holding you down as you try your hardest not to squirm too much. You don’t know if he’s simply trying to hold you down for his own benefit or to keep you away from Vladimir’s knife, but either way, it’s helpful.

Piotr’s fingers push all the way in, his knuckles awkwardly bumping you. You’re about to make a smartass comment about how it doesn’t even feel that good, and then he’s curling his fingers in addition to sucking on your clit and oh, it definitely does.

“Are you going to cum for me, baby?” Piotr asks. His gruff voice has you wanting to bring is face back to where it was before.

You’re met with pain in two separate areas as your wrists tug uselessly against the scarves, leaving you groaning in frustration. Piotr laughs softly at your desperation, returning his mouth to your folds. Your back arches as he repeatedly curls his fingers and his free hand tries to push your hips back down on the bed.

He’s a second too late because the next thing you feel is the knife slicing into you just below your breast. It’s too deep to feel pleasurable for you, but you know Vladimir’s getting hard at the way you jerk away from the knife in surprised pain and fear.

Piotr clucks his tongue at you as if to say, You were warned, and I tried to stop you. You suck in a sharp breath as Vladimir wipes the drops of blood gathering along the cut, knowing he’s most likely just smearing it on your skin and it isn’t helping at all.

“Don’t you ever listen?” Vladimir growls at you, and you flinch as his hand curls around your throat.

Your face burns in anger at not being able to argue with him. You simply shake your head, unable to speak. “Piotr, move,” Vladimir huffs impatiently.

“She’s about to cum, Vlad,” Piotr insists, fingers not stilling inside you. His other hand squeezes your thigh, and he feels it shake as he continues his ministrations.

“I don’t care,” Vladimir states firmly. “She’s being punished, remember?”

Piotr doesn’t say anything further, and you’re met with a feeling of aching emptiness where his fingers were seconds before. You feel the weight leave the bed as Piotr moves to make room for Vladimir and Vladimir stands up to take his pants off.

You hear the clink of his belt as he undoes it and kicks his pants aside. The bed dips as he hovers above you. He teases you by running his tip along your entrance and against your clit, leaving you to whisper a choked-off, “Please.”

“That’s not good enough,” he says, and you’re fed up with his superior attitude.

“Vladimir, I need you inside me. Please,” you repeat.

There are a few seconds of silence and you wait in agony, thighs pressed together in an attempt to put pressure back on your clit. “Open,” he commands, tapping at your thighs.

You obediently open your legs, and he instantly pushes into you roughly, not giving you a second to adjust. You gasp in shock at the abrupt sensation. It’s slightly painful as he instantly starts thrusting, not caring if you’re stretched out enough. As long as it feels good to him, right? You think angrily.

His hand comes to your waist, gripping roughly at your skin as he sets a hard and fast pace. Your mouth falls open slightly as he hits the spot deep inside you with every thrust.

You moan unashamedly and hear it bounce off the walls. Vladimir’s groans are brewing deep in his chest. Vladimir’s hand returns to your throat, long fingers digging into your skin as your head tilts back in pleasure.

The next time you moan, the pressure on your throat makes it sound more like a choked off whimper. You hear Piotr’s deep groan a few feet away, and you know he’s started jerking off as he watches Vladimir fuck you ruthlessly.

You can feel Vladimir’s thrusts start to get sloppy as he continues his rough treatment of you after a while. His hand tightens around your throat so much that sucking in a breath has become a challenge. As soon as you see white spots bloom behind your closed eyes, he removes his hand.

He pulls out of you, and the emptiness is enough for you to start begging again. A second later he cums on your stomach and breasts, the warmth just sitting there as Vladimir gets off you, moving off the bed.

The bed dips again as Piotr takes his place between your legs. “Hi, kitten,” he greets quietly in your ear. His hand runs up your side as he enters you, his pace only slightly gentler than Vladimir’s. Your legs instinctually wrap around his waist, dragging him closer to you so he presses in deeper. His other hand cups your jaw, and you flinch, expecting him to tighten his hand around your sensitive neck.

He shushes you, instead bringing his fingers to tangle in your hair. He tugs, bringing your mouth to his. His lips coax yours open, and his tongue dips into your mouth.

He breaks away to suck a mark just below your jaw, and you let out a sigh at the feeling of his lips on your pulse point. His thumb reaches down between your bodies and circles around your clit, matching the quick pace he’s set.

His tongue drags over the mark he’s sucked onto your pulse point and his nose nudges against the shell of your ear. “You going to cum for me this time, baby?” He asks with a teasing lilt in his voice.

You finally speak up for the first time in almost a half hour. “Mmm, if you keep fucking me like this,” you reply.

He laughs low in your ear, “I plan on it.” He kisses you deeply, hand heavy on your hip, and you arch into his touch.

His thumb continues his motions on your sensitive clit, and you let out a long moan of his name, only causing him to increase his efforts to get you to orgasm.

There’s a coiling sense of tingling anticipation burning deep in your stomach, and each thrust of Piotr’s hips and circle of his thumb brings it closer and closer. “C’mon,” Piotr encourages, feeling you tighten around him. “Good girl,” he praises in a grunt.

You let out a final moan, head tilting back as it feels like you’re in a freefall of pleasure, little surges of heat shooting through you. You take a couple minutes just to calm your thoughts and try to get your breath back.

When you’re finally able to focus on the present again, it’s because Piotr is coming inside you, warmth filling you. He stays above you for a minute, both of your breaths coming fast and shallow.

He pulls out, and before he goes to clean up he pulls the scarf from your eyes, grinning at your blissed-out smile. He comes back a second later with his boxers back on and a warm washcloth from your bathroom.

He unties your wrists, and you rub at the red marks you brought upon yourself. He wipes the blood off from the cut Vladimir gave you, furrowing his brows when he realizes how deep it is. You smile at him, you’ve had worse.

He wipes your stomach and chest off, and then between your legs. Your face flushes as you realize how intimate it is that’s he’s cleaning you up.

“Hurry up,” Vladimir tells Piotr.

“Hang on,” Piotr tells him.

“Piotr,” Vladimir snaps.

Piotr turns to him, yelling something in Russian. “You were too rough with her, give her a minute.”

Vladimir scoffs and leaves the room since he’s already fully dressed. You assume he’s going to help himself to more alcohol while he waits for Piotr.

“I’m fine,” you assure Piotr softly. He nods, but it looks like he doesn’t believe you as he wipes more blood off the cut, and eyes the bruises on your throat that you suspect are already forming.

He stands up, putting his clothes back on. You sit up, and he tosses your shirt and underwear to you, and you slip them on. It’s suddenly too silent and you don’t know what to say, or if you should say anything at all.

You choose instead to look out your window, and you notice it’s already gotten dark. Lights are still on in every single building you can see.

“Here,” you’re a bit surprised to hear Piotr speak again, and it startles you. You turn your gaze away from the skyline outside. He’s holding out your sweats, a hand resting on your thigh.

You take them from him with a small smile. “Goodbye,” he says, pressing a quick kiss to your lips before you can react, surprising you further.

He’s already out of your bedroom by the time you murmur, “Goodbye.”

#can you believe in the year i've been writing these characters this is the only story piotr has a personality in?! like can you believe!!!!#this is probably my favorite thing to write tho i love you so much v for sending me those asks in the first place #writing #vladimir ranskahov x reader #vladimir x reader #Vladimir Ranskahov #vladimir ranskahov imagine #marvel #ranskahov brothers #piotr x reader #piotr veselov #piotr daredevil #piotr kuznetsov #marvel smut #daredevil smut

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