Lo ti sentivo mia (soltanto mia)
A post-coital routine with Blofeld and "𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳" ;)
Warning: mentions of sex. Minors DNI
꧁꧂
It was moments like this that made her wonder if the man laying beside her was the same ruthless sadist that marched the blindingly white halls of SPECTRE's headquarters, giving unspeakable commands. If the tender kisses placed upon her skin, the gentle praises, the "𝘈𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘭𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵, 𝘥𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨?"'s and "𝘞𝘢𝘴 𝘐 𝘵𝘰𝘰 𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩?"'s were whispered from the same lips that had ordered the end of many innocent people.
Even as she laid there, hugging the linen blanket to her naked body in his absence; he looked after her. The ever-clear music of 𝘊𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘦𝘴 𝘈𝘻𝘯𝘢𝘷𝘰𝘶𝘳 playing from the turntable whispered to her: 𝘊𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬. 𝘊𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘦. 𝘋𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘵𝘰𝘰 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩. 𝘐𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘳𝘰𝘰𝘮 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘺𝘰𝘶, 𝘐 𝘢𝘮 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘢 𝘮𝘢𝘯.
Man or monster. Did it really matter what he was as long as he was hers?
He wasn't completely soulless. She knew. She had seen his soul in those hazel eyes, heard it in the voice that read her poems of 𝘑𝘰𝘩𝘯 𝘒𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘴 and 𝘗𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘰 𝘕𝘦𝘳𝘶𝘥𝘢; felt it in the arms that lowered her into the jasmine scented bathwater.
She knew he was kind. After all, he had a cat that he practically worshipped. She just thought that that kindness did not extend to humans. Not until she got to know him like this.
He was a man. A man that sometimes cried after sex; who hummed along to Italian and French songs while washing her with lavender scented soaps because roses gave him headaches.
He held her close and wrapped her in blankets as if she were made of glass; argued with her about sitting on the balcony like this. With her hair damp, wearing nothing but his pyjama shirt.
"𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘣𝘦 𝘢 𝘴𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘮! 𝘠𝘰𝘶'𝘥 𝘤𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩 𝘢 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘥!" He argued as she laughed.
And now, she laid with her head on his chest and her senses overwhelmed by the smell of flowery soaps and shampoos.
But soon morning would come, and the soapy smell would be replaced by the smell of his 𝘖𝘭𝘥 𝘚𝘱𝘪𝘤𝘦 aftershave (which meant work.) And his kind smile would be replaced by his usual Cheshire cat grin. And he would be the mysterious mastermind.
The fact is that he could be anyone he wanted to be. Ernst Stavro Blofeld, Franz Oberhauser, Bond's brother or worst enemy; he could be God if he so desired.
But man or monster; it didn't really matter. Because the heart that now beat in her ear and the glossy hazel eyes that stared into her own echoed the same words over and over no matter what mask he wore: He was nothing and no one but 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘴.
꧁꧂
Author's note: Happy Valentines Day, everyone! Two things before my inevitable rant: a) the "was I too rough" line was decided on a coin flip. Sorry if I made anyone cringe. (Reminds me of the "He would not fuck like that" post. Lol) b) the line about crying after sex is not meant to be humiliating. Also, it's not really my headcanon for Blofeld either. (I mostly imagine Schultz would be the one with PCD.) I just added it for the sake of vulnerability. Also I did not have a solid idea for this story and just wrote it while listening to Gagliardi. Sorry for the quality. (hence the title. From his song Che voule questa musica stasera)
Also, I am trying this style of writing rather than the "traditional" x reader style. The constant mention of y/n and the use of 2nd person pov makes my skin crawl. Lmk what you think.
Title Translation: I felt you were mine, only mine
