Alexander & Tatiana || Domesticated
a flashback thread — @tanechkax
Personal time was a concept that was wholly unaccounted for in Alexander’s life; though he lived a wealthy and comfortably glamorous lifestyle, it was entangled within the intricacies and general mess of the mafia, making it next to impossible for the Bronx Prince to do much anything of note that was entirely unconnected to his life as a crime boss. When he went out, whether it be for a drink or dancing or a baseball game, he would get wrapped up in the politics of his job. And while working as the leading crime boss for the American-organized Irish mafia was something Alexander had fought and clawed tooth and nail to deserve, it was unsettling to realize that so much of his life was mandated by what he did and who he was.
Sometimes, it made him lose sight of who he was. And in the dark of the night, when he was his most pensive and vulnerable, he found himself wondering if his mother would have been disappointed in him for that behavior and mindset.
But...he couldn’t think of his mother these days. He refused to, unless it pertained to wreaking havoc and revenge on the bastards who had ruined her.
So. Personal time was off limits (to a degree, he supposed). But fucking around with his little pet--the Russian princess, as he often referred to her as in the privacy of the bedroom--was something he had handfuls of time for. Exploring every fucking inch of her body after an exhausting meeting or in-between dealing with impossible people who tried to refuse his most basic commands and requests became a passion of Alexander’s; something he relished in the quiet spaces between the nausea-inducing headaches that had become his life. She was his light in the dark, whatever that meant; the one thing to keep him steady and afloat in a world that threatened to crash over him at any given moment.
So, realistically speaking, it shouldn’t have been that weird that the two of them had snuck down to the kitchens after fooling around for the purpose of getting post-coital food. Right? Except, he’d never done that with a woman before...he’d never been this intimate with someone before.
But it was just food, right? It didn’t mean anything--it didn’t mean anything when he looked on her and his gaze lingered for a moment or two too long; it didn’t mean anything when he fucked her and thought that he could get used to the view of her for the rest of his life. None of it meant anything...right?
“I don’t think we have anything prepared,” he said quietly, almost as if to himself, as he rummaged through the cabinets. “You should make cake or muffins or--I don’t know, what are those fuckin’ crepe things you eat?”
