goncharovimagines - Tumblr blog

[goncharovimagines]

Imagine…

You’re in the hospital about to undergo serious surgery. Your boyfriend, Joe Morelli, is right by your side when the nurse comes to administer the anaesthetic.

‘I love you, baby,’ he says, squeezing your hand tight. ‘I’ll always be with you.’

‘I love you,’ you echo. You’ve always found hospitals scary, but it’s a bit less scary with him there too. His face is the last thing you see before drifting off into blank nothingness.

Some time later you open your eyes. You’re in a different ward. You glance down. The surgery was a success! Where your left hand had been there is now your dream prosthetic - angular, beautiful and totally unique.

‘Nurse?’ you look around. ‘Where is my boyfriend? He said he’d be right here.’

‘Oh, Y/N,’ the nurse says softly. She glances down at your new hand for a second before meeting your gaze. ‘Who do you think gave you the ice pick?’

[goncharovimagines]

Imagine…

You weren’t intending to be found, out on the balcony with the cold needling your skin, but Katya finds you anyway. She sucks in a breath when she sees the bruise, rudely purple on your cheek, and takes you by the shoulder to steer towards her bedroom. She closes the door, shutting out noise from the rest of the apartment. All sorts of illegal things are happening in the kitchen and there is a man you don’t know bleeding out on the hall carpet, but somehow when the door clicks shut all of it disappears. It’s just you and her, and the soft light from her bedside lamp.

She doesn’t say anything as she sits you down on the edge of her bed, gently raising your chin with one hand so that she can see the bruise more clearly. You shouldn’t have come here tonight, not with it so obvious, but circumstances hadn’t exactly gone to plan. Katya purses her lips as she examines you, disapproval in the furrows of her beautiful face. You glance up at her, probably for longer than you should, but she’s too focused to notice. It feels like something is hanging in the air, in the way the amber light hits her face, and you don’t want to move, or breathe, or do anything that might dispel it. Katya’s eyelashes are long and dark with mascara, and it occurs to you that you’ve never seen her without makeup on. When she wakes in the morning are her eyelashes as light and blonde as the rest of her hair?

You swallow, and she steps back as if banished by the movement, her hand falling from the side of your face.

“You should get some ice on that,” she says, but makes no move to leave the room. Perhaps she means for you to go and the comment is a politely worded dismissal. It doesn’t matter if that’s the case. You can’t move. Everything through that door is loud and bright and sharp and fast, and in here the two of you are flies in amber: stuck without a doubt, but too beautifully so to think of it as a tragedy.

Katya is looking at you, you can tell without meeting her eyes. There is a soft pressure to it, like her gaze is sand lightly falling on you, becoming heavier the longer you wait. You try looking anywhere else—at the carpet, the dressing-table, the dark blue fabric of her dress—but the pressure grows, and you look back at her.

She kisses you, stepping in and leaning down, her hands gently coming to rest on either side of your jaw. Her mouth is soft and warm, and you can tell that her lipstick is the expensive kind that won’t smudge, or leave a mark.

Something breaks in your chest. You don’t pull away, or tell her to stop, or remind her that even if she wants to, she isn’t her own person to give to you. This might be her room, but it’s Goncharov’s apartment, and she is here with you, but she is Goncharov’s wife. Will always be Goncharov’s wife. And he is not the sort of person that you want as an enemy, but nor do you have the strength to push her away.

So you kiss her, softly, and circle your arms around her waist, and wish desperately that when you leave the apartment it would be with a lipstick mark and not a bruise on your face.

[goncharovimagines]

@notsopersonalcharlie gotta remember where it comes from 😌

[goncharovimagines]

@pilferingapples shdgshf thank u, first rule of imagines is you ALWAYS cheapen the moment 😌

[goncharovimagines]

Imagine…

It’s cold inside the shipping container. Your breath mists in the air before you like delicate white smoke before fading away into the frigid atmosphere.

You don’t know how long you’ve been there. Your wrists ache from being tied behind you at such an awkward angle and while you’re stiff, you don’t want to move for fear of losing the small amount of body heat you have.

Your guard, on the other hand, looks warm and toasty in a thick fleece-lined jacket and chunky gloves. He’s only been here twenty minutes or so, having come to relieve the last man standing over you. You don’t know who that other guy was, but this one you’re familiar with. You’d know Ice Pick Joe anywhere.

You haven’t been sure if he recognises you or not. But now, as if it has only just occurred to him to do so, he raises his lantern slightly so that its amber circle of light spills onto you, and you hear his intake of breath as he sees you face.

“Y/N,” he says, before he can stop himself. “What….what are you doing here?”

That makes you laugh, a little weakly. Isn’t it obvious? But then the silence stretches out, and you realise he’s waiting for an answer. That’s fair, you suppose. It has been a long time since you last saw him, and both of you have changed since then.

“Wrong place, wrong time,” you whisper, your voice a tired rasp.

“But you weren’t - with Goncharov?”

You shrug, as much as your bounds will allow. Everyone is with Goncharov, in the end, even when it leads them to be bound and forgotten in a shipping container, destined for who knows what.

“I ran out of time,” you say, instead. That, at least, he understands. Ice Pick Joe lets out a long breath, and you see it hang in the air before him, shimmering with everything he might have said.

There is another pause, longer this time.

Then he says, “Are you cold?”

“Is the Pope Catholic?”

That earns you a snort.

“Here,” he says, and suddenly he’s coming towards you, holding a dusty blanket he’s produced from somewhere. You flinch away from his touch on instinct and can tell immediately that it hurts him. Gently, ever so gently, he places the blanket around you.

“Better?” he asks, and he’s crouched so close to you that he only has to whisper the word.

You nod.

He retreats again, satisfied, but doesn’t go quite so far, pulling his chair into the circle of lantern light.

“I didn’t think I’d ever see you again,” he admits, after a moment. “Do you….do you remember the orchards, Y/N?”

The question is so careful, so hesitant, it slices right through you. Yes, you remember. Dappled sunlight on the long grass, rows of wizened trees. You had been young, then, and in the pride of youth had thought yourselves immortal.

“I remember,” you tell him. Perhaps if you closed your eyes you’d be able to imagine yourself back there, but you don’t want to look away from him. What’s done is done, and this - however terrible - is what you have now.

“I can’t let you go,” he says, and he sounds genuinely regretful.

“I know,” you say, and hopes that he can hear the rest of the sentence: I don’t blame you.

“I can keep you warm, though,” he says suddenly, rising again. “That blanket’s not enough.”

It has helped, but he’s right - you’re so deeply chilled now, it takes more than a bit of insulation to thaw your stiff body. Before you can say anything, though, he’s risen to his feet, walked over to you, and untied your hands.

“Here,” he says, sitting back down on the chair and unzipping his enormous coat. “It’s big enough for two.”

You shouldn’t be doing this. For all the small talk, you know this guy isn’t the same Joe Morelli you knew before. But maybe he doesn’t have to be. Maybe it’s enough that he remembers that Joe, just like you can dredge up the shadow of the old Y/N. Maybe, just for a few hours, you two can pretend.

You sit on his lap, and find yourself immediately enveloped in the warmth of his arms and his coat. It’s shockingly intimate after the caution of the previous touches and there is a heady, decadent quality to it.

“Y/N,” Joe says, and fuck you have missed how your name sounds in his mouth. “Are you okay?”

More than okay. Pressed up against him like this in the shared heat of the coat, you’re finding yourself hyperaware of all the places your bodies are touching. A thought occurs to you and a laugh gurgles from your throat before you can stop it.

“What?’ he asks.

With how you’re positioned he can’t see your face, so you let yourself smile as you say, “Is that an ice pick in your pocket or are you pleased to see me?”

[goncharovimagines]

@rosesutherlandwrites IMAGINES YES

[goncharovimagines]

Imagine…

It seems like a totally ordinary morning when you wake, with nothing to suggest that your life is about to be upended. You get up slowly, savouring the warmth of your bed, and wander around your room brushing your (long, brown) hair. You pick out an outfit for the day - a loose fitting Star Wars tee, skinny jeans and red converse - and tie your hair up in your usual ponytail. After lightly applying some mascara and eyeliner (you’ve never been one of those girls to cake their whole face in makeup) you make your way downstairs to have breakfast.

The vibe is…weird, in the kitchen. Your mom seems kind of uptight, watching you out of the corner of her eye like you are a rare bird who might take flight at any moment. You do your best to ignore it - it’s such a sunny morning and you just want to focus on getting ready for school - but when you sit at the table with your cereal and orange juice, she comes to join you.

“What’s wrong, mom?” you ask, through a mouthful of cornflakes. “And don’t say nothing, because clearly something is.”

Your mom hesitates. “You’re right, Y/N. There’s something going on. But it’s not bad, it’s just…different.”

“Huh.” You wait for her to go on.

“Well, you know your father and I have been struggling recently,” she continues, now avoiding your gaze. “Everything costs so much, and we’re trying to do our best by your little sisters.”

You nod, slowly. This isn’t news. As the eldest sibling, you’ve always been allowed to know more of what’s happening with your family than your younger siblings.

“And then this man, well, he came to us with an offer.” A tear slips her cheek, splashing into her morning coffee.

Startled, you reach out to take her hand across the table. “Mom? What’s going on?”

Right on cue, there is a knock at the door.

“He’ll take good care of you,” your mom says quickly, taking her hand back so that she can go to open the door. “He promised. And we’ll still be able to see you at some weekends. It’s…it’s for the best, sweetie.”

She opens the door and a strange man walks in. He’s strange-looking, all dark shadows and sharp angles, and even though he’s many years your senior you can’t help thinking that he’s maybe the hottest person you’ve seen in your life.

“This is Goncharov,” your mom says, clearly trying to hold herself together. “Your new owner.”