But I'm not a real person, just the shit you can't make up
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Momager is not a title that would have suited Irina Rozanova.
It's the kind of thought that Ilya knows to be true, but still fills him with a sickly, childlike guilt — part of him still 12 years old when he thinks of his Mama. It's a betrayal to think of her as not being good at something even when he knows it's not a thing she would have enjoyed. Mama was soft, gentle, the type to press kisses to skinned knees and put balm of frost bitten noses.
She was not weak. But she did not have the lethal energy of Yuna Hollander.
Though he suspected there weren't many who did.
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 3,113
- Chapters:
- 1/1
- Files:
- 1
- AO3:
- #78100161
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Growing up, their neighbor had a cat.
A beautiful Russian Blue from a long line of show cats, Anastasia after the duchess that Mrs. Petrova was certain her dear kotik was a reincarnation of. Ilya would chirp and miyau at the kartoshka, too round to compete in the cat shows like its mama, if he saw it laying in the sun. But he didn't see it laying still very often.
No, it was much more common to see the beast strutting through the streets with a trophy in its mouth: a small bird, a mouse, a hamster, once the small lizard that he'd been trying to coax into his room as a pet.
"It's how she shows she cares, Illyusha, by showing she can provide for her family."
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 3,455
- Chapters:
- 1/1
- Files:
- 1
- AO3:
- #78594581