Tragedia Di South Street

The four of them strolled down South Street, the neon signs and late-night buzz surrounding them like the hum of some great, chaotic organism. Zach, Carrie, Anna, and Rachel--one absurd unit, each with their own particular brand of dysfunction, arguing about public transit of all things.

"I'm just saying," Zach gestured wildly with the half-smoked cigarette he wasn't even supposed to be smoking, "if the subway ran 24/7, it wouldn't be a crime tunnel after 11 PM."

"It's a crime tunnel because it runs at all," Anna countered, side-eyeing a guy loitering too close to them. "You've seen it. Rats the size of terriers. Some guy playing the recorder like he's summoning the end times. If they shut it down, the filth has to leave eventually."

"You're missing the point," Rachel cut in. "If it ran later, people wouldn't be stranded, which means fewer desperate drunks getting mugged. It's harm reduction."

Carrie snorted. "Or we just accept that SEPTA exists in a liminal space where the laws of man and God don't apply."

Zach sighed, running a hand through his permanently messy hair. "We get it, babe. You read one SCP entry and now every public space is an anomaly."

She smirked. "Prove me wrong."

Before he could argue, a voice cut through the street noise. "Yo, damn! Look at those! Philadelphia's Mount Rushmore!"

It wasn't immediately clear who the comment was directed at--until Carrie stopped dead in her tracks. The tension was instant. Zach rubbed his face. Anna cracked her knuckles. Rachel exhaled like she was about to start assembling a Molotov out of available materials.

Carrie turned on her heel, zeroing in on the source like a shark scenting blood. "Oh, you wanna run that by me again, you sad excuse for a--"

And then, in perfect comedic timing, she whirled around and walked face-first into a street sign.

The clang rang out across the block. Silence followed.

Zach stared. Anna covered her mouth. Rachel choked on her laughter.

Carrie reeled back, blinking rapidly, gripping the pole like it had personally wronged her. Then, without missing a beat, she shook her head and declared, "Maledizione!"

Zach frowned. "What."

"Porca miseria!" she hissed, rubbing her forehead.

Rachel wiped tears from her eyes.

Carrie gestured wildly at the sign. "Quel maledetto lampione mi ha attaccato!"

Anna nodded solemnly. "Oh yeah. Concussed. For sure."

"Dichiaro guerra a questo segnale!" Carrie growled, slapping the sign as if that would prove a point.

Zach ran a hand down his face. "Alright, pack it up, let's get her home."

Carrie clutched his arm, staring at him with deep, tragic intensity. "Amore mio... ti amo."

He blinked. "Okay, that's cute."

Carrie collapsed, launching into an epic, tragic Italian monologue at the top of her lungs.

"IO NON PARLO ITALIANO! NON L'HO MAI PARLATO! EPPURE ECCOMI QUI, COME UNA DANNATA SOPRANO DI UN'OPERA CHE NON CAPISCO, STRILLANDO IN UNA LINGUA CHE NON DOVREBBE USCIRE DALLA MIA BOCCA! MA QUESTO NON È IL PEGGIO! NO, IL VERO PROBLEMA È CHE LA MIA MIGLIORE AMICA, QUESTA PSICOPATICA SENZA PETTO, MI GUARDA CON QUELL'ARIA SUPERIORE COME SE NON FOSSE STRAORDINARIO CHE SONO IMPROVVISAMENTE DIVENTATA UNA DONNA DEL RINASCIMENTO! ANNA, GUARDA QUESTA TUA PIATTA MISERIA! DIO TI HA NEGATO IL SENO COME HA NEGATO A ME LA CAPACITÀ DI PARLARE INGLESE OGGI! MA NON È TUTTO! IL MIO MARITO, QUESTO POVERO UOMO, QUESTO ESSERE DAL CUORE GENTILE MA DAL CAVOLO RIDICOLMENTE PICCOLO, È LÌ, A GUARDARE QUESTA SCENA, A CHIEDERSI DOVE ABBIA SBAGLIATO NELLA VITA! ZACH, TESORO, TI AMO, MA DIO TI HA DATO UN MICROBO AL POSTO DI UN'ARMA! E COME SE TUTTO QUESTO NON FOSSE ABBASTANZA, SONO ANCHE NELLA MERDA FINANZIARIA FINO AL COLLO! DODICIMILA DOLLARI DI DEBITO! SAI COSA SIGNIFICA? SIGNIFICA CHE SE MUOIO OGGI, LA MIA EREDITÀ SARÀ UN BUCO NERO CHE INGHIOTTE QUALSIASI SPERANZA DI FUTURO PER CHIUNQUE MI AMI! NON HO NEANCHE COMPRATO COSE UTILI! SONO LETTERALMENTE IN DEBITO PERCHÉ UNA VOLTA HO PENSATO CHE FOSSE UNA BUONA IDEA COMPRARE UN ROBOT ASPIRAPOLVERE CON OCCHI A LED CHE MI GUARDAVA DI NOTTE COME UN DEMONE! IO NON POSSO VIVERE COSÌ! QUESTO È UN INCUBO! RIDATEMI L'INGLESE! RIDATEMI LA DIGNITÀ! O ALMENO, FATEMI UN ALTRO SPRITZ CHE FORSE MI ARRENDO A QUESTO DESTINO DI MERDA!"

Rachel grabbed one of Carrie's arms, Anna took the other, and together, they started steering her down the street like a malfunctioning Roomba. The guy who made the comment had long since vanished. South Street carried on. The neon lights still flickered.

And Carrie, in her infinite glory, was muttering Italian curses under her breath like she was preparing for a duel at dawn. They tossed her on the bed and she cried dramatically to sleep.

The next morning, Zach awoke to a pillow being smacked against his head.

"Io non parlo italiano!" Carrie groaned, dramatically throwing herself onto the bed beside him. "Perché non posso smettere?!"

Zach blinked at her, rubbing his face. "Babe, what?"

Carrie sat up, eyes wide with frustration, pointing aggressively at herself. "Io! Non! Parlo! Italiano!" She threw her hands up. "Eppure!"

Anna, who had been sprawled in an armchair drinking coffee like a victorious warlord, smirked. "She's stuck."

Zach sat up, staring. "Wait. You're telling me she can't stop?"

"No!" Carrie snapped, slapping the mattress for emphasis. "È insopportabile!"

Zach turned to Anna. "Okay, but she doesn't speak Italian. Like, at all."

Anna took a casual sip of coffee. "And yet."

Later that morning, they found themselves at an urgent care center, Carrie sitting dramatically in a chair, one arm flung over her eyes like she was awaiting last rites.

"Perché Dio mi ha abbandonata?" she lamented.

Anna scrolled through her phone, entirely unfazed. "You walked into a sign, Carrie. God had nothing to do with it."

Carrie peeked through her fingers and muttered just loud enough for Zach to hear, "Senza petto psicopatica..."

Anna blinked. "Did she just--" She turned to Zach. "Did she just call me a flat-chested psychopath?" Then, without missing a beat, she turned back to Carrie and deadpanned, "Tu sei drammatica e insopportabile."

Zach, looking exhausted, pinched the bridge of his nose. "I am not getting involved in this."

Carrie sat up, gripping Zach's arm. "Devi aggiustarmi!"

"Baby, I don't know how!" Zach spluttered. "What, you want me to hit you in the head with another street sign?"

"Sì! Forse!" She buried her face in the pillow. "Qualsiasi cosa tranne questo!"

Anna shrugged. "Might work."

Zach groaned. "Don't encourage her."

Carrie rolled over, staring at the ceiling like a woman contemplating her own doom. "Morirò così."

"You're not gonna die," Zach sighed, rubbing his temples. "You're just gonna sound like an extra in The Godfather until it wears off."

Carrie let out an exaggerated, tragic sigh. "La mia vita è un inferno..."

Anna raised her mug. "Cheers to that."

A nurse practitioner led them to an exam room, flipping through Carrie's chart with the practiced disinterest of someone who had seen every variation of stupidity in the human condition. She glanced at Carrie, who sat dramatically on the exam table, one hand to her forehead like a Victorian heroine about to faint.

"Alright," the nurse sighed. "You walked into a street sign, now you're speaking fluent Italian despite not knowing Italian. That about sum it up?"

"Esattamente!" Carrie moaned.

The nurse closed the chart with a decisive snap. "Yeah, okay. This is a classic case of--" she paused for dramatic effect, "--Post-Traumatic Linguistic Disinhibition Syndrome."

Zach narrowed his eyes. "That doesn't sound real."

The nurse shrugged. "It's rare, but totally a thing. Some people hit their head and start speaking with a British accent. Some wake up with an inexplicable urge to yodel. Your wife? She unlocked Italian mode."

Anna, arms crossed, smirked. "So what's the treatment?"

The nurse exhaled through her nose like she had better things to do. "Honestly? Time. Maybe another head injury, but that's a little frowned upon in modern medicine. Just let it wear off."

Carrie sat bolt upright. "No! Non voglio vivere così!"

The nurse patted her on the shoulder. "That's the spirit."

Zach sighed. "So, nothing? You're telling me we just--wait it out?"

"Could be hours. Could be days," the nurse said, already heading for the door. "Try not to get hit by any more signage. Or do. Your call."

Carrie gasped, clutching Zach's arm. "Mi ha condannata!"

Anna raised an eyebrow. "Oh my god, she's getting worse."

The nurse gave them a little salute. "Good luck with all that." And with that, she left.

Much later... It's oddly romantic.

The chastity cage lock clicked open, quiet in the dim light of their bedroom. Carrie turned the key with practiced ease, letting the tiny metal piece rest in her palm before she set it on the nightstand. No ceremony, no teasing this time. Just a small nod as Zach exhaled, stretching, feeling himself again.

"Vai a farti una doccia, amore," she murmured, voice softer than usual, none of her usual sharp edges. "Ti aspetto."

Zach hesitated. He always did, after she let him out. Not because he didn't want it--God, he wanted it--but because the shift in her always caught him off guard. The Carina Marie Delvecchio the world saw wasn't the Carrie that waited for him now.

She waved a hand at him. "Forza, va'. Togliti di dosso la puzza della giornata."

He kissed her cheek as he passed, and she smirked, swatting his ass as he went. Not too much softness, not all at once.

By the time he stepped back into the bedroom, towel wrapped around his waist, she was waiting.

Carrie lay sprawled across the bed like a goddess in some old Renaissance painting--big hair spread across the pillows, endless legs stretched out, and those tits. Those insane, gravity-defying tits, barely covered by the thin strap of her nightgown. She watched him, eyes half-lidded, soaking him in like he was something special.

And to her, he was.

"Vieni qui, tesoro." She patted the bed beside her, voice warm, lazy with affection.

He climbed in, still a little hesitant, still adjusting to this version of her--the soft one, the Carrie that didn't just take, but gave.

She reached for him, hands slow, tracing the shape of him, her touch uncharacteristically gentle.

"Mi sei mancato," she murmured, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. "Sei il mio bravo ragazzo, lo sai?"

He swallowed, nodding. His hands found her thighs, tracing the smooth skin, his thumbs brushing circles, slow, deliberate. She sighed, her body reacting under his touch, melting into him instead of commanding. He could take his time with her tonight.

His lips found her collarbone, her shoulder, the swell of her chest. She hummed, pleased, fingers threading through his damp hair, guiding him, encouraging without demanding.

There was no rush.

It was slow. Reverent.

His mouth worshiped her, his hands explored, and for once, she let him. Let him take his time, let him revel in the feel of her, the taste of her, the way she gasped when he did something just right.

She pulled him up, kissing him deep, slow, filthy and sweet all at once.

Then she grinned, wicked, teasing, unmistakably Carrie.

"Dammi quel cazzo minuscolo," she purred, laughing softly as she reached for him. It wasn't mean, wasn't sharp--just her brand of love, her way of owning him completely.

And God, he loved her for it.

"Tocca a me," she whispered, shifting, sliding down, pressing him back against the pillows.

And then? It was her mouth on him.

Soft. Languid. Nothing rough, nothing teasing--just her, wanting to give, loving the way he shuddered beneath her.

His hands tangled in her hair, and she let him guide her, let him have that control for once. She didn't need to be in charge tonight.

Tonight, she just wanted to make him feel good.

And when he pulled her back up, kissed her breathless, flipped their positions, she smiled against his lips.

"Vai piano, amore," she murmured, legs wrapping around him, her hands cupping his face, pulling him close. "Prenditi il tuo tempo. Abbiamo tutta la notte."

And they did.

Zach took his time, like she asked, like she deserved.

His hands moved over her--slow, deliberate, tracing the shape of her like he was memorizing her by touch alone. His fingertips brushed along the curve of her waist, the dip of her spine, the smooth stretch of her thighs as they wrapped around him, pulling him closer, deeper.

Carrie sighed against his mouth, her breath warm, her body pliant beneath him. She wasn't leading tonight, wasn't guiding. Just letting him explore. Letting him feel her, take her in.

He kissed her, again and again, from her jaw to her shoulder, lower, his lips trailing paths down her skin, his hands following. She arched under him, not from command, but from need, her nails dragging lightly down his back.

"Cazzo, amore," she breathed, her voice thick, warm, drowning in pleasure. "È così bello."

He wasn't rushing.

He wanted to hear her. Feel her.

His mouth found her again, moving lower, lingering, tasting, savoring.

Carrie's fingers tightened in his hair, not demanding, just holding on, letting out a slow, shaking breath that told him everything he needed to know.

She wasn't used to this. Not like this.

And she loved it.

She let herself be loved.

She pulled him back up after a while, kissing him slow and deep, her hands stroking down his back, over his arms, his shoulders.

"Ci sei ancora, amore?" she whispered, soft, teasing, sweet.

Zach smiled, pressed his forehead to hers.

He guessed. "Always?"

She tilted her hips, welcoming him in a way that was felt, not spoken.

His breath stuttered. Hers did, too.

The world narrowed to them.

No rush. No teasing. Just movement. Just warmth. Just them.

Carrie sighed, content, grounded, wrapped around him like he belonged to her.

And he did.

All night.

Their rhythm built, slow and steady, never hurried. Every touch, every whispered word, every slow grind of bodies was meant to be felt, remembered. Carrie held him close, nails dragging light trails along his back, her lips brushing against his ear, her breath hitching in quiet, unrestrained pleasure.

She never let herself go like this. Not with anyone. But with him? With Zach? She let herself be soft, let herself be undone, let herself whisper the kind of things she'd never say in daylight.

When she trembled beneath him, when her fingers clenched in the sheets, when she gasped his name, he knew he had her completely in that moment.

And when he followed, when the tension in his body finally unraveled into something slow, deep, perfect, she smiled, breathless, holding onto him like she never wanted to let go.

She stroked the back of his neck, kissed his forehead, tangled her legs with his, and sighed.

"Cazzo," she whispered, voice low, warm. "Sei proprio il mio bravo ragazzo."

Zach chuckled, checking a phrasebook. "...even though I got a little dick?"

Carrie grinned against his skin. "Certo. Amo quel cazzo stupido e minuscolo."

Zach groaned, shaking his head, but he was laughing. Carrie just nuzzled against him, satisfied, ready to fall into the best sleep of her life.

And then--

Her eyes flew open.

"Merda, ho lasciato il fornello acceso!"

She bolted upright, tits bouncing, hair wild, and tore out of bed like a hurricane, disappearing down the hall in a sweaty nude panic.

Carina Marie Delvecchio, ladies and gentlemen.

Carrie awoke slowly, the soft morning light filtering through the blinds, painting lazy lines across the bed. She stretched, sighing as her body adjusted to wakefulness, the scent of fresh coffee and something vaguely burnt wafting from the kitchen. She blinked, rolling over to find Zach still half-asleep beside her, one arm slung over his eyes.

"Mmm..." she murmured. "This is nice."

Zach stilled.

Slowly, he lowered his arm, peering at her with sleep-heavy eyes. "Say that again."

Carrie yawned, nuzzling into the pillow. "This is nice."

Zach sat up so fast he nearly fell off the bed. "Holy shit."

She frowned. "What?"

He grabbed her face, inspecting her like she might suddenly morph into something else. "You--you're fuckin' speaking fuckin' English."

Carrie blinked. "Uh. Yeah?" She pushed his hands away. "Why the fuck wouldn't I be?"

Zach let out a long, dramatic groan and collapsed back onto the mattress. "Oh, thank god."

Carrie squinted. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

He flung an arm toward the ceiling. "You've been speaking Italian for days, babe. Days."

Carrie scoffed. "That's ridiculous."

"Is it?" Zach turned to her. "Because three nights ago you threatened to duel a stop sign and then cried in a very convincing Florence accent about the tragedy of your situation."

Carrie hesitated. "...I did?"

"Yes. And then at the clinic, you called Anna a flat-chested psychopath in front of, like, fifteen people."

Carrie smirked. "Well, that part sounds right."

Zach rolled his eyes, dragging her on top of him, his hands sliding lazily down her back. "Anyway. You're cured."

She straddled his waist, arching a brow. "And how should we celebrate?"

Zach's lips curled, his fingers gripping just a little tighter. "Oh, I think we can figure something out."

The morning stretched out around them, filled with warmth, teasing touches, and suggestive murmurs that never needed explicit detail to be understood. The sheets tangled, the soft weight of their movements punctuated by lazy laughter and quiet sighs. Everything about it felt easy, natural--right.

After, Carrie laid half on top of him, running her fingers through his hair as he traced absentminded circles on her back.

She let out a long, contented breath. "That was nice."

Zach cracked one eye open, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Al lo davar."

Carrie shot up. "Hebrew!?"