#alessandro raise
Explore tagged Tumblr posts
Text
![Tumblr media](https://64.media.tumblr.com/632e2fdca7148a856878a9b00b19fbd3/dfe90397e6d8888e-c8/s540x810/9b136f262cfe56dab10ea882227462d97dc96142.jpg)
x
19 notes
·
View notes
Text
don bluth made such a banger version of thumbelina that no other animation company even TRIED
#looking at you mattel#i get that u didnt wanna copy mr bluth but he stuck to the og tale so hard what else could they have done#let me be your wings -esque song by amy powers and megan cavallari vocals by alessandro juliani and Melissa lyons#LIKE WE COULD HAVE HAD IT ALL#also.fuck anyone who trashes don bluth thumbelina all my homies hate people who hate thumbelina#looking at you skylar and chloe#make fun of thumbelina and the prince for falling in love ao quickly like EVERY GODAMN DISNEY MOVIE FUCK YOU SKYLAR ZILKA YOU HYPOCRITE#dont talk to either of them anymore bc Chloe is a trump supporter anf skylar is a racist so their opinions are trash anyways lmao#but fuck those two bitches in particular#raise ur hand if you grew up with don bluth thumbelina AND a gargabe knockoff called the legend of tom thumb and thumbelina 🤣
2 notes
·
View notes
Text
Homemaking, gardening, and self-sufficiency resources that won't radicalize you into a hate group
It seems like self-sufficiency and homemaking skills are blowing up right now. With the COVID-19 pandemic and the current economic crisis, a lot of folks, especially young people, are looking to develop skills that will help them be a little bit less dependent on our consumerist economy. And I think that's generally a good thing. I think more of us should know how to cook a meal from scratch, grow our own vegetables, and mend our own clothes. Those are good skills to have.
Unfortunately, these "self-sufficiency" skills are often used as a recruiting tactic by white supremacists, TERFs, and other hate groups. They become a way to reconnect to or relive the "good old days," a romanticized (false) past before modern society and civil rights. And for a lot of people, these skills are inseparably connected to their politics and may even be used as a tool to indoctrinate new people.
In the spirit of building safe communities, here's a complete list of the safe resources I've found for learning homemaking, gardening, and related skills. Safe for me means queer- and trans-friendly, inclusive of different races and cultures, does not contain Christian preaching, and does not contain white supremacist or TERF dog whistles.
Homemaking/Housekeeping/Caring for your home:
Making It by Kelly Coyne and Erik Knutzen [book] (The big crunchy household DIY book; includes every level of self-sufficiency from making your own toothpaste and laundry soap to setting up raised beds to butchering a chicken. Authors are explicitly left-leaning.)
Safe and Sound: A Renter-Friendly Guide to Home Repair by Mercury Stardust [book] (A guide to simple home repair tasks, written with rentals in mind; very compassionate and accessible language.)
How To Keep House While Drowning by KC Davis [book] (The book about cleaning and housework for people who get overwhelmed by cleaning and housework, based on the premise that messiness is not a moral failing; disability and neurodivergence friendly; genuinely changed how I approach cleaning tasks.)
Gardening
Rebel Gardening by Alessandro Vitale [book] (Really great introduction to urban gardening; explicitly discusses renter-friendly garden designs in small spaces; lots of DIY solutions using recycled materials; note that the author lives in England, so check if plants are invasive in your area before putting them in the ground.)
Country/Rural Living:
Woodsqueer by Gretchen Legler [book] (Memoir of a lesbian who lives and works on a rural farm in Maine with her wife; does a good job of showing what it's like to be queer in a rural space; CW for mentions of domestic violence, infidelity/cheating, and internalized homophobia)
"Debunking the Off-Grid Fantasy" by Maggie Mae Fish [video essay] (Deconstructs the off-grid lifestyle and the myth of self-reliance)
Sewing/Mending:
Annika Victoria [YouTube channel] (No longer active, but their videos are still a great resource for anyone learning to sew; check out the beginner project playlist to start. This is where I learned a lot of what I know about sewing.)
Make, Sew, and Mend by Bernadette Banner [book] (A very thorough written introduction to hand-sewing, written by a clothing historian; lots of fun garment history facts; explicitly inclusive of BIPOC, queer, and trans sewists.)
Sustainability/Land Stewardship
Braiding Sweetgrass by Robin Wall Kimmerer [book] (Most of you have probably already read this one or had it recommended to you, but it really is that good; excellent example of how traditional animist beliefs -- in this case, indigenous American beliefs -- can exist in healthy symbiosis with science; more philosophy than how-to, but a great foundational resource.)
Wild Witchcraft by Rebecca Beyer [book] (This one is for my fellow witches; one of my favorite witchcraft books, and an excellent example of a place-based practice deeply rooted in the land.)
Avoiding the "Crunchy to Alt Right Pipeline"
Note: the "crunchy to alt-right pipeline" is a term used to describe how white supremacists and other far right groups use "crunchy" spaces (i.e., spaces dedicated to farming, homemaking, alternative medicine, simple living/slow living, etc.) to recruit and indoctrinate people into their movements. Knowing how this recruitment works can help you recognize it when you do encounter it and avoid being influenced by it.
"The Crunchy-to-Alt-Right Pipeline" by Kathleen Belew [magazine article] (Good, short introduction to this issue and its history.)
Sisters in Hate by Seyward Darby (I feel like I need to give a content warning: this book contains explicit descriptions of racism, white supremacy, and Neo Nazis, and it's a very difficult read, but it really is a great, in-depth breakdown of the role women play in the alt-right; also explicitly addresses the crunchy to alt-right pipeline.)
These are just the resources I've personally found helpful, so if anyone else has any they want to add, please, please do!
#homemaking#homemaking resources#gardening#urban gardening#self sufficiency#self sufficient living#sustainability#sustainable living#homesteading#nontrad homemaker#nontrad housewife#urban homesteading#solarpunk#cottagecore#kitchen witch#kitchen witchcraft#crunchy to alt right pipeline#book rec#book recommendations#resource#long post#mine#racism tw#racism mention#transphobia tw#transphobia mention
32K notes
·
View notes
Text
The Gift
Pairing: Marcus Acacius x Virgin f!Reader
Rating: E (explicit smut, 18+ only)
Word Count: 9.2k
Warnings: Period typical sexism and treatment of women, period-typical ideas of virginity and virtue, Marcus is a bit rude at first but he comes around quickly, attempted assault that is heavily implied to be sexual, canon-typical violence, hurt/comfort, wound care, yearning, virginity loss, oral sex (f receiving), unprotected PIV sex, mushy endings :)
Summary: The Emperor of Rome has given his most valued General, Marcus Acacius, a generous gift after his recent successful battle. Rather than the gold he’s hoping for, Marcus is stunned when a young virgin is delivered to his chambers. At first, he refuses to entertain the idea of stealing the virtue of a scared girl, but their lives become entwined when he learns that refusing his ‘gift’ puts her in even more danger…
A/N: The art in the header is by @norththelemon and is inspired by Paulo and Virginia by Alessandro Puttinati. Thank you so much for letting me use this artwork for my fic!!! <3 The artwork does not necessarily reflect the appearance of the reader character; rather, it is a reflection of the original artwork. The only physical description I included of reader is that she has long, curly hair (color and texture are never mentioned). Marcus’s pet name for her, bellatora, very loosely translates to “little warrior.” Thank you to the lovely @leslie-lyman for the beta! **NOTE: as attempted SA can be triggering to some people, I have separated out this section with asterisks (******). You can quickly skip this scene and you will not miss any significant plot. If you have any questions, do not hesitate to send me a DM! Be safe <3
Masterlist
Marcus rides through the streets of Rome, the cheers of citizens ringing in his ears and the white petals being thrown from above him sticking in his curls. The populus is joyful, but he cannot help but think of the cost of the battle, about the sons and husbands who he knows are not returning home.
He longs for a bath, to wash the grime, dirt and blood from his body. He longs to strip off the heavy, soiled armor and lay down on his bed, naked and warm and full of bread and wine, and sleep for several days.
First, however, he must endure the long procession up to the palace, where the Emperor was surely waiting for him–where he would have to play all the little games that come with positions of power: smile, nod, say the right words and act in the ways that other people expect of a General.
The horse whinnies nervously as the cacophony swells, and Marcus gently pats its neck, sending a cascade of petals to the ground to be trodden underfoot by so many hooves.
The Emperor waits at the top of the Palace steps, surrounded by all of his court and Roman nobility. Without allowing any of the contempt he feels to show on his face, Marcus Acacius dismounts from the horse and slowly ascends the marble stairs. When he reaches the top, the Emperor pulls him into an exaggerated hug, slapping his back and cheering loudly enough for the onlookers to hear.
“Congratulations to you, my friend, for your triumph and victory over the vanquished,” the man booms, slapping Marcus's pauldron again for good measure and causing another great cheer to rise up from the crowd.
Marcus does not say anything, but he turns to face the onlookers and unsheathes his sword, raising it over his head victoriously, knowing that's what they all want him to do. The resulting din seems to rattle the very stones of the palace.
“You must be weary, good soldier,” the Emperor tells him. “Go now and rest. A gift will be sent to your chambers to show your Emperor’s appreciation for your prowess in battle.”
Marcus nods and bows deeply, indicating his gratitude for his Lord's generosity. He's most thankful, however, for the quick dismissal.
The General’s quarters in the palace are spacious and outfitted with all modern amenities Marcus could ever think to ask for. He quickly lights a fire under the basin to begin heating water for a bath. He begins removing his armor, leaving it by the door where he knows it will be collected for cleaning and polishing. He discards the filthy underclothing and retrieves a clean cloth with which to wash.
It is only now that Marcus is able to take sock tock of his injuries; as the grime is wiped clean from his body, he can finally see where the blood was his, and where the blood was not his. His arms are peppered with bruises and superficial wounds, but nothing that requires any dressing.
He is lucky.
Marcus dresses in loose robes, luxuriating in the feeling of being free and unencumbered by his armor. With a deep, satisfied sigh, he settles himself down on the bed, surrounded by the ornate pillows that come with Palace trappings, and closes his eyes.
They’ve barely been closed for a few minutes when a knock sounds at the door.
Marcus frowns. All his joints and muscles protest when he reluctantly rises from the bed again and opens the door. He’s greeted by one of the Emperor’s personal guard, who is roughly holding the upper arm of a young girl.
“What is the meaning of this?” Marcus asks hesitantly, taking in the girl’s simple, white shift that clings to her breasts and hips, her trembling lips, and her wide, terrified eyes.
“The Emperor, in his generosity, presents you with this virgin as reward for your duty to Rome,” the guard announces. He pushes the girl forward into Marcus’s chambers and shuts the door behind him.
“What in the Gods’...” the General murmurs under his breath as you are shoved unceremoniously into the room.
You curtsy deeply, remembering, despite your fear, what you have been instructed to do. “M-My Lord,” you whisper through trembling lips. You can only stare at the floor, unable to look at the man to whom you have been gifted.
“I had been hoping for gold,” the man grumbles. “What am I supposed to do with you?”
He sounds angry. This terrifies you more.
“I am f-for your… p-pleasure,” you try to explain. “My Lord.” You deepen the curtsy, until your knees nearly scrape the floor. If you please him, perhaps he will not be unkind.
“Stop that. Get up.” the man snaps. “I’m not in the mood for deflowering virgins.”
“S-Sir?” You don’t understand. You weren’t prepared for the man to say no. You were bathed, dressed, and told that you were to be a gift for a mighty general. You were to please him, let him bed you, and serve him until he tired of you. You were instructed to kneel, to address him as only “My Lord,” and to do whatever he asked of you. Only then would the debt your father owed to the Emperor be paid in full.
You were not given instructions on what to do if the General refused his gift.
“D-Do I not please My Lord?” you try again. Terrified of being turned away, sent back to your father, where they’d surely kill you both, you begin to cry.
“By the Gods–stop, come here,” the General says, sounding exasperated. He gently leads you to a chair and indicates you should sit. You do. He crouches on his heels so that your heads are level, and examines you. “Who are you, girl?”
“I… am the only daughter of Proculus Opilio,” you sniffle. “I am a gift for his Lord’s pleasure.”
The man’s fingers take hold of your chin; his hands are gentle as he guides your eyes up to his. “Why are you a gift,” he presses.
“M-My family owes a great debt,” you whisper. “I am to be payment for our transgressions against the Emperor.”
“The Emperor sends me a frightened child,” the man growls as he quickly stands and paces away from you, “and calls it a gift.”
“You must accept,” you say frantically, hopping up from your seat and following him. “They will know if you do not, and we will be punished for it.”
The general scoffs. “What, they intend on checking?” he asks, as if such a thing is too ridiculous to be spoken aloud.
“Yes,” you whisper. They told you as such.
“Girl,” he says sternly. “I am not going to enact such violence on a scared child.”
“I am not a child,” you argue, sticking your chin up. “I have seen nineteen summers, almost twenty.”
The General seems to find this funny. He huffs, shaking his head and turning away. “Go home, girl.”
“I cannot go home,” you say, and start to cry again.
“Stop. Stop,” the man entreats. He turns toward you again and cages your face in his hands, rubbing the tears away with his thumbs. “Okay. Do not worry, I will… Gods, I will help. You and your family will come to no harm.”
“Thank you,” you say emphatically, your hands coming up to your shoulders in preparation to unclasp your shift.
“No! Stop!” You freeze again, eyes wide.
The General softens, and gentles his words. “Please stop. I am weary from battle and I need to sleep. Please… let us both rest, and after that we may discuss this with level heads.”
“Of course, My Lord,” you nod, curtsying again.
“Marcus.”
“...My Lord?”
“Call me Marcus. I am no Lord.”
“As you wish, My Lord.” It comes out automatically.
The General–Marcus–raises one eyebrow.
“...Marcus.” You watch as the man pads over to the bed and collapses onto it with a heavy sigh.
“You may sleep here, you may sleep elsewhere, it does not concern me,” he mumbles, eyes already closed. “I am not long for this world and will be unconscious for quite some time, I imagine.”
His words are correct; within a matter of minutes the man is snoring.
Alone and scared, you sink back down into the chair, and begin to cry again.
Marcus wakes with something tickling his nose. Opening his eyes, he’s greeted by a mass of curls on his pillow, framing the angelic face of…
Oh.
He had forgotten about you. At some point, you had clearly decided to sleep as well, because you are curled up next to him, your hands clasped under your chin and your lips slightly parted in sleep. This is the first time he’s seen your face not terrified, and he realizes that you are really quite beautiful.
He does not know what to do with you.
Marcus has never had a shortage of willing partners, and he is uninterested in the alternative. You are pretty, young, and soft, but he is not the sort of man to force himself on a woman. Even if you did ask him in no uncertain terms to do so, it would not be for the right reasons.
He needs to find a way out of this situation, ideally with his life, your life, and the lives of your family still intact; he did not wade through the blood and mire of battlefield just to condemn an innocent woman to death.
“Girl,” he says lowly, and your eyes open quickly. They go wide at his proximity, and you scramble back a few inches, creating more space between you.
“H-Hello,” you greet him shakily.
“Good morn,” he replies. “How are you feeling?”
“Well-rested, My Lo–Marcus.” You offer him a small, timid smile.
Marcus glances toward the window. “It must be almost midday,” he says, noticing the angle of the sun. He’d fallen asleep yesterday in the late afternoon, slept all night, and through the morning. He hopes you did the same.
“I am famished.” He gets up from the bed–Gods, his muscles still ache–and pads toward the door to his chambers. “With any luck, this morning’s breakfast will still be outside.”
It feels like the only act of providence that has happened since his return to the Palace that the breakfast tray is still there, laden with fresh bread and fruit. He carries it inside and sets it on the small table in his chambers. He grabs a piece of bread with one hand and beckons you over with the other, too hungry to be polite and wait for you before tearing a piece off with his teeth. He finishes the bread in a few bites, but you still stand near the bed, unmoving and watching him with wary eyes.
“Come. Eat.” Marcus grabs another piece of bread and a handful of grapes.
Hesitantly, you approach the table, looking like a wild animal unsure of whether the human offering you food can be trusted.
“I do not bite, girl,” he grumbles.
You snatch a loaf off of the table and retreat backwards a couple of paces, breaking off small pieces and popping them into your mouth as you continue to stare at him.
“What will you do with me?” you ask.
“Do with you?” Marcus laughs humorlessly. “Nothing.”
“Nothing?” you repeat, beginning to sound angry. Good. Marcus would rather you be anything but the timid, scared girl that was shoved into his chambers. “So you would condemn my family to death?”
“I am not going to take an unwilling woman to bed,” he growls, taking more grapes from the tray and popping them into his mouth.
“Most people would do far worse to save the life of a loved one,” you argue.
Marcus scoffs. “I’ve seen and done things you could not imagine, girl. If losing your maidenhood is the worst thing you can conceive of–”
“It is not,” you snap, stamping your foot in a show of exasperated petulance. “If you are not going to help me, then… I—I hope the gods curse you!” you finish lamely. You spin on your heels and retreat to the corner of his room, sitting down on a chair and crossing your arms with a huff.
Marcus closes his eyes. He is being too harsh with her, too cruel. He has spent too long shouting orders at his men of late, and not enough time offering comfort or kind words. He grimaces and approaches you with caution. You glare at him, and he doesn’t blame you, but he slowly sinks to his knees in front of you before speaking.
“I have been unkind,” he says softly. “Please forgive my rudeness.”
He watches as your pretty eyes narrow, then widen, then narrow again as a number of emotions seem to flicker across your face. Your lips part, but you don’t respond, and Marcus forges on.
“I did not ask to be put in this situation, and neither did you. I made a promise to you last night that you and your family will come to no harm, but we must work together to keep you safe.”
“Would it not be easier to simply take your ‘gift’?” you sniffle, jutting your chin out and trying–unsuccessfully, he thinks to himself–to be brave.
Marcus chuckles softly, reaching forward and gently grasping both of your hands. “I have committed enough violence in the name of Emperor and Country to last a man several lifetimes. I may not have been as kind as I should have been to you, but I will not take the innocence of a scared girl who is being used as a pawn in the evil games of powerful men.”
You sniffle again, wiping your nose on the back of one hand. “Sometimes I wish I could just be free of this cursed ‘gift’ of innocence and lose all value to men like that.”
Marcus huffs in amusement. “Do you, now?”
You sigh, turning and looking out of the window. “How nice it would be to be valued for other qualities, instead,” you murmur, speaking more to yourself than to him. When you turn back to look at him, you ask, “How will you–we–subvert the wishes of the Emperor himself?”
Ah. He was rather hoping you wouldn’t ask, at least not yet. Truthfully, he has no idea; all he can really hope to do is attempt to sway the Emperor in some way, or at the very least, buy him some time.
“I will request an audience,” Marcus tells you. “I must go soon to debrief with the other generals, and he will be in attendance. I will speak to him, garner favor…” he trails off, knowing how vague and uncertain he sounds.
“You would really take such a risk for me…?” you ask hesitantly.
“The Emperor, in his wisdom, has bestowed upon me a gift,” Marcus says sardonically. “And as I see it, that gift is now mine, and is under my protection.” He gently cups your cheek, letting his palm rest against the slightly damp skin. “We will use his… generosity… to our advantage.”
He stands, letting his fingers trail across your jaw before pulling his hand back. “I must go. Do not open the door to anyone while I am gone.”
In the General’s absence, you finish off the rest of the breakfast tray, which was plentiful. With a full belly, you wander around the man’s chambers, exploring the space that will also be yours for the foreseeable future. You wash in the basin, splashing cool water on your face and sighing in relief. For the first time in over a day, you are finally able to breathe and take stock of your situation.
You should be grateful, really. The General Marcus, although gruff and tactless at times, seems to be a caring, even kind man. You believe him when he says he will protect you, protect your family, even though you have nothing to give him in return. Nothing he wishes to take, at any rate.
Your eyes fall on an ornate dagger sitting on a table near the window, and you cannot help but think of the way his hands–the same hands that would fiercely wield a weapon to slice through skin and bone–so gently touched your face.
A loud knock on the door to Marcus’s chambers startles him out of your reverie. A soft noise of surprise escapes you before you are able to clap your hand over your mouth to stifle it. You can tell that whoever is on the other side of the door has heard you, because they pause, listening, and then knock again.
The handle rattles as someone on the other side turns it back and forth, testing the strength of the lock, and your heart pounds with trepidation.
They cannot get in. They cannot get in. They cannot get in. You repeat the phrase over and over in your head, but then you hear the distinct click as the lock is bypassed or picked, and the door swings wide.
“Well, well, well,” a man in ornate robes sneers. “It appears the rumors are true.”
**********************************
Another man in similar garb pushes past him. “Our beloved general has a new toy.” The words are dripping in sarcasm.
You back up against the wall, and the table next to you rattles when you bump it with your hip. Quickly, you pick up the dagger and point it at the intruders.
Both men guffaw loudly, slapping their knees and shoving each others’ shoulders in their apparent mirth. “She has teeth, she does!” one of them jeers.
“Tell us, did you bite the General when he stuck you?”
The men lunge forward, and you slash with the blade. One of them howls, clutching at his arm, where red is already beginning to well up between his fingers, but you are unused to wielding weapons and the second man rips it from your grasp easily.
“You little bitch,” the injured one spits, and slaps you, hard, with his good hand, the blood from his injury splashing your face and your white robes. You crumple in an instant, clutching your cheek, as the two men close in.
“I bet she squeals nice and loud,” one of them growls menacingly as he reaches for you.
*************************************
A loud bang from behind the men makes them startle. You look for the source, and see the General standing in the doorway with fury in his eyes. He wrenches another dagger from its scabbard and, with no warning, lunges forward and plunges it into the neck of the man who had reached for you. With a sickening gurgle, the man collapses instantly, and red blood begins to pool underneath him. Marcus rips the dagger from the man’s neck and points it at the second man as he shoves him against the wall, who immediately begins to whimper and shake his head.
“Sniveling cur,” the General spits. “I would happily kill you both, but you are going to deliver a message for me instead.” At the man’s frantic nod, he continues. “It seems that some need reminding that I am not to be trifled with,” Marcus snarls. “And the next person who disrespects me by harming my property will be dealt with in the same manner as your friend. Now. Go.”
The man bolts, clutching the wound you had given him.
Marcus’s demeanor immediately changes. He drops the dagger on the floor and falls to his knees in front of you, taking your face in his hands again… hands that are trembling.
“They hurt you,” he murmurs, his eyes rapidly flicking back and forth over your face, seeing the blood that had spattered on your robes.
“It isn’t mine,” you manage to say, although your voice shakes and your chest heaves with leftover terror. You can’t keep your gaze from landing on the dead man in front of you, his eyes still open and staring sightlessly ahead. “I–your knife I–”
“Okay,” he nods, his thumbs still caressing your cheekbones. “Okay. Shhh. Don’t look at him, look at me.” When you manage to pull your gaze to the General instead, you’re suddenly captivated by his wild, dark eyes. They’re so full of fire, yes, but with that fire brings warmth. He stares at you as if you are a precious object, not some scared little girl covered in blood and cowering against the wall. “Come here,” Marcus says softly. “Let me help you up.”
You surprise even yourself when you automatically lean forward and into the General’s arms. He stiffens, seemingly just as stunned by your trust in him, but he recovers and carefully stands, pulling you up with him and gently turning your body away from the dead man. He leads you forward, and you follow blindly as he guides you down onto a chair.
“Let me fetch a cloth,” Marcus says, his expression stormy and troubled, “to clean you up. Do not move.”
You nod, watching as he fills a little bowl with water from the basin and comes back to crouch at your feet. “Your cheek,” he murmurs. “Is it very painful?”
You nod again, a few hot tears escaping from your eyes and stinging the small cut in question.
“I will be as gentle as I can,” Marcus promises. “But it must be cleaned.”
You shut your eyes as his fingers carefully grasp your chin, using his hold to tilt your head and grant him easier access. The cloth is cold against the burning skin of your cheek, and you cannot stop the soft whimper that leaves your lips. Gently, the General dabs the little wound, dipping the cloth in water over and over and soothing the tender skin as he wipes it clean of dirt and blood.
Once satisfied with your cheek, he cleans the man’s blood off of the rest of your face and neck, as well as the few droplets that had landed on your hands from the other man as he was stabbed.
“Thank you,” you whisper hoarsely as he gently turns one hand over and dabs away the last remaining spot of blood on the inside of your wrist.
“You should not be thanking me,” Marcus says, voice tinged with bitterness. “It is because of me that you came to harm.”
“Yet it is also because of you that I was not harmed further,” you tell him quietly. Your eyes dart toward the body in a pool of blood still lying on the floor, and quickly look away again. “You killed a man for me.”
“You are under my protection,” Marcus says solemnly. “I do not take that vow lightly.”
As your heartbeat finally begins to slow, the deep terror that had been swirling inside you leaves, replaced with bone-weary fatigue. Your vision swims and your head sways slightly as you suddenly feel that you must fight the urge to fall asleep right here in this chair.
“Something ails me,” you say, alarmed at your darkening vision.
“Battle fatigue,” the General says matter-of-factly. “When the fog of war lifts, sleep often takes its place.”
“I am no soldier,” you protest tiredly. The world shifts–Marcus has scooped you into his arms and is carrying you to his bed, carefully laying you down on the blankets.
“You are now,” he teases gently. “Victorious little soldier, bellatora, wielding a General’s weapon with ferocity. You even have a battle scar.” His finger gingerly brushes your cheek.
“Will others come?” you ask, struck with a sudden pang of fear even as your eyes threaten to close.
“No.”
“What if they do?” It’s a silly question, and you aren’t sure why you even gave voice to such a childish fear. Warmth envelops you as Marcus covers your form with a blanket. Your eyes finally close, and the General’s last words seem to come to you through a dream.
“Then I will fight the entire Roman army to keep you safe.”
Marcus Acacius did not want this “gift.”
He did not want a virgin to deflower, nor a scared girl to comfort, or even a servant that inexplicably tidied his rooms while he was away.
He did not want you.
But here you are, sitting by his window with a book, eating all of your dinner and a good portion of his, and leaving long, curly hairs on his pillows, by the basin, and even on his armor–something he had discovered during a drill one morning, pulling the offending strand off of his pauldron with a bemused shake of his head.
He does not want you. He doesn’t want the comb and mirror that now lie on the table by the basin, nor the extra rags he had to ask a servant for–ears burning bright red–when your… er… monthlies arrived. He does not want to spend his wages on new robes for you, but he hardly has a choice, not when your thin white shift became filthy with blood the night that he–
Gods.
The night that he almost lost you.
If his meeting had gone just five minutes longer, he would have been too late. He would have arrived to a much different scene, and he knows he would have killed every inhabitant of the palace in retribution.
This is how he knows that he cannot trust his own feelings when it comes to you. What should be an unwanted inconvenience in his life has quickly become much, much more. He acts like a man in love, the way he buys you trinkets and brings you sweets, but no matter how he twists the story in his own head, he cannot deny the truth: you are a captive. His captive.
As if to punctuate his thoughts, a wealthy merchant crosses his path in the bustling market, followed by another man carrying all of the man’s wares for him, purposely walking several paces behind as is the custom for slaves.
Marcus can dress you in all the finery his salary can afford, but that does not change the fact that you were intended to be a slave for his pleasure.
He already has his intended prize from the market–a parcel containing two pieces of sweetbread tucked under one arm–but perhaps it is guilt over your imprisonment that causes his head to wander to the stall of jewelry to his left.
“Trinkets for a special someone,” says a middle-aged woman wearing kohl eyeliner and almost as many beads around her own neck as are displayed in her stall. She shoots Marcus a knowing smirk as his fingers reach out to graze a length of beads of palest pink.
“Rose quartz,” the woman tells him. “For love, compassion, and emotional healing.”
Rose quartz. He cannot help but picture the pretty, pale beads glowing, luminous against the soft skin of your neck.
“How much?” His voice is rough and thick.
The woman’s smile widens.
They cost almost an entire weeks’ salary, and he’s never spent such a sum on anything for himself, let alone something so frivolous, but he’s already reaching for his purse.
You grin widely at Marcus’s return–a sight that makes his heart swell when he remembers how frightened you were of him on that first night. You make little grabbing motions with your hands, causing him to laugh as he hands over the parcel of sweetbread. You take your piece and hand him the other, hardly waiting until he’s taken it before you’re biting into the sweet dough with a sound of pleasure that goes straight to his nether regions.
He thinks of the necklace, wrapped in cloth and hidden in his robes, but he is struck with a moment of uncharacteristic cowardice, and he leaves it where it is.
“Tell me about the market,” you say wistfully.
“Too crowded,” Marcus grunts before taking a bite of his own sweetbread.
You seem to find his cantankerous nature funny, for Gods know what reason, and the pretty sound of your laughter fills the room–and his mind.
“There are a number of visitors for some play at the amphitheater tonight,” he explains further, shrugging slightly.
You suddenly exclaim in delight, startling him a little. “I love the amphitheater,” you say emphatically. “My father often had to punish me for sneaking in to see plays against his wishes when I was a little girl.”
Marcus chuckles, picturing a smaller version of you, but no less fiery.
“It was worth it,” you laugh. You pop the last piece of sweetbread into your mouth and suck each finger clean of the sticky dough in turn. Marcus should look away, but he’s entranced by the way your lips close around each digit, leaving clean, shiny skin in your wake.
He blames this momentary onset of utter madness for the words that leave his mouth next.
“Would you like to go see it? The play?”
The pure delight that washes over your face is enough to make Marcus want to take you to a different play every night, but after too short a time, you are frowning warily.
“Would that be wise?” you ask. “Is it not dangerous for me to leave your quarters?”
“You would be seen as my consort,” Marcus answers. “No harm will come to you, bellatora.”
“Your… your consort?”
“You cannot be a prisoner in these walls for the rest of your days,” he tells you softly. “If we play the parts we have been given–the General and his consort–no one will question it. They wouldn’t dare, not after my warning. The entire palace knows that I will gladly kill anyone who threatens you.”
You duck your head, looking down at your hands. Marcus wonders if you’re frightened of him, still.
“Everyone will see my act as one of possession,” he says. “Of territoriality. If we allow them to draw that conclusion, they will never suspect any different.”
You nod, biting your lower lip and giving him a timid smile that slowly spreads across your face and turns into something bright and joyful.
“Thank you,” you whisper.
“The play will end before we even arrive, bellatora,” Marcus grouses from the main chamber.
“Patience,” you snap from the washroom. The stupid elaborate hairstyle that you keep trying to braid your hair into keeps falling out, and you’re beginning to feel frustrated. With a heavy sigh, you settle for a simpler plait that falls over one shoulder. You’re wearing one of the nicer gowns that Marcus has gifted you–robes of deep emerald green, but you still worry that you look far too common to be an appropriate consort to a General.
Since when has such a thing become a concern for you? Despite the roles you are forced to play, Marcus is not your consort, nor your lover. He has made it clear he will never touch you, so why are you hiding in the washroom, worrying over your appearance?
With a pained sigh, you shake yourself, square your shoulders, and turn to face the General.
“Ready,” you announce, and the man in question looks up.
His lips part slightly, a little crease forming on his brow as his eyebrows raise. He fixes you with that look–the one he keeps giving you lately. It’s as if he’s in a constant state of surprise every time he sees you, as if you aren’t a permanent fixture in his rooms and could disappear at any moment.
“What?” you finally ask.
Marcus seems to shake himself out of his stupor. “It is missing something.”
The statement confuses you. “I–I have nothing else to–” You cut yourself off as the man seems to be digging through his clothing, looking for what, you do not know.
“I thought this would suit you,” he says quietly, as he retrieves a small parcel and holds it out for you to take.
You hesitate, frowning. “What is it?”
Marcus huffs softly with impatience and opens the parcel himself, revealing the prettiest strand of stones you’ve ever seen in your life.
“Oh,” you gasp.
“Do you…” the man in front of you clears his throat and shifts in his stance, “Do you like it?” he asks gruffly.
“Yes,” you whisper. “Yes, I like it.”
Wordlessly, he removes it from the cloth and moves behind you to clasp it at the back of your neck. You can’t help the wide smile that breaks across your face at the feel of the cool beads resting against your throat. Gently, you touch the necklace with your fingers and turn to look at Marcus. “Does it look pretty?” you ask, still grinning at him.
The General’s face is almost pained when he returns your gaze. His eyes don’t leave yours when he softly answers, “Yes.”
Marcus Acacius has never been much for plays, but never before has he experienced seeing one with you. He can’t help cracking a small smile himself every time you let out a joyful peal of laughter, which you do often, as the story is a humorous one.
The necklace suits you just as he thought it would, but your beauty almost makes the stones appear dull in comparison. If anyone were to ask him, Marcus would say that your smile could outshine all of Rome. Pretending that you are his consort is far too easy; your delicate fingers find the crook of his elbow without prompting when he offers his arm to you as you walk through the streets when the show ends. Your eyes always seem to find his, your face bright and hopeful and oh so lovely as you look up at him.
“Marcus?”
He’s been lost in his thoughts again. He grunts and nods to you as the two of you walk back to the palace, when you suddenly stop.
“I want to tell you…” you begin, wringing your hands together nervously.
“What is it, bellatora?” Marcus asks with concern.
“I want to tell you that I am… very happy,” you say, ducking your head and avoiding his gaze.
“I am glad that you enjoyed the play,” Marcus says hesitantly, wondering what is making you suddenly be so… shy.
“With you,” you add quietly. “It’s not only the play, it’s… it’s just you, Marcus.” The final word is almost a plea, with how earnestly it leaves your lips. “I–I want you to know that I would. I would be your consort, i-if you wanted, and I’d–”
Marcus closes the small distance between you and presses his lips against yours. You yield to him immediately, your small hands moving up the planes of his chest and coming to rest at his jaw. You kiss with the slight timidness of someone unfamiliar with how to do it, but oh, he’s happy to guide you. One of his hands gently cups your neck, the other caresses your cheek and it’s all he can do to keep the kiss chaste and not frighten you by backing you up against the wall of the alleyway and opening his mouth to you.
When he releases your lips, you chase him–leaning forward with your mouth still pouted and your eyes closed, as though you cannot bear to be parted from him, and it takes a herculean effort not to indulge.
“Come,” Marcus murmurs softly, his thumb tracing back and forth over your cheekbone, watching as you flutter your eyes open and look at him with an expression of such open trust and want that he feels as though he’ll burn from the inside out. “Come, let us go home.”
You are ablaze.
Marcus’s hands seem to burn with heat as he guides you hastily through the palace and to his familiar quarters, but their temperature still seems to pale in comparison to the heat that rises within you.
Once inside, he kisses you again, and you swear your knees could simply buckle and give out just at the feel of his lips on yours. You crave it again and again; your hands grip at his robes to hold him close to you, hoping he’ll never stop.
“Sweet girl, little bellatora,” Marcus murmurs, his lips dragging from your mouth across your cheek to the side of your neck and oh, you like that even more–your head falls to the side and your back arches as you all but beg for his lips on your skin again. His hand on your lower back guides you even closer until your bodies are pressing together and you gasp softly at the feeling of his body against yours.
“Tell me,” he whispers in your ear, his lips grazing the shell of your earlobe and causing a cascade of shivers to course through you. “Tell me that you want this. If you do not, deny me now, and I promise I will never touch you again.”
“No,” you whimper automatically. “No, please don’t stop, just–”
“Shhh, bellatora.” Marcus seems to crumple with relief, leaning forward until your back hits the wall and his lips ravish your neck once again. “I won’t stop, just tell me you want me like this.”
“Yes,” you gasp, as the General’s hands cage your face and his mouth meets yours once again. “Yes, yes, yes–” You repeat the word over and over into his mouth, until he groans softly and parts his lips too, deepening the kiss and tasting you with his tongue.
His hands caress your neck, fingertips running up and down before settling on the clasps on your shoulders. “Let me see you,” he whispers. “Please, let me–”
You pull back, looking in his eyes as you nod slowly, giving him permission. He carefully undoes your dress, letting the fabric fall and pool at your feet. The necklace is still around your neck, and he touches the beads lightly as he stares at the sight before him.
“Oh, Gods…” Marcus murmurs to himself, shaking his head in awe. “What a divine gift you are, bellatora.”
His eyes rake over your breasts, your hips, the swell of your stomach, and the fire burning within threatens to consume you. With one more soft kiss, he whispers, “Come to the bed, so I may worship you properly.”
You let him lead you, keeping your eyes on him as he takes your hands in his and pulls you toward the bed. You are too consumed with flames to feel fear of this moment, but a pang of nervousness thrums within you despite yourself.
Marcus guides you down until you’re sitting on the edge of the bed. You begin to scoot backwards–you might not have much experience, but you know you’re supposed to be lying on the bed–when he stops you, and instead sinks to his knees in front of you.
“I–” you begin, unsure of what to do.
“I want you to watch,” the General whispers, looking up at you in the same way an acolyte may look up at a temple. “I want you to see me.”
Slowly, cautiously, as if he’s afraid of spooking you, he guides your legs open until you’re splayed out in front of him. You would be embarrassed, but for the hungry look in his eyes, how his chest seems to heave in anticipation, and the way his tongue darts out to lick his lips as if he’s about to enjoy a feast.
When he leans forward, his mouth moving toward you, you gasp and stiffen, and he pauses.
“Trust me,” he soothes. “It will feel good, I promise.”
You swallow thickly and relax again, watching as Marcus comes even closer, until he’s able to press a kiss right on–
“Oh,” you whimper softly.
Emboldened, he angles his mouth against you and licks. The sensation of his tongue through your folds causes you to collapse backwards on your elbows, your head falling back and your eyes closing as you gasp toward the ceiling.
“Watch,” Marcus reminds you.
With you half-sprawled on the bed, your legs fall open even further and his hands wind underneath your hips as he pulls you even closer onto his mouth. His tongue, his lips… oh, it’s so decadent; you’ve never felt pleasure like this by your own hand. He thrusts his tongue into you, and you can only whine and babble wordlessly, your eyes wide as you dutifully watch him please you. He alternates between these deep, overwhelming strokes of his tongue and little licks right on the little bundle of nerves above, back and forth, back and forth until your entire body shakes.
“Exquisite,” Marcus rasps, his voice rough with exertion and pleasure. His lips close around you and he sucks gently, and the fire within you burns until it reaches a crescendo, until finally, you fall.
“Bellatora.” The endearment is laden with affection, and when you slowly blink your eyes open, the General is smiling down at you. “Are you with me, mi bellatora?”
You giggle. “I think so.”
He must have disrobed while your eyes were closed; you stare at his slightly golden chest, at the light dusting of hair and freckles, and further down, where–
Oh, Gods.
Marcus hangs thick, heavy, and proud, and you swallow in trepidation at the thought of all of that inside you.
“Don't look at that; look at me.” The words are soothing, but tinged with humor, and you can see the mirth sparkling in his eyes when you do as he asks and look at him.
“Let us just lie down together,” he says, smiling. “Nothing more.”
You scoot up until your head rests against the pillows, and Marcus crawls over you with a smirk, pressing little kisses up your body as he goes, until he lies down beside you and pulls you into his arms.
With your back against his chest, you can't exactly forget about the hard length of him, as it's currently pressing insistently against you. You wiggle, arching your back and trying to soothe the empty ache that still seems to reside within you.
“Feeling greedy, mi bellatora?”
You whine softly and push back against him harder. His arms are wrapped around you, but somehow, it’s still not enough. You want him everywhere, you need everything.
“What have you done to me?” you laugh softly.
“Nothing you have not also done to me,” Marcus murmurs, nipping your shoulder playfully.
“I have done nothing,” you say airily, leaning further back into his embrace.
“Oh, you have,” he growls. “You have invaded my quarters–”
“That is hardly my doing–”
“–and shortly after, invaded my heart,” Marcus continues, ignoring your interruption. “You have made me crave as I never have before.”
“You have made me feel the same,” you whisper. “I have never… felt anything like this before.”
“Mi bellatora,” he breathes against your skin, sending shivers up and down your spine.
“Do not be cruel.”
“Cruel?”
“You are denying me.”
At your playful accusation, Marcus suddenly shifts, rising up from beside you and pinning you to the bed with his body. “And it is taking the effort of every bone in my body, more challenging than all twelve labors of Hercules.”
“Then stop,” you tell him softly, reaching up to palm his cheek. “Stop denying us what we both want.”
Rather than answer, the General lowers his mouth to yours.
Kissing might be your new favorite thing–you thought the feel of Marcus’s lips was the most perfect thing you’d ever felt when he kissed you in the alleyway, but here, in his bed, with the weight of his body pressing deliciously down on you, his kisses feel even more profound. His hips roll gently against you, and you instinctively wrap one leg around his thigh to try and relieve your desire for more friction.
The action causes Marcus to groan and bury his face in your neck, his light beard scraping against your skin. Your hips cant upward unconsciously, and the skin of his cock catches and rubs against your folds.
With a little moan, you press against him harder, wanting more, more–
“Bellatora,” Marcus groans. He props himself on one elbow over you, spits on the other hand and rubs the wetness onto the head of his cock. He repeats the motion again, and then gently rubs the remainder onto you, making you arch back with a surprised gasp.
“I know, I know,” he murmurs. “It’ll be easier like this.”
He lines up the thick head of him with your entrance and pushes the tip in ever so slightly. Your eyes widen as you feel him, your mouth falling open as you stare up at him in awe.
“That’s it, just look at me,” Marcus murmurs. “Just keep looking at me.”
His face is so close to yours that your breaths mingle as he slowly slides in. You expect it to hurt, but you’re so soaked from his earlier attentions that it’s almost easy for him, at first. When he’s only about halfway in, though, you start to feel unbearably full–too full–and it makes you whimper softly and squirm against him.
“Breathe for me,” Marcus reminds you. “Breathe, mi bellatora.”
In between more kisses and soft praises, he pushes forward, bit by bit, until you can feel his body fully pressing against your core.
“Oh,” you whisper, smiling shakily. “I can feel you.”
Marcus chuckles. “And I, you.”
He stays just there, unmoving, stroking your face, until you begin to squirm with impatience again.
“I don’t want to hurt you, bellatora,” he says softly. “Please, love, tell me if I do.”
You nod, wide-eyed and enraptured by the feeling of being utterly filled. With one last gently kiss to your cheekbone, Marcus carefully begins to move. His cock drags slowly back and forth against your walls, and each time he buries himself to the hilt once again, it sends sparks of pleasure all over your body.
Your exhales turn high and breathy, little whimpers and gasps escaping every time Marcus reaches the end of you. You cling to his shoulders, the back of his neck, your fingers tangling in his curls, eliciting a deep groan and a change in the rhythm of his thrusts as he gains confidence that you aren’t in any pain.
The faster Marcus’s hips move, the more it seems to send you into a frenzy. Your legs wrap around his hips and your grip on his upper body tightens as the fire within you starts to build again.
Your lips seek any available skin they can find, pressing open-mouthed against his jaw, his neck, his upper arm, anywhere you can reach. One of Marcus’s hands gently cups the back of your neck for leverage as he grinds against you; the other wanders up and down your body–gripping your hip, squeezing your breast and pressing his thumb against your nipple, stroking your cheek as he kisses you again and again.
His kisses become more and more messy and frenetic as he loses himself in the pleasure of your body. He pants softly, his voice catching on every exhale, quiet little noises deep in his throat that only you can hear.
Your bodies move seamlessly together, aided by the light sheen of sweat that beads on your skin. Marcus hand slips in between you, his fingers finding the little bundle of nerves and gently rubbing circles into the skin there.
“Oh, I–I–” you whimper brokenly, drunk on the sensations of pleasure that he’s pulling from your body. “M-Ma–”
“Say it,” he rasps in your ear. “Please, bellatora.”
“Marcus,” you manage to gasp.
“Again.”
“M-Marcus, Marcus, oh Gods, I–”
Your body arches off the bed as the strongest wave of pleasure you’ve ever felt courses through you. You convulse against him, hands scrabbling for a hold on his broad shoulders, gripping him for dear life as though he is the only thing keeping you from being pulled under by the waves.
Your cries reach a crescendo and Marcus gives you everything–his hips snapping roughly against you as your core continues to flutter weakly. Finally, when your body feels boneless and the fullness of him begins to ache, his thrusts falter and he finally stills, his cock twitching inside of you as he finishes.
He slips out, frowning slightly with concern when you wince, but continues to hover over you, his eyes sweeping over your face as your breathing slows and your heart quietens. He stays there, stroking your hair and kissing you until his shoulders start to shake with the effort of holding himself over you.
You fall asleep tangled together, safe and warm in Marcus’s arms.
[Several moons later]
“Must we really go?” you wheedle as you watch the General fiddle with the clasp on his ceremonial robes.
“It is the most effective way to make our little statement, bellatora.”
You cross your arms and make a show of pouting, although you know Marcus is right. You raise your arms, which are currently holding half of an unfinished braid. “Help me with my hair?”
Marcus sighs loudly, although you know that, like your feigned petulance, it’s also an act. He takes the braid from you and finishes it before moving to the next section, plaiting it together the way he knows you like.
“Tell me the statement again.”
He huffs. “You just like hearing me say it.”
“Yes.”
“An act against one of us is an act against both of us,” he murmurs dutifully. “And tantamount to an act of war, to be met with a swift and disproportionate response.”
“You always say that–‘disproportionate response.’ I do not understand what you mean by it.”
“Mmm. An opposing force sends one arrow into my army, I send one back. Proportionate response. Someone sends an arrow into my army, and I reign fire from the sky, burn every building to the ground, kill every citizen and remove them from every map. Disproportionate response.” Marcus finishes your hair and gently drapes the long braid over your shoulder.
“If ever you ask why I was scared of you when first we met, I will refer to you to that statement,” you say wryly.
“You did ask, mi bellatora.” He picks up a belt and scabbard–similar to his, but smaller, more delicate, and ornate. He fastens it around your waist, cinching your dress and making you feel not only more alluring, but powerful.
You do a little twirl and turn to him. “Do I look like the consort of an esteemed General?”
Marcus leans in and gently captures your lips with his. “You look like so much more. Now let us go into this den of wolves.”
With your head held high, you walk proudly through the halls at the General’s side, your hand tucked neatly against the crook of his elbow, until you reach the banquet hall, where the Emperor is holding a great feast. In your wildest imagination, you cannot think of a single place you want to avoid more, but you hold Marcus’s earlier promise in your mind as the heads turn to look at your entrance.
This is the last time.
The Emperor, surrounded by his entourage, raises his glass with a shout and a laugh as he sees the two of you. “The good General,” he grins wolfishly.
“Taking his little plaything out for a walk,” one of the other men sneer.
“Letting his little pet out of its cage,” adds another, snickering.
Calmly, you unsheath the beautiful, ceremonial dagger that Marcus had given you as a gift and hold it at your side, just as he’d told you. A powerful warrior does not brandish their weapon or wave it under people’s noses, he had said. A powerful warrior does not need to. They simply remind their enemies that the weapon is there.
“You disrespect me,” you say, keeping your face even and your eyes stern. “And you disrespect my husband.”
Silence falls around the room. The Emperor’s men look at each other, to Marcus, and back to you again, unsure of how to respond. Finally, one of them laughs loudly.
“General Acacius is going soft,” he cackles. “Letting his little toy play pretend that she’s the wife of a noble.”
You fight to keep your expression free of malice or hurt, continuing to face them down calmly, your sword resting at your side.
“Your gift to the General was far more valuable than you knew,” you say evenly, speaking only to the Emperor. “My family’s debt is paid in full, and I am therefore free to leave the palace at my leisure.”
The Emperor of Rome stares at you with befuddlement, his eyes wide, seemingly completely at a loss for words.
“We take our leave,” you announce with a flourish of a bow.
“Leave?” The man sputters. “You are my finest General, you cannot–”
“I have given the Empire more than my fair share of years in service,” Marcus says quietly, standing resolutely next to you and placing his hand around your waist. “I find I have seen all I care to see of war, and the rest of my days will be filled with peace.”
Marcus turns to the other generals, who are all watching the confrontation with the Emperor. Without speaking, they draw their swords and hold them aloft in a silent salute to your husband–who solemnly returns the gesture. As you are still holding your dagger, you copy the gesture. This seems to please both him and the other Generals, who all smile.
Marcus turns to you, beaming with affection and pride. “Let’s go home, bellatora.”
Epilogue
In a small hamlet south of the big city, a villa sits on a small hill overlooking the Tyrrhenian Sea.
There is a rumor among some of the residents of the town that the man who lives there used to be a General in the Emperor’s army, but most of the inhabitants agree that this is a ridiculous notion.
He’s too soft-spoken, you see; his gentle demeanor is unlike that of a soldier. He often likes to sit with his wife and watch the color of the sea change as the sun rises in the morning, savoring the moment of peace before his children wake up.
There are five of them now–with a sixth on the way. His wife jokes that should she find herself with child for the seventh time, she’s going to feed the man’s privates to their goats.
Their life is modest, but by all accounts of those who witness it, they are blissfully happy. Their home always seems to be filled with joy, laughter, and no small amount of chaos that always follows young children. They maintain a small farm, raise goats and chickens, and they sell their extra eggs and vegetables at the market every week, accompanied by their five children, who are helpful… to varying degrees.
Sometimes, late at night, the odd passer-by will see the silhouette of a couple standing on the cliffs overlooking the sea, wrapped in a tender embrace.
They have few visitors, but those who have been inside their villa have noted that two swords are mounted above the front door. One is large, utilitarian, but expertly crafted–with signs of wear that might indicate it has seen more conflict than most. The other is small and elegant, the hilt decorated with precious stones.
No one has ever dared to ask about them.
#marcus acacius#marcus acacius x you#marcus acacius x reader#gladiator 2#pedro pascal#pedro pascal fanfiction
623 notes
·
View notes
Text
honeyed bliss - h.s.
a/n: hi! here’s another one. post hslot harry, and dadrry, which should be a warning in itself. enjoy!
🎀 warnings/cw: nothing, fluff, ITALYRRY AND DADRRY. im a wreck.
🐇 pairing: husband!dad!harry styles x fem!reader
💐 wc: 800
“Babe, can you come here? I need to tan, but I can't get the tanning lotion on my back.” Y/N shouted sweetly to her husband, voice soft as she turned on her tummy.
“Yeah m’love, give me two seconds. ‘M cutting up some watermelon for Daisy.” He called back, standing at the drink bar, a knife in his hand as he watched his daughter toddle around in the small area that he stood in. Daisy knocked on the doors that were in the square, knocking on the door to exit as she babbled quietly to herself.
“Mumma, want mama,” Daisy pouted, perking up when she heard her moms voice. She stumbled a bit when she turned around to look at her dad with pleading puppy dog eyes, her axis of gravity not perfect quite yet.
“Oh, y’want mama, baby? Okay, let’s get y’to mama.” Harry plucked her up off the ground and hiked her up onto his hip, scooping a couple blocks of watermelon into a yellow bowl. Harry pushed open the door to the drink bar, walking over to his wife who was laying down on a beach chair. His wife turned onto her side, reaching out for her baby who was already squirming in her dads arms.
“Hi baby! You wanna come lay down with mama? Wanna sunbathe?” Y/N turned on her mom voice, babying her daughter.
“Mama, mama, mama,” Daisy giggled, patting her mom’s face, a wide smile on her face, looking almost identical to Harry down to the dimples.
“God, H. I can’t believe I birthed her, held her in my stomach for months, the whole nine yards, and she just looks exactly like you. Like, not even an inch of me in here. She’s got her Daddy’s curly hair, pretty green eyes, and cute little dimples… Don’t you, Dais?” She smiled, turning onto her back to place her baby on her thighs, Daisy’s head coming up to rest on her knees, her legs laying on her torso.
“Guess so, m’love, but don’t worry, she still loves her Mumma waaaay more than her Daddy.” Harry comments, munching on watermelon on the beach chair next to you. She turns her head to him and raises an eyebrow, and he smiles sheepishly.
“Sorry,” he scratches his nose awkwardly. “I didn't mean that.”
“Good, y’know she loves you just as much as she loves me.” She gave him a stern look, and he could see her eyes through her sunglasses.
“Yeah, I know. Bad joke, didn’t land. Tough crowd, eh?” He smiled sheepishly.
“Mmm, guess comedy isn’t for you, hm? Better stick to singing, pretty boy.” Y/N muttered before bringing her baby up to her chest, pressing small butterfly kisses to her head.
“M’sweet girls, prettiest girls ever,” Harry grins, pulling your phone from underneath the throw pillow your head was resting on, snapping a few precious pictures. “Can’t believe ‘M so lucky.”
Twisting his back to look behind him, he reached out to switch the bowl of watermelon for the camcorder, turning it on and recording his wife and daughter, a wide grin plastered on his face. “Today is July 26, 2023, a couple of days after the final Love On Tour show, and we’ve just gotten home to the Styles Villa in the Amalfi Coast of Italy. Here we have Mama and baby bunny in their most rawest forms,” Harry narrated, a grin on his face when he heard a sweet giggle emit from his wife’s chest. “Baby bunny’s sporting a cute swim set gifted to her from her favorite uncle, Uncle Alessandro, and Mama’s wearing a Gucci swim set as well, looking as beautiful as ever with the most beautiful and glowy skin-”
“H, shut up!” She guffaws, placing an embarrassed hand on her face. “Dais is gonna watch these one day and be scarred by the way you’re talking about me.”
Harry turns the camera so it’s on his face, “Little Daisy, if you’re watching these right now in the future, never settle for less than how I treat Mama. Y’deserve to be treated like a queen, m’soul, never ever settle for less.”
He flips the camera around again to face his girls, catching a tail end of YN’s eyeroll on camera. “Yes, sweet girl. I agree with Daddy, never settle for less.” She places more sweet kisses on Daisy’s head, cooing with Harry when a soft snore leaves their baby’s lips.
“Well, since y’asleep now, I think that’s a good place to leave it. We love you, Daisy. Byeeeee!” Harry waves, turning in his seat to have the camera face him and his small family. YN giggles and blows kisses, waving until Harry turns off the camera.
“We’ve got it good, Lovie.” He smiles, leaning forward to peck a kiss to her cheek, her temple, and then one on her lips, being cautious of the sleeping baby on her chest.
“Yes, we do.”
#harry styles#harry styles x reader#harry styles fanfiction#harry styles fluff#harry styles fanfic#harry <3#harry styles x y/n#harry styles blurb#harry edward styles
977 notes
·
View notes
Text
☆ Christmas in Monaco ☆ Racing Hearts Holiday Special
A/N : MERRY CHRISTMAS EVERYONE!!!!
![Tumblr media](https://64.media.tumblr.com/f4b80a00dbbf1926499a9a5f56ee63a3/90df7a39ab08a8c5-f2/s640x960/50bfd981c85416efa8e03a20dbb1ceb2d93e76b2.jpg)
![Tumblr media](https://64.media.tumblr.com/74f137a309d26bcabe3e87c120e5a789/90df7a39ab08a8c5-e3/s500x750/a9894ae606c344ef05a72f7520794c16ff9bb2be.jpg)
![Tumblr media](https://64.media.tumblr.com/94b564982b52adda0e94b58e6f95260b/90df7a39ab08a8c5-eb/s640x960/a04e024944a7461baedf27737cf298dc696149f0.jpg)
Song : "Snowman - Sia"
Mark Spencer had always enjoyed spending Christmas with the Leclerc family, even if it wasn’t his own. His parents, Alessandro and Isabella, were always wrapped up in business commitments, leaving him with an unusual sense of freedom during the holidays. And so, he found himself once again on the French Riviera, tucked away in the warmth and comfort of the Leclerc family villa in Monaco. The Leclercs had long become like a second family to him.
The moment Mark entered the house, the air was filled with the sweet, comforting scent of cinnamon and freshly baked cookies. Pascale was busy in the kitchen, her gentle humming filling the space as she prepared the final touches for the family’s Christmas feast. Mark’s heart warmed at the sight of her—it was hard not to feel at home in such a welcoming place.
“Mark, dear, would you mind grabbing the chocolate chips?” Pascale asked, her hands flour-dusted as she worked on the dough.
Mark grinned, pulling a large bowl of chocolate chips from the cupboard. “I’m on it,” he said, only for a few chips to spill onto the counter as he fumbled with the bowl. He didn’t mind the mess—it was part of the fun.
Pascale chuckled softly. “You know, Mark, you’re welcome to call me Pascale. No need to be so formal.”
Mark looked over his shoulder, pretending to look serious. “Of course, Mrs. Leclerc… uh, I mean, Pascale, Ma’am.”
Pascale let out a small laugh, the kind of laugh that made anyone feel at ease. “You really do have a knack for making me smile, don’t you?”
He shrugged, still grinning. “It’s my secret weapon.”
As he continued his clumsy task, flour got everywhere—his hands, the counter, even his sweater, which was an obnoxiously festive red with snowflakes on it. It was a gift from Arthur, who had insisted it would be the perfect addition to Mark’s holiday wardrobe. Mark would never admit it aloud, but he liked it, even if it made him look a little ridiculous.
The moment he tried to scoop more chocolate chips into the bowl, he slipped on one that had rolled off the counter. The bowl went flying, spilling flour everywhere.
“Whoops!” Mark exclaimed, his voice high-pitched with embarrassment. He stood up, covered head to toe in white powder. A sneeze wracked his body, making him cough.
Pascale doubled over, her laughter ringing through the kitchen. “Oh, dear. You’ve certainly made a mess now, haven’t you?”
“I’m so sorry,” Mark mumbled, attempting to brush some of the flour from his face.
Pascale tried to regain her composure, but the sight of him looking like a snowman had her laughing even harder. “It’s alright, darling. Just be more careful, next time.”
Mark gave a sheepish grin and wiped his nose. “Not my finest moment.”
Charles, who had been lounging in the living room, glanced up from his iPad when he heard the laughter. His eyes briefly met Mark’s, and for a moment, there was something in his gaze—something that Mark couldn’t quite place. He turned his attention back to the book he was reading, but his mind wandered back to Mark.
Arthur, sitting on the couch next to his brother, raised an eyebrow and smirked. “You’ve been stuck on Chapter 34 for months now. Just admit it already,” he said, his voice low enough that only Charles could hear.
Charles stiffened and glared at his brother. “Shut up, Arthur.” He didn’t dignify the teasing with a response, but his eyes flickered back to Mark.
Mark, oblivious to the conversation happening between the brothers, made his way upstairs to change. Flour still clung to his sweater as he tried to peel it off, but the fabric stuck stubbornly to him.
“Need help?” Charles’s voice broke through the silence. He leaned against the doorframe, an amused smirk playing on his lips as he watched Mark’s struggle.
Mark groaned, trying to yank the sweater over his head but only making it worse. “I got it, don’t worry,” he muttered, stepping back and stumbling around the room, still trying to pull off the stubborn sweater. In his clumsy efforts, he knocked over a lamp, sending it crashing to the floor.
“Ow! Damn it!” Mark groaned, smacking his head against the wall as he tried to navigate around the room. “Fine, fine, help me,” he conceded.
Charles stepped closer, his smirk widening. “And what do we say?”
Mark glared at him with a mock angry expression. “Help me before I punch you in the face,” he snapped, but there was no real heat in his voice.
Charles raised an eyebrow. “Nope. Try again.”
Mark huffed, leaning against the bed. “Help me before I murder you in your sleep.”
Charles’s grin grew. “Nuh-uh. Say the magic word.”
Mark crossed his arms and groaned, then muttered reluctantly, “Ugh, please?”
“Better.” Charles chuckled, stepping forward to help Mark with the sweater. As he did, he was careful to avoid touching too much of Mark’s body, but his eyes lingered slightly longer than they should have. Mark noticed the pause, but he didn’t comment on it.
Mark’s voice broke the tension as he teasingly remarked, “You’re staring, Sharles.”
Charles immediately flushed, his face turning red. “Oh, please. Like you don’t flash your abs at every opportunity.”
Mark laughed. “Fair enough.”
Downstairs, Pascale and Arthur exchanged a knowing look as they waited for the boys. The family had settled in front of the fire, the Christmas tree twinkling softly in the background, and a cozy warmth filled the room.
“So when do you think they’ll acknowledge the elephant in the room?” Pascale asked casually, though there was a playful glint in her eyes.
Arthur feigned innocence, pretending not to know exactly what she was talking about. “What do you mean?” he asked, his voice low enough to make it sound like he was hiding something.
Pascale’s smile widened, and she raised an eyebrow. “I’m their mother. Of course, I know what’s going on.”
Arthur choked on his water, his eyes widening. “You knew?”
“Always,” Pascale replied with a sly smile that spoke volumes. “You two may think you’re subtle, but I’ve been around long enough to know better.”
Arthur shook his head, trying to suppress a grin. “I can’t believe you’ve been keeping track of this the whole time.”
Pascale merely shrugged. “You boys are a lot easier to read than you think.”
When Mark and Charles finally returned downstairs, Mark had changed into a crisp white button-up shirt. It was a stark contrast to the casual warmth of the day, and it didn’t go unnoticed by Charles. As soon as Mark entered the room, Charles’ eyes immediately went to the undone buttons on Mark’s shirt, his chest visible underneath.
“You’ll catch a cold, idiot,” Charles muttered under his breath, stepping forward to button up the shirt for Mark. It was a small gesture, but it held so much weight. Their proximity created a bubble of tension in the room, unnoticed by everyone else. The family continued with their festive cheer, but the air between Mark and Charles had shifted. The others noticed the change, exchanging amused glances, but no one commented on it.
Just as the moment seemed to linger too long, Leo, Charles’ dog, broke the silence. The small dog bounded up to Mark, tail wagging furiously. Mark laughed and crouched down, scratching Leo behind the ears. The moment of tension dissipated as the family chuckled, the soft sound of Leo’s excited bark filling the room.
Later in the evening, the Leclerc family gathered around to decorate the Christmas tree. Mark was eager to help, his enthusiasm infectious. He insisted that Pascale place the star on top of the tree, but when she hesitated, he quickly turned to Charles.
“Come on, pick me up so I can reach the top!” Mark urged, grinning mischievously.
Charles rolled his eyes, trying to sound casual. “We have a ladder for that, you idiot.”
Mark shot him a knowing look. “I knew you’d try to be the hero,” he teased, unable to stop the laughter bubbling up.
“I’m not trying to be a hero,” Charles replied, though the playful glint in his eyes suggested otherwise.
As they decorated the tree, the festive spirit grew in the house. Everyone was laughing and teasing each other, their voices blending together in a symphony of Christmas cheer. Mark felt a sense of warmth inside him, something he hadn’t felt in a long time—like he truly belonged.
The soft chime of the doorbell echoed through the cozy warmth of the Leclerc family villa. Mark glanced around, mildly confused. He hadn't been expecting anyone—after all, the Leclercs were supposed to be his family for Christmas. Pascale, holding a tray of steaming mugs of mulled wine, smiled mysteriously. "Why don’t you get that, Mark?" she suggested, her tone so casual that it raised suspicion.
Mark squinted at her, his lips quirking into a playful smirk. “Alright, but if it’s carolers, I’m bringing them in, and you’ll have to feed them,” he teased as he strolled toward the door, his socks muffling his steps on the polished floor.
As he opened the door, his breath caught in his throat. Standing before him were Alessandro and Isabella Spencer, his parents, looking as elegant as ever yet softened by the festive warmth of the season. Alessandro’s sharp suit was offset by a wool scarf wrapped loosely around his neck, while Isabella's emerald-green coat and matching gloves seemed to shimmer against the soft glow of the villa’s Christmas lights.
“Mom? Dad?” Mark’s voice broke slightly, disbelief and joy mingling in his words.
His mother’s face lit up with a radiant smile, and she opened her arms wide. “Surprise, darling!”
Before he could process what was happening, she had pulled him into a tight hug, the familiar scent of her lavender perfume flooding his senses. His father followed, clapping a hand on Mark’s shoulder with a rare, tender grin.
“We couldn’t let you spend Christmas without us this year,” Alessandro said, his voice warm but with its usual authoritative undertone.
Mark swallowed hard, fighting the sting of unexpected tears. He hadn’t realized how much he missed them until they were standing in front of him. He pulled them both into another hug, his voice muffled against his father’s coat. “You have no idea how much this means to me.”
Pascale appeared in the doorway, her face glowing with satisfaction. “I thought it might be nice to have a full house this year,” she said with a knowing smile.
Mark turned to her, his grin wide and boyish. “You knew about this?”
She nodded, giving him a conspiratorial wink. “A little Christmas magic never hurt anyone.”
Charles, Arthur, and Lorenzo joined them, standing slightly back as Mark introduced his parents. Isabella’s warm, maternal energy immediately won over Pascale, the two women exchanging compliments and laughing as if they were old friends. Alessandro, while more reserved, greeted Charles, Arthur, and Lorenzo with a firm handshake, his sharp eyes assessing but kind.
Charles watched the scene unfold, his arms crossed over his chest. There was something in the way Mark’s face lit up—a vulnerability that wasn’t often on display. It stirred something unfamiliar in Charles, something he quickly pushed aside.
Later in the evening, with the Christmas tree glowing softly in the corner and the scent of pine and cinnamon wafting through the air, the family gathered in the living room for a game of charades. Pascale had insisted, pulling out a small basket filled with slips of paper bearing prompts ranging from festive movies to absurd actions.
Mark, ever the showman, volunteered to go first. He reached into the basket, pulling out a slip of paper and glancing at it before dramatically placing a finger to his lips.
As Mark took center stage during charades, Charles couldn’t stop watching him. It wasn’t just Mark’s dramatic antics that held his attention—it was the way his energy seemed to fill the entire room, drawing everyone in like a gravitational force.
“Okay, here we go,” he said, stepping into the center of the room.
He began by miming a large, exaggerated box, pretending to tie a bow on top. Arthur immediately shouted, “Present!”
Mark nodded enthusiastically and moved on, flapping his arms like wings before cupping his hands to his mouth and mimicking a loud “ho ho ho.”
“Santa!” Pascale guessed, clapping her hands.
The final clue had everyone stumped. Mark mimed skiing down a slope, then falling over dramatically, rolling on the floor and clutching his leg in mock agony.
“Is it a skiing accident?” Arthur guessed, his brow furrowed.
“Close!” Mark exclaimed, pointing at him and then miming a cast on his leg.
“Broken leg while skiing?”
Mark gave an exaggerated nod, and the room erupted in laughter and applause.
Charles, reluctantly pulled into the game by Pascale, took his turn. His first prompt was “snowman,” and he hesitated before stiffly miming rolling three balls of snow. His awkward movements had everyone in stitches, particularly Mark, who couldn’t stop laughing.
“You’re terrible at this, Sharles,” Mark teased between fits of laughter.
When Mark rolled on the floor, laughing so hard his cheeks turned pink, Charles found himself smiling despite his usual reluctance to indulge in such games. He told himself it was because of the ridiculousness of the scene, but deep down, he knew better.
Charles shot him a mock glare, his lips twitching into an unwilling smile. “At least I’m not rolling on the floor like a lunatic.”
Lorenzo proved to be a surprise hit, his natural confidence and charm making him an unexpectedly skilled mime. His impressions of a reindeer and a chimney sweep had everyone howling with laughter, particularly Pascale, who wiped tears from her eyes.
The game continued late into the night, the room filled with laughter and teasing banter. Even Alessandro, usually reserved, joined in, his dry humor adding a new layer of fun. By the end, everyone was sprawled across the couches, breathless from laughing so hard.
The next afternoon, a rare snowfall blanketed Monaco, turning the usually sun-drenched streets into a winter wonderland. Mark had been the first to suggest venturing outside, bundling up in a thick scarf and gloves as he dragged Charles, Arthur, and Lorenzo with him.
“This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity,” Mark declared, scooping up a handful of snow and packing it into a perfect ball.
Arthur grinned mischievously. “You mean a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to pelt Charles with snowballs?”
Before Charles could protest, Arthur launched a snowball that hit him square in the chest.
“You’re dead,” Charles growled, grabbing his own handful of snow and hurling it back.
The fight escalated quickly. Mark, ever the instigator, joined forces with Arthur, the two of them pelting Charles relentlessly as he tried to defend himself. Lorenzo stood back at first, observing with amusement, but soon joined the fray, his competitive streak emerging as he expertly aimed snowballs at everyone.
“Cowards! Three against one isn’t fair!” Charles shouted, laughing despite himself.
Pascale and Isabella watched from the villa’s patio, sipping hot chocolate and laughing as Alessandro stood stoically beside them, though a faint smile tugged at his lips.
Mark’s competitive streak took over, and he charged at Charles, tackling him into a snowbank.
When Mark tackled him into the snowbank, Charles was caught off guard—not just by the force of it, but by the way Mark’s grin hovered so close to his own. His heart skipped a beat, and for a split second, he forgot how to breathe.
They wrestled briefly, snow flying everywhere, before Charles managed to flip Mark onto his back.
“Say uncle!” Charles demanded, pinning Mark’s arms down.
“Never!” Mark shouted, squirming as Arthur lobbed another snowball at Charles.
Eventually, they all collapsed into the snow, breathless and red-faced from the cold and exertion. The laughter carried across the snowy yard, a sound so pure and joyful that even Alessandro couldn’t resist cracking a smile.
Mark lay on his back, staring up at the pale winter sky. “Best Christmas ever,” he muttered, the words soft but sincere.
Charles, lying beside him, turned his head to look at Mark. For a moment, the world seemed to still, the snow muffling all sound. “Yeah,” Charles said quietly. “It’s not bad.”
Lorenzo, noticing the sudden seriousness, lobbed another snowball at them, breaking the moment.
“Come on, you lovebirds!” he called, laughing as he ran back toward the villa.
Mark and Charles exchanged a look, both flustered, before scrambling to their feet and chasing after Lorenzo and Arthur, their laughter echoing through the snowy streets of Monaco.
----
(Dividers by @junabuggy @wcnderlnds @issysh3ll )
Another Surprise is awaiting for you!!!!
#charles leclerc x male reader#enemies to friends to lovers#enemies to lovers#gay#romance#charles leclerc fanfic#charles leclerc x max verstappen#cl16 imagine#f1 x male reader#formula 1#charles leclerc x reader#charles leclerc x you#charles leclerc x female reader#charles leclerc x female oc#bisexual#f1 fanfic#f1 x reader#f1 x you#f1 x female reader#male reader#male oc#mark spencer#ferrari#mlm#mxm#charles leclerc x gn!reader#charles leclerc#christmas#holiday#holiday season
55 notes
·
View notes
Text
Old men aren’t always wise, Primo is well aware of that ; his own father being the most striking exemple of elder stupidity he can think of. Yet he, Primo Emeritus, humbly thinks he himself has been made wise by life. Raising three younger brothers since their idiot of a father wouldn’t...well, it definitely taught him things, and, most importantly, allowed him to form a strong bond with them.
He knows his brothers like the back of his hand ; severe, cold and bitter Secondo, who shies away from the very love he desperately craves ; flamboyant, charismatic Terzo, hidding a bottomless pit of self-hatred under pretty smiles, witty jokes and flirty comments ; sweet, kind-hearted Copia, who feels like an impostor as he battles with Sister Imperator’s clumsy, sometimes harsh and unfit motherly affection. They aren’t perfect, and neither is Primo or their relationship, but they tried, tried so hard, built trust, love and loyalty between all of them, and in the end, it’s all that matter.
Point is. Primo is wise, and he knows his brothers. Knows Terzo – no, not Terzo. Alessandro. So as he watches the scene unfolding in front of him, he knows instantly. It’s in the way his brother’s eyes linger on the rythm guitarist, not long enough for it to be obvious, but enough for Primo to notice. In the way Terzo is almost always subcounciously turning toward the quintessence ghoul as he talks and offers new ideas. In the way his face lights up when Omega praises said ideas, and add his owns. In the way the singer takes every occasions to brush against his ghoul, to adjust the position of his crooked grucifx, to pat his strong arms. How Terzo’s ears grow pink when they make eye contact for just a fraction too long.
Omega is, admitedly, harder to read, even though Primo worked with the ghoul for a time. He always liked him, sturdy, serious, as amazing a pack leader as a musician. He seems more relaxed with Terzo than he was with Primo, a tad more playful, which the older man doesn’t resent. And despite his difficulties to intrepret the quintessence ghoul’s attitude, there are signs that don’t lie. A way of angling himself so that Terzo is never out of his sight, leaning ever so slightly into Terzo’s fleeting touch, praising him with a special kind of warmth in his voice, the ocasional soft, fond chuckle at one of the singer’s joke, absent-mindedly brushing his tail against Terzo’s leg.
If all that wasn’t enough, the other ghouls’ frequent shared knowing glances would be great giveaways as well. So Primo smiles and keeps listening, keeps watching.
Once they reach the end of the practice session, Terzo saunters toward the armchair his older brother folded himself in, ever the showman, grinning.
« So, what do you think, old man ? »
Primo chuckles softly.
« I see you’ve been working hard. I must say, I’m impressed. You’ve grown, and your music with you. »
For just a moment, Primo gets a small, private smile ; Alessandro’s smile, as his little brother squeezes his bony hand in his gloved one.
« Thank you, » he whispers. Then his smile widens, turns into that cocky grin everyone knows, his voice rising again. « Had any favorite ? Ah, your growling vocals-loving hide must have liked Mummy Dust, right ? But you’re a sentimental one too. Maybe He is ? »
Primo shakes his head with a huff.
« Both are very nice, as is the rest of the album, but I have to confess, Deus In Absentia struck me the most. »
At that, Terzo’s face makes something complicated, and he looks over his shoulder, meeting Omega’s eyes from where the ghoul is packing his guitar. He stares back, tipping his head in acknowledgement. Terzo looks back at Primo with an expression just a tiniest bit more eager than he’d usually let it be.
« Really ? Omega helped me with the lyrics. I admit, it might be one of my favorites as well. »
As always, Terzo is quick to offer his arm to his older brother when Primo gets up, much less gracefully than in his youth.
« Well, it is truly a touching song, in my opinion. Both emotional and majestic. »
He leads the both of them to his rose garden in comfortable silence, and only speaks up once he’s sure they are truly alone.
« So, Omega, eh ? Somehow, I’m not even surprised. »
Terzo splutters, almost tripping over his own feet.
« Wh- what ? I don’t- »
A warm smile pulls at Primo’s lips, lightening his weathered face.
« Alessandro Terzo Emeritus, I have known you for your entire life. I know how being in love looks on you. »
For a few seconds, his little brother stares at him, before letting out a long sigh and running a hand through his hair, ears going pink again.
« He is- he’s special, Prim- Dante. He- I never felt that way before. Not that much. »
Primo huffs, gives Terzo’s arm a light squeeze.
« I am glad. I always thought he was a truly admirable ghoul. I trust he takes good care of you ? »
Terzo hums, hanging his head down, raven black locks brushing his features.
« It might sound stupid, but he makes me feel...special. Me, not Papa Emeritus the third. Like he can see right through every layers of bullshit I wrap myself in. »
Primo stops walking, turning around to face his little brother. His happy-looking, flustered little brother. Softly, gently, he presses his bony hand to Terzo’s chest, right above the heart.
« You deserve it. You deserve someone who sees you. I am so, so very happy for you. »
Terzo lights up.
« I’m thinking...I’d like him to know my name. My real name, I mean. I know he would use it wisely ; hell, he was long hesitant about calling me Terzo in public. »
Though it isn’t a question, he looks up through his lashes at Primo, in search of something. The older man pats his brother head with a raspy chuckle. Gives him the reassurance he needs ; the one their father could never give them ; the one Primo endavored to offer his brothers whenever he could.
« I’m sure he’ll be honored. A lovely ghoul indeed. » Primo takes a step back, considers, then decides that a bit of teasing cannot hurt. « And he’s big too, isn’t he ? »
Terzo chokes on his inhale, instinctively covering his ears, either to hide the flush that can only be seen there because of the paint, or to fruitlessly try and block words he already heard.
« I- the hell ? »
With a snort, Primo smiles mischieviously.
« What ? He is, you barely reach what, his chest perhaps ? »
He waits for realization to dawn on Terzo before adding :
« But, you know. Huge down there too, I’m sure. »
His little brother splutters, before shaking his head incredulously.
« If you were Secondo, I would have kicked you, old man. »
Primo chuckles.
« I am sure that if Secondo had made such a comment, you two would be fighting like you used to as kids, rolling on the ground and all that. »
Terzo smirks.
« Well, I wouldn’t be able to pull his hair anymore. »
With a tut, Primo swats his younger brother on the back of his head.
« Low blow. But, in all seriousness. I am so very glad you are happy. »
« ...Thanks, Dante. »
#this is something I wrote ages ago#it's been rotting in a document I just recovered#might post a few other old things I wrote#but i really like this one so#yeah#gimme the emeritus brothers being brother#have i ever said i love primo ?#ngl he's very sweet in this but i swear he's also an unhinged old bat#but he's soft for his brothers#and seeing terzo happy makes him happy#also omega and terzo are so good for each other okay ???#because i said so#urgh i love them#terzo#papa emeritus iii#primo#papa emeritus i#omega ghoul#terzomega#nameless ghouls#the band ghost
39 notes
·
View notes
Text
Vibe Check Part 9
Bros for Life
The Frat Boy Au
Read Previous on Ao3 or tumblr.
![Tumblr media](https://64.media.tumblr.com/815488786947c83570559bce9ba9763c/cc8731610585b04f-90/s540x810/6dc5e1412e6dc1d98d345b30a7c30b2eb534264a.jpg)
It’s pretty much a tradition for all of Theta house to show up hungover as fuck to the pledge ceremony. After weeks of “getting to know you” activities and nervous team building exercises, the brothers tended to blow it out when the end was finally in sight.
Argyle had, only moments before they went down to the common area, thrown up. He raised his head from the toilet bowl, wiped his mouth, turned to Billy and said, “let’s do it to it, Broseph.”
Billy himself feels like a bag of puke propped up on unsturdy legs. He’s pretty sure he still smells like tequila and he and Carver are meeting eyes in solidarity. He mumbled his way through the speech, something about how this pledge class has shown real ingenuity, and as the rush week chair he was honored to welcome them as brothers.
Which was true. He’d just hoped he wouldn’t be biting back bile as he said it.
He’s only slightly annoyed about seeing his little sis around the house so often, now that Sinclair was a full pledge. But hopefully he would be graduated by the time Sinclair actually lived in the house.
Sinclair sits up when Munson read out that he was Billy’s little brother, looking fresh as a daisy. And wasn’t he sweet.
Argyle shuffles up to the podium next, tossing a long lock of hair over his back.
“Oye, Brochachos. Theta house is so honored to welcome you home. You know the past few weeks, getting to know you all,” Argyle pauses, looking a little green, but he powers through. “You’ve all got me thinking about the word brotherhood. Not the fuckin’ webster’s dictionary definition. How it feels.”
Billy shifts in his seat, tugging a little on the strings of his hoodie.
Argyle pounds his chest. “How it feels here. That deep certainty that other people got your back. That they see you for who you are, and they hold you for who you are. No bullshit. No hiding.…”
Billy looks down at his hands and then back up at the room. Like always, like he can’t help it, his eyes are drawn to Steve’s. And Steve, for once in what feels like forever, was already looking back.
Billy’s heart actually skips a beat. He can hear music, can feel the world tilt on it’s axis, all the shit he always feels. Only a thousand times worse because he actually said it out loud to Carver last night. Oh, Argyle has guessed, and Eden always gives him that look. But it was easy for Billy to brush them off, not deny it but not confirm it.
Saying is makes it feel so much more present, like he’s moments from getting up at the podium and shouting it out.
I love you, Steve. I love you, Steven Alessandro Harrington.
“My advice to all of you- even the brothers- is to be open to us. Come to brotherhood with an open heart,” Argyle taps his temple, “and an open mind. Let us be brotherhood to you, as you will be to us.”
The last sentence doesn’t even make any sense, Billy doesn’t know why he’s tearing up. He doesn’t know why Steve keeps looking at him with those big doe eyes. Steve hurts to look at, he’s so beautiful.
“You’re here because you chose to be here, and we choose you too. Today, we, your bothers, pledge to keep choosing you, day after day.” Argyle continues, the torturer.
At least Munson is sniffling too, so Billy didn’t feel quite as bad swiping a tear away. He breaks eye contact at serious emotional danger to himself and catches Munson looking at Carver and sniffling wetly, his eyes suspiciously red.
When Argyle starts the Theta chant, at least Billy can drown out his emotion in that, throwing an arm around Munson and sweeping his eyes over the group, ignoring the burn of Steve’s eyes on him. Munson stood, pulling Billy to follow Argyle to the basement for the actual ceremony.
But someone yanks at him, pulling him away from Munson, who quickly snags Jonathan, dragging him to the basement in Billy’s stead. Billy’s all turned around and quite frankly, feeling sick, as whoever it is pulls him away to the alcove in the hallway.
Billy blinks at Steve, still caught up in the flood of emotions and not quite sure where to put his hands when he realizes Steve still has his arm. He feels like he’s been caught with his pants down, and he tightens his shoulders. He was just looking because Argyle was talking about friendship. And Steve looked back, so how bad could it really be?
Steve shuffles awkwardly, “can we, um… talk?”
This is all Billy could hope for in the past few weeks, but when he’s teary and raw it feels more like a threat. He manages to nod at least, trying to subtly swipe at his face with his arm.
“Argyle really knows how to give a speech, huh?” Steve shoves his hands in his pockets, leaning back against the wall. They guessed in the 80s they used to use this alcove for a landline, but now it’s an empty little space at the back of the hall that people mostly use to make out. The thought won’t leave Billy’s head now that he’s thought it, and so on top of everything he can feel his ears going red.
“Yeah,” Billy says softly.
“Anyway, it just… I’m sorry that I haven’t been around so much. I’ve been learning some stuff about myself. But it doesn’t change… I mean… I really want to be friends again,” Steve bobs his head.
Billy opens his mouth but Steve cuts him off.
“Not that we aren’t friends, I mean… It’s just that you’re my best friend. And I feel like I’ve been so shitty. I want to do better. I can’t just… not show up for you because I’m going through shit.” Steve bows his head a little. He looks so adorably befuddled. Billy just wants to kiss his pretty boy head right off.
“Steve. It’s okay,” Billy says through the lump in his throat. “You’re allowed. Shit, if you’re going through something, and you just need some alone time or time with Robin… that’s what you need.”
Steve closes his eyes and swallows, his adam’s apple bobbing. “Wanna hang out at the Tri Kap party tonight? I mean, if you’re going? I mean-”
Billy set a hand on Steve’s shoulder, trying to force the tremble out of his hand. “Yeah, of course, man. Is Robin coming?”
Steve shrugs, “I invited her but she thinks she hates sorority girls. I think she actually has a crush, ah… and she doesn’t want to run into them.”
Relief and caution floods through Billy so fast he could get a head rush. So they weren’t dating, at least not yet. Billy will take that.
Billy slides his arm around Steve’s waist, “Come on, bro. Let’s hurry before they start lighting the candles. That’s my favorite part.”
Steve is rigid for a second, and then relaxes into Billy’s grip.
“Argyle’s speech got to you too, huh?” Billy asks Steve as he tugs him towards the basement.
“You’re one to talk,” Steve reaches up and brushes some wetness off Billy’s cheeks.
He’s not crying anymore, but his face is still sensitive. Steve’s hand falls along with is eyes, and Billy only has a moment to wonder at what just happened.
“What can I say, I’m a real sensitive guy,” Billy could fly right now. It’s not everything he’s ever wanted, but he’s never gotten everything he’s ever wanted. “And I choose you everyday, Stevie.”
Billy cackles as a blush creeps past the hood of Steve’s Theta hoodie.
“I c-choose you too, Bils.”
Billy can’t stop grinning, which sucked because the ceremony was supposed to be serious, and also because the basement has a malodorous feet smell that they’d only been able to tame, not defeat.
He was hungover, still needed a shower from the night before, behind on homework… and he’d never been happier.
#billy hargrove#steve harrington#billy x steve#shieldofiron#harringrove#Harringrove#Billy Hargrove#Steve Harrington#Billy x Steve#Steve x Billy#my writing#frat boy au#vibe check au harringrove
30 notes
·
View notes
Text
Sup! I'm Pietra/Dollface
Here's my rp account
So, I made a ask RP blog about a super random thing (and hopefully Fash won't hunt me and kill me)
The rules are all there if you wanna see it also I would like to remind one of the primary rules
NO NSFW THINGS
Jokes that aren't graphic maybe can but explicit, pictures or gifs will make your ask be ignored or even block so please be nice and also follow me there and ask whatever you want
My other account https://www.tumblr.com/crackshipps?source=share
Hoppy fantart request
Just give me a thing you want me to draw as Hoppy and I'll make it
Already posted about it
Idiots in a Freakshow
A AU where I mix Total Drama, Disventure Camp, The amazing digital circus, Popee the performer and Raggedy Ann and Andy, ask whatever you want to them
The amazing Disventure circus
Adventure camp x Total Drama Island x Disventure Camp x The amazing digital circus just that
Bringing some Brazil 2 USA/other country you're in)
Basically take Brazilian meme videos and traduce it to English
Here's me as music(according to other people)
Rps
I RP as Hoppy Hopscotch, no matter the fandom(it's mainly tadc)
I'll probably RP as Hoppy's sister, Lizbeth depending on the situation and in my mood
Hopscotch family
Meet Hoppy's family!
1- Sister issues https://www.tumblr.com/hophopscotch/770916530294800384/sisters-issues-so-youre-telling-me-youre?source=share
2- Pride
https://www.tumblr.com/hophopscotch/770974499572236288/hows-lizbeth-dealing-with-hoppys-wedding?source=share
3- meeting sister-in-law
https://www.tumblr.com/hophopscotch/770985648917299200/meeting-sister-in-law-shortmomma1993-here?source=share
4- Hoppy's psychologic
https://www.tumblr.com/hophopscotch/771519405522862080/what-about-hoppys-crisis-that-she-looks-like-her?source=share
My fave flower btw
![Tumblr media](https://64.media.tumblr.com/e504da41c7b707213aae8b9075431696/953b43eca9e5e3b9-b8/s540x810/f5170c90268470573201cf39b914f8f2d9bb98a4.jpg)
Friends/Family/Roleplay Besties
@shortmomma1993 (wife)
@ask-pomni-things (friend)
@ask-jax-things (biological son)
@ask-jax-the-rabbit (adoptive son)
@ask-angel-dust-w (adoptive son)
@yourlocalauro (adoptive daughter)
@starlit-mess (adoptive daughter)
@ask-jaxy-boy (Whimsy is her adoptive daughter)
@zooble-the-whatever-i-am (friend)
@voxtechsmells (adoptive father)
@madly-enthusiastic (adoptive father)
@princesscharliesstuff (adoptive sister)
@hazbinsprotectorxxx (adoptive sister-in-law)
@askyourauntierosie (aunt)
@two-left-halfs (friend)
@ask-the-perfect-pepper (frenemie)
@geromethejanitor (friend)
@ask-jaxy-boy (friends?)
@itzay0910 (daughter)
New Characters:
1 - introducion https://www.tumblr.com/hophopscotch/771426232245092352/new-characters-added?source=share
2 - their hangout https://www.tumblr.com/hophopscotch/771787751228096512/in-their-hang-out-btw-that-man-is-dollfaces?source=share
3 - Abnormally dancing gem https://www.tumblr.com/hophopscotch/771906055106150400/suicide-attempt?source=share
4- Lost sympathy https://www.tumblr.com/hophopscotch/772872479991562240/you-too-actually-you-need-a-raise?source=share
5- Alexandre https://www.tumblr.com/hophopscotch/772773682660753408/oh-thank-you?source=share
6- Mini Alexandre and Alessandro
https://www.tumblr.com/hophopscotch/772819672997543936?source=share
7- Silly stuff https://www.tumblr.com/justsomeonewow/773651840142344192/soosince-ann-is-also-gonna-be-blue-i-decided-to?source=share
8- Dollface's psychological https://www.tumblr.com/justsomeonewow/773658255957360640/i-have-an-opinion-alongside-the-trauma-dollface?source=share
9- P.D's color palette https://www.tumblr.com/justsomeonewow/773634911981780992/felt-cute-so-i-made-a-pd-color-palette-and?source=share
10- Theme songs https://www.tumblr.com/justsomeonewow/773696772208017408/do-the-characters-have-any-theme-for-them?source=share
11- Hoppy's themes https://www.tumblr.com/justsomeonewow/774061109780103168/character-themes-pt1?source=share
12- Dollface's themes https://www.tumblr.com/justsomeonewow/774063701590425600/character-themes-pt-2?source=share
13- P.D's themes https://www.tumblr.com/justsomeonewow/774151129054543872/tyyy?source=share
14- idk either https://www.tumblr.com/justsomeonewow/774866151864926208?source=share
15- Alexandre's themes https://www.tumblr.com/justsomeonewow/775204664935432192/theme-songs-last-part-alexandre?source=share
16- issues https://www.tumblr.com/justsomeonewow/775204378799947776/blood-murder-and-homophobia?source=share
21 notes
·
View notes
Note
I would be very happy if you could write a fic about Charles being used by mechanics
ok kind of obsessed with this ask and the absolute lack of direction here. was going to summarize and then what do you know there's 1.5k words in the google doc.
the votes were in for post-monza gangbang so......hope this is more or less what you were after. happy chwin!
explicit ferrari garage (+ max) using charles under the cut <3
By the time Max finally gets out of the debrief, he isn’t sure what he expects to see from the Ferrari garage. It’s hard to explain to outsiders what it means to win for Ferrari – what they do for their winners. To their winners. Words couldn’t possibly encapsulate how they celebrate, how much it means to them all. Max has seen it before, but not in Monza, not at their home.
He slinks into the back entrance of Ferrari, just as Carlos is leaving.
“Hey, mate,” Carlos barely looks at him, clapping him on the shoulder. “They’re in there.”
Carlos barely nods in the direction of the garage. Max smiles, says thanks. It’s funny, really, that Carlos can’t look him in the eye after all this. Clearly Charles wants it, clearly Max gave permission. Yet Carlos still acts like it’s something covert, a clandestine happening. Something that makes his hands dirty, that he needs to repent. And it’s not like Carlos doesn’t enjoy it. Max knows he can’t resist the offer.
It would be much easier to look straight Max, say thanks, and tell him Charles is waiting, face dripping with come.
And that’s about the scene Max walks into – Bryan is there, of course, leaning over Charles, who rests against the side of the SF-24. He’s carding a hand through Charles’ hair, talking softly to him. Max can hear the Italian consonants bounce off his tongue. Alessandro is there too, though in a more compromising position, if Max cared. Leaning against the car, cock still in his hand, trying to catch his breath. He sees Max and raises his eyebrows, and Max thinks, that’s right. You should be fucking thanking me, worshipping the ground I walk on, for this.
Bryan stands up. “Ciao, Max, what a race. He’s been so good, so perfect. Better than usual, ovviamente. He is begging for it, but we will let you have that.”
Max nods. It’s a routine affair, truly. Bryan only gets to come inside if Charles fucks up. Otherwise, he’s all Max’s.
And when Max finally gets a good look at Charles, it’s far better than he could have expected.
Charles’ eyes are slightly open, the unmissable green still there, but it’s foggy. He is so, so gone, more than usual, it seems. Max crouches down next to him, tilting his face up with a finger on his chin. Charles’ skin, his rosy cheeks and golden glow, are obscured by the flush that spreads across his face, down his neck. His lips are swollen, red and used, and Charles flinches as Max runs a finger along them. Fuck, he is so beautiful like this.
And the evidence from this evening does not go unnoticed. Spurts of come, staining his beautiful face, catching on his eyelashes and dripping down his cheeks. Carlos, Ale, Bryan, for sure, and anyone else Bryan deemed worthy. Max feels the electric rush, straight for his groin, at the sight. It’s obscene. Filthy.
“Baby,” Max coos, watching Charles slightly stir, “Did you have fun?”
A smile spreads slowly across Charles’ face. God, he’s so fucked out. Max has rarely ever seen him like this, not even after Monaco.
“Want it so bad, Max,” Charles whimpers, barely audible. “So bad. Want you– need it.”
Fuck, Max is so hard at his voice. He leans in, connecting their mouths and feeling Charles’ soft lips against his own. He can’t help but groan into the taste, into the way the come mixes in their mouths. Charles is so pliable like this, so willing. Max wants to savor it, but his jeans are so tight and he had to wait through Red Bull’s most uninteresting debrief, when all he could do was think about this. He deserves it. Charles deserves it.
He reaches a hand down to wrap around Charles’ cock, hard and drooling, and Charles moans at the touch. God, Max could just get him off like this, dirty and quick and lick up every drop from his hand, but he needs so much more. Max lifts him up, kissing down his jaw, onto his neck, tasting everyone who came before him. It’s intoxicating. Charles can barely move on his own, boneless and docile.
“There you go, baby, so perfect, doing so well,” Max kisses him on his shoulder as he turns him around, pushing against Charles’ back, arching him over the car. “My good boy.”
Charles whines, high in his throat. His legs spread, and Max has to look away, for fear of coming in his pants then and there. Charles’ hole is red, puffy, so thoroughly abused, come streaking across his back. His cock hangs between his legs, and there’s so much Max wants to do to him it’s unreal. With two fingers, he gingerly presses them in, the slide made effortless by the amount of lube inside him.
“Don’t worry, Max,” Bryan taps his shoulder, “No one finished here. Just for you, we know. Certo.”
A surge of pride, wrapped in fierce possessiveness courses through Max’s veins. Bryan’s right; Charles is no one’s but his. Mine.
Max adds a third finger, watches Charles thrash a little. It’s too easy.
“Fuck, baby, I’m going to fill you up, yeah? Is that what you want? You want my cock so bad, want me to fuck you,” Max is almost breathless watching Charles squirm on his fingers, loose and used and hot.
Charles manages to look over his shoulder, eyes glassy. “Yes, please, please, Max, just you, only you. I need it– please.”
Charles has barely gotten the last few words out when Max pulls his fingers out, lining up his cock with Charles’ hole, smearing the lube and precome back and forth with the head of his cock. This is all he’s been thinking about; sinking into Charles, warm and inviting, begging for his touch. Charles is babbling, begging for it, like he hasn’t just had several different men in him for the last hour, pounding him until he can see stars.
Max pushes in and it’s gloriously wet, filthy and messy. Charles’ moans get louder, punctuating each of Max’s thrusts. He takes it slow, at first, relishing in the way there’s barely any resistance, like a perfect little cock sleeve.
“Race winner, baby,” he murmurs into the skin of Charles’ shoulder, seeing the goosebumps scatter across Charles’ skin. “There’s no one like you, my pretty baby, my champion.”
Max looks up through his eyelashes, and sees some of the crew watching Charles intently, hands wrapped around their cocks as they jerk off. Max picks up the pace, needing to come so desperately, wanting to show off to the garage that Max is the only one who gets to do this, only one who gets to make him come, who gets to experience what it’s like coming inside him.
“Tell me how much you want it, baby,” Max slaps the meat of Charles’ ass, adding to the hot red handprints already forming there. “Tell me how much you want me to fuck you stupid, fuck a baby into you.”
“Max, please, want your come, please, just fucking–” Charles’ breath is punched out of him as Max shifts his hips, never once relenting. “Fill me up, want it so badly.”
Max is so close to the edge, watching Charles so mindlessly beg for him like this, in front of all his mechanics and engineers. “I’m going to --fuck, Charles-- pump you so full of my come.”
Charles cries out, and Max reaches around, taking Charles’ cock into his hand. Bryan is in front of Charles again, running one hand through his hair, while the other works himself furiously. He’s whispering words of praise again, telling him how good of a race it was, how perfect Charles is for the team. Max sucks a bruise into Charles’ shoulder, and tells him, “You can come baby, come on my cock,” and Charles is coming hard, moaning echoing through the garage as Max works him through it.
“Good boy, fuck.”
Charles clenches around him, as hard as Max supposes he can for someone who’s this loose, this overstimulated, and it’s enough for Max. To know how Charles has been idolized, praised, worshiped today to the point of dumb, fucked-out incoherence, begging for him, only him. He fucks in and comes, filling Charles up hot and panting heavily. Bryan comes with a groan, finishing once again across Charles’ face, before smearing the head of his cock on Charles’ mouth.
There is little left in Charles, moaning at the taste, at the feeling. Max pulls out slowly, rubbing circles onto Charles’ back, and watches the way his come starts to drip out.
#like did this anon want bad race? good race? routine gb?#who knows -- but we settled for happy slutty fucked stupid charles#cw: implied gangbang?#i guess? LOL#anyway idk what this is#its like a kinda free use charles#happy monza regardless#asks
40 notes
·
View notes
Text
"The Fifth of May"
The Fifth of May is a poem written by the Italian poet and novelist Alessandro Manzoni in 1821, in honour of Napoléon's death.
It's one of the most famous poems as far as Italian literature is concerned: it usually gets studied and analyzed at least once during compulsory education! Since it doesn't seem that many people outside of Italy know of it, I will share below an English translation made by Lorna de Lucchi (source + original in Italian here)
" He is no more. As reft of breath The heedless body lay at last On whom such boundless hopes were cast, Immobile in the calm of death. So, by the tidings, in amaze The earth is held, and with her gaze The parting hour doth mutely scan Of this great spirit ; if again Upon the dust of her wide plain, All blood-besprinkled, ever can The footfall of a mortal show Like unto his, she doth not know.
My muse, seeing him most gloriously Ensconced upon a royal throne, Was still, nor in the clam'rous tone Of myriad voices joined as he Fell, then triumphantly did soar To fall again and rise no more : Free from all taint of servile praise And cowardly insult, let me rise, Now this bright star falls from the skies, As one who piteous homage pays ; A garland on his urn, let lie This song which haply will not die !
From Alp to hoary Pyramid, From Manzanare to the Rhine, From Scylla to the Don, sure sign His vivid lightnings were that did Foreshow the tempest that would be, His winged bolt from sea to sea.
Is his true fame ? Posterity The arduous verdict will declare ; We can but bow in reverence where The Eternal Craftsman mightily Conceived this soul that it might stand To show the marvels of His hand.
The tremulous, impassioned joy Of schemes conveyed with master-art, The strife of a subjected heart Which dreamed a sceptre for a toy, Nor was denied the godly prize Before a world's incredulous eyes ;
All these he knew ; untold renown More glorious for the peril passed, Flight, then the victory at last, The pains of exile doffed the crown ; Twice humbled to the very dust, Twice gifted with an empire's trust.
He spoke : and lo, two centuries, Ranged face to face upon the field, Submissive to his voice did yield, As if to destiny's decrees : He called for silence, and then grave Judgment between them both he gave.
He vanished : idly passed the days Imprisoned in a narrow round, By bitter envy and profound Compassion, by the constant gaze Of hate unconquerable pursued, With love indomitable endued.
A wave o'er shipwrecked mortal's head Closeth, then heavily down doth bear, The very wave that in despair He scanned before, straining ahead After some merciful trace of ground In a vain hope before he drowned :
Even so this soul was crushed below The burden that is memory ! How often to posterity On deathless page he sought to show Himself revealed, how often then From his tired fingers dropped the pen !
How often, drawing to the end Of a day spent in listless wise, Arms crossed on breast and downcast eyes Aflame, he stood while thought did tend Towards the past, in yearning vain For that which could not be again,
Calling to mind the mobile tents, The glint of passing infantry The flood-wave of the cavalry, The storming of the battlements, The sharply framed, imperious word, The swift consent of those who heard !
Maybe in such deep misery His spirit might have known despair, Had not a hand divine been there To raise him up in charity And carry him to mansions where Breathes a more consecrated air ;
To lead him by hope's flowery ways To everlasting pastures sweet, Where perfect happiness doth meet And soar above poor mortal praise, Where in hushed twilight doth abide The earthly glory that hath died.
Immortal Faith, O gentle maid, Full many a triumph hast thou seen ! Write this thing down in joy serene ; Never on Golgotha was laid Sublimer fame as low as this, Never proud spirit bowed like his.
O Faith, from his sad ashes move All words of bitterness away ! The God who doth create and slay, Who doth chastise then heal in love, Will surely come to him and keep Vigil beside his lonely sleep. "
#napoleon#napoleon bonaparte#napoleonic era#napoleonic wars#alessandro manzoni#i can't judge the quality of translations as far as poetry is concerned but it seemed fine to me
43 notes
·
View notes
Text
![Tumblr media](https://64.media.tumblr.com/d7b46c8453b4e2aa00b96212b03dd0ac/2ce09c6d66104038-dc/s540x810/ddec2b7e328747204bd98fb39b12ff85435730e1.jpg)
Christ In The House Of Martha And Mary
Artist: Alessandro Allori (Italian, 1535–1607)
Genre: Religious Art
Date: 1605
Medium: Oil Paint on Poplar Wood
Collection: Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna, Austria
Christ with Mary and Martha
Martha is a significant New Testament figure, a personal friend of Jesus, and someone with whom many women today identify. She lived in Bethany with her sister, Mary, and her brother, Lazarus, whom Jesus raised from the dead. We meet Martha three times in the Bible, and each event helps to build a profile of this interesting woman.
The Bible first mentions Martha in Luke 10. She is in her home in Bethany, a small town near Jerusalem, where she is hosting Jesus and the disciples. Jesus was well-known to Martha and her siblings; in fact, Jesus loved this little family (John 11:5).
On the day that Jesus visited, Martha’s desire was to be a good hostess - to serve the best meal with the best possible presentation, for Jesus’ sake. Her sister, Mary, however, was taking some time out to listen to Jesus (Luke 10:39). As Martha “was distracted by all the preparations that had to be made” (Luke 10:40), she became a little cross with Mary and spoke rather abruptly to the Lord: “Lord, don’t you care that my sister has left me to do the work by myself? Tell her to help me!” (verse 40).
In this foolish utterance, Martha implied that Jesus did not care about her, and she gave the Lord a command, demanding that He force Mary to assist in the serving. In her busyness, Martha had taken her eyes off the Savior. Jesus, who was able to see into her soul, diagnosed her problem: she was worried and troubled about the serving and had no peace in her heart. He gently told Martha that a simple dinner was more than adequate, and He reminded her that Mary’s decision to sit at His feet and hear His word was the better choice (verses 41–42).
#religious art#bible story#martha#mary#jesus#gospel of luke#gospel of john#bible verses#alessandro allori#european art#italian painter#early 17th century#christianity#oil on poplar wood#table#food#landscape#water well#christian art
16 notes
·
View notes
Text
.
POLAR NIGHT
.
Summary:
He was a patient man.
He wouldn't mind to wait for the right time to reap what he thought he deserved.
He had lived in the dark for far too long, that happiness was such a foreign notion for him.
Until you crossed his path and awakened something deep inside him.
Until he realized there was indeed glowing light on the other side of his world, just a flicker at the end of the journey he had to conquer.
Until the sunshine he had waited became you.
![Tumblr media](https://64.media.tumblr.com/743fa75e4937586712742932f06cca68/91167894aee08d6b-a2/s540x810/7a217fb2b6b5d2aecaeb10a54bcd122ae6fcd5c1.jpg)
Pairing : Taehyung x Ballerina Reader
Genre : Yandere, Mafia AU. 🔞🔞🔞🔞🔞
Warning : Dubious Consensual Sex, Unprotected Sex, Creampie, General Obsessive Behaviour
Word count : 4.3 K
.
Full Masterlist and elaborate warning please read here.
.
Excerpt
![Tumblr media](https://64.media.tumblr.com/743fa75e4937586712742932f06cca68/91167894aee08d6b-a2/s540x810/7a217fb2b6b5d2aecaeb10a54bcd122ae6fcd5c1.jpg)
Epilogue.
.
"She's very beautiful."
The painting filled up one whole section of the wall was life size, stood tall from ceiling to floor. It portrayed an elegant woman in her forties, with black hair and slim stature.
She wore a lace grey top with sheer sleeves, paired with wrap around hanbok skirt and classic black pumps.
She looked like Mr. Kim so much that it didn't take a genius to guess that both of them were related.
"My mother was beautiful, yes."
There was sadness in his expression, just like the woman on the photo.
Her eyes, -though pretty and big, but looked miserable and soulless.
"Unfortunately, she died two years ago."
It reminded you of what Vittorio said about his family.
Mr. Kim didn't get along too well with his father, he was closer to his mother.
But then, you didn't think a man like Marco Romano could pose a good father figure.
Not with the kind of job he did.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to ..."
"It's okay. I asked to create this portrait to remember her."
"She looked just like you."
He stepped forward, rubbing his thumb lightly on the canvas, his eyes was staring blankly to the photo.
"So they said. Pleasant to the eyes, but not strong enough as a man. Masculinity is often stereotyped as built with muscle."
His expression turned into a mix of bitterness and dejection.
"You are the leader now. Although I don't understand why you have to choose this kind of life."
He raised his brows while gave you a surprise look.
"This kind of ... life?"
You looked up and observed the face on the painting.
"I'm not an expert in reading people, but I could tell that your mother, ... she wasn't happy."
There was silence again, a bit longer, as you looked at his side profile, trying to read his mind.
How his gaze turned soft when looked at his mother's face.
The strange thing was, even you knew that he was dangerous, and you should despise him for that, but there was something about him that told you, he had a real heart behind the facade.
"She wasn't. But not many people get the privilege to choose what kind of life they want to live."
Just like your situation right now. You didn't have a choice but to stay with him.
"Like I can't leave you because you don't give me any choice."
Your words halted his hand from carresing the canvas. His eyes were ablazed with fiery heat that got you held your breath for a moment.
"You do have choices. Every option has its own consequence. It's just a matter of whether you are willing to make a sacrifice."
"You know I can't choose the other way. So there's just one option left."
He shrugged his shoulder with a hint of indifference, his eyes were back on the painting. Your words didn't seem to deter his decision in forcing you to stay with him.
Whether you were willing or not.
You dislike him for that, but it wasn't easy to keep your resolution to hate him when he seemed very adamant to win your heart as he declared several times.
He would make you fall in love with him.
A man with ethereal beauty like his mother on the painting, maybe in some way he was cursed just like her.
Loving someone who didn't return her feeling.
But unlike her, there was an aspect of his personality that he inherited from his father. Alessandro told you about his past, how he escaped from the abduction.
Something in him that balanced the dynamic between his weakness and his strength.
"Life is never fair. You just have to make the most out of it."
You scoffed in derision, too tempted to trigger him.
"Of course. Lucky for you that you are not only good looking, but wealthy too. I guess stay with you isn't so bad after all. I think I start to see the silver lining from my ill luck."
His movement was swift when he grabbed your waist and pinned you to the wall next to the painting.
He was so close, you could see his dilated pupil, his breath fanning your neck along with his tightened grip.
"That's true. I have the power to guarantee your future, and you have this body that I crave so much I could easily get off just by imagining to be inside you alone. It's a fair trade, don't you think?"
"You ...-"
You lost for words when he tilted his head and dipped into the crook of your neck, kissing the column with a soft bite that lingered just a few seconds, long enough for you to feel the warmth of his tongue grazing your skin.
For a split moment your mind turned blank, his scent and his presence so close to you overpowered any logic and common sense, you could hear your own heartbeat accelerating along with the heat around your core.
You almost moaned over the sensation before you realized his last lewd statement , and you jerked yourself away from him.
Living with him for the past week did no good for your sanity. At one point, you couldn't deny the attraction, yet there were so many times you just wanted to run away, all consequences be damned.
You could feel the uncomfortable sensation on your panty that was wet with sticky arousal, guilt and anger consumed you as you realized who was the cause.
Oh, how you hated him for doing this to you.
You hated the condescending remark he threw at you, mocking you at how he sensed your body reacted to him in a way you would never want to admit to him.
"Just, ... get away from me!"
But even you knew, your voice was weak, too weak, ... along with your vanishing self restraint ... he probably couldn't hear you.
Or he chose to ignore your attempt to drive him away.
The haze of lust was so thick that you didn't even realize when exactly he succesfully hiked up your skirt, lifted your leg up to his hip.
Where were all of these coming from?
It was hard to make sense of your surrounding.
Everything happened too fast and made you terribly dizzy, until you felt the dull head of his length on your entrance, teasing you with promising pleasure.
You were drenched in between your legs so much that you could see the smirk on his lips, he probably could feel your arousal even before he pushed his cock inside you.
You wanted to slap his pretty face looking at his arrogant manner, but oblivion took you over when you felt how good it was to have his lips all over you.
He rained kisses alternating with painful bites that you were sure it was one of his way to mark you.
His hands holding you still while he drove his cock over and over, dragging you the edge, before pulled back, never let you to really reach the peak.
"You know, ...."
His breath brushing the skin on your shoulder, you gasped when he moved his hips and pushed himself roughly back into you.
Every thrust was punishing, the tip of his shaft stroking the right spot inside you, but he always stopped just when you were a couple of seconds from the climax.
"... -I could go on like this for hours ..."
"No ... Please ..."
You didn't want to beg, you really didn't, ... but you couldn't stop the pitiful plea that left your mouth along with your desperation and exhaustion.
"Say that you are mine ... Only mine."
There was the jab again. It was so delicious that you had to push your hips to meet his thrusts, but again ... before you even reached it, he pulled out until it was only the tip remained inside.
You didn't want to say it, but the need for a release was too tempting, too painful, and right now, you needed it more than anything.
"Yours ..."
Another halfway thrust.
Oh god ... please ...
"I can't hear you."
His own breathing was exerted, you could feel it from his lips moving on to your collarbone.
You didn't care if one of the maids could catch on you.
All the inhibitions could go to hell.
"Yours ... I'm yours ... please ... give it to me!"
His next thrust jolted you up, hitting the exact spot that brought you to the climax that came to you like an electric shock, strong vibration spread through your whole body.
He didn't relent, instead, kept your leg up on his hip until you felt sore around your pelvis, the strong impact producing sound that probably echoed throughout the hallway.
Until finally you felt the warm feeling of his seed inside you, you could sense it dripping out along your inner thighs.
There was a triumphant smile on his lips when he pulled out from you, whispering of your sealed fate, the future that awaited you.
"You're always mine, Y/N, ...you better remember that. Always."
🔸️
You had a restless sleep last night.
It took you hours of toss and turn before you finally gave up and went about your day with lack of energy and unfavorable mood.
You tried to make up the lack of sleep by taking a good nap after your practice, but instead, it was interupted with a dream that you never had before.
You jerked awake, breathing in panic, when you realized you were still in your bedroom.
You were in Moscow, not Calabria.
You felt the bed shifted, the man laid next to you stirred then opened his eyes looking at you.
"Y/N? Is everything okay?"
His handsome face laced with worry under the dim light of the orange sunset shone through the glass window.
"Nothing. It's just ... a dream.."
Could you even call it a nightmare?
Your panty was soaked, and you prayed that Damien wouldn't notice.
"You almost never had any dream before. Are you okay?"
You shook your head while pressing a finger on your temple.
You could still taste the lust and his lips on you.
It had been a year, but that dream ... it felt so real ...
You wanted to tell him about Mr. Kim, but then realized, no man would be too happy listening his girlfriend having a dream about another man.
Damien was three years older than you, a sweet Russian guy that you met seven months ago at the theater.
With pale skin and pretty babyface, his height that was only an inch taller, people often thought he was younger than you.
His body was toned and lithe, defined muscles on his arms, reminded you so much of Jimin.
Maya, his sister, was your fellow ballerina as well as your only friend since you came to Moscow.
It was the second month since your first date with him, and both of you had practically living together ever since.
You knew you were moving too fast, but Damien convinced you that this arrangement was the most convenient so he could save an hour commute between your place and his everyday.
"I'm okay, but I don't think I want to go back to bed."
"Just let me help you relax for a while. We can go out for dinner after that."
It wasn't long before he got you naked under him, pushing himself slowly inside you.
You were not in your best mood to fuck right now, -especially when you had another man in your mind, but sex was always his way to pacify or console you.
There were times you were hopeful for a more detached moment with him, where you could hold civil conversation without any skinship.
But you had to admit, sometimes the sex helped a lot in distracting you from the past.
From the face that haunted your memory.
You almost lost track of Damien's motion when he was thrusting in and out of you, you were thrown back to the past again.
Your moan was too random almost like mechanic, but Damien seemed too far gone in his fervor to care.
Not even realized when you failed to get your own satisfaction, he was back to sleep after planted a brief kiss on your cheek.
Staring at his sleeping form, you looked at the clock next to the bed, it was almost dinner time.
Listening at Damien's soft snore, you knew you would have to go for dinner alone.
You got up from the bed and started to change into layers of warm clothes, thermal long sleeve top, burgundy jumper paired with grey waterproof coat and boots.
Winter in Moscow was quite harsh with lowest temperature could reach to -9°C.
It felt suffocating to stay in the apartment with Damien, when your thought was full with a man who was a few thousand miles from here.
La Rosa was only a block away, fifteen minutes walking from your apartment.
A quaint Italian restaurant near the City Hall that Damien usually would avoid. He wasn't exactly a fan of Italian food.
Walking along the cobbled street down to the restaurant, you savored the scenery surrounding Nikolskaya street, one of the famoust sightseeing spot in Moscow.
The restaurant was only partly full during dinner time, four tables were occupied around the fireplace.
You liked their stone baked pizza the most, reminded you of the one you usually had at Renzelli.
The chef, -Paolo, was a sixty something Italian that came to Moscow twenty years ago, to marry his Ukrainian wife, Kateryna.
Sometimes you chatted with him, but when his wife was around, they would be busy with the accounting at the corner table near the cashier.
Today, Kateryna was nowhere to be seen.
"Y/N, ... long time no see. I guess Damien is staying home?"
"Yeah, you know him. Not a big fan of Italian food."
"It's his lost. I made my signature Solyanka tonight. Do you want to try? My treat!"
You would never refuse free food.
"Thank you. And I will have a slice of margherita as usual, with a cup of hot Earl Grey."
"Coming right up. And btw, you might want to check the desserts, I made tiramisu and cassata especially for today!"
Maybe dessert was the answer for lifting up your mood.
You went to the lounge area near the window, the view overlooked the Red Square was magical.
GUM department store was brightly lit with row of yellow decoration lights from every angle, just like all buildings along the busy street.
Saint Basil's Cathedral was packed with people and glorious Christmas lights and decoration, higlighting different colors on their nine domes.
The sky after sunset was a mix between blue, purple and pink shades, set as background for the red building of State Historical Museum.
Winter festival around Red Square was a sight to behold, even with the freezing temperature.
Putting your coat on the sofa next to you, you savored the warmth from the heater, in contrast with freezing air outside.
You missed Calabria a lot, especially during winter like this, to have the summer sun to tan your body was like a dream to you.
Living in Moscow wasn't terrible, but you wouldn't say that you liked it either.
You still weren't used to their food, and you hated cooking. It was hard to find the time in between your busy schedule at the theater.
But your budget wouldn't allow you to eat out every day even though Alessandro gave you more than enough every month.
It was a month ago when you sold the ring that Mr. Kim gave to you, you finally had enough money to indulge yourself in eating out once in a while.
The ring was supposed to be valuated at more than ten million ruble, but the price went down significantly because you didn't have the certificate.
It took you quite a long time before you made up your mind to sell it, when you finally decided to let go of the past.
You didn't want to think about him all the time, and having that ring with you was like a constant reminder that hurt in the end.
As you stared at fireworks exploded on the sky outside, you sighed thinking about your life in general.
You were blessed enough that you made it so far, you had everything you needed, and you had Maya and Damien too. But you couldn't deny the thought that there was just something missing from your life.
You had contemplated about contacting your grandmother, to at least say hi to someone who you could call a family you hadn't met for a long time, but you were not sure if she would be happy to hear from you.
Besides, Alessandro warned you to cut any connection with your past life.
And you didn't know why it made you sad anyhow, no matter how awful she treated you in the past.
"Your order, Y/N."
Sergey, one of the server put plates of pizza and cassata, and a teapot with matching cup on your table.
"Thank you. Btw, is the restroom vacant?"
Sergey cast a glance to the direction of lavatory, before looked back at you.
"I think so. I saw one guest was just out."
You nodded and got up from your chair, taking your bag with you.
The bathroom was at the back of the restaurant, passing by a small hallway. There were only two cubicles, one for male and the other for female, but it was completely separated into different rooms with sink next to the toilet.
You finished your business and then taking the time to fix your make up on the mirror.
There were faint dark circles around your eyes, result from lack of sleep when you had to practice for the last winter showcase.
You needed to get more rest.
Not only your skin was pretty pale but you also lost four pounds of weight.
You looked tired and in need of some holiday.
Maybe looking for a bit of sun would be a good idea.
But going back to Calabria was definitely impossible.
Sighing in defeat, you made your way out, intended to call Maya to catch up with you for dinner together.
Until your step was stopped in front of the open door.
There was a man standing in relaxed position, leaning to the wall with both hands inside his pocket pants.
He wore a long sleeve black turtleneck with dark denim, but his muscle were prominent around his arms and chest.
You would never forget the face that looked young and quite innocent, somewhat indifferent, camouflaging the things that man was actually capable of.
Also the piercings on his lip, ears and eyebrow.
Your voice was trembling when it finally dawned on you, what exactly had transpired.
What was it meant to have the man standing in front of you now.
"He ... he's here?"
Jungkook nodded, taking a step forward.
"I would suggest for you not to run nor do something silly. He knows Yelensky. You will have no chance."
"Yelensky?"
"The man that 'owns' this district."
You understood, had some idea about them. Rumors, gossip, scary stories about those pakhan, brigadier... you weren't oblivious.
"His mafia friend, ... of course."
Jungkook shook his head.
"Let's just say he helped Yelensky in the past."
People who owed something to him, and he expected them to return the favor in the future.
Just like Jungkook.
Just like you.
The short walk to your table felt like forever when your heartbeat escalated with each step that brought you closer to him.
The atmosphere around the restaurant was changing, you could feel it, especially with all the tables were now occupied by several men with similar dark suit.
You saw him before he was able to see you.
You would recognize that face from afar, even if you had not seen him for years apart.
He sat there with his signature three piece suit, dark grey color to match his mood it seemed.
You tried to avoid his gaze when you took a seat on the sofa in front of him, wondering why it was so cold while the heater was running in full power.
When you finally looked into his eyes, you unconsciously held your breath, looking at his beautiful face that was already carved in your mind.
There was no word you could start to say, not when you were anticipating his reaction.
"Mr. Kim ..."
The last time you called him was by his Korean surname, when he was on top of you, pushing himself deep inside you.
"Hello, Y/N."
You swallowed a hard lump on your throat as you stared at his impassive face.
He didn't change at all, still wearing that intimidating look on his expression, it felt like spearing into your soul, stripped you bare with nothing left inside.
"Did Alessandro tell you?"
He moved a little, pulled out a cigarette from shiny metal case on the table, and lighting it up.
Taking a slow drag, he didn't answer you right away, eyes were still solely on you, so intense that you weren't dare to move.
"He had no choice but to tell me in the end, ..."
He exhaled the smoke slowly, dragging the moment, taking his sweet time to answer you, while his eyes bored to you with inscrutable cold stare like he wanted to torture you.
" ...-thanks to the ring that you sold a month ago."
"I ... I don't understand."
Fear crept up your whole being, goosebumps spread all over your skin.
His composed manner was like the calm before the storm.
"You know ... when I bought that ring, I was told that the yellow stone carried a soul that would connect to the bearer when it found the match. I didn't exactly believe it until the ring brought you back to me."
You could sense tears at the corner of your eyes.
"Are you ... angry with me?"
He chuckled with easy sardonic laugh, ashed the cigarette on a white cup, before taking another long drag, then blowing the vapor in no rush.
There was a hint of smile you could see dancing in his eyes, you thought you must be mistaken.
You would be lucky if he didn't wish to kill you now.
"Angry? ... After three hundred and seventy four days not seeing you, thinking that you were already dead, ... after what felt like forever to cry myself to sleep everynight, drinking my sorrow away through intoxication, staring at those guns and contemplated the best way to end my life, ..."
He let out a small laugh that didn't reach his eyes.
" ... you think I would be angry when I see you?"
You gasped as a lone tear dropped along your cheek.
"Trust me Y/N, angry is the least emotion that I feel about you right now."
He didn't have to look like a monster to terrify you to your soul.
"What will you do ... to me?"
He rubbed the cigarette butt on the cup and left it there, before his eyes turned deadly serious looking at you.
"You are a smart girl. You don't have to ask me that. I'm sure you knew already."
Your phone vibrated with a classical tune of 'Mariage d'amour', the wistful ringtone cut through the silence around the room.
You saw Paolo just rooted on his seat at the cashier, every other guest seemed to have departed from the premise.
"Don't you dare to pick up the damn call."
It was Damien.
Oh God .... Damien ...
"Don't hurt him. He ... he has nothing to do with you, with us."
"Oh?"
He smirked while sat back with one leg crossed on the other, still keeping his eyes on you.
"Screwing my fiancee for ... let's say, half a year, you think the impudence doesn't warrant his head?"
"I didn't tell him. He doesn't know. Please, Mr. Kim ..."
He moved forward, his eyes were now trained on you with eerie determination.
"Then you know exactly what you should do, cara. I could choose to ignore what happened all this time, I believe you are able to make the right decision."
"I still have one pending showcase at the theater on February."
"You are relieved from your position at Bolshoi, effective immediately."
You lost for words, angry was probably just a fickle of the mix of emotions you felt right now.
Ones that you couldn't even show it to him.
You really had no choice.
Your phone rang again, and you were about to pick it up when he went ahead, snatching the phone from your hold and slammed it to the floor.
He still held the same level of composure even after the deafening sound of screen breaking to pieces.
For a moment you were stunned, frozen still on your spot.
He stood up, followed by all men around the room, including Jungkook, -who sat in silence on the other table next to you.
Fragment of glass shards cracked under his shoes.
"You will learn to listen to me, cara. A wife should listen to her husband, it's for your own good.
Now ... shall we go? The plane has to take off before nine. Oh, and another thing ..."
He pulled you to stand up before reached inside his coat pocket, producing a solitaire diamond ring between his fingers.
"You will wear this until our wedding later. I'm still negotiating to get the yellow diamond back, in the mean time ..."
He slipped the ring on your ring finger, before lifted up your hand and kissed the knuckle.
"Welcome home, amore."
Bonus chapter in my Wattpad page, the edited version.
.
.
.
.
youtube
#yandere bts#yandere taehyung#bts fanfic#taehyung x reader#yandere fanfiction#bts mafia#taehyung#obsession#fanfic
159 notes
·
View notes
Text
You decided to turn in for the night, deciding to handle whatever tasks you had in the morning once you were better rested. Your room was set up, and it was nice to actually sleep in a bed rather than a tent. You let the weight of the day slowly lift off your shoulders, and found yourself drifting into a dream.
The dream was complex. Or perhaps difficult to parse, would be a better way of putting it. You'd briefly held dreams of Servant memories before, but this was as if the memories themselves were uncertain of their existence.
Information was presented, but as soon as it came it would quickly be scrubbed away and replaced. The details were malleable, drifting through your fingers like sand, unable to be truly grasped. But, you were able to piece some things together.
See…
Once upon a time, there was a boy named Giuseppe. Born in Sicily to a family of poor means, his quick wit and resilience allowed him the strength to travel--
No. Wait.
Once upon a time, there was a boy named Acharat, who was raised as a prince in the lands to the East. Strong, strapping, and bold, he quickly took to a great many skills and--
No, no. Wait…
Once upon a time, there was a boy named Alessandro, born to a noble house. With proper education and an interest in mysticism, he quickly took to his family's magecraft and--
No, no, no. Wait…
-
There once was a [boy] who was born in [a place].
-
There. That should keep the story simple.
This boy was raised to be a devout and humble Christian, learning under the tutelage of those at a monastery the arts of healing and medicines, and--
Hang on, that's not right.
The boy was raised by his servants and mentors in the royal palace, his mentor Althotas teaching him the ways of mysticism, sciences, chemistry, and botany, his linguistic and mental repertoires expanding rapidly, so that--
Well… that doesn't seem right either.
The young boy was raised as a magus. His mindset worked well with the world of magi, and he was able to quickly pick up a bountiful amount of knowledge regarding magecraft, especially the alchemical arts, and how it could be bent to his will--
Hm...
-
There was once a [boy] who was born in [a place] who was [taught].
-
There. Now the story is much cleaner.
By the time you settled that much, truly reaching the bottom of the first page... if not only the first paragraph, the warmth of the morning sun hit your face, and you awoke.
12 notes
·
View notes
Text
THE CARABINIERI ACADEMY
CHAPTER 1 : THE DREAM BEGINS
![Tumblr media](https://64.media.tumblr.com/a4bf42997a9dc9f30623c8a48a2e6c14/ce0d6d23ddfe4916-b9/s540x810/ce5ea2bfc551d88f250694387d5fc3d61b767c4b.jpg)
The sun was high in the sky as the new cadets of the latest Officer Training Course arrived at the grand gates of the renowned Carabinieri Academy in Florence.
Antonio had come with his family, eager to embark on this new adventure. The journey to get here had not been easy, written tests, physical trials, and psychological evaluations had made it a real challenge, but now, he stood before those imposing gates.
"Goodbye, Mom. Goodbye, Dad. I'll see you on oath day," Antonio said.
He bid farewell once more to his family, knowing he would only see them through a phone screen for the next year. With his suitcase in hand, he followed a superior officer who had come to escort the new cadets.
As they walked toward the academy's main square, Antonio took in his surroundings. The academy looked enormous, but what truly caught his attention were his new coursemates. He saw many young men around his age—24 years old—but also some who were older. Everyone was dressed formally, wearing jackets and ties. Some were incredibly muscular, with thick arms and legs, while others, like him, were simply fit.
Once they reached the square, they were lined up, and to welcome them stood none other than the academy commander himself, Commander Alessandro.
"Good morning, gentlemen, and welcome," the commander said. "You will spend the next 12 months training here as Carabinieri until the day of your oath. Remember, with dedication and commitment, anyone can become an outstanding officer. So, give it your best."
After the commander left, two young cadets, recently sworn in, gave the newcomers a tour of the academy. The new recruits were fascinated by the classrooms, the gyms, and the training grounds, their expectations were being met, and they couldn’t wait to begin.
At the end of the tour, one of the cadets explained that they would now receive all the clothing they needed for their stay at the academy, along with the study materials and the room assignments.
Antonio felt a mix of excitement and nervousness. He was eager to meet his new roommates but hoped they would be friendly, and, most importantly, open-minded.
The room was not small, just the right size for what they needed. There were three beds, each with a wardrobe and a bedside table with a lamp. In front of the window stood a large desk with a lamp, perfect for late-night studying. When Antonio entered, he saw that his two roommates had already settled in and were putting on their cadet uniforms.
![Tumblr media](https://64.media.tumblr.com/95578715cdc73ac24a4799d4376afa1a/ce0d6d23ddfe4916-87/s540x810/fd195376b65310bfd6ffe5e7e0f1e3556b77f264.jpg)
"Well, now we’re complete," one of them said as he noticed Antonio.
"Hi," Antonio greeted them timidly.
"Relax, we don’t bite," the other replied jokingly as he finished adjusting his uniform. "I’m Marco," he said.
"Paolo," the other introduced himself with a nod.
"I’m Antonio," he responded. "Where should I put my stuff?" he asked, looking at their belongings.
"The middle bed, if that works for you," Marco said, pointing to the only unoccupied bed. "I prefer to sleep near the window, unlike Paolo," he added with a grin.
"Listen, if I hear noise, I won’t sleep, and then waking me up for the morning flag-raising will be your problem," Paolo said with a smirk.
The three of them burst into laughter. The initial tension had vanished; they were now roommates, ready to take on this journey together. While waiting for dinner, they chatted about their families, their reasons for choosing this path, and their dreams for the future after leaving the academy.
Marco had a strong, athletic build and never hid his passion for the gym from his friends. His friendly face, warm gaze, and dark brown curls gave him an undeniable charm. He came from a close-knit family that always valued helping others. This upbringing instilled in him a deep sense of responsibility, which ultimately drove him to join the Carabinieri. He wanted to make a difference. Naturally inclined to leadership, he had set his sights on becoming an officer. His ambition extended in two directions, one day, he hoped to become an academy instructor, but he also longed to serve in the field.
Paolo, on the other hand, was more of an intellectual. Incredibly intelligent and endlessly curious, he had always excelled in school. At some point, he realized that law enforcement wasn’t just about physical strength, it required strategy, knowledge, and quick thinking. His talents could be an asset in this world, which led him to enroll in the academy. Though leaner than Marco, he was still in good shape, having trained rigorously for the physical tests. His short black hair and thoughtful expression made it seem like he was always deep in thought. His ultimate goal? To join the intelligence division of the Carabinieri.
And then there was Antonio. Determined and strong-willed, at least on the surface. His build was athletic and well-toned, nothing compared to Marco’s, but still impressive. His piercing black eyes reflected his resilience, and his straight, jet-black hair had a small lock that always fell onto his forehead. Coming from a family with a history in law enforcement, Antonio had always felt destined to follow in their footsteps. His dream was simple: finish his training and become an officer in his hometown’s station.
Dinner was just as enjoyable as the rest of the day. The mess hall buzzed with conversation as the cadets got to know each other, their camaraderie growing with every passing moment. Antonio, Marco, and Paolo continued chatting throughout their meal, discussing football, music, and their favorite video games, even making a pact to challenge each other once their time at the academy was over.
That night, Antonio went to bed with a contented smile. Everything was better than he had expected, his roommates were friendly, and the year ahead suddenly felt less daunting and much more exciting.
The next morning, Antonio was rudely awakened by a sudden jolt, he had fallen out of bed.
"Move it! We have flag-raising in five minutes!" Marco called out.
Still half-asleep, Antonio groggily looked up to see Marco shirtless, tidying up his bed. At the same time, Paolo was stepping out of the bathroom, also shirtless, after freshening up.
"The bathroom’s free. Hurry up, you still have to get dressed and make your bed," Paolo said.
But Antonio was momentarily frozen. He couldn't help but admire his roommates. Marco was more defined than Paolo, but both of them were undeniably attractive.
Before they could notice the way he was staring, Antonio rushed into the bathroom, splashing cold water on his face in an attempt to shake off his thoughts.
"I can't let this get to me. For all I know, they’re not even into guys," he muttered to himself.
In just five minutes, he washed up, dressed, and straightened his bed. Soon, all three of them were standing at attention in the square alongside the rest of the cadets for the morning ceremony.
During breakfast, Antonio was still feeling groggy from the abrupt wake-up call.
"Try not to fall asleep in your milk," Paolo teased.
"I hate waking up with a start… I guess I'll have to get used to this schedule," Antonio muttered, stifling a yawn.
"You’ll have plenty of time to wake up, our first class is Criminal Law and Procedure with Professor Locatelli. Not the most exciting subject, but apparently, he’s a good teacher and has a sense of humor," Marco said.
![Tumblr media](https://64.media.tumblr.com/39fe66fe9a9abd8e856d346ac47687b9/ce0d6d23ddfe4916-b9/s540x810/df9d5b3d1412e75cd11574dfc16006a437678210.jpg)
By 8:30 AM, they were already seated in the lecture hall as their fellow cadets trickled in. Antonio, however, found his mind drifting back to that morning. He knew this wouldn’t be the first or last time he’d see his roommates shirtless, or possibly even more, but he couldn’t afford to let his emotions jeopardize everything. Not until he knew where they stood.
Would they accept him if they found out? Would they react badly? The uncertainty gnawed at him.
His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of their professor.
"Good Morning"
The entire class immediately stood at attention.
"Be seated."
As soon as everyone settled, the professor continued, "Welcome to the academy and to your course on Criminal Law and Procedure. I’m Professor Locatelli. Now, let’s begin."
Despite his initial drowsiness, Antonio found himself more awake. Law wasn’t his favorite subject, but Professor Locatelli had a way of keeping the class engaged. Everyone listened intently, taking notes, everyone except for one student in the back row.
Antonio noticed him right away. Unlike the rest, this guy wasn’t paying attention at all. Instead, he was absorbed in his laptop, typing away, seemingly uninterested in the lesson.
Antonio leaned toward his friends and whispered, "Do you guys know who that is?"
"I don’t," Paolo replied, "but he clearly doesn’t care about the class. Personally, I find it fascinating."
"I don’t know him personally," Marco added, "but some of the others said his name is Gio. He’s our age."
Antonio nodded but kept glancing back at the mysterious student. Throughout the lecture, he found himself wondering, what was so important that Gio couldn’t even pretend to listen?
"Hi guys and welcome to the first chapter of the new story. Let me know your thought in the comments as always and remember to subscribe if you want to read all the other chapters I'll publish and all the stories I have already published"
#gay hypnosis#hypnotized#male hypnosis#gay mind control#mind control#hypnosis#gay#ai men#male mind control#story#uniform
11 notes
·
View notes
Text
![Tumblr media](https://64.media.tumblr.com/db9dc0fee51aa4fa149f75e5b630db0c/5d956d09e25b75c3-4d/s540x810/96ce1477820a11158dc3ec6edb2096d66bf695e8.jpg)
![Tumblr media](https://64.media.tumblr.com/c5ca4f24a6cb8774899e3c483e08d590/5d956d09e25b75c3-b1/s640x960/2615e3e9721c82d261a4be0b5901f01dd9d3637a.jpg)
![Tumblr media](https://64.media.tumblr.com/f0b7bdb584c292336390a7296341a7cf/5d956d09e25b75c3-79/s540x810/6e3f4d59d7dc6d6dcbc01142cc896e672b9c096f.jpg)
WOLVERINE: REVENGE #2 (OF 5)
JONATHAN HICKMAN (W) • GREG CAPULLO (A/C)
Variant Cover by ROSE BESCH • Virgin Variant Cover by ROSE BESCH
Variant Cover by Stephen Platt
Variant Cover by Alessandro Cappuccio
LOGAN: OUT FOR VENGEANCE!
• The unspeakable has come to pass, and now SABRETOOTH, OMEGA RED and DEADPOOL WILL PAY!
• Jonathan Hickman and Greg Capullo raise the stakes for WOLVERINE as his near-death experience sends LOGAN toward untempered vengeance on his enemies.
• You won’t want to miss this key chapter of this prestige miniseries, destined to live on as one of Wolverine’s all-time most brutal tales!
32 PGS./Parental Advisory …$4.99
WOLVERINE: REVENGE #2 – RED BAND EDITION
JONATHAN HICKMAN (W) • GREG CAPULLO (A/C)
HORROR HOMAGE Red Band VARIANT Cover by Juan Ferreyra
VIRGIN VARIANT COVER BY GREG CAPULLO
Slice deeper into WOLVERINE: REVENGE #2, with the Red Band edition featuring exclusive pages and elevated action! Polybagged to contain the violence within!
32 PGS./EXPLICIT CONTENT …$5.99 [polybagged]
21 notes
·
View notes