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whataperfectwasteoftime · 3 months ago

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

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mydearesthrry · 1 year ago

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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

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shieldofiron · 2 months ago

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Vibe Check Part 9

Bros for Life

The Frat Boy Au

Read Previous on Ao3 or tumblr.

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

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legendary-69420 · 3 days ago

Text

Chapter 17: The WIRED Autocomplete Chaos

(Racing Hearts : VOLUME 2)

Song : "Talk Too Much - COIN" Carlos, Charles, Mark, and Max had all been invited to do the WIRED Autocomplete interview. As they waited for the team to set up the room, the four of them lounged around, dressed sharply for the occasion—except for Mark, who, as usual, was comfortably clad in just a hoodie.

The conversation flowed naturally, with the group tossing jokes and random comments to pass the time.

“Guys,” Max said, pointing between Charles and Carlos, then Mark and himself. “You ever realize we all share the same initial with our teammate?”

“Mark and Max,” Charles mused, smiling a little. “Charles and Carlos.”

Carlos grinned, leaning back in his chair. "It’s like fate or something."

Mark, with a playful grin, teased, “Or it's just alphabetical coincidence, mate.”

The crew signaled for them to take their places, and the boys got up, ready for the interview.

The interview began like any other typical WIRED Autocomplete session, with each racer taking turns answering questions based on what people frequently search about them. They each peeled off the white strips of paper to reveal the questions beneath.

Max went first, then Carlos, followed by Charles, each taking their share of humorous or predictable questions, though Max’s deadpan answers stirred a few laughs. Carlos’ charm was met with some light teasing from Charles, who clearly enjoyed seeing his teammate squirm over personal questions.

Then, it was Mark’s turn.

“Alright, here we go,” Mark said, rubbing his hands together as the board in front of him was presented. He tore off the first strip with a dramatic flair.

“First question,” he began, reading aloud, “‘Who is Mark Spencer…dating?’” His eyebrows shot up, and he glanced at the others.

Charles' mouth twitched into a knowing smirk, eyes locking with Mark's briefly.

“Uh, no one. I’m by myself right now,” Mark said nonchalantly, shrugging as if to play it off. Carlos raised his brows in a teasing manner, but Max chuckled under his breath, clearly amused by the public curiosity.

“Next one,” Mark pulled off another strip. “‘Who is Mark Spencer…married to?’”

Mark widened his eyes, looking mock-offended. “Why is everyone so interested in my love life all of a sudden?” he laughed. “I just said I’m single, alright?” He shook his head, looking at Charles, who was trying to suppress a grin.

“People are getting ahead of themselves,” Charles quipped, his eyes glimmering with amusement.

“Way ahead,” Mark chuckled. “Okay, moving on.”

He peeled off the next strip. “‘Who are Mark Spencer’s…parents?’ Oh, that’s easy. My dad and mom are Alessandro and Isabella Spencer, owners of the Spencer business.” He leaned back, giving a quick grin to the camera. “That’s a freebie.”

Max gave him a playful nudge, whispering, “You’re getting all the serious ones.”

“Not for long,” Mark said, peeling off the next strip. “‘Who is Mark Spencer…’” He paused for comedic effect, then sarcastically answered, “Nobody.”

The guys all burst out laughing, with Max nearly slapping his knee.

“Oh come on, man,” Charles said, smirking. “You’re a little more than nobody.”

Mark winked at him. “I mean, you’re not wrong.”

Mark moved to the next board. “‘What is Mark Spencer’s nationality?’ Oh, that’s simple—I'm from il Bel Paese.” He made an exaggerated Italian gesture with his hands. “Italy.”

Carlos nodded approvingly. “Represent.”

Mark peeled the next strip. “‘What languages can Mark Spencer speak?’ Hmm, I’m fluent in English, Italian, French, Spanish, and German.”

“Show-off,” Max teased.

“What can I say? I like options,” Mark said, winking again, this time at the camera.

Next strip: “‘What is Mark Spencer’s…accent?’” Mark grinned. “Well, I can change my accent depending on who I’m talking to. I can do English, French, Canadian, Italian, Australian, American—whatever feels right at the moment.”

Charles rolled his eyes. “Of course, you’re versatile even with accents.”

Mark grinned, moving on to the next question. “‘What is Mark Spencer’s profession?’” He paused for dramatic effect. “I work as a clown.” The sarcasm was evident in his tone, but the others burst into laughter.

“Accurate,” Max muttered, and Carlos couldn’t help but agree.

“Alright, seriously, though—I’m a racer. You know, the one who drives fast and wins things.” Mark smirked before ripping off the next question.

“‘What movie has Mark Spencer been in?’ Oh, this is recent! I was in the Barbie movie, starred as a Ken. It was my first movie, and I had fun shooting it.”

Charles snorted. “You’re going to milk that for a while, aren’t you?”

“Absolutely,” Mark winked.

Then came another question. “‘Mark Spencer’s…ring?’” Mark held up his hand, displaying the ring. “You must mean this one. Apparently, fans are more interested in what I wear than my racing, but hey, it’s cool. This is a gift from Melvin, Charles’ nephew.”

Charles gave a small smile, clearly pleased that Mark was proud to wear it.

Mark continued to the next. “‘Mark Spencer…shirtless.’” He paused, raising an eyebrow. “Well, I’m flattered to see this in the top searches related to me.” He suddenly lifted his hoodie up, flashing his abs.

Carlos burst into laughter, Max shook his head, and Charles groaned while laughing. “Seriously?”

“Nobody can resist these bad boys,” Mark said, winking at the camera before pulling his hoodie down.

“Alright, next question,” he said, trying to regain some composure. “‘What does Mark Spencer think of me?’” He chuckled, leaning in toward the camera with a playful smile. “I think you’re a wonderful person with a bright future ahead of you. You’re great. Also…I’m free tonight, so hit me up at 8.”

Charles facepalmed, shaking his head while chuckling, and Carlos nudged Mark’s arm playfully.

The final question: “‘Mark Spencer X F1 racers ship.’” Mark’s eyes widened in mock surprise. “Dude, I knew this was going to show up! These people can’t leave me alone.” He laughed. “One time, I read a ship about me and…Toto. Hilarious.”

The room erupted in laughter, with Charles giving Mark a playful shove as Max and Carlos shook their heads, grinning.

The video ended, but within minutes of it being uploaded, social media was flooded with comments and reactions. Twitter exploded with #MarkSpencerShirtless, and TikTok videos were already circulating with clips of Mark flashing his abs.

“I swear, they’re going to lose their minds over that,” Max muttered as he scrolled through his phone, already seeing the first few posts about the interview.

“You’re never going to hear the end of this,” Charles teased Mark, shaking his head with a smile.

Mark simply leaned back in his chair, grinning. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

As soon as the interview hit YouTube, social media exploded, and the comments section was flooded within minutes. Here’s a glimpse of the madness that unfolded:

Top Comments:

@f1fanatic23: "Mark Spencer really said 'nobody' when asked who he is 💀😂. My man needs to stop pretending he's not the hottest driver on the grid!"

@charles_leclerc_stan: "Charles’ reaction when Mark flashed his abs! I think we all felt that moment 😳🔥 #MarkSpencerShirtless #SaveUsCharles"

@max_n_verstappen_fan: "Max trying to keep it together while Mark jokes about being in the Barbie movie. ICONIC. Also, where do I sign up to be a Ken? 😍"

@italian_pride: "Mark flexing his multilingual skills like it's no big deal, and here I am struggling with one language 😩 #Goals"

@spencersimps: "‘Hit me up at 8’ WHO DOES HE THINK HE IS?! I swear this man is a menace 😭 someone stop him before I actually text him lmao"

@charlos_racing_duo: "Wait, how did we never notice the Charles/Carlos and Mark/Max teammate initials thing before?! Mind. Blown. 🧠"

@racequeensam: "Mark casually calling himself a clown but then flashing his abs. Sir, the audacity 👑 #MarkSpencerIsNoClown"

@shipping_f1: "‘Mark Spencer X F1 racers ship’…BRUH. And the fact that he KNOWS about the ships is sending me!!! Not Mark reading about himself and Toto!! 😂😂"

@f1_islife: "Melvin’s ring!! The fact that Charles’ nephew gave him that and Mark wears it with pride, I can’t! 🥺❤️ This man is a softie underneath it all."

Replies to the top comments:

@charles_leclerc_stan: "Right?! Charles was not prepared for that abs reveal. Man was like ‘oh no, not this again’ 😂"

@italian_pride: "And he just casually said ‘Bel Paese’ like it’s nothing! God-tier Italian."

@spencersimps: "If I could hit him up at 8, trust me, I would. Mark, give us a sign!"

@shipping_f1: "Fandom ships are wild but the fact he laughs about them is EVERYTHING. Can’t believe he’s aware of the Toto thing though lmao."

More Reactions:

@f1_gossiphub: “Can we talk about how Mark dropped Melvin’s name like it’s no big deal? That boy is full of surprises 👀”

@redbullracer101: “Max and Mark pretending to be normal during this interview when clearly they’re chaotic kings 😂”

@charles_and_mark4eva: "I’m convinced Charles and Mark’s interactions have so much more going on behind the scenes. That little look after the 'hit me up' comment 👀👀"

@f1_memes4life: “Mark calling himself a Ken in Barbie was the best part, hands down. But the internet isn't ready for this man’s humor.”

By the time the interview had been live for just an hour, the trending topics were filled with variations of #MarkSpencerShirtless, #WIREDInterview, #F1Chaos, and, of course, #HitMeUpAt8. Fans were losing their minds, and even the other drivers were joining in the fun by commenting on the video, fueling the chaos.

Lando Norris (@lando_norris): "@MarkSpencer I'm free tonight too. Hit me up at 8 😂 #thirdwheel"

Daniel Ricciardo (@daniel_ricciardo): “Ken Spencer? More like Ken’s better-looking brother. #BarbieKing #MarkSpencer”

@WiredOfficial: “Interviewing @MarkSpencer was an experience in itself. Did we expect abs? No. Did we love it? Absolutely.” --- (This phase covers 2 chapters chapter 17 and chapter 18!)

(Dividers by @enchanthings and @anemichorizon2)

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toppamplemousse · 2 months ago

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

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aedesluminis · 6 months ago

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

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artandthebible · 1 month ago

Text

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

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scienceninjaturtle · 5 months ago

Text

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]

#marvel comics #wolverine revenge #wolverine

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tgrailwar-zero · 13 days ago

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.

#thgw story #thgw: chapter 6

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voraciousvore · 6 months ago

Text

Giganterra (Chapter 19)

Prologue/ TOC | Previous (18) | Next (20)

Content Warning: Brief mention of implied vore

Word Count: 2.6k

------ Chapter 19: Discipline ------

Candy wept silently to herself as she was forced to accompany King Richard through his usual routine, while she dangled from his necklace under his shirt. Every time he walked, she bounced off his hairy chest. Whenever he spoke, his voice vibrated through his flesh and all around her. She couldn’t block him out when she was constantly pressed up to his gargantuan body. His heart ticked with the regularity of a clock, and his lungs swelled like the ocean tide. The air was hot and heavy under his formal layers of clothing, and pervaded with his natural musk. She had no respite from her living nightmare.

As she suffered through her abnormal confinement, with the metal clasp cinching her waist, she heard a familiar giant voice reverberating from somewhere outside her prison of skin and fabric. “Forgive me for my boldness, Your Majesty, but you seem troubled today. What ails you?”

King Richard released a heavy sigh with the force of a large waterfall. “Oh, Leon, you know me all too well.” A light shined from above, only to be eclipsed by his giant hand as he reached into his shirt. Candy squealed as she was engulfed by enormous fingers and raised into the air. His colossal fingers popped open the straps and metal clasps that suspended her from the necklace, allowing her to plop into his cupped palm. He idly played with her in his hand, as if she were nothing more than a small toy.

“It’s my son that bothers me. Ronny is… soft. Showing signs of weakness. I’m not sure how to fix him.” His voice lowered into a deathly serious tone. “I don’t want him to become like Alessandro.”

Leon flinched ever so slightly at the mention of the murdered prince. After his disappearance, he was stricken from the historical record. Any papers that mentioned his name, every last bust and painting that existed with his likeness, were destroyed. There was no funeral to mourn his passing and no explanation for his death, though rumors whipped through the halls of the castle like the whisper of the wind. His name was forbidden to be spoken publicly, under pain of death. He vanished as if he had never existed in the first place.

Of course, King Richard could do as he pleased and didn’t have to follow his own rules. The flippant utterance of the forbidden name chilled Leon’s blood, but he was sensible enough not to acknowledge the king’s loose tongue. He thought for a long moment before opening his mouth to respond, but the king spoke over him before he had the chance to talk.

“Princess Bianca is on a better path, at least. She’s demonstrated the capacity to be cruel, and doesn’t hesitate to take what she wants. If Ronny proves himself to be insufficient as an heir, I can rely on her, hopefully.” He tightened his fingers around Candy, making her yelp. His expression softened and he loosened his grip, looking down at her with tender affection. “Shhhh, shhhh…” He rubbed his enormous fingertip gently along her back while continuing to pet the rest of her body. Candy whimpered softly until she went silent again, still trembling. His touch was far from reassuring, but she didn’t wish to invoke his ire with her noises.

“Even so, Bianca is spoiled. Flighty. Vapid. Lacking substance. She doesn’t take matters of state seriously.” He huffed with frustration. “My children disappoint me.”

Leon bit his tongue to hold back a stinging remark. The king only had himself to blame for his woes. He raised his progeny to be misbehaved, childish monsters, by both coddling them and piling unreasonable expectations upon them. He was an overbearing presence that failed to provide them with any solid direction or guidance for positive growth. He tainted his family with his own degeneracy and rot, and there was no way to excise the poison.

The advisor couldn’t verbalize any of these conclusions to the king, however, if he wanted to keep his head. He swallowed his criticisms and cleared his throat. “If I may offer a few suggestions, Your Majesty?”

“Proceed.” King Richard pierced him with his pale eyes as he massaged Candy in his hands.

Leon repressed a repulsed grimace and tried to ignore the poor human suffering in the giant’s grasp. “I bring forth the supposition to you that the prince and princess may be soft and puerile because they lack any serious responsibilities. They are both adults now. Involve them in operations of state and put them in charge of certain affairs, to allow them to become invested in the kingdom and develop their leadership skills.”

Hardon frowned and creased his brow. “No,” he responded immediately, rejecting Leon’s postulation. “I can’t trust them to run anything. They’re not ready; they’ll muck it all up.”

Leon inhaled through his nose to center himself. “Well then, perhaps prepare them with more formal education. Their studies have been suspended for years now, since we don’t have a royal tutor.”

“We don’t? What happened to the last one?”

“You, um… gave him an early retirement, sire.”

The king curled his lips into a barbaric sneer. “Ah, yes. I do recall I found his teachings to be a bit too… progressive for my tastes.” He chuckled, his bloodlust apparent in his tone. Candy whined faintly, but he quieted her down by flexing his hand around her.

“I would further recommend encouraging activities that build more discipline, both physically and mentally. Perhaps dancing or music lessons for Princess Bianca? I know Ronny has fencing lessons, but perhaps he needs more strenuous training.”

King Richard nodded conclusively. “Yes. Make it happen.” Leon bowed and excused himself to carry out the king’s will. He conveyed the information to Ronny’s fencing instructor, Sir Maneater, who agreed to provide more intensive instruction for the prince. Leon suggested bringing in Squire Joey as a sparring partner to encourage a competitive spirit, since the sulky, churlish prince hated to lose. Martin had been hesitant to introduce Joey to the prince, due to the naivety of the earnest young man, but he felt his squire was ready. He needed to learn how to behave around royalty anyway, if he was to become a knight in service to the king.

Next, Leon headed into town to find a tutor qualified for regal instruction. He pitied the poor giant who would be put in charge of King Richard’s demonic hellspawn, but either way the selected man wouldn’t be given a choice. After inquiring among the circle of rich noble families in the area, he was recommended to an erudite pedagogue of high esteem by the name of Milton Henderson. Leon tracked him down to one of the estates in the surrounding countryside, where he was currently providing lessons to an earl’s twin daughters.

Leon passed through the gates to the property and gained access to the lavish mansion within by demonstrating the king’s seal, certifying him as an agent of the crown. The butler led him to a pavilion where the tutor was giving lessons to the two children. Leon observed the man teach without revealing himself. Milton was tall, neatly groomed, and gentlemanly in appearance and demeanor. His voice and movements were very gentle and calm, and his pacific aura had a positive effect on the children, who listened obediently to his deep voice as he lectured.

Leon approved of the tutor, viewing him as a man of quality. He hoped, perhaps, that the new teacher would produce a similar effect on the king’s unruly offspring. He should’ve interrupted the lesson and dragged Milton off right away, since the king was waiting, but Leon hated to be rude. He wasn’t very assertive either, so he lingered in the shadow of a marble pillar until Milton concluded his lesson and dismissed the children.

Milton moved to leave, but Leon intersected his path of travel to stop him. “Excuse me, sir! Milton Henderson?” he called out.

Milton halted and gave him a genial smile. “How may I help you?”

“My name is Leon, Leon Griffin. I’m the king’s advisor. He is searching for a tutor for his children. Several of the nobles recommended you.”

“Oh, that’s very kind of them, and I’m flattered to be considered worthy, but I’m afraid I can’t take on any more students. My schedule is quite full as it is, and my next students are waiting for me as we speak, so I must go.” He took a step forward to exit, but Leon blocked him a second time with a nervous smile.

“I do apologize for the inconvenience, but I’m afraid… service to the king is not exactly optional…” Leon fiddled awkwardly with his hands, clearly uncomfortable with his role as the king’s enforcer. “If you come with me now, it will make things much easier for both of us. Please.”

Milton’s pleasant expression faded at the implied threat, but he didn’t resist. He followed Leon to his carriage, painted with spotless shining white and inlaid with silver trim, and joined him in the plush purple velvet interior. He folded his hands in his lap and sat with a docile hush as the horses trotted forward. The earl’s estate disappeared over the horizon as the castle loomed in the distance, waxing closer like a bad omen as its gloomy gray stone contrasted the bright sky.

Leon cleared his throat to diffuse the tension. “I’m sorry,” he apologized again. “But… serving the royal family is certainly not a bad thing! You’ll only have to deal with two students from now on, the prince and the princess. And you’ll be compensated handsomely for your work! You may even take up residence in the castle if you wish!”

Milton didn’t answer. His eyebrows knitted together in contemplation as he processed what Leon told him. He kneaded his hands, absently playing with the golden wedding band on his finger, a memento of his past. Leon filled the space between them with more words, as if trying to convince himself of the advantages as much as Milton. “And you’ll have access to the best resources as well! All the supplies you may need: the finest feather pens, the blackest ink, the most quality parchment, all the books in the royal library-”

“Library?” Milton perked up.

“Oh, yes! The royal library is truly a remarkable sight to behold! There’s a wealth of information contained within, in thick tomes of knowledge, with the greatest literature, tales from foreign lands, historical documents dating back centuries… a marvelous treasure trove of the written word! And with the position of royal tutor, you’ll have unlimited access to it all!”

Milton brightened over the prospect, and Leon was finally able to give him a genuine smile. The carriage stopped within the courtyard, near the stables, and the king’s advisor led the new tutor through the pathways lined with lush gardens to the castle. Milton surveyed the art and architecture with interest when they entered the luxurious structure. Leon had to herd him forward, as he kept slowing down to take in all the magnificent details.

The transient cheery goodwill between the two giants dimmed as they approached the depths of King Richard’s lair. Milton had never met the giant king, of course, but he knew of his bestial reputation. He experienced an irrational, instinctive chill, like being doused in a cold stream, as he entered the king’s presence. His bowels squirmed like snakes and his clammy skin slithered over his muscles, which were twitching with a sudden powerful urge to sprint in the opposite direction. Milton was disquieted by the extreme visceral response of his body, as if his flesh knew of the danger before his rational mind. He almost failed to show the proper deference, but he mustered up the presence of mind to copy Leon and bowed deeply, with his head down to his knees. He stared at the floor as a bead of icy sweat dripped off his forehead.

“Leon! I see you’ve returned with a tutor! Let me see this man.” Milton barely managed to repress a flinch as the king seized his chin in his hand and tilted his head up to examine his face. He froze like a prey animal as he was pierced to his soul by pale blue eyes frigid enough to cause frostbite. Although Milton was a very large giant, taller than the king, he felt puny in the man’s malevolent presence. Hardon smirked, reveling in the anxiety that always drowned men of lower status in his vicinity.

He released his chin with a flick of his fingers. “He’ll do.” Milton gasped slightly and stumbled back a step. Leon subtly pressed a firm hand on his upper back to steady him. Milton uncurled his spine as he struggled to regain his outward composure. He could still feel the slimy touch of Hardon’s strong, bony fingers on his face.

“Don’t you think so, my sweet little Millie? Hmmmmm?” the king sang in a more tender tone. While Leon had been gone, he’d traded out Candy for Millie. He poked his fingers under his tunic and plucked out the thin, petite women attached to his necklace. Milton’s eyes widened with wonder. He’d never seen a real live human before, only illustrations in books. She was incredibly small, yet so delicate and pretty, like a fairy. She shined with the lovely glow of a pure heart, despite the unfathomable depths of sadness that ate away at her form, leaving her pale and hollow in appearance.

The human’s eyes turned to glance at him, and he was struck by how brightly blue and full of life they were. They evoked within him strong emotion, like gazing upon a beautifully rendered work of art. “Yes, Your Majesty,” she said softly, with a melodic voice like the notes of a flute.

King Richard chuckled. “I knew you’d agree. I’d ask Candy her opinion, but she’s... indisposed at the moment.” His lips stretched into a vicious sneer as he stroked his full belly. Milton believed, for a moment, he heard faint screaming, almost indistinct, emanating from the man’s gut.

“Have him come back tomorrow morning for his first lesson,” he commanded Leon. “You’re both dismissed.”

The advisor nodded. “Yes, sire.” He guided Milton, who was limp with shock, out of the room and down a long hall. Several minutes passed before Milton became aware that Leon was speaking to him, explaining and gesturing with his hands.

“...And as I told you before, Milton, we can give you a room in the castle to stay in, if you wish...”

Milton licked his lips. His mouth was exceedingly dry. “No, that won’t be necessary,” he hastily interjected. He felt like he was suffocating, the stone walls crowding around him and grinding him into a powder. He needed to get out of the castle, now.

“Very well. Do you have any other questions for me?” Milton, not wanting to prolong his stay any longer, shook his head vehemently. His mind was in too much turmoil to think of any questions regardless. Finally, they reached the entrance, and Milton was relieved to imbibe the refreshing air of the outside world. “Report here tomorrow bright and early, and I’ll help you get set up.”

Milton nodded half-heartedly and hastened away. Leon called out one last message. “Do NOT neglect your duty to the king, Milton! Make sure you are here!” The tutor shivered, wrapping his arms around his torso. He didn’t want to come back, not at all, but he feared he didn’t have a choice.

Chapter 20

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