#and I even had more time than i had in Palermo so what am I complaining about

[hetalia-club]

I would like to edit what I said about Sicilians and coffee. I feel like it paints a false narrative. Now the lady did tell me “Italians are know to be crabby about coffee but in Sicily we don’t care how you drink it just as long as you like it”. BUT she followed that up with “except if you order a cappuccino after 11 am. If you do that we die instantly on the spot. Just kidding you can do whatever you want. But just know you may be put on a list. Just kidding again, but the barista may give you funny looks, but It’s okay it’s just a funny look.”

So in Sicily all coffee orders are fine but this does not apply to a cappuccino. Luckily I don’t like them anyways so I never considered trying it.

I had a lot of funny conversations while in Sicily, they really are a delightful people, really welcoming, patient, curious and funny. I could talk forever on how easy they made the trip for us not knowing more than a couple words of Italian. But about her quick one was the flight from Palermo to Rome. You know how before you take off the pilot does the whole “it’s about 70 degrees in South Carolina and the skies are a little cloudy so we may have some turbulence on the way” lol well our Sicilian pilot comes on the loud speaker and goes “uhhh the skies are pretty good so we are going to go ahead and take off.” That was it lol this does sound very funny but imagine it in a very thick Italian accent . My family and I are still saying to each other “it’s pretty good” it quickly became an inside joke.

Also another really funny thing that happened is we went to this bar every day and drank from like 3-5pm while we relaxed and talked about the day and my dad makes friends with everyone that’s not an exaggeration he’s so good at befriending strangers. He does it every time we travel anywhere it’s a family joke even and this trip he made really good friends with a waiter there and one afternoon we went there to sit but there were no tables so we stood off to the side a minute talking about what we wanted to do if we wanted to wait, go up to our apartment or sit some place else and as we were doing this my dads waiter buddy goes and he grabbed a beer from the fridge went to the restaurant next door, gave it to one of the waiters and then grabbed a table and brought it over and then went and got us chairs from the same place. We were like “you didn’t have to do that we could have just gone some place else!” and he goes “but you are my American friend!”

[xtruss]

Sicily Sold Homes For One Euro. This Is What Happened Next.

For more than a decade, Sicily has been trying to revive its villages by selling Vacant Houses. Writer Lisa Abend heads to the largest Island in the Mediterranean to see how life has changed.

— By Lisa Abend | April 30, 2024

Mussomeli is roughly 60 miles from Palermo. Photo by Julia Nimke

Like any small town that isn’t yours, Sambuca di Sicilia, located about an hour’s drive south of the Sicilian capital, Palermo, feels a little intimidating at first. Stroll its perimeter on a late afternoon in winter, when the sun sets the buildings alight, and eyes follow you. Order the town’s signature minni di virgini—breast-shaped cakes filled with cream, chocolate chips, and squash jam—and a hush silences the chatter in the local bakery. It’s not unfriendly, this exaggerated alertness, but it does make you, the visitor, feel a bit self-conscious.

By the time I walk into a small restaurant that first evening seeking dinner, my self-consciousness has reached an uncomfortable peak. The restaurant’s only other guests, a middle-aged couple, fall quiet as I make my way to a table. After the waiter and I stumble through my order, impeded by his poor English and my worse Italian, I pull out a book to hide my awkwardness while I wait for the food. But when the first course arrives—a heap of ocher-tinted pasta topped with crimson shrimp and shards of pistachios—I am so clearly delighted by the dish that the waiter then decides we are friends. He introduces himself by name, Giovanni, and when two women with their children enter the restaurant, he seats them next to me and introduces them as well. “La famiglia,” he says—his own, and that of the chef, who, stepping out from the kitchen to kiss his wife, also comes over to greet me.

Two hours later, I walk out into the night air, aloft on a wave of bonhomie and sturdy Sicilian wine. Oh yes, I think to myself. I could live here.

I’m not the only person to arrive at that revelation. In fact, I had come to Sicily to investigate a program that has attracted thousands with the same notion. A program that allows people, although they may not have the financial wherewithal to go full-bore Tuscan-villa-with-frescoed-ceilings-and-private-vineyard, to nevertheless live a different version of the dream. A program that promises them a house for a single euro.

About the size of New Hampshire, Sicily has 4.8 million residents. Photos by Julia Nimke

Since the 19th century, large numbers of villagers in the poorer parts of Italy have migrated to more prosperous regions and countries. The migration continues; in some places, populations have shrunk so dramatically that there are no longer enough patients to keep the local doctor in business, or enough children to fill the school. Young people who moved away to study or work didn’t want to return, and when their parents died, the family homes stood empty, sometimes for decades. Around 2010, the village of Salemi in western Sicily was one of the first towns to come up with an idea: What if you could fill them again by offering the properties for sale at a ridiculously low price?

I wasn’t in the market for a house, one euro or otherwise. But I wanted to know if the program worked. Though the rumors I’d heard about driving in Sicily gave me pause—highways that suddenly turn into rutted cow paths; drivers whose chosen passing method involves achieving the closest possible proximity to the fender of the car in front of them—I decided to set out in a rental car through villages in various stages of implementing the initiative. Were once-sepulchral towns reinvigorated by newcomers eager to put down roots? Were the new residents integrating into small-town life, or was an influx of new blood bringing unintended side effects? And did a town that drew enough newcomers lose the qualities that had attracted said newcomers in the first place?

From left: The population of Sambuca di Sicilia has declined because of a low birth rate, but the town gained media attention after The Sopranos actress Lorraine Bracco bought a home there; The Valley of the Temples has been a UNESCO World Heritage Site since 1997. Photos by Julia Nimke

The morning after my dinner in Sambuca di Sicilia, I leave my home base to see my first one-euro house. Before that, I stop in the Valley of the Temples. Located in a national park, the valley preserves the remains of a Greek colony founded in the 6th century B.C.E. on land inhabited by the indigenous Sicani. A couple of millennia later, the original temples to Hercules and Hera survive, but so does evidence of Carthaginian rampage and Roman reconstruction. Those peoples would in time be followed by Vandals from northern Europe and Muslims from Africa, to say nothing of the French and Spanish. Standing there, looking at the gold-colored columns of once-grand temples set against the sparkling sea and flowering almond trees, time seemed to bend. Outsiders, I realize, have been making their homes here for a long time.

They’ve also been leaving. When I arrive in Cammarata, a steep jumble of a village whose mountains are dusted with snow, I can feel an absence. In the winter sunshine, it’s beautiful, but it’s also empty. In the 15 minutes I spend standing in front of a very sleepy-looking town hall, where I’ve arranged to meet architect Martina Giracello, not one person passes by.

The members of StreetTo want to rejuvenate Cammarata. Photo by Julia Nimke

Finally, Giracello arrives, her corkscrew curls bobbing, and explains the silence. “People here wanted to live in larger, more modern apartments,” she says. Many moved to neighboring San Giovanni Gemini, about half a mile away, where the gentler topography allows for larger buildings and better conveniences. Now, Giracello tells me, “the one real estate agency in the area doesn’t even handle houses in the historic center.”

Like other young people from the region, Giracello and her boyfriend, Gianluca, moved away for university and to start their professional careers. But as they approached the end of their 20s, they returned to Cammarata, yearning for a quieter life. They also wanted, however, some kind of cultural scene, and neighbors their own age. “We studied other towns with one-euro programs, saw that for a lot of buyers, once they are there, the house is just a vacation home, and they don’t have a relation to the people there,” she tells me. “We wanted to do something different. We wanted to create a community.”

“As We Slowly Make Our Way Up Cammarata’s Steep Streets, The Silence Gives Way To The Sound Of Hammers And Saws. ‘Hear That?’ Giracello Asks. ‘It’s Working.’”

They banded together with other professionals to form a volunteer association called StreetTo, which convinces the owners of abandoned properties to sell, then helps foreigners find their houses and navigate the inspections, paperwork, and renovations that follow. And, in the hopes of forging community, they also organize exhibitions, concerts, and gatherings for townspeople old and new. Driven by their desire to revive the Cammarata they love, StreetTo’s members offer these services free of charge. (“At the moment, it is a project geared toward foreigners, but what we want is to also bring Cammarata’s citizens back, just as Gianluca and I have come back,” Giracello says.)

It’s not pure altruism, though. Their town gets something in the way of revitalization. As we slowly make our way up Cammarata’s steep streets, the silence gives way to the sound of hammers and saws. “Hear that?” Giracello asks. “It’s working.”

Panting from the climb, we reach the first property, where Giracello introduces me to the reality of what one euro buys you: not much. The home, more vertically challenged shed than house, has what real estate ads might call “significant structural issues” and what I might call “a massive hole in the roof.”

For an extravagance like a ceiling, Giracello says, you’ll need to spend a bit more. We press on to another house. Pushing open the heavy wooden door, she mentions its price—just over $10,000. The tall, narrow home is built, like many older Sicilian dwellings, with a single room per floor, its stairwell is carpeted in debris, and the battered sink and laminate countertops make it look like the kitchen was outfitted sometime around World War II. But the floor is adorned with beautiful geometric tiles, and a view of the valley spills through the windows. “We try to find houses in not really good condition,” Giracello says. “Because the purpose of the project is to help the town get better.”

StreetTo has helped negotiate the sale of 18 houses so far, but contract negotiations and renovations are still in progress, and none of the buyers have been able to move into their homes yet. But Giracello is confident it won’t be long before her village swells with new life. She pulls out her phone to show me a video.

“When a German nurse and her husband bought a place, a local couple were so happy to see new people that they held a dinner for them, and invited us,” she says. “Even though the Germans didn’t speak Italian and the Italians didn’t speak German, now they are all friends.” She pauses. “We are all friends.”

Today a church and monastery, Santa Caterina d’Alessandria was home to nuns from 1311 to 2014. Photo by Julia Nimke

My next stop is Mussomeli, located nearly in the center of the island. Unlike many Sicilian towns, which drape themselves seductively across a ridge, Mussomeli is all about the vertical. On the morning I approach, the craggy volcanic outcroppings that rise from the valley below have trapped pools of mist, making the town appear to be floating on clouds. It feels like entering Middle Earth.

The illusion doesn’t last: With a population of nearly 11,000 people, Mussomeli is large enough to support a Carrefour supermarket and even a mini traffic jam. But as I push on to the town’s core, the fantasy returns. Mussomeli’s heart holds ancient churches, tiny squares where kids play ball, and views from its tangled streets of that mystical valley and a hilltop with the ruins of a 14th-century castle.

Streets so tangled, in fact, that I get lost, and ask for directions in a dark, tiny bakery selling nothing but focaccia. I pay for an oily square, and ask the elderly man behind the counter what he thinks about the foreigners moving to town. “There aren’t so many here now,” he says. “But in summer they buy a lot of focaccia.”

Seems a fair trade. Mussomeli doesn’t cater to tourism, but between its services and charm, more than 200 inexpensive homes have been bought by foreigners in the past few years. Australian Danny McCubbin owns one of them. Ready for a quieter life after 17 years of working in London for the chef Jamie Oliver, McCubbin was recruited by producers late in 2019 for a television show that planned to follow people on their one-euro adventures in Mussomeli. The pandemic intervened and the show was never finished, but McCubbin had found his purpose. By the end of 2020, he had decided to move permanently to Mussomeli and turn his home into a community kitchen to help people with inadequate access to food.

From left: The Good Kitchen rescues surplus food from supermarkets to provide for people in need; Australian Danny McCubbin moved to Mussomeli in 2020. Photos by Julia Nimke

After I make several wrong turns, I find McCubbin, clearing dishes from a long, communal table. He’d just served lunch to local residents and Ukrainian children welcomed by the town after fleeing the war. These days, the Good Kitchen also supplies weekly meals for the elderly and has taught some of Mussomeli’s youth to cook. A clutch of older men use the space as an afternoon hangout, and there’s also a free Sunday afternoon lunch. (The only requirement for those with means is that they bring something to share.) Not long ago, Mussomeli’s mayor told McCubbin that he had planted a seed, and that more in Mussomeli were now thinking about social projects. “My whole way of living is so simple and joyful now,” McCubbin says. “I don’t know where else I could have done this.”

Rubia Andrade Daniels has also adjusted her expectations. One of the earliest buyers in Mussomeli, she fell in love with a vibe that reminds her of the Brazil where she was born and spent her childhood, but that also seems open to the kind of diversity she’s found in California, where she has lived for the past 30 years. “For the first few days, I couldn’t figure out why people here were being so nice to me,” she says with a laugh. “Then I realized they’re like that to everyone.”

Andrade Daniels, who works for a renewable energy company, loved the town so much she purchased three one-euro houses on her first visit in 2019. Four years later, her enthusiasm remains undimmed, but her timetable has shifted: The kitchen in the house where she plans on living part time once she retires wasn’t finished until August 2023, and progress on the other two—an art gallery and a wellness center—has been pushed to an undetermined future, in part due to the pandemic and the delays in its wake. “You can’t have American expectations,” she says. “Here, things take the time they take.”

I Think About That Pace each day when I return to my base in Sambuca di Sicilia. There, too, there’s been such demand for the listed houses that one euro is no longer the final sale cost but rather the opening bid in an auction that could see prices rise into the thousands. Even then, the campaign was so popular that the municipality launched a second round in 2021, with an increase in the starting price—to two euros.

Margherita Licata, who has been summering in Sambuca since childhood and eventually settled here full time about 20 years ago, says that “99 percent” of Sambucans welcome the newcomers. The other 1 percent? “They worry they have been invaded by Americans,” says Licata, who works for a real estate agency in town. “If Sambuca one day has a thousand outsiders living here, of course it will change our lives. But it will maybe mean the young [people] can find a job and not go somewhere else. If we want that change, we must accept other changes too.”

Of course, it’s possible that Sambuca could become transfigured by take-out coffee joints and big-box stores and other supposed comforts that the town’s new residents like. Already, some Americans have complained about the local teenagers who cruise the streets on their motorbikes at night. And imported class divisions are also emerging: Among the more free-spirited DIYers who have purchased homes, rumors circulate that some of the wealthier buyers want to build an exclusive, members-only swimming pool.

From left: Margherita Licata has lived in Sambuca for roughly 20 years; Pasticceria Enrico Pendola is one of few bakeries in the small town. Photos by Julia Nimke

But for now, there’s little evidence of a non-Sicilian presence in Sambuca, and it remains difficult to find anyone who speaks English. What I did find was an archaeology museum where, after I inquired if it was open, a woman rushed out, turned on the lights, and marched me at breakneck speed through the antiquities on display while barking descriptions of them at me in Italian. I also found a market that popped up alongside the traffic circle where the fishmonger told me how to cook the sardines I bought from the back of his van, as well as a café whose arancini made me finally understand why anyone would want to eat fried balls of rice, and where the elderly man who glared at me as I drank my breakfast cappuccino turned out not to be annoyed with the foreigner invading his morning sanctuary, but just waiting for the opportunity to ask me if I knew his cousins in New Jersey.

I’d arrived in Sicily wondering if the one-euro initiative would ruin the towns that adopted it, replacing their traditional culture with more consumerist ones and destroying their lifestyle and easy sociability. And when that turned out not to be the case, I also wondered if it wasn’t simply a matter of time: Perhaps the pandemic had slowed an already slower way of doing business, and the reckoning would still surely come.

But as I sat again in that same restaurant from the first night, it seemed to me that Sicily would be just fine. Maybe the slower pace was not a flaw that would eventually be overcome, but instead a feature that would ensure Sicily remains alluringly and unequivocally itself. After all, I thought, as I remembered the

Valley of the Temples, different peoples have been arriving on these shores for millennia. They may leave an imprint; they may shape the culture. But it’s clear that a distinctively Sicilian spirit still dominates.

From left: Mussomeli is one of the most popular towns in Sicily for one-euro home programs; Sambuca di Sicilia was a prominent trading hub centuries ago. Photos by Julia Nimke

And so, just before my departure from the island, I went to visit Margherita Licata again, but this time for reasons slightly more personal. Because I had seen enough one-euro homes to know that my powers of imagination were no match for their state of decrepitude, we skipped right to a “premium” home. As soon as she pushed open the doors to the arched courtyard, I was entranced. The rooms were rundown and furnished with old-fashioned chandeliers and faded wallpaper. But they were also large and bright, with intact walls and floors covered with gorgeous patterned tiles. Downstairs, there was an attached space that would make a perfect rental apartment. Upstairs, two rooftop terraces offered views of the town center in one direction, and a lake in the other.

“Fifty thousand euros,” Licata told me with a wink. “But that’s just what the owner’s asking.”

The money in my bank account had not magically grown during my time in Sicily. But my imagination must have. Because in that moment, it all seemed possible.

— Lisa Abend is a Journalist based in Madrid and the Author of The Sorcerer’s Apprentices: A Season in the Kitchen at Ferran Adrià's elBulli. She is also a Contributing Writer at AFAR and Correspondent for Time magazine.

[helianskies]

things i wish i had communicated, in one way or another, or what i wish i could say now:

you've started to value a boyfriend of 4 months over our friendship of 4 years to the point where we're on holiday but when we get back to the hotel, all you want to do is speak to him, and not me. i know you should speak with him, of course. i don't want you to ignore him. but i also don't want to stop existing the moment he's in view. i have no one else that i'm this close to. you are my best friend. and if i never let you know how important that made you, i'm sorry. but i am also so tired of this, and would truly rather endure the loneliness than the invisibility i've dealt with for 4 months. just because i could afford to go to Paris, and he couldn't.

i don't hate you, i'm just jealous of you. in years to come, i'll learn that there isn't anything to be jealous of, really. but you are cool, and i am not, and that makes me mad. i've never been that hateful towards someone i barely know. i just wish i could have controlled myself more, because even so many years on, i'm haunted by that one moment.

you two mean so much to me and you put yourselves out there. you can be so confident. you both love to sing. did you know i was in a choir too? that i sing too? that i love to sing too? that maybe, after spending an hour rehearsing a song with you in a language we barely knew before you said, actually, i think i can perform it alone, i feel that's a part of me i won't share with you again? and that when, 3.5 years later when you hear me quietly singing at a bar on the coast of Palermo, you say, you have such a great voice, you should sing more, that it doesn't kill me a little bit inside?

you annoy me so much. you do. so much about you and your family drives me insane. we have known each other for nearly twenty years and i'm amazed it's lasted. but i know i'm the issue. because i don't text, or call, or reply in the group chat. because i don't want to. i am never in the mood to. i love you in microdoses. and i am amazed you're still here. i'm amazed you haven't walked, because i know i would've done so by now. but even so, i still won't text because i love you in microdoses, remember? and i am still trying to recover from the last time.

i've said it so many times as an adult. i just wish i had the courage at fifteen to tell you what i think of you. maybe you would listen then. maybe you would understand. maybe it wouldn't take 8 years for you to finally understand what you threw away, and won't get back.

i miss you. i hope you're well. i hope you survived university. i went too, in the end. i miss talking to you. you helped me get through a tough two years and i just hope karma treated you well in turn.

i should have set some boundaries. i should have drawn some lines. there are things you've told me that i want to be able to forget. but i also want to know why you thought it was okay to tell me these things without checking if i was okay with it. if i wanted to know, or cared enough to know. because i didn't. and i still don't. and i can't forget them.

you've never seemed to like me. i don't know why. i mean, i know i've done a few things that annoy you, but you always seem so angry with me and you never confront it, or me. you just stay angry. being around you makes me feel so sick and anxious, i shut myself in my room for over 24 hours and don't come out because it is just you and me in the flat one weekend, and i am scared of facing you. and even when we cross paths in the years that follow, i still feel worried. you scare me. i will always feel sorry for the version of me that put up with you.

thank you for trying to understand me. it hasn't worked, and i think you have forgotten our talks over tea. but you've tried, and no one else has done that yet.

i hope you've been able to manage your trauma and start healing. and i'm sorry i didn't know how to help you back then. you're a good person.

i forget we were ever friends. i don't like that much. but i also have so few good memories of us that i wonder why i put up with it for as long as i did. i wonder if you still dance. i wonder if your parents ever realised the damage they did to you. and i hope you're happier now than you were as a teenager.

[lindsaystravelblogs1]

Days 2 and 3 - Arrival in Ushuaia

Day 2, Saturday, 17 December

I took a sleeping pill last night and slept like a baby. Heather also took one and rocked and rolled all night, or what was left of it, after 3 am! She suffers jet lag much worse than I do but I am struggling a bit this trip too.

We were both awake before 7 am and did a couple of puzzles before going down to breakfast. There was a good selection and plenty of it: not quite as extensive or appetising as our last trip but completely adequate for us.

Alas, my toothbrush has gone missing. It may still turn up but I suspect it fell out of my bag on one of the many times I had to unpack and repack it along the way. Not a big deal because we have others stowed in our big cases that we won’t open until we are on board our ship. It reminded me of a recent incident at home when I mislaid two items on the same morning. I eventually found one in the car, but I was completely mystified about some really thick socks that I reserve for my work boots. I had them in my hand ready to put on but got distracted and we searched high and low without success. It became a standing joke until we were packing for this trip and I found them - in my sock drawer of all the crazy places!

During the morning, Heather had a long much-needed nap while I sent a couple of emails, wrote some of this blog and did more puzzles. I also started my Argentinian bird list with 3 species easily identified. And the list now comprises 6 species with those seen later in the day.

We ate a meagre but adequate lunch, including a couple of snacks from home and some fruit and pastries stolen at breakfast time, and then went out for a walk. We just walked 3 or 4 kilometres around the neighbourhood, checking out potential places for dinner and making a couple of small purchases, including a comb that I seem to have omitted to pack. There are lots of restaurants and nightclub venues in the area. It is called Palermo Hollywood and it is very ‘neighbourhood’ with shops, houses, apartments and so on, all interspersed with lots of quite upmarket venues.

We returned to our room for an hour or two before having pizza at a place next door to the hotel. It was a very odd Pizzaria and Swimming Pool. It was a good-sized sports bar with a tiny pool at the back. I just stuck my nose in to have a look and saw two young women sunning themselves. They were both barefoot and wearing nothing but thongs - one each.

We read and wrote in the room for a while and I researched my six birds until we collapsed into bed. We were asleep in minutes but wide awake again within the hour. We tossed and turned for an hour and eventually sat up and read (and I helped the Aussies win the Test Match on my iPad) for about 3 hours. We still lay awake for ages but I think we got a couple of hours sleep before getting up at 7 am, showering and going down for breakfast.

Day 3, Sunday, 18 December – on to Ushuaia

It had been a very noisy night with a few Pre-Cup rowdies patrolling the street below our window and then extremely loud music and singing nearby (possibly an outdoor venue). That ran from about 11 pm to a bit after 2 am and it was followed by slightly quieter thumping music until about 6:30 - just in time for us to get up.

Heather changed the pickup time for the shuttle to the airport. The big World Cup final is on at noon and the Argentinians are already going crazy. We are only going to the nearby domestic airport, but traffic is expected to be clogged and it was hard to even find a company with a driver willing to take us rather than being glued to one of the big screens. We are now going out at 11 am rather than 1 pm in the hope that we can get there in time for the shuttle driver to still watch the game.

Our cab arrived a bit early so we were on our way by just after 10.30 and at the airport by 11 am.  We still don’t know how much it cost because we couldn’t understand the driver (he had no English and our combined Spanish vocabulary runs to about 4 words).  Heather tried to pay electronically but he said only cash. The same happened when we made our purchases yesterday and we were almost right out of pesos.  He agreed to American dollars and worked out on his calculator that it was $15.  Heather gave him a $20 and he did some more sums and gave her 2000 pesos change. That is something like $20 Australian so it seems like our trip cost us between $5 and $10 Australian.  

We sat among the crowd outside the terminal and ate our leftover pizza and drank our Coke before braving the hordes inside.  The queue for our flight was about 300 metres long and after an hour or so standing in the very slow-moving crocodile, Heather noticed that we were in Premium Economy.  We simply missed that in all the hurly-burly so we exited the final 250 metres of the queue and strolled up to the counter with not a soul ahead of us and we were off to Security within a couple of minutes - again a pretty painless exercise. 

All this time, the World Cup final was playing on many screens around the airport and Argentina scored twice while we were in the queue.  You should have heard the noise - shouting, screaming, whistling, clapping, dancing and hugging - it was deafening and went on through the replays.  A very excited mob. Almost everyone was glued to their phones for the whole match and the atmosphere was quite electric. It reminded me a little a flight we had from Boston to San Diego in 2018 when the Boston Red Sox were in the baseball final of the World Series and the Red Sox were not expected to win against the L A Dodgers - but did.  The pilot was quite excited and was relaying the action blow by blow to the whole cabin and the excitement was palpable - and very loud.  Nearly all the passengers were from Boston and flying straight into enemy territory with an unexpected win to wave under people’s noses when they alighted.  Very exciting stuff!

After we reached the department lounge, there was no information about what gate we needed to go to. We had been told that it would be either 12 or 14 so we sat on 13 until we finally heard that it was 11. Go figure. In the meantime, Argentina was winning the World Cup and tens of thousands of passionate locals were cheering them on very raucously. There were quite a few screens set up and the noise was staggering whenever their favoruites did something good - but pretty quiet when the French were on the attack. In the end, Argentina won and the place erupted. Even the staff were hugging and kissing each other and everyone was waving blue and white flags to match their shirts and facial makeup.

Boarding was a breeze with our priority tickets and we sat in luxury just inside the cabin door. We drove from the terminal to our plane in a bus and we passed lots of workers and other vehicles with everyone waving their blue and white flags and shouting and tooting furiously. The win is obviously a massive cause for celebration for the whole country.

It was wonderful to enjoy so much extra space during the nearly four-hour flight. In the terminal, the signage announced that we were flying to Ushuaia via Trellew, but it was non-stop for all that. Perhaps a few cattle class passengers parachuted out as we flew over, but we never saw them. What we did see as we flew into Ushuaia was the most spectacular scenery imaginable. Jagged mountains streaked and mottled with patches of snow. The winter snowcaps were largely melted, but the contrasting white snow against the dark grey-black of the rock above the tree-line was most impressive. The mountains climbed directly out of narrow fiords, black in the shadows, but occasionally glinting in the setting sun. We didn’t see any glaciers but the valleys they carved over the millennia were quite beautiful, some with narrow rivers running through them, and all with their lower slopes covered in the green canopies of trees. It was really great to see and quite different from what we have seen elsewhere in our travels.

Ushuaia is a small city (I think I read that it has a resident population of 75,000 but swells to well over twice that during the tourist season. I believe it: there are about ten cruise ships of varying sizes in the harbour at present. From the air, it looks quite spread out west to east with no tall buildings at all. Perhaps a bit down at heel but maybe to be expected as the town known as the ‘end of the world’ and the southernmost city on Earth.

We were met at the airport by Aurora representatives and taken to our hotel by bus. Once checked in, we off-loaded some of our warm top clothes and went down for an excellent meal in their swanky restaurant. I had a wonderful rabbit stew (I love rabbit) and Heather had sea bass - we quite indulged ourselves!

Back in our room, our cases had been delivered so after some minor luggage rearrangements, we crashed into bed for some well-earned chemically assisted sleep.

[whatstheoccasion]

"I wanted to be loved so desperately that my fingers shook with it. I am not beautiful, but I could be." — Emily Palermo.

bakugou thinks, in all honesty, about you.

it's late at night and he still can't sleep. he's used to having schedules for everything, especially something as important as sleep, but he can't for the life of him fall asleep tonight.

he won't admit it, the pro-hero not changing this stubborn habit from his younger days, but work today was a little too gruesome, it hit a little too close to home. especially a certain young couple he was a touch too far to save. instead, he lays awake in your shared bed, his arms strongly caging you and longing for your warmth.

you're settled in his arms, protected and tightly snuggled against his chest. you're here, and he’s here, and anyone who ever dares to do anything to you has to go through him first.

he releases a long sigh, knowing it's not as easy as he thinks. as he runs a hand down his face, you sleepily pull him closer to your body. "'tsuki?"

"huh? go back to sleep," he grumbles, voice heavy with tiredness and fear, something he'll never admit. you look up at him, pretty mouth pouting and worry laced in your tone. "everything okay?"

he takes a look at you, and feels helpless. he hates that. he hates to admit even to himself that he'll do anything for you. vulnerability is something he never would've allowed himself to feel had you been anyone else. the thought of anything happening to you while he's not there makes his veins boil with anger, his chest screaming at him to keep you safe right next to him, to make sure you stay in his arms. he scowls at the thought, making you frown. "baby?"

"i'm alright, dumbass." he whispers this time, squeezing you as close to himself as he possibly can, his body aligning to yours perfectly. he kisses the crown of your head, lingering for a second and feeling your pliant form relax against him. "it's late, jus' go back to sleep."

he tried, at first, to get you away from his life and all the danger that surrounds him. but it's like the longer he strayed away from you, the more you pulled him into your world. not to change him, but to better him, push him to his limits and then some, until he comes out the best version of himself he could ever be. to love him, he realizes with an exasperated sigh.

"okay," you tell him, yawning against his chest. "but stay here 'til i wake up, please."

katsuki rolls his eyes. as if he could say no to you. "fine."

but he bites his lips once you're back asleep, because he understands– because he doesn't want you to leave him, either. "i'll stay right here with ya," he states, strong hands gently playing with your own.

katsuki realizes, time and time again, that he made the right choice.

it was unfair, at times. how hard he had to work for things that came effortlessly to other people, extras that didn't really deserve what they had.

it's a thought he has coming home from work one day, spent and ready to crash on the couch without caring about taking a shower first.

he loved his job, he loved being the best he could be and how validating the title felt– not the recognition, nor the fans or all the love from people all over Japan– but meeting the expectations of his younger self, of a four year old kid who wanted nothing more than to be the best hero he could possibly be. win to save, as his mentor has put into words perfectly. but it still felt unfair, at times.

still, katsuki thinks he may forgive the world, only because it has you.

your comforting words at his losses, even when he's not actively asking for them.

("i don't need this comforting crap," he grumbles, not screaming at you– never screaming at you, but still being stern. "no, you don't," you answer him, shaking your head with a gentle smile, "but isn't it nice to hear?")

your warm embrace that greets him as soon as he steps foot into your home, your compliments on his food and his career and his personal achievements, like the first time he voluntarily went to therapy. the passion you have for what you do, your drive and fire matching his in your hobbies, the things you love. and you love him, that's sole reason why katsuki thinks fuck it, he can be beautiful, too.

he doesn't have to work hard for your love– he doesn't have to change his short temper, he's still harsh as rough around the corners as the day you met him. still, you love him so easily, handle him with as much care as you thought he deserved.

the corner of his eyes crinkle with fondness as bakugou slowly sits up, just in time to hear you coming through the front door. "i'm home, 'tsuki!"

the world is unfair, but it also has you in it, so katsuki's ready to give it a try. "yeah," he leans down to gently kiss you, wrapping his heavy arms around you. "welcome home."

[writingmyanxietyaway]

I Still Get Jealous | El Profesor

Requested by anon: i really enjoy your writing! can i request a money heist imagine where the reader is jealous of how much time the professor(her crush) and the inspector are spending together while reader is part of the heist and it leads to a fight but with a happy ending

Word count: 960

Warning: swearing, angst, angry reader grr

Note: this once takes place around the third/fourth season. Thank you so much for the compliment! Hope you like it, enjoy! xx

------------

Perfect. Your crush of two years was now on the road with your former biggest enemy. She was a great addition to the team, but the amount of time they were now spending together while you were stuck inside a building again made you angry. Some people might call it jealousy, but you were way too proud to call it that. Because of that you were really short tempered and quickly annoyed. 

‘So, everyone sit down, grab a drink and relax. This is nothing but a minor inconvenience,’ Palermo spoke like the big leader. His attitude pissed you off incredibly and in addition to your frustrations about Profesor, you were constantly on edge.

‘Shut up man, it’s not a ‘minor inconvenience’, everything is going to shit. We’re stuck here for the second god damn time, with no plan out and not even a Profesor who can help us out. And in case you haven’t noticed, that bodyguard is out for blood and I’m sure as hell am not going to be bait. So either you make a goddamn plan or I’m out,’ you hissed.

Your explosion seemed to surprise everyone as they al stared at you with wide eyes and jaws on the floor. You threw your hands up in the air.

‘So I’m the only one that is being realistic in this situation? We’re all going to die, as simple as that.’ You turned to the camera in the room and raised your middle finger. ‘I’m out.’

You threw your weapon on the floor and left the room. The telephone in the other room started ringing and you angrily picked up the phone.

‘Yes, dearest darling?’ you said.

‘Lower the attitude. The tension is already through the roof. Get it together,’ you heard him.

‘I’m sorry, who is this?’ you sneered.

‘I’m serious. You’re only making things worse like this,’ he said.

‘So am I. Unless you come up with a plan in the next two hours, I’m walking out the door. And if you do, you tell me, not that weak excuse of a man.’ You threw the phone down and exhaled loudly.

Why were you like this? It scared yourself how weird you were behaving.. It was nothing like you. You leaned back against the wall and held you head in your hands. Footsteps were approaching and you felt someone sit down next to you.

‘When did I become such a bitch?’ you whispered.

‘The second you didn’t tell the man you love about your feelings for him,’ Monica spoke next to you. You raised your head to look at her and she looked at you with a sad smile.

‘Why do I even bother? He’s clearly in love with her,’ you threw your hand in the air, ‘I’m just one of his employees, nothing more, nothing less. When we get out of here I’ll never see him again anyway.’

‘You really think that?’ she giggled. ‘My God, you’re both so oblivious.’

You frowned. ‘What are you talking about? I literally heard them making out and god knows what more back in the monastery,’ you said, a frown plastered on your face.

‘Honey, Raquel is a lesbian. Sergio spent that entire night working on the plan. What you heard was her with someone else,’ she laughed. Your jaw dropped and your eyes widened.

‘B-but she has a kid! And an abusive ex-husband!’ you exclaimed.

‘Yes, that’s when she started dating women. No reason to be jealous, I think you’re safe,’ she said while bumping your shoulder.

‘I’m such an idiot.. How do I always manage to get into these kind of situations? And I’ve been such a bitch.. and for what?!’ you exclaimed, squeezing your eyes shut. ‘I should probably call him, shouldn’t I?’ you asked her. She nodded heavily.

‘Only if you tell him you love him.’

‘I hate you.’

‘You love me. Now go call the man. He’s probably had 3 panic attacks by now.’

You picked up the phone, dailing the only person you desperately wanted to talk to. How could you have been so stupid? Why didn’t you just trust him?

‘I don’t have anything yet so just let me work fo-’ You quickly cut him off.

‘Shut up. I just need you to listen. I’m so sorry for acting like a bitch. I was, well am, jealous of you and Raquel and I now know I shouldn’t have been, but I didn’t know and now I’ve been so rude to you and her and I guess what I’m trying to say is I really like you. Like, really really like you. It’s actually kind of more than that and now I’m stuck her and you’re out there and I don’t know if I’m going to make it out alive. So yeah basically I love you and I really want you to feel the same, but it’s totally okay of you don’t,’ you ranted. You were out of breath when you finished.

‘That’s.. a lot,’ you heard him whisper.

‘Please say something,’ you replied. The line got silent, but you heard some whispering in the background.

‘You know I’m not good with expressing my emotions. But there is one thing I know for sure. I love you, a lot. Since the first heist if I’m being honest. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I guess I did deserve that middle finger,’ he said. You giggled, making him smile as well.

‘So, what now?’ you asked.

‘I’m getting you out of there and then we’ll travel to a beautiful island somewhere. I’ll see you soon, love,’ he said. Your heart swelled at his sweet words.

‘Can’t wait,’ you replied. A warm smile on your face as you imagined your future with Sergio together.

[call-me-jerusalem]

While waiting for the final of the series, I feel I'm drowning in the toxicity of the Berlermo fandom. What do you think of the "Helsinki deserves better" argument? And while we're here, the "how can he be with someone responsible for Nairobi's death" one? I need to calm down after reading too many people considering Martín "OOC" when he starts behaving like a responsible adult and, to quote one of my favourite songs, "the treasure has no meaning anymore".

I’m sorry you have been seeing this sort of thing. I’m sure it’s not the majority of the fandom, only a few rotten apples stinking all over the place. I can’t say I have seen much of it since I have spent the last year neck-deep in the trenches of The Old Guard fandom (here’s my tog side-blog if anyone is interested), but I am sad to say that I had the displeasure to witness a bit of this toxicity you mention over the last 16 hours or so, pretty much since La Casa de Papel official Twitter account called Palermo “the engineer who'd given up on love and finally found it again in the most chaotic place”.

I’m not gonna get into the detail that those words don’t mean much. It doesn’t even mean that Helermo will be endgame, though of course, that would be the dream for me (as long they both survive that heist, otherwise, what’s the point???). What baffles me is why some people think that Palermo and Helsinki building a life together somehow undermines all the love Martín has for Andrés??? It doesn't in any way or form. People can have more than one true love in their lives. Life would be pretty much shitty if we only got one shot of doing it right.

Now, back to your ask, I think that the “Helsinki deserves better” is one of the most stupid, patronising shit I have ever read in my two decades of fandom. I will not repeat myself, I have pretty much said all I think on the subject here, which's the first meta I ever wrote for this fandom, back in June 2020. Man, I can't believe people are still saying that shit.

Now, the “how can he be with someone responsible for Nairobi's death” is an interesting argument, I will admit, but ultimately it's a fallacious one. Many, many people contributed to Nairobi’s death, but the one who pulled the trigger was Gandía and he’s the only one who Helsinki truly blames for it and almost loses his mind over... and who’s there to help Helsinki when he’s so deep in his grief he almost loses it completely? Yeah, it’s Palermo.

And I’m happy to say I haven’t seen many people calling Martín “OOC” because of his actions on vol. 5, but yes, I have seen some of it. I can only assume these people have watched the kiss scene on Plan Paris too many times that they somehow forgot everything that happened after in that very same episode. They forgot Palermo realising how much his actions have hurt everyone around him, especially Helsi. They seem to have forgotten Palermo pouring his heart out and coming to terms with the things he did and most importantly, they seem to have forgotten Palermo following Tokyo’s lead in the operation to bring Lisboa into the bank (more about this here), therefore showing he's perfectly able of changing. How can they call Palermo OOC when his arc is coming full circle on him no longer acting like a selfish asshole??

[cultstreetart]

Cursed aesthetics

Italian living leading artist Maurizio Cattelan

I have had an Instagram account since its rise, when the images had to be taken directly from the phone camera. What a limit would that be to our creativity and to the application itself.

I have been using Tumblr for no less than 10 years, as this blog testifies. Reposting (sharing) is the daily bread for millions of people today.

I have been dealing with images, as an artist, for decades. Over the years I have created various surreal situations and visual nonsense summarized in single and definitive shots, as the fashion of our times wants. So, I am not new to what I’m about to describe.

Both Instagram and Tumblr have seen the rise of a type of images that are as curious as they are annoying; so upsetting (or "cursed", as they have been defined) that we want to see more of it, in a loop.

Food and fashion above all: the subjects within this genere are very repetitive.

The definition "cursed image" was born in 2015 from a Tumblr blog that bore this name. Since then we have seen the “curatorial” flourishing of the phenomenon also on other platforms. The cursed images are those found at the bottom of the Internet barrel, in the most disparate searches, often grainy and scanned leftovers from the 1990s, at the dawn of the Internet. Funny and disgusting images, taken with or without awareness; jokes, memes, stolen family photos or college parties gone wrong.

"From the trash bin of the Net"

Valentina Tanni (art historian, curator and lecturer) deals with the “meme” phenomenon at an academic level. In her book Memestetica, highlights the pioneering role of the artist, revealing - so to speak - that numerous challenges or flash mobs, as well as other grotesque images online today, have actually been anticipated by a few decades by the conceptual Situationism movement. Actions and gestures that could not be understood by the mass back then and which today are much more comprehensible. The bad taste in art (the "tacky") and the reason why it is loved to the point of being appreciated and collected has been widely investigated during the last century.

Image taken from Valentina Tanni's website: not a conscious artwork, but the result of a motorist refusing to pay the fine. Images like this can go viral and even inspire Instagram content-creators

Today, in the general basket of the so-called cursed images, among the casual and low quality creations, there are plenty of high-creative contents, made by professional with awareness of the phenomenon. This shouldn’t surprise: Internet inspires artists as much as the leading artists inspire the Internet users. Those professionals “cursed creators” are well-trained, talented studio photographers and photo editors. Their production level is comparable to that of the glossy fashion and beauty magazines, with similar subjects too: fashion, food and beauty. Lots of spaghetti, pizza, sausages, lots of beans, lots of dentures, stilettos and women's accessories. This field is becoming the hobbyist territory for graphic designers and art directors. Cursed image creators look to fashion no less than the fashion industry looks to cursed images, to add contemporaneity and provocation to their advertising and collections.

Spaghetti galore

I watched this trend grow and realised that even in his collateral work as an imaginary creator, Maurizio Cattelan was right; he wasn't just a fool, an art prankster, miming and sneaking from the Net. Catttelan (certainly not alone) was launching the era of provocative nonsense: pulp, post-situationist, neo-dadaist. In other words, he was anticipating the many creators racing into this expressive niche right now. And we know that he, the most famous Italian contemporary artist, does not develop something from nothing, but from the existing.

"If some creative becomes viral, doesn't mean that it is art; means that became viral"

In order to dig into this subject by the words of an insider, I decided to hear Francesco Palermo (aka Das Palermo), a “Cursed images” lover, as well as a creator of themed images who would do better to explain to us firsthand.

Vlady: Hi Francesco. I know you as a collector of bizarre images on Instagram (@Defecationism) and as an "independent" creator of similar images. Why "defecationism" in the first place? Is it the fear of properly defining your work? Do you agree with the "cursed images" label for what you do and what you virtually collect?

An example on how can a fashion brand be influenced by an Instagram content creator, such as Gab Bois, a Canadian "cursed image artist"

Das Palermo: Hi Vlady. Yes, I have a dual role as both creator and collector of cursed images. I started collecting them many years ago, mainly to get inspiration and to try not to conceive an idea that maybe someone else had had. Over time I realised that I had no more space on my mobile phone, but I didn't want to delete them because it is a nice collection, so I decided to make them public with the Instagram page @defecationism. A friend of mine coined the term. “Cursed images” was too generic and not very "artistic" so we gave it a name as if it was an artistic movement. There is also a Manifesto. I like to think that it is an avant-garde, even if perhaps the avant-gardes belong to the past by now.

Thanks to DEFECATIONISM I can say that my art has a meaning, it belongs to something artistic, even if I had to create the meaning myself.

Vlady: So, you are inspired by the imagery of “cursed images”, those photos - disturbing as well as captivating - that became viral on the net. Do you agree on what was said?

Funny, but "artist" unknown, of course

Das Palermo: I did art studies and I was not good compared to the others. Art schools are good for painters and sculptors and nothing more. I had something inside, I spent many years trying to understand what it was until thanks to Instagram I saw that the cursed images had a following, they made me understand that "it can be done". You can unhinge artistic beliefs if you have a minimum of creativity. My life has changed, I am happy with what I do and I do not care about the judgment of others, whether it is positive or negative. I just want to create. There are artists who will never find their true path.

Vlady: Do you think cursed images have a wide influence on artists from various fields?

Das Palermo: Many take inspiration from cursed images but try to give it a higher sense, and that's what I try to do, even if I don't like professionalism in shooting. We are all cursed image artists.

Pizza, such an original topic within the genre

Fortunately I am a person persecuted by this kind of photos, I constantly have ideas and I have to write them because otherwise I forget them....

Vlady: Are we all cursed image artists? Would you explain this better?

Das Palermo: We all are, cursed images are everywhere but we don't notice it. I will never forget my first photo. I had been thinking about it for months but I didn't have the courage because we are linked to preconceptions that society forces us to follow. When I published it, two people commented on it. 1) Are you stupid? 2) Do you also do smart things during the day? I had crossed the threshold, I was delighted. The photo went viral in Italy. I no longer reflect on art, on what it is, on what it represents for me or for others, in fact I never say that I am an artist, it embarrasses me a lot and maybe I am not. People enjoy what I do and that's enough for me.

Vlady: If art today is expression and communication, what exactly do you intend to communicate?

Tagging his own pictures - you never know, it could get viral

Das Palermo: I don't know what I want to communicate; I don't think I have a message to give. I only follow what my brain suggests to me but I would just like to make those who look at my photos smile. No explanations, no bad messages or something to make you think. A photo, an idea, something silly. I'm tired of seeing the melancholy, the “introspectivism”; artists giving themselves a tone. I would like to destroy the figure of the artist and eliminate the distance between the creator and the observer.

Vlady: Any artist on this field that you would like to mention for his/her good job?

Das Palermo: An artist who inspired me a lot is Gab Bois. I respect her because she was one of the first to propose this genre. I think that now, like many others, she has jumped out from her artistic comfort zone. I hope it never happens to me; I’ll always want to cross the line and I'm ready to make mistakes. I can do this since I'm not famous.

In this instagrammable form of art, little to no importance has the "truth". Photoshop is king, just like in advertisement (Artwork by Gab Bois)

The interview should have stopped here and I was supposed to get the "best" images of Das Palermo directly from him. But, everything went wrong. After the interview I continued chatting with Palermo, and I discovered a very insecure person who confused my advices and tips (required by him and totally part of the conversation) for judgments. I tried to cheer him up in every way, talking about myself, about my failures and how difficult or vying the first steps were. He didn't help. Palermo has cut off all relations, stopped responding to messages, did not answer the phone, blocked me on social media. My experience is that artists who refuse to talk about art do not do so out of discretion or communication policy; they do it to reduce the number of bullshit. They do it out of fear, because they don't master the subject. This is the case of Palermo; a fellow who refuses to call himself an artist (and does well) but who would like to become one and here is all the hypocrisy. One who masquerades as an anti-system, questioning art and the art world, not even was Duchamp. A person who boasts of artistic studies but who hasn't done any. One who knows nothing about art and who offers modest explanations or - even worse - feigned modest, inflating his own size. One who, if things go wrong, is the fault of others, of the gallery owners who do not understand, of Cattelan who does not open the door.

Cattelan has produced several "Instagram friendly" pieces of art, decades before this social media ruled

Das Palermo is an Instagram victim. I would have liked to help him; I care about the subject and of people overestimating its importance, to the extend of getting sick because of it. And what if Instagram goes down?

I would have liked to know even more, right because not everything that is creative is art. Advertising is an example. Likewise, it's not because something creative goes viral, means that is art. Oh no. That equals to popular, nice, funny... in a word: viral. End of the story.

My aim was to understand if there is an artist behind these "highly viral" Instagram content. The answer is rather negative. However, I do not judge the production, but the thickness of the grey matter behind. For me this is not an art approach. For me neither is Gab Bois, an artist... despite her 600k followers. Quantity is not quality. Not art quality, at least. The best artists I know aren't even on Instagram. Some even don't even have a website. Their presence on the net is not in the first person, yet their name is on top of everything.

Balenciaga digs deep into this internet niche

To his defence, Palermo defines this genre as shit, literally (defecazione). Hypocrisy and feigned modesty, again. If you define something as shit, why do you expect others not to rate it as such. it's like walking around screaming that you are an idiot, until someone comforts you by telling you that you are anything but. That's a bit pathetic.

In conclusion, "against single thinking" is the most conspiracy theory friendly slogan ever seen on Instagram. Don't worry Mr Palermo, you are right. We are single minded people, thinking like artists, while you of Defecationism are not, you are over and beyond, from the top of your studies and awards.

[blorbosexterminator]

I have been rereading some of your posts and I stumbled upon the unpopular LCDP opinions again, and here I present the thing that has been haunting my mind for a while:

I have been reading many Berlermo fics where Martín is portrayed as almost, if not completely, innocent: it’s all because Andrés left him. Martín is just a sad, small, soft cutie who needs someone to love him, and y’know, do... him, because that is also ALWAYS the case in these kind of fics.

And??? That is not the Martín I saw. Maybe it is (partly) how Martín sees himself after Andrés left, as a poor, innocent victim (because I feel like he does). He is no way a victim, nor is Sergio (completely) responsible for his problems (which is often a topic too). Andrés and Martín are idiots and they should both have gotten their heads out of their arses. They both are responsible. Martín could have said he loved Andrés years ago, no one stopped him... And I get that telling your best friend you love them is A Big Thing, but still... 10 years...

I saw no innocent victim in the show, I saw a cruel, harsh, mentally disturbed man and a terrible person. He is just as terrible, if not worse, as Andrés. I still love him, just like Andrés (and them together is even better), but I would and could never defend his actions or the stuff he says.

Adding on this, I don’t think Martín had ever been the “lover” before, I feel like he always would be the “beloved”. He had others worship him, and when he fell in love with Andrés that changed. He is mostly portrayed as always being the lover, when the topic is discussed in fics.

I even believe this more since I rewatched the scene where he tries to leave the bank: he calls Helsinki a “princess” which is first of all NOT OKAY, which was my first thought upon watching the scene. When I rewatched, I found it an interesting look into Palermo’s perspective: Martín actually sees himself as ‘the man’ (and believe me, I hate that I had to write that, I do NOT support the vision) in the relationship, and he sees Helsinki as a ‘princess’. This further confirmed for me that Martín is not some sweet smol man in need of a hug, but also really not the bottom everyone writes him as. What I saw in the show, was someone who revels in power (and not just the aesthetic, like I feel Berlin does) and being in control. And even if he would have a relationship with Andrés, I feel like Andrés would easier let go of being in control than Martín does, I feel like Andrés much less needs the control the way Martin does.

And I mean, everyone can have their own opinions and write characters the way they want, 100%, I am just surprised that I seem to be one of the few thinking like this of Martín? And I probably am one of the very few to prefer seeing Berlín letting Martín be in control in bed (although I believe they switch).

Anyways that was my ramble, I hope I was somewhat understandable and that this possesses just the slightest bit of eloquence :)

Have a nice day!!!

Hello! I know this is quite late, but I've always wanted to return to this ask, because really everything you say here is a gem and I agree with 100%.

First, yeah, that is very similar to my experience in reading fics as well. Actually, interestingly enough, I read quite a lot of fics early on without having watched the show, only having watched the kiss scene and few other detached flashbacks. It was only when I watched it that I realized how different the way Martín presented himself to me in the show from the dominant view of him.

It really depends. I do agree that Martín victimized himself to a large extent in his relationship with Andrés, but I don't think he saw himself as that much of an innocent; someone who would have never even joined the life of crime if it weren't for Andrés or so.

But yes, Martín is definitely not a victim and I don't think Sergio is responsible for his problems at all to be honest. Andrés did what he thought was the best course of action and that is that. Sergio isn't responsible for a grown man leaving another grown man. Like other than the factor regarding whether he should have told Andrés or not, he chose him, he chose to remain with him one marriage after the other. I do understand, to an extent, why both Martín and Andrés did what they did, but at the end of the day, would it have gone better if Martín had told him years ago? Who knows. Martín probably thought no and remained with him anyway, he's in no way a victim in this, like forgive me, but Andrés doesn't owe Martín anything. Even if we take Martín's words and say he reveled in being adored and worshipped, then it was still Martín who allowed it, it was still Martín who gave him this and asked for nothing in return and never left.

But going back to your words, yes, that is exactly what I saw when I watched the show too. Martín is cruel, ruthless, selfish and guess what? He was still all of those things before Andrés left him and died. It's just he wasn't those things with Andrés, the same way Andrés wasn't his worst parts of himself with him and Sergio. It doesn't mean they "changed" really, it just means they put each other above everything else and in a whole different category than all other people.

Oh yeah, this is one of the things that I headcanon to. Obviously, we don't have any history of Martín other than the parts with Andrés, but if we take his treatment of Helsinki then yeah, I'm willing to bet the same. I think him being the lover with Andrés was definitely the exception not the rule. Def agree with all you said about his relationship with Helsinki, Martín obviously doesn't see himself this way, and like aside from the princess scene, every time we saw them interact (when he flirted with him in front of everyone, when he kicked him out if his bedroom, etc) it seems very well that Martín is the one who is in control there, and is the one dictating exactly what the relationship is and isn't with sharp, even cruel, confidence.

Now the part about control, I agree with you 1000%, like the funny thing is it's not just the way Martín presents himself, it's the way the team sees him. Not only that, it's the main reason Sergio fears and is very wary of working with Martín, and I think that does come from experience, especially if we assume Sergio knew Martín for those ten years as well. I perfectly believe Sergio knows Martín well enough for those words to come from some actual place and not just his headcanons about Martín or something. Like it's very interesting to me as well, that Andrés couldn't even refute. Hell, not even Martín was able to say 'ah, I'm not really like that.' Even more interesting, actually, is the person Andrés likened Martín to after saying 'yes, yes he is obsessed with power and control' is Sergio! Sure, in that moment he was comparing their genius, but I do find it intriguing that he does put them on the same scale considering how a complete fucking freak Sergio is when it comes to being in control of everything. Andrés is outside this category. He enjoys the aesthetics of power, but he's much, much more at ease with letting go of control than either Martín or Sergio are. Martín doesn't just want the look of power, he wants complete power, period! And I do think he revels in it big deal. Lmfao, the show built the entire premise of a whole ass season on that one trait. It's not exactly something you'd need to argue for.

And oh yeah, I agree to an extent. I think when it comes to their specific relationship, things aren't really easily put in categories of who would most likely want more control, cause you know, they are very abnormal people ESPECIALLY with each other. At the end, I sincerely believe both of them regard the other as 100% an equal and wouldn't even want in any way to "control" the other or have more of that control in the relationship, but yeah, I definitely don't agree of the view of Andrés needing this control 24/7 and Martín being his subordinate just letting Andrés control him or whatever lmfao.

Of course, people can have their own interpretations and write what they want! But yeah, I did share that same suprise with you after I watched the show for the first time, mostly because I didn't know where exactly it sprung from? I do have some ideas for that now, but irrelevant really. Oh yeah, bottom!Andrés (or sub!Andrés) isn't very common, if I can tell from the amount of fics that has top!Andrés vs the amount with top!Martín or vers!berlermo. Generally, I do think they switch and all.

You were very understandable and eloquent, have no worries! Thank you for sharing your thoughts with me, I loved reading them!

Have a great day too!

[blackswaneuroparedux]

Patton and Monty at War: Unbelieving the unbearable rivalry.

Monty is trying to steal the show and with the assistance of Divine Destiny [Eisenhower] he may do so.

- General George S. Patton, on the Sicily Campaign, private diaries 16 July 1943

So every week I play my usual game of chess over a glass of wine with one of my neighbours in my Parisian apartment building. He’s a retired army general but remains active as a military historian and speaker. He’s curmudgeonly but one warms to him quickly as he doesn’t suffer fools gladly. He’s not a fan of women in the military but reluctantly concedes he would make an exception for me (besides who else could he play chess with?). We get on really well now because of the Covid lockdown this past year. We often have long discussions about military history and current politics until the bottle of wine is completely drained.

On one occasion he invited me to watch the 1969 classic war film, Patton, about the life of one of America’s greatest iconic World War Two generals, George S. Patton. It’s been years since I’ve seen it and I almost had forgotten how great the movie is with George C. Scott as Patton and Karl Malden as General Omar Bradley. We watched it in English and then discussed many things that came out of the film.

Hollywood and history usually do not mix. It is quite common for  filmmakers to take a historical subject and to distort it for their purposes and to dumb it down for entertainment purposes. In the case of the movie, Patton, there was no real attempt to distort the story of Patton. It was a fantastic and stirring Hollywood movie. Moreover it was an excellent study in character given Oscar worthy heft by the great George C. Scott as the crusty General George S. Patton. Francis Ford Coppola’s script was severely under-rated.

However there remain glaring inaccuracies such as Patton’s opening speech in the movie - admittedly a an iconic bit of cinema - but even this was based on his statements and captured the character of  the man, something even acknowledged by the Generals’ family.

Much  of the details of his role in the defeat of Germany are true. The only real omission was the lack of focus on Patton’s Lorraine Campaign, where he distinguished himself. There are some exaggerations in the movie and some minor distortions such as in the weather-prayer scene. In general,  the movie managed to produce a great overview portrayal of the  character and career of an extraordinary American leader.

The film does accurately relate the leading role played by Patton in the  liberation of Sicily. His daring use of armour was crucial in the defeat of the German army on the island.

However long after the film had ended I did think about one thing that irked me. And this was how the movie seemed to linger on the belief Patton was motivated by the desire to do better than General Montgomery, the victor  at El Alamein. Indeed the film probably reinforced the accepted conventional wisdom that these two driven and ambitious men hated each other.

There was a great personal rivalry between the two men.  They were both driven and wildly ambitious. The movie suggests that the rivalry between Montgomery and Patton was the main feature of the Sicilian Allied campaign and was perhaps a factor in why it ended so quickly with a  decisive Allied victory.

The rivalry was not as intense as the motion  picture suggests and the two men worked together when needed for the  good of the Allied cause.

Born two years apart, both were commissioned within a year of each other  and both were wounded in France in the First World War. Both men  encompassed very different but very valuable characteristics in combat:  Monty-careful and meticulous, Patton-dashing and diplomatic.   Despite  the differences, both generals demonstrated striking similarities:  commitment to their careers, a ruthless egotism, interesting when you  consider neither held superior command. This did not impede their desire  for the limelight and fame in warfare, arrogance and the manipulation  of colleagues in high places to advance their careers.  Both were  machiavellian in their own affairs and self-interested in their own  personal progression.

The great rivalries amongst the Allies that made a real imact were Marshall and Brooke over war policy, Nimitz and MacArthur over resources, Eisenhower and Montgomery over strategy; and then between Percival and MacArthur for incompetence,  Patton and O'Connor for aggressiveness, MacArthur and Clarke for vainglory,  (and possibly  Clarke and Wavell for the stupidity of letting defeated enemies escape),  were the issues that defined the war for the Western allies.

The idea  that a competition between Patton and Montgomery was more important is cute, but naive. I am not even sure where the idea comes from. 

Much is made of the bet between Patton and Montgomery over reaching Palermo in Sicily first, but in practical terms that was the only time in the war that Patton ever appeared on Montgomery's radar.

For the rest  of the war Monty was so much higher up the food chain than Patton that  he was unaware, or disinterested in Patton's opinions. Montgomery  was, by 1944, an experienced general who very successfully fought extensively in both combat and staff roles for 4 years throughout World  War One. (Patton got a combat command for a few weeks when the Germans  were already collapsing.) Montgomery led a division very successfully  through the Battle of France, and a corps through the crucial Battle of  Britain training and rebuilding years. He led an army in combat for two  years, through many successful battles both on defense and in attack.

By  1944 Patton had led a corps for a few months, and an army for a few weeks. For the very brief period of the Sicily compaign they were  theoretically equals in command, but probably only in Patton's mind. Montgomery saw Patton as an enthusiastic if amateurish old man but respected his aggressive boldness. Montgomery saw his HQ 'betting book' as a bit of fun (and was delighted when bet a  B17 by someone who should have known better).

When he and Patton met  and co-ordinated the Sicilian campaign Alexander seemed not interested in co-ordinating, Monty saw Palermo as a similar bit of fun to pursue, no bigger or smaller than the hundreds of other bets in the book.

Patton saw it, as he saw anything relating to his persona, as the most vitally important challenge of his whole life...up until the next one.  Montgomery lost a bet and moved on to the next challenge. Patton won but  didn't. (Or at least that is what bad writers have tried to suggest. I  think he moved straight on to the next challenge anyway.)

That  was the last time Monty and Patton were in direct competition, no matter what revisionists or romantics would say.

The next time Patton was  allowed in the field he was one of half a dozen army commanders in  Monty's Normandy army group, and, familiarly, he did not arrive until  the Germans in Normandy were already collapsing. Very soon afterwards Eisenhower split off Bradley's army group, and Monty had no control, nor much interest, in what Patton was up to thereafter.

The  romantics like to suggest that thereafter Monty railed against Patton's supplies, and that Patton railed against Montgomery's caution. The truth is less foolish for both of them. In fact Montgomery railed  against Eisenhower's broad front strategy regardless of which of the  other sub-commanders was benifitting (to the point of Montgomery making  an offer to serve under Bradley as long as someone got single control to  pursue a single strategy). He railed against the diversion of resources  anywhere not at the main point where a thrust might have achieved early  victory.

Leaving aside whether that victory could have happened,  Montgomery's beef was with Eisenhower first, his appalling chief of supply Lee second, fellow Army Group Commanders who couldn't control the excesses of their subordinates like Bradley (and to a lesser extent) Devers third, and only then with the several army commanders who each tried to do their own thing.

In practical terms Montgomery seemed more appalled by the negative effects of the incompetence of Hodges (1st US Army,) and  the obnoxiousness of General De Gaulle's orders to 'his' army (French First Army), and perhaps even  the ineffectiveness of his own subordinate Crerar  (Canadian 1st army) , than he did by Patton's enthusiasms. There is  hardly a mention of Patton in his diaries through this period, compared  to several comments on Bradley and De Gualle, and endless ones on  Eisenhower.

Patton too is being maligned by the pretense that his  war was taken up with a vain competition with Montgomery. Patton, like  Montgomery, was totally concerned with the main issue of defeating  Germany. But unlike Montgomery, he did not have Brooke  -  the Chief of Imperial General Staff - to rely on for support against  Eisenhower's broad front strategy.

Patton too was convinced that this was the wrong way to go, but to get his version of a thrust (with him at  the front) happening, he had to be a bit more manipulative than Montgomery.

Every word Patton used to wheedle and manipulate  support, or at least a blind eye to what he was doing, was designed to  get more resources from his superiors. Indeed, if he couldn't get them from Eisenhower, he was willing to steal them wherever he could, and  then get Bradley to pretend to not know what he was doing. In this he was quite willing to encourage Bradley's inferiority complex in relation  to Montgomery, and to happily manipulate Bradley into tantrums to get  what they both wanted, but it seems likely that Patton was more  interested in getting his way by making his superiors compete with  Montgomery, than in competing with Montgomery himself.

Patton is  actually a more complex and clever character than the romantics give him credit for. His 'kill them even if they try to surrender' speeches in  Sicily were part of his stage management of troops, not part of his innate personality. HIs 'us against the world' propaganda was more  manipulative, not so much like Bradley's inferiority complex. He wanted to win, and he would use anything to get what he needed to win, even  ramping up his superiors to distrust their allies. But his genuine competitiveness with Montgomery at this stage was less about him and Montgomery, and more about him and how he could maneouvre others to  support him. He would have shown the same level of competitiveness, and  the same willingness to undermine, any competitor at this point, British, French, Russian or even American.

Montgomery on the  other hand only saw Patton as one more junior general syphoning supplies  from an inadequate source. Montgomery was in competition with  Eisenhower for control, and possibly with Bradley for resources. Minor  army commanders in other people's army groups only registered on his horizon if he could get their armies assigned to his army group.

Just for amusement, it might be fun to consider how Montgomery and Patton might have worked together?

Montgomery was notoriously superb to serve under, no matter what your nationality.  British, Australian, New Zealander, South African, Indian, Canadian, French, Polish, and American troops who served under him  were all very happy to do so. So were their generals. Bradley certainly learned more  about being a field commander from a few months of Montgomery's distant mentoring than from anything Eisenhower ever did for him in their much closer relationship.

There is no doubt that Montgomery preferred effective subordinates to ineffective ones, and it seems possible that Patton would have made a preferable subordinate to Crerar or Bradley in his mind.

As for Patton, he would have served anyone who got him what he wanted. Had Montgomery offered him the chance to spearhead the attack into Germany, there is virtually no doubt that Patton would have  jumped at the chance.

Patton was not the racist that Bradley or Eisenhower were, and was happy to have black troops. He was not the American supremacist that Roosevelt or MacArthur were, and worked well with others (as long as they let him have enough lime light).

Had Montgomery been left as land forces commander, there is little doubt that he would have used Patton's aggression in a way that would have  made Patton much happier than Eisenhower's broad front strategy ever allowed.

It is fun to imagine Montgomery as land forces commander using Patton's 3rd Army in conjunction with British 2nd to leapfrog ahead at top speed into Germany. The best British tactics were never the  broad front strategy that the worst American's like Marshall and Eisenhower fancied. They were always the 'hold the enemy, crumble the  enemy, breakthrough the enemy, and pursue with as much force as fast and  far as possible' skills that had worked since the development of  mechanised warfare in 1918. (As demonstrated by the Germans in Poland  and France and Russia, the British and Germans in North Africa, the  Japanese and British in Asia, and the Russians in Eastern Europe.)

Montgomery would have used his traditional two corps up, one back, one resting deployment, adapted to armies, to keep up the momentum. Patton's preferred tactics were almost exactly the same, and he and his 3rd  Army would have fit it like a glove into Montgomery's thrust strategy.

Personally  I think that the limited reality behind their competitiveness paid trumps in Sicily, and I wish that it had been repeated in France. Patton could not have been a worse Army group commander than Bradley was, and would almost certainly have been better.

It is amusing to think of Patton and Montgomery effectively conspiring to destroy the broad front strategy while they got on with winning the war in the best spirit of competition. Although I have a sneaking suspicion that one of Patton's biographers was right to suggest that by 1945 he had suffered a few too many hits on the head, there is little doubt that he would have been almost as valuable to the Allied cause in Bradley's place against Eisenhower's policies directly, as he would have under Montgomery's army  group. That might have been a useful version of rivalry.

[dalekofchaos]

As much as I love Mafia:Definitive Edition. I feel like there could’ve been more.

Focus on Tommy’s family life prior to joining Salieri’s family. If we could learn about Vito’s family life in Mafia II. I see no reason why we couldn’t for Tommy. Okay originally I came up with my own backstory for Tommy, but found out there was a backstory for Tommy. From Tommy’s wiki Tommy was born in Sicily on April 5, 1900, the third and youngest child of Marco Angelo, Sr., a plantation supervisor, and Maria Angelo. He had two older siblings: Marco Jr. and Isabella. The Angelos emigrated to America in 1904 when Tommy was four years old, after the plantation was foreclosed by a moneylender which sent the Angelos into poverty. Tommy and his family then arrived at Empire Bay on Christmas Day after a month at sea, eventually settling in Lost Heaven. Tommy's father found work at the Lost Heaven Harbor where he worked for fifteen years until his death. Aside from that, I really wish we got to see Tommy’s relationship with his mother and siblings. 

More on Tommy’s relationship with Sarah. Really wish we could’ve seen more Tommy and Sarah interactions. First date, their wedding and their first time and seeing Tommy spending time with Sarah and his children. Just Angelo domestic stuff before Tommy has to do time.

More on his friendship with Sam and Paulie. I know it’s the core theme of the game, but I feel like more could’ve been done. Just seeing them working rackets together without Morello putting the squeeze on them. Having fun in their Night Clubs. Seeing Tommy and Sam being elevated to Capo. and Paulie just being Paulie lol

Show more of the Salieri-Morello war. I feel like not enough was shown. Sure we killed Sergio and Ghillotti and eventually Morello himself. But we never got to see the full scale war. It felt small. So my proposal see the Morello family hitting the bar and eventually Tommy, Paulie and Sam hit them back. The mission would end with Tommy, Sam and Paulie wacking Lou and Dino and torching Morello’s bar to the ground. I think this is something that should have happened cause we never got to see Lou and Dino again after the second mission and I think it would be Tommy properly paying them back for trying to kill him. 

More of the life of seeing The Salieri Family on on top in Lost Haven. See how it affects Tommy, Sam, Paulie, Sarah, Ralphie, VInnie and Luigi. 

Show Tommy surviving prison. Evading and stopping every attempt on his life in prison.

Finally, show the trial of Don Ennio Salieri. Show us Tommy’s testimony. These quotes from Mafia II’s loading screen  could’ve been used “I became a criminal because I did not want to become a victim. Lost Heaven is rotten to its core. Even the police and politicians are in hock to Mr. Salieri or his associates. And a wider network most certainly exists between gangs in other American cities and even overseas. I am describing a way of life that was brought over from the lemon groves of Palermo fifty years ago and hasn't changed one bit - an honored society which operates above the law. I witnessed at least fifteen occasions where murders were sanctioned by Ennio Salieri himself. He orders the deaths of his employees and clients in the same way that a gardener pulls weeds from his flower bed. At all times we operated with layers of deniability. The boss passed orders down the ranks, and each rank distanced itself from the crime. Mugs like me and Paulie took the risks, while the top guys sat comfortably and safely in their homes. Bootlegged alcohol brought in a lot of money, but that wasn't it. I knew pimps, loan sharks, forgers, and smugglers who operated under license from Salieri and kicked money back to him. When you are a member of these gangs, your life is based on violence and will most likely end violently. Very few men who choose this line of work die a natural death. Ennio Salieri preys on people's fears of losing what they have, so they become obedient to the protection he promises them. If a regular guy like me could kill the most powerful man in the city, what good was all his power? It seemed to me that no matter how strong someone is, there'll always be somebody stronger to clip his wings. When you work for the mafia, you're respected by the people you meet. Everybody knows you can help them, but you can also destroy their lives. The choice is yours. Most guys get into this line of work because of a thirst for power. They don't care about anybody's rules other than their own. Look at what happened during Prohibition - a handful of poor, uneducated immigrants from Sicily became stronger than all the laws, courts, and police here in the States. That took some doing. You know, the world isn't run by laws written on paper. It's run by people - some according to laws, others not. It depends on each individual how his world will be, how he makes it. There is no such thing as honor among thieves. These men take oaths of loyalty, but to their bosses these pledges are simply means to sanction murder and justify reprisals. The guy who wants too much risks losing absolutely everything. Of course, the guy who wants too little from life might not get anything at all.“ Could’ve done more to word it better, but you get the picture.  Also Imagine if we got to see Tommy doing this at the end of the game, boy imagine the looks on Don Salieri’s face

[ellenwatchesfilms]

The Green Knight Commentary

The Green Knight - A Fantastical, Medieval Christmas Film

Director: David Lowery

Cinematography: Andrew Droz Palermo

Genre: Medieval Epic Fantasy

This commentary is entirely spoiler-free.

It's not so often that a medieval fantasy film hits the theatres, especially not when the medieval fantasy film is based on a Middle English poem by the Anonymous 'Gawain Poet': Sir Gawain and The Green Knight.

Admittedly, I had not heard of the poem Sir Gawain and The Green Knight until a friend of mine asked whether I had read it after I had told him I was looking forward to the new A24 film. It was only after I'd watched the film and decided I needed to know more that I asked my brother to buy me J.R.R. Tolkien's adaptation of the poem for Christmas.

In The Green Knight, Gawain (Dev Patel), a young knight of Arthur's Round Table takes part in a 'game' initiated by mysterious Green Knight who visits King Arthur and his guests at Christmas.

The Green Knight is a slow film. I don't say that in a bad way at all; I love slow films when they make sense and when it is 'slow' for a reason. The dialogue is sophisticated, though fortunately not in Middle English (which would be entirely incomprehensible unless you're an academic specialising in Middle English), and manages to stay faithful to the medieval genre. However, it does mean that you have to listen closely.

Even when one does listen closely, it is not exactly easy to understand what is happening. Throughout the film there were many times at which I mumbled to myself "what on Earth is that" or "what is going on" or "I am mega confused", but nonetheless was able to grasp the main theme of the film and the heart of Gawain's journey to the Green Chapel and all the challenges and trials he faces on the way there: honour and what it means to be a Knight of the Round Table.

Palermo's cinematography is stunning. Of course, the bleak, stormy Irish landscape lends itself quite well to the creation of a rather sinister atmosphere, providing many disconcerting scenes that are not particularly frightening but keep the audience feeling quite... wary, in the presence of something greater.

This is where Lowery has taken some liberties regarding the original source material. The overall tone of the film compared to the poem is much darker and more unsettling, not that this is a bad thing. In addition, Lowery makes many additions to the plot which do not follow the poem. In my view, many of these additions were certainly a good choice; the film would not have been as good without! However there is a markedly diminished focus on something that the poem emphasises quite strongly and was indeed a central feature of many Arthurian Medieval stories, piety and Godliness.

If I am being honest, I did enjoy the darker tone that Lowery created as well as the more ambiguous ending. If you're a fan of A24, you know how important murals are (think of Midsommar) and how effective they are at generating suspense and intrigue and, in the case of The Green Knight, fit in with the Medieval genre incredibly well. The film feels much more like a fantastical, mysterious and unsettling adventure than a moral lesson, which the poem can at times feel like. However, I do feel that I got more out of the film after reading the poem such as better appreciating the symbolism of the five-pointed star (pentangle) that is an important feature in both the film and poem.

I rated this film 8 out of 10 before having read the poem. Taking on the Anonymous Gawain Poet's Sir Gawain and the Green Knight was an incredibly ambitious feat for Lowery. Yet between the brilliantly unsettling cinematography, remarkably creative liberties taken by Lowery in detailing the trials Gawain faces which are omitted by the poem, and the fact I struggled to stop thinking about the film for days after watching it, I could hardly rate it lower!

Ellen's Rating: 8/10 (18/12/2021)

[preciouslittletoonette]

So since it’s already considered pretty accepted that Cuthbert Coot is the father of Kildare Coot, I had gone onto my ponderings about who Kildare’s mother is.

One of the wikias said her name was Luna Loon but besides that, I found nothing on her. So I did the next best thing:

I made a mother for Kildare:

Meet Petronella Paperella, everyone!

Born in 1963 to a family of fishermen, Petronella is a spirited young woman hailing from the small sea side town of Cefalu in Sicily, Italy. Out of 5 siblings, she is the second youngest of her brood.

In 1982, while making her way to town, by chance she meets Cuthbert Coot, who was staying with his uncle Clarence Coot up in Palermo for the year and decided to check out Cefalu for the day while his aunt Rosabella shopped and visited friends. The two, quite literally, bumped into each other (both their bikes crashed into each other, it was a nastly bump and fall). Petronella, quickly panicked and fretted over the person she crashed into, apologising frantically in Italian before the other could get a word in.

Cuthbert, however, was quickly besotted with the speckled beauty before him.

And that moment was what could be explained as the start of a wonderful relationship.

Cuthbert and Petronella spent a good amount of their free time together, Cuthbert mainly coming to Cefalu on weekends to spend time with her. Rarely did Petronella ever go to Palermo unless her family had business there and dropped her off at the Coot-de Paperone residence, where Cuthbert stayed. When not being able to visit each other, they sent each other letters. The letters initially started out quite friendly before showing subtle hints of flirting from mostly Cuthbert’s side (ending usually with a blushing mess on Petronella’s end. Safe to say, the flirting was well received). The flirting eventually bled through to their actual face-to-face talks (and hoo boy it’s amazing how red one’s face can become under the right circumstances) and soon their friendship turned to romance.

Cuthbert stayed in Sicily for another year due to the new development in their relationship and quickly went to work on not only his relationship with Petronella, but also to work on further impressing her family and showing/proving that he is capable of taking care of her.

Eventually the time for Cuthbert to leave was drawing closer and time seemed to be moving much faster for the both of them as time drew quicker. Petronella was deeply in love with Cuthbert and vice versa and wasn’t willing to leave him for so long. She had even fancied the idea of running to America with him, buying a ranch and raising cattle, having their own family and watching her children play in the fields without much worries.

So imagine her surprise and delight, when Cuthbert asks her to go with him to Duckburg ala marriage proposal (with her family’s approval and acceptance of course).

After 6 months of friendship and 1 and 1/2 years of romance, Petronella Paperella became Petronella Coot and with tearful goodbyes to her family, left Sicily, Italy for Calisota, USA and from there her life would get much better as Cuthbert had promised to both her and her family.

To say meeting the in-laws was overwhelming was an understatement. The Coot-Duck family had her surrounded the moment she stepped foot on Coot Kin land soil. Gretchen Coot (nee Grebe) had her daughter-in-law in her arms in seconds, happily and enthusiastically welcoming her to the family while Casey merely smiled and shook her hand, offering to take her bags inside for her. Elvira had even baked a special pie for the occasion (which Humperdink kept trying and failing to coax his wife into giving him a slice much to everyone’s amusement). Fanny, Cuthbert’s sister, welcomed her warmly as well and the two came quickly to accept each other sisters. The Coots were quite a lively bunch.

But Her beloved husband’s cousins were an even livelier group. Meeting Quackmore, Daphne and Eider would forever be one of Petronella’s favourite memories. The absolute chaos that followed the trio wherever they went was hilarious to witness and getting involved in their misadventures was even moreso. The misadventures she had ended up in led to her striking a lovely friendship with Daphne and Lulubelle, Eider’s wife and Hortense, Quackmore’s wife.

And when she was not out and about with the cousins and siblings, she was helping Cuthbert out with the ranch. It was thrilling compared to fishing to her. Getting to ride a horse and guiding cattle to and from the large open green fields was an absolute pleasure to her compared to fishing.

However, one little family disagreed with her.

6-year old, Donald Duck vehemently disagreed with her notion. His adoration with the sea and sailing was the most adorable sight she had ever witnessed. Really to her, all of the kids were adorable. She’d often babysit them all when things were too hectic at the farm for Elvira to take care of them. 

All-in-all, Petronella’s relationship with the Coots and Ducks were as great as she had hoped it would be.

Then there were the McDucks.

Hortense’s family was... strange to say the least. Learning they too had immigrated to America from Europe made her feel a little more at ease with them when she’d first  met them. But she noted the relationship between the siblings wasn’t as.... like the Ducks.

And while interacting with one of the members of the McDuck family, Douglas McDuck, the Ducks and the Coots (minus Cuthbert) see that, despite being a sweet and demure lady, there was a lot vitriolic rage hidden under that sweetness (which honestly just strengthened the friendship she had with Hortense).

Long story short, for his own safety, Douglas and Petronella were no longer allowed in the same room together unless

But life was good for Petronella.

Then it became great, because by 1988, she was greeted by what she considered her and Cuthbert’s greatest treasure.

Her eyes, beak and- from what she could tell just by his size- her small body. Cuthbert’s hair and feather colours.

Little Kildare Coot, or Sgrizzo as she lovingly called him.

Kildare was simply the light of Petronella’s life. Her first child, her baby boy who’d she sing sweet soft lullabies to like her own mother once did. While the family and his birth certificate say his name is Kildare, Petronella (and Cuthbert at times) call him Sgrizzo. She also spoke mostly Italian to him as a baby and would mix in English as he grew older.

By 1991, Petronella felt like she was truly at the height of her life, despite all the exhaustion and aches she felt from taking care of Kildare and helping Cuthbert and the rest of the family. She’d gone from Petronella Paperella, to Petronella Coot to now known as “dear Aunt Nellie Coot” as her nephews and nieces called her. Her marriage was great, she was to have another child soon, the family was at peace despite certain bumps in the road. Her life was great....

Until it wasn’t.

UGH, this took way too long to write out. I’ve been thinking about Petronella and her story for a while now, since she does have a bit of a role, albeit a minor one, in The Obscure Family members of Coot-Duck-McDuck so I decided to introduce her.

I have no other reason for giving her speckled feathers other than for the fact that it looked nice on her and I am very much attached to her right now.

Feel free to ask any questions about her or the story!!

[batarella]

Sinatra (Mafia!Jason Todd x Reader)

This is my first au fic! I absolutely adore the idea of Jason being in a mafia gang (he’s with Black Mask in this one) and the reader is a vigilante! Hope you all enjoy this steamy fic! 

 -Requested- 

offendedfishnoises said: Feel free to ignore this if you don't want to write it. Could I request smut (or anything really) with false face au Jason (au where he works as an enforcer for black mask) and vigilante reader?

WORDS: 2559 WARNINGS: PUBLIC SEX. DIRTY TALK. KNIFE PLAY (I GUESS) 

Masterlist

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Sinatra.

The Iceberg Lounge wanted the ambiance to be as fitting to your deal here as possible. Dim red lights, the soft laughter of women on the laps of men not looking too far off from the likes of Penguin, it wasn’t so much the area of work you were used to. The dress you wore was far too revealing, with barely anything covering your back, legs, and arms, so you had a fur coat on to cover it up. Your hair was up, and your lips were as red as the wine glass balanced between your fingers. You had your ass pushed out with your elbows leaning against the bar top. And on top of all that, the band was playing Sinatra.

You sipped at your wine and pressed on your earpiece.

“Oracle, where are they?”

“They’re just about to enter the lounge. Don’t drink too much,” Oracle said.

“I think I’ll need more than a glass to get through the night.”

You heard her chuckle at the other end. The bartender came to you to give you a refill, and you gave him a wink before he left.

Roman Sionis. Black Mask. He was a short man, about the same height as you, but he was surrounded by men in black twice his size. Five-no-seven of them trailed behind him. They had on their own creepy masks ranging from the faces of monsters to pigs to just a black ski mask covering most of their face.

“Are you sure this is how you want to do it?” Oracle asked you with that strain in her voice. You watched Black Mask settle at a booth, then eyed his henchmen, particularly the large one with a plain red helmet. He had a machine gun strapped to his back and he sat right beside his boss with a relaxed stature leaning against the back of the booth.

“I’m sure.”

The red masked henchman caught your eye, and he never looked away once he did. You turned up your volume enhancer and listened to his friend whispering into his ear.

“I’d like a piece of that, Red.”

“She’s looking at me. Not you, Tony.”

His voice was the same. Young but experienced. “She lookin’ at you real hard.”

“I know. I know.”

“Ey, if I don’t see you makin’ a move then you better believe I will-“

“Alright, alright, Tony. Hold my drink.”

Red was coming up to you. You finished your glass, hoped the alcohol would sink in sooner than it usually would, then turned to him taking the seat next to you.

“Didn’t expect to see you here, Y/N.”

“I told you not to say my name.”

“You don’t have your suit on. You're undercover. Which makes you Y/N and not some vigilante for the night, babe.”

“Mmm,” you hummed. “Still charming, aren’t we Jason?”

“Hey, you're the one looking at me with that fucking dress on.” His eyes lingered on the skin of your bare leg crossed over the other and your lips delicately kissing the rim of the wine glass. “What do you want anyway?”

“Why do you think I want anything from you this time?”

The bartender handed him a shot, and he took it in one swing. “Don’t you always?”

You hummed again, this time your hand landing on his knee and giving him that slight squeeze that made his back jolt up and his breaths uneven. “I miss you.”

“Do you?”

“Yeah. I do.”

You couldn’t see the look on his face, but when you stood up from your stool and walked over to the private rooms at the back, the one you reserved just for tonight, you knew he was looking at your backside like he was about to pounce. Jason looked over at his boss, who looked too preoccupied to care where his henchman was, then followed you.

That buzz of victory came over you when you heard him step into the room.

There was a rounded booth covering the walls of the small room. The light was even dimmer. There were no windows, and the table at the center limited most of your movement. You removed your coat.

Your dress was ridiculously revealing, and most of your back was exposed to the nipping air. Your straps were as thin at your hair and it hung delicately over your shoulders so nicely. You turned to Jason, who was standing frozen just by the door, and the eyes looking at you through the thin slits of his mask were dark and hooded.

The center of your dress revealed most of your cleavage, which was where his eyes were locked onto now. You stepped forward, arms on your waist.

Then you heard him lock the door.

“You never wore that dress when we were together, kitten. Would’ve loved to take that off.”

Then he stepped even closer to you.

“Of course, the sex we actually did have was phenomenal in itself.”

You scoffed and looked deviously back at him. He wasn’t wrong in that. Three months you were together and the sex was unlike anything with anyone else.

Which made this task both easier and so much more difficult.

You stepped closer and placed your hand on his chest. “Take your mask off.”

“Black Mask said-“

“It’s just me, Jay.”

You heard him chuckle under his mask, looking around for any cameras at the corners, then at the door.

“I have this place to ourselves for as long as we need to.”

“You really thought this through, didn’t you?”

“Mmm.” You slowly held the sides of his helmet. Jason didn’t move when you slid it off, your wrist grazing against his soft, ruffled hair. He craned his head down for you to fully remove it, then grabbed your hands over his helmet, making sure to touch you.

As if he wasn’t already so hot, his suit almost made you forget why you were actually here in the first place.

You removed your hands from his then took a seat, your arm resting on the back of the booth. He sat dangerously close to you, close enough for you to smell the faint remnants of the shot he took a few minutes ago.

“Now. Tell me why we’re really here, Y/N.”

Your eyes rolled and you raised your legs to rest on whatever space was left between you. Your leg was brushing his thigh. His thighs that you remembered riding on more than one occasion.

“Quentin Palermo’s daughter was kidnapped this morning. I want intel.”

“Kitten,” his voice was solid. He didn’t sound like he was shaken. But Jason placed his large hand on your knee and squeezed. Either it was working or he was trying to reverse the action on you. “What makes you think Black Mask has anything to do with it.”

“Since his biggest investor sold everything once Sionis’s stocks dropped last week.”

Jason bit on his gums, still eyeing you. You pushed your chest out even further, which caught his eye.

“You’re gonna need to do a lot more than this to make me say anything. We’re working against each other, remember?”

“Are we, Jay?”

Jason watched your dress drop even lower when you heaved your chest. Then your hand went to his hair, twirling the strands with your fingers. You smelled like sweet vanilla. You knew he liked that.

“Put a bit more effort in convincing me. Maybe I’ll let something slip.”

You didn’t complain. Slowly, you snaked your leg over his lap, making sure to graze on his growing bulge, then straddled him with your dress riding up enough for him to place his hands on your bare ass.

You moaned when his hands massaged your bum, lightly digging his nails and pulling your dress even higher up. Your face was so close to his, but you didn’t kiss him. You hugged his neck and let him have the best view of your tits from being so close.

“Just the slightest bit of info, Jay. Black Mask won't find out.”

You were whispering against his ear and so slightly touched your bottom lip against his earlobe.

“All this for some information, Y/N? I thought you never wanted to see me again.”

“Dragging this out only makes it more fun.” You breathed, placing your lips against his cheek, his jaw, feeling his hands tighten around your ass cheeks.

“I can tell you right now, then we can take this to a hotel room across the street. No more distractions.”

“And how do you know I won't leave after I’ve gotten what I want from you?” You ran your hand up his chest, and his bulge grew harder. You loosened his tie and unbuttoned his collar.

“I don’t think information is the only thing you want from me.”

“And how would you know that?”

Without warning, his fingers touched your clothed pussy. Your thong was thinner than your dress, and it only did so much to cover you. And his fingers, fuck. You let out a moan and gripped his hair.

“’Cuz I can feel it,” he whispered, taking his hand away and licking the tip of his wet fingers.

“Todd. Where the fuck are you?”

Sionis. Jason pressed on his earpiece. “I’ll be out in a sec.”

Jason turned it off then looked back at you. “Looks like I have to take off, kitt-“

A knife. You hid it under your dress just above your hip. You pressed the tip of the blade right at his cheek and watched him stiffen, then relax just as quickly.

“You're gonna tell me exactly what I need to know or I’m not gonna let you out of this room alive.”

“Getting kinky, are we, Y/N?”

“I’m not here to play, Todd.”

“Oh, you definitely are.”

A sharp sting on your ass cheek, and you almost dropped the knife. He knew you loved that. Jason watched you whither and lose a second of focus. He drove your skirt further up, exposing your waist where he rested his hands on your skin.

“I’m not gonna tell you jack shit-“

You winced, his hand gripping your ass even tighter to spread your cheeks.

“Oh, you are. I don’t care what I have to do to make you spill.”

“I’m not afraid of you.”

“You should be.”

“We both know you're not gonna stab me. Though I should say you look so fucking hot right now doing just that.”

“Didn’t think you’d be into this, Jay.”

“Now I am.”

You drew the knife down his face. Just barely grazing it enough to sting but not enough to actually penetrate his skin. Your other hand dropped to his crotch, massaging it outside his clothes. His hold on you tightened and he hissed with his head thrown back.

“Tell me where she is.”

Harder. Faster. Your fingers trailed down the impression of his length and you found his tip. You moved your hand, just as how he liked it, then unzipped his pants.

“Fuck off, Y/N.”

You pulled out his cock. It was leaking, and it poked your stomach every time you pumped it and his hips jerked.

He took the second you were distracted and pulled the knife off your hand. He dropped it to the floor, then grabbed your face, kissing you so hard you almost fell off his lap. You continued to pump him even then and started to grind.

“Fuck.” Your moans started getting louder. Jason pulled down the straps of your dress. You weren’t wearing a bra, and he was in the perfect position to devour your nipples and have at it with your tits. His hands on your ass tightened, slapping every so often that you were a writhing, moaning mess.

He set your thong to the side, then slid his cock inside you, so easily since you were already dripping on his pants. But even then, you were still so fucking tight around him.

Jason pulled your ass to bounce on his dick as slowly as your moans dragged out. You held his face, kissing him desperately, bouncing on his lap so mindlessly you set every other thought aside and concentrated solely on his perfect body.

You ripped his tie off, then helped him take off his jacket. You rode his shirt up so you could hold his abs, his pecs, his perfectly muscled chest. Fuck, every part of him was perfect. Leaving him because of your opposing lifestyles just didn’t seem worth it anymore.

He guided your ass faster on his cock. “Right there, Jay… Oh!” you screamed. He did just that and you kissed him hard. Your walls swelled around him, the fleshy confines dragging the length of his hard cock so wonderfully that the tip massaged that side inside you that made you bite into his lip, drawing blood while he went faster.

You kept moaning. He moaned back, right against your ear, low enough to be a whisper if not for his teeth nipping at your earlobe. He spread your ass cheeks, letting you scream his name as loud as you could. Jason gripped onto your tits and you felt his teeth around your nipple. That, with his cock starting to twitch and his thrusts getting sloppy, you threw your head on his shoulder.

Another slap on your ass, then you came apart. That wonderful, buzzing sensation that almost made your limbs fall to the ground, your senses dysfunctional for a fraction of a second, and the vision of blank static as you reached that blissful high, it couldn’t possibly get any better. You felt Jason spill inside you, his own moans as loud as yours, while he made sure you kept dragging his cock inside you in slowing thrusts. You panted against his chest, and he kissed your bare shoulder, your collarbone, your neck, your jaw, then your lips.

“Now will you talk?”

Your voice was still in a daze. He kept kissing you still, softly this time. His hands were around your waist, no longer on your burning skin, and his eyes were on yours, no longer on your body.

You drew his hair back and looked into his eyes. There was good in him. You knew that. And if he knew that too, another shot at that relationship wouldn’t be such a bad idea.

“I have to go.”

That sudden drop of disappointment overrode every lingering feeling of bliss. You looked at him, then at the wall behind him. You reluctantly got off his lap and fixed your dress. He put his clothes back on and zipped his pants. “I’m sorry. I can't help you.”

You laid back against the booth and watched him head to the door.

“She’s five, you know.”

Jason stopped. Then so slowly, he turned back to look at you.

“Palermo’s daughter. She’s five years old. Sionis didn’t tell you that?”

Jason didn’t look like he already knew that. He tightened his tie, looking intently at the door.

Good. There has to be just the slightest bit of good in him.

“An abandoned warehouse in Otisburg.” Jason neared you, so close so you could look straight into his eye.

“Save the girl. And do nothing else. If Sionis finds out, I kill you first.”

He left the room, and you were left with the hem of your dress ripped beyond repair.

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[honeytea8]

La Dolce Vita • Risotto Nero/fem!Reader

A/N: I had the pleasure of doing an art trade with my sweet @string-bean-requiem and here it is!!! 💗💗 (it’s written with them in mind, but y’all can enjoy it too)

Word Count: 1.9K

Summary: A fun night on the town offers the rare chance of falling for a handsome stranger...though to be fair, is he really even a stranger?

Warnings: Some kissing💀 and implied spice, nothing explicit.

Italian nightlife had never been something you had the chance to enjoy. The reason being that Passione had taken up so much of your time and each day was spent completely on work-related things. While some of your teammates, namely Formaggio and Melone made it a point to enjoy their weekends off the best they could, you did not. In fact, you seldom had the opportunity to join Napoli’s party-going masses, let alone step foot into a nightclub or bar.

So, naturally, when a wind of change had come to sweep you onto a different course, you were very much inclined to let it. Despite the inkling of trepidation growing in the pit of your stomach, you were also filled with excitement for the night that awaited you. You knew better than to squander this rare moment.

Tonight, you were out of town, miles across the Tyrrhenian sea, on the largest island south of the Italian peninsula—a place called Sicily known for its long history and traditions.

After a successfully completed mission, you choose to reward yourself, on the final night of your trip, by stepping out and enjoying whatever intrigues such a place had to offer. Who knew when you’d ever get the chance again?

A club called Bona Furtuna came highly recommended to you by a certain Sicilian native. It was a simple but newly renovated warehouse on the coast near Palermo. According to the locals, it was the place to be on a night like this.

Although a bit stuffy and filled with smoke swirling in the air like dry ice, bodies continued to fill up the dance floor, moving in tandem with the music. Girls in leotards and heels provided bottle service and cigars—all of which were somewhat of a shock to you. Initially, your carefully honed instincts kept you from enjoying yourself to the fullest, but by your third mojito, you felt yourself loosening up. Following a shot of tequila after that, you could feel the baseline thrumming against your teeth as the bright strobe lights bounced off your skin and hair.

Your hips whirled to the beat, a sheen of sweat on your neck and back. The dress you wore clung to you like second skin. It became easier for you to feed off the atmosphere; your body moved on impulse, responding to the silent cues that played off the swarm of people around you. It was spellbinding. However, the alcohol in your system did little to negate some of your more ingrained senses. The feeling of eyes trained on your back was something like an alarm in your conscience, but you were not in danger, far from it actually.

You kept dancing, swinging along with the beat, bating your silent observer. If he wanted to spectate, he could do just that. But it would be even more fun if he just cut loose and joined you on the dance floor.

In due time, the music shifted to something with a slower tempo; it was then that you felt a warm hand on your waist.

Body to body, you moved against him with practiced ease, rolling against his hips in a way that was titillating, slow, and steady as a river. He guided your movements in time with his own, like he knew your body better than you did. In a way, it didn’t surprise you. You could tell he was getting into it. Feeling impish, you skirted away from him with a spin, tossing a wink over your shoulder and strutting your way to the bar for a little reprieve.

“Water, please.” You called out to the bartender. “Light on the ice.”

Not a moment later, a glass of water was placed in front of you, but before you could reach for it, you caught sight of a mop of violet hair in your peripheral.

Your dance partner had joined you at the bar and with him came the familiar scent of Boucheron cologne and the perfect blend of citrus and spice. Finally able to see him in better light, you considered some of his most notable features. His beautiful aquiline nose; his red irises ringed in black sclera, which was unusual by nature. But held an equally intense and honest quality that made you smile a little. He was lovely to look at, dressed sharply in a crisp button up shirt with a few of them unfastened that gave a nice little peek at his chest.

He leaned against the bar, managing to tower over you still, though you remained undaunted. “Can I buy you a drink?” He asked.

“I’m okay with this.” was your simple but quick-witted reply, all the while, you eyed him sharply over the rim of your glass.

He looked amused, maybe even a little surprised by your quick denial, but not at all discouraged. That was a good sign, maybe he’d prove to be interesting company tonight. You couldn’t deny that he was attractive; the kind of sexy one didn’t have to try for. You decided introductions were in order so you offered him your name and hand, smiling when he took it and kissed it.

“My name is Risotto.” He said with a dimpled half-smile.

“A pleasure to meet you, Risotto.” And although he left you to do most of the talking, your conversation continued without a hitch. Eventually, when you asked what he was doing back in his hometown, Risotto revealed he was just here for business.

“What kind of business?”

He smirked. “Not the kind of thing I can share so easily with you.”

After that admission, you finally allowed him to buy you another drink before you both made your way back to the dance floor. You weren’t as coherent as you were prior. Inhibitions fell to the wayside and you swayed on your feet a bit, but thankfully Risotto held you firm, like an anchor in the sea of alcohol in your system.

You moved like an uncoiled rope, eyes alight with mischief, and a smile on your orange painted lips.

“Come now, Risotto.” You called over the music. “I’m sure you can dance better than that!”

“You’re really gonna keep up this act, cara?” He asked.

You looped an arm around his neck, and guided his hand onto your waist like before. In a golden moment of genuine amusement, Risotto laughed, showing off a row of perfect teeth.

“Yes, I am, even if you keep breaking character!” You carded your fingers through the hair at his nape, smiling as you leaned forward to peck his lips. “Now remember, we have never met!”

Risotto nodded, still smirking. You should’ve known he had something up his sleeve. He took one of your hands and twirled you around, then dipped you low enough that your cleavage was on display for half a second at most before he lifted you and pulled you close to his chest. It was minutes later that you noticed he was doing the tarantella, or a modernized version of this dance. It seemed the warm atmosphere brought out of the Sicilian boy that lived deep within the ever-stoic Risotto.

You and he danced all night until your feet were tender and he was left to carry your heels in one hand while holding you close with the other. His brawny arm was slung over your shoulder, and yours was looped around his waist for support.

“I love you,” you murmured into his armpit; it’s where you had managed to shove your head as he half-carried you back to your shared motel. When he didn’t immediately respond you chanced a peek at him. “Did you hear what I said?” You pouted a little, but all Risotto did was blink at you.

It was around two in the morning and the streets were empty save for the occasional civilian. Risotto pressed your back against the brick wall of a neighboring building. He guided one of your long legs around his waist just as you snaked both arms around his neck. The rough pad of his thumb brushed against your lips, the only warning you received before his mouth was on yours and kissing you deeply. The world and everything with it fell away in that single moment. One of your hands slipped down to fist his shirt. It was odd to feel him wearing one, especially with you being so accustomed to feeling his bare skin.

When he finally released you, Risotto murmured a quiet, “I love you too, always,” against the seam of your mouth before finally scooping you up and carrying you all the way home—where he could truly show you his love privately.

By morning, you were greeted with the heavy weight of an arm slung around your waist and warm breaths ghosting your neck. The sky was still blue, almost black but sounds of birds chirping was enough to confirm that it was indeed early. Groaning, you shifted in bed, feeling the muggy heat in the room and only the stifled breeze filtering in through an open window. Sicily was incredibly hot in the mornings; it was enough to make you sweat even as you slept.

Next to you Risotto’s eyes slowly fluttered open, and he was given a full view of your naked back. He pressed a feather light kiss to your bare shoulder before sitting up from the bed. It never took him long to fully wake up. When it came to vigor and strength, he was seemingly unmatched.

“We should head back in about an hour.” Risotto said, voice slightly hoarse, as he picked up his phone from where it was still charging near his suitcase. “We have a text from Prosciutto and several missed calls from Ghiaccio.” He raked a hand through his dyed hair as he spoke. You couldn’t help but notice that the purple color suited him nicely.

“Hm, that’s fine by me.” You yawned, dragging the sheets over your body, and tucking the excess under your arms.

Whatever meager strength you had was only enough to keep you barely coherent. You were tired from all the drinking and dancing, though you had fun, the morning after was one thing you could do without.

“Did you enjoy yourself last night?” You watched as your boyfriend scrolled through his phone, likely giving the squad a status update.

Risotto looked up from the device, lips parted and eyes wide like a scandalized old man.

“I meant the clubbing,” you corrected. “Did you enjoy our little game?”

He finally shrugged and gave a noncommittal hum; Capo Risotto was back in full effect, it seemed. You gazed at his bare chest, silently admiring the way his muscles flexed underneath his skin. You nearly missed his belated response.

“You were...a bit difficult in the beginning.”

“Oh? I didn’t notice.” You laughed.

Risotto watched as you milled about the hotel room, tossing random articles of clothes into your suitcase. You’d found a clean pair of panties and slipped them on quickly, while discarding the bedsheets in favor of an old t-shirt. When you came over to where he was standing, you held his leather coat in hand.

“I believe this belongs to you.”

He snorted lightly, before leaning in and capturing your lips in a soft kiss as thanks. Together you both dressed, forgoing breakfast so you wouldn't miss your ferry trip back to Naples.

As you gripped Risotto’s hand upon reentering the base, you leaned into him and bumped him tenderly with your hip. You toed off your shoes, suddenly greeted by the telltale sound of several arguing voices. And it was coming straight from the main room. You looked to Risotto with a heavy sigh.

“Will we ever get another night off?”

Risotto glanced down at you, understanding your pain. “We’ll try, tesoro.”

[josefavomjaaga]

Helfert, Joachim Murat, Chapter 3, Part 2

(We left Murat claiming to British visitors that he, despite wanting Napoleon to drive the Bourbons out of France, was still totally in the Alies' camp.)

In spite of these assurances, everyone now knew very well what to expect from his side. Moreover, the facts were in stark contradiction with his words. All kinds of armaments were brought to completion with restless haste, throughout the kingdom the press of sailors was ordered to man the vessels; the royal guards, all troops were ordered to be ready to march; his aides-de-camp were constantly on the move in this or that direction. A year earlier Joachim had already begun to give the civil militia a better establishment, this was now continued most assiduously. The capital also received a military guardia di sicurezza, six battalions on foot and an escadron; property and the intelligentsia formed the elements drawn to their service: the wealthy privateers, merchants and tradesmen, professors, civil servants of all grades; a special medal of merit with the motto: "Onore e fedeltà" was created to stimulate their zeal. Ever since the world peace had been concluded, and with explicit reference to this change, Joachim had also tried to create a Sicilian regiment, Neapolitans who had followed Ferdinand IV to the island, but for whom there was now, as Murat thought, no longer any reason to stay abroad; but the influx was very small, the intended regiment never came into being. Among the officers' corps, a very dangerous increase consisted of many Lombards and Romagnoles who had formerly served in the army of the Kingdom of Italy and who, according to the custom of such fugitives from the country, had their mouths full of lofty words, pushed for an immediate upsurge in arms, which would be met with the most brilliant successes: old comrades would flock to them from all parts of Italy, hundreds, thousands of them armed and uniformed, gladly joining the King's army.

These military precautions went hand in hand with some personnel changes in the upper circles of government. The Minister of Finance, Mosbourg, a Frenchman by birth, asked for and received his dismissal - he had made his penny dry and did not want to expose it again to all the storms and rigours of the weather; he became Secretary of State in place of Prince Pignatelli-Cerchiara, who took over the vice-presidency of the Council of State from Cianciulli. The portfolio of finances was given to Baron Nolli, who had to begin his office with the most hateful measures: the merchant class was hit with a compulsory loan of 2 million francs; all the coffers, not excluding those of the hospitals and charitable foundations, were emptied to the last penny. Maghella was once again put in charge of the police; General Manhès became the governor of the capital, two personalities whose very names were disgusting to the people.

The author here in a footnote quotes Mier from a letter of 12 March: "Ces deux individus jouissent de la plus mauvaise réputation et sont détestés comme étrangers".

Under these circumstances, Mier's position in Naples became a very unpleasant one, and he urgently begged Prince Metternich "not to forget him". In the face of Joachim's assertion and that of his organs, in particular the government newspaper, maintaining that the King was in full harmony with Austria, that his policy was also that of Austria, Mier took every opportunity to loudly contradict this: "Austria is rather resolutely opposed to having the peace of Italy disturbed; the King, by pursuing his warlike desires and a delusion of greatness, will drag himself and his own to ruin". He sent a confidential letter to the queen, imploring her to do everything in her power to prevent her husband from making a hasty decision. He had discussions with Gallo, to whom he gave his unreserved opinion and drew his attention to the fact that the first step taken by a Neapolitan soldier across the demarcation line agreed on 28 April at Bologna would have the immediate consequence of breaking the Austrian alliance.

As early as the 12th of March it was said that the King would leave for the army, Mosbourg and Zurlo with him, Gallo and Macdonald to follow, and the Duke of Carignano to conduct foreign affairs in the meantime. The Princess of Wales, on hearing this decision, had offered to precede the King to Ancona; but he had sent her his regrets through the Duke of Roccaromana that he would not be able to receive her there, whereupon she angrily departed that very morning for Civita Vecchia, and from thence to Genoa. But the king's departure did not come to pass for the time being. Once again, doubts had intervened: repeated and strong hints from the Austrian envoy, requests and ideas from the queen, insistent advice from serious men who were in Joachim's confidence [footnote see below, as somewhat longer]. For a moment it had seemed as if everything was to be reversed, regiments that were about to march had been ordered to halt, others had even said that they would be recalled from the Marches.

Then new favourable news arrived of Napoleon's advance in France - from the evening of 10 March, when he entered Lyon, which might have been reported in Naples on the 15th - and now there was no more rest and no more peace for Joachim. He hastily summoned the Council of State, which was attended by the Queen, all the ministers, and the top generals, not to hear the opinion of those present, but to win them over to his own, which he did with all the grandiloquent exuberance of a Gascogner: 8,000 of his own troops, 14 battalions of provincial militia, civic militia without number; in addition, appeals from all parts of the peninsula, here a letter speaking of 12 regiments in readiness, of 12,000 shotguns in stock, there a letter with the promise of four fully equipped regiments, another promising the whole mass of the disbanded Italian army. The majority of those assembled listened to these reckless reports in incredulous distrust; with regret they saw the King's self-deception, and urgently advised against a hasty step: "one should rather await the answers from Vienna and London, the last success of Napoleon's enterprise, the resolutions of the Congress of Vienna on this unexpected change of affairs". Joachim suspended the meeting without passing a resolution that he did not like, sent Count Beaufremont to France with the declaration that the Emperor could count on his services, and let the Roman Court know through Cardinal Fesch that he regarded Napoleon's cause as his own and soon intended to prove to the world that it had never been alien to him.

On the evening of March 15, the Austrian envoy had a conversation with the Duca di Gallo, the contents of which left no further doubt. Joachim's minister complained about the obvious cooling in Austrian sympathies; about the neglect of his monarch's interests on the part of the Viennese Cabinet; about the small amount of effort the Cabinet had made to obtain the king's recognition from the other powers; about the humiliating way in which the king's ministers and other trusted individuals sent there by him were treated in Vienna. "The Congress will come to an end," Gallo concluded, "and Austria will not have fulfilled the promise she made to us. From this we can conclude no other than that she will abandon us in an extreme case, from which it further follows that the King must seek assistance where it is offered and resort to those means which he can hope will help him to his goal...". The next day, Mier appeared before the queen, who, as she complained to him, had been brought completely down by her sorrow, as well as by the continual quarrelling and disputes. "The King thinks," she said, "that Napoleon's successes will help to keep him on the throne. You know my opinion on this point. I will not cease to advise him that if the Vienna Cabinet should decide to oppose Napoleon, there is nothing left for him but to join Austria and follow her system and policy. You see, I am sacrificing my personal feelings and the agony of seeing my family persecuted, covered with shame and reproaches, to the duties of a mother, to the duties of a Queen of Naples. Emperor Francis has remained our loyal ally until this moment, and I am convinced that he will continue to do so in the future, if we know how to deserve it. This is his duty: but his own best interests also require him to do so".

[Footnote] Among them, in the first row, Pietro Colletta who, on March 11, "in his capacity as Councillor of State", sent a letter to the King urging him against any daring enterprise. The unification of Italy was a dream, "un filone di uomini caldi si abbandonerà a questa idea lusinghiera, ma la massa degl' italiani o la spregerà o la riguarderà con indifferenza o si armerà contro di essa". Twenty-five years of war and revolution had created a deep need for peace; the fine phrases used to flatter the passions of the people had lost their power. And how much preparation was needed to bring the war power up to the proper level! "L'armata di V. M. potrebbe esser battuta prima che aiutata!" The King should keep calm, so that time would pass which would only benefit the existence of his dynasty ... F. Palermo who published the letter in Arch. stor. ital. 1856 III p. 62-65, declares himself unable to state whether the letter really reached the king's hand or not.

Okay, this seems huge to me. I had no idea how much Joachim had suffered from being branded a traitor and how much it had weighed on his conscience. "[...] he regarded Napoleon's cause as his own and soon intended to prove to the world that it had never been alien to him." I guess the need to prove to both himself and to the world that he was not a dishonourable being played a huge role in his disastrous decision. (This actually reminds me of a dissertation on Austrian general Mack - the one from the campaign of 1805 - that claimed that similar mental stress led to the latter's irrational behaviour during the time auf Ulm.)

"Onore e fedeltà" may actually be a direct reference to Eugène's (at the time often quoted) proclamation to the people in the Kingdom of Italy, dated February 1, 1814, which publically announced Murat's defection and declared the Neapolitans an enemy to Napoleon's cause. ("Français! Italiens! j'ai confiance en vous; comptez aussi sur moi! Vous y trouverez toujours votre avantage et votre gloire. Soldats! ma devise est Honneur et Fidelité! Qu'elle soit aussi la vôtre; avec elle et l'aide de Dieu nous triompherons enfin de nos ennemis.") Murat basically claims that phrase - that had been directed against him - back.

Naturally I'm also interested in those "fugitives" from Lombardy who had come to Naples and may have presented a highly misleading picture of people's attitude in Northern Italy at the time. In truth, the different political factions there seem to have agreed pretty soon in their dislike of their new Austrian masters (I believe it is in August 1814, only four months after taking over, that Bellegarde has to send military to the Scala of Milan because riots were about to break out) but that does not necessarily mean they were friendly towards the Neapolitans - who by most were considered as foreigners just as much as the French had been. Also, the Austrians seem to have taken immediate measures to remove all rebellious elements from the country; I believe it is Méneval who mentions how all the Lombardian officers suspicious of still being too attached to the old regime, were transferred to Hungary and, on their way there during the Congress in Vienna, stopped by one by one to see their old viceroy. And to probably reproach him for not having marched on Milan in April when the riots broke out.