#because maria ate with a fork and took baths

[richo1915]

What the Emperor Basil had in mind was another diplomatic marriage to strengthen the link between Byzantium and Venice.

The son of a Doge could not, of course, be offered the hand of a blue-blooded princess like Zoe, the disappointed bride of Otto III. But a suitably distinguished young lady was found in the person of Maria, daughter of the patrician Argyropoulos.

The marriage was celebrated in the imperial chapel in Constantinople. The blessing was given by the patriarch and the golden wedding crowns were placed on the heads of Giovanni and Maria by the two emperors. There followed three days of festivities in one of the palaces. Maria brought her husband a substantial dowry which included a house or 'palace' of her own in Constantinople where they stayed after the wedding.

The emperor had to hurry away to his war against the Bulgars. When he came back he invested Giovanni Orseolo as a patrician and, at Maria's request, gave her the holy relics of St Barbara to take with her to Venice.

Maria was loth to leave the civilised comforts of Constantinople and her parents were sad to see her go 'as if into exile in a foreign land'. By the time they boarded ship she was already some months pregnant.

The couple reached Venice safely. They were greeted by the Doge with a reception the like of which had not been seen before. 'In truth,' says John the Deacon, 'no one could recall such a show of rejoicing in Venice as there was over this wedding.' Maria gave birth to a son a few days later. The Doge assisted at the child's baptism and, since he had been conceived in Constantinople, gave him the name of Basil after the emperor.

But the emperor's plans were again doomed to failure. In 1006 a comet was seen in the sky, always a portent of disaster. It was followed by a famine and then a plague, among whose many victims were Maria, her husband Giovanni and their infant son.

They died within sixteen days of one another. They were buried in the monastery of St Zaccaria. The Doge Pietro was inconsolable. He made his younger son Otto Doge in place of Giovanni and retired into obscurity in a wing of his palace. He died in 1008. Nothing was left to remind him of his high hopes for his eldest son and his grandson conceived in Byzantium and born in Venice, except for the relics of St Barbara, the Emperor's gift to Maria Argyropoulaina. These he presented to the abbey of St John, his son's namesake, on the island of Torcello.

Long after Maria's death a cautionary tale was told about the Greek wife of a Venetian Doge which seems to refer to her. It was related by St Peter Damian, a fervent reformer of the evils of his time, who died in 1072.

The moral of it was that the Good Christians of the west should beware of the decadent and sybaritic ways of the east, lest the Orontes flow into the Tiber. Peter records with vindictive satisfaction how the Greek princess who came to Venice died a hideous death as a result of her self-indulgence.

Distrusting the water supply of Venice, she had her servants collect rain water for her ablutions. Too fastidious to eat with her fingers, she carried her food to her mouth with a two-pronged golden fork. Disliking the stink of the lagoons, she filled her rooms with incense and perfumes. For such depravity and vanity she was a victim of the wrath of God, who smote her with a vile disease.

Her body putrefied, her limbs withered, her bedchamber was permeated by such a stench that only one of her maids could bear it; and after a lingering illness of excruciating agony she passed away, to the great relief of her friends.

It is a nasty tale, but it is eloquent of the difference in living standards between Byzantium and the West in the eleventh century. Maria's parents had been right to sympathise with their poor daughter going off to exile in a foreign land. To a lady brought up to the refinements of aristocratic life in Constantinople, Venice must have seemed rather barbarous.

What Peter Damian and his like took to be signs of depravity were esteemed in Byzantium as marks of urbanity and civilised living. The princess Theophano who had married Otto II was believed to be burning in Hell because of all the baths she had taken during her lifetime.

If eating with a fork or taking baths were thought enough to bring down the wrath of God, western society had still some way to go to match the cultured habits of Byzantium.

[caylusromanoff]

Can I request a Natasha x little male reader

Where reader is a new avenger and he’s getting lots of hate for being a little so one night reader is feeling really depressed because he’s been repressing his little side so one night when finds him just lying on his bed she decides she’s had enough and starts doing little this to cox him like cutting his food, cuddling with him it asking if he wants to have a bath and so one…

Thank you so much

I loved this. Hope it's okay 💖

You'd been staring at the same spot on the ceiling for the last hour and a half. The day had been going smoothly until around dinner time. Whilst you sat and ate your dinner with Steve and Bucky, Bucky on Steve's lap in his little space, youd been scrolling through your social media when as usual a flood of hate was thrown your way. Ever since you and Natasha had been spotted in public when you were in your little space youd gotten tonnes of hate for it and therefore you hadn't been little in almost a week and Natasha was slowly starting to lose her mind. But she'd never tell you that

You were so engrossed in your thoughts that you didn't hear Natasha come into your room or feel the bed dip beside you. "Baby?" She asks softly and you slowly drag your eyes away from the ceiling to look at her. "Dinners ready. Come and eat with us?" She asks and you nod sitting up and dragging yourself off the bed. Before you could make it to the door your turned around by Natasha's hand on your wrist but don't have time to react as your pulled into a soft, loving kiss. "I love you. So much" she whispers against your lips and you smile.

"I love you too detka" you whisper back and she sighs. She just wanted to spend time with her little baby boy but she couldn't because of how disgusting other people could be. She knows that you don't know she knows about the hate and she was trying to keep it that way for a while but she couldn't take it anymore. So she made it her goal to make you slip tonight. You needed it more than you let on. She could see the tension in your shoulders and every time you clenched your jaw she got angrier.

When you both reached the dining room the rest of the team were gathered around with their food Infront of them. Steve was feeding Bucky, Tony was feeding Peter and Maria was feeding Wanda. Natasha disappeared into the kitchen to get your food and your smile dropped when she placed the plate and plastic fork Infront of you. "uh nat? I don't think this one's mine" you say as she sits beside you but she just shushes you and kisses your cheek.

"eat for me baby boy please? Let yourself go for me" you go to protest but Natasha kisses you again before grabbing the fork and stabbing some food before bringing it up to your lips. You sigh in defeat and allow her to feed you the food. You had to admit it was really good and you could feel some of the stress leaving you already.

About half way through the meal you notice you don't have a drink and reach over to take Natasha's glass of coke. "Ah ah baby no. That's mamas drink. I'll go and get you one huh? What do you want little love?" She asks and too sigh and almost whine. She wasn't making this easy for you at all. The kept rubbing the back of your neck and playing with your earlobe and that was all it took for you to slip.

"m-milk p'ease" you whisper and she nods. Leaning down to kiss your forehead before wandering off into the kitchen. You don't pay any attention to the rest of the team as you take note that yours and Natasha's food is completely different. You reach over and grab a piece of the steak on her plate before shoving it into your mouth.

When Natasha comes back in she places the bottle of milk Infront of you and frowns when she sees you continuously chewing. "Baby? What's in your mouth" she asks as she tries to open your mouth to see but you shake her hands away and keep chewing. "Ah ah baby come on. Show mommy what's in your mouth. I don't want you to choke" finally giving in you open your mouth and nat gasps before taking the steak out.

"oh baby boy. You can't eat mamas food when your little unless I give it to you okay? Remember what happened last time bubba? We don't want you choking again do we?" She asks and you just look at her not really understanding anything that she just said because you were too small.

She gently pulls you into her lap and feeds you the last of her fries as they were softer than the meat. After you were finished your food she turns you so your leant against her chest and holds the bottle of milk to your lips, cooing and rocking you gently. Once youd had enough she thanks Tony for clearing the table and stands up with you in her arms.

"now baby. Do you want a bath now or in the morning?" She bounces you gently, waiting for the lift to reach your floor. When it finally does you point to the bed and she smiles "alright bubba. We can cuddle and watch a movie okay? But you need to have a bath in the morning okay. We don't want you all stinky do we?" She tickles your tummy and you giggle, allowing her to dress you in to some cute pyjamas with a matching Paci.

"h-has mama 'ilk?" You ask shyly and she smiles wider than she has all week. She'd misses her baby boy so much.

"you can nurse before sleep okay baby? You just had some milk and I don't want you to get an icky tummy alrighty?" You nod and hide your face in her neck, wanting nothing more than the feel of your mama holding you tight.

"lub 'ou mama"

"I love you too little love"

[tortillastar]

Ribs

She drags the shoe across the linoleum tendu à la second. The offending stockinged leg stares back from the mirror. The creased turnout - just shy of 180 - the lemon-peel crease at the crook of her knee, the tumor bulge of her kneecap, and the limp left toes, hung out to dry like Sunday laundry. Slight, like a pimple dotting one’s brow, yet enough to give it the look of a crooked branch.

She shifts her gaze to the leg and gazes detachedly as the flesh constricts, pulling and stretching into the same strange crests and valleys traced by shadow. A heaviness presses upon her knee, a directive to point is lost in translation, and only then did she realize her feet were numb.

A few streaks of light claw the studio floor, slicing her leg like a loaf of brioche. She nudges her phone with the frayed corner of her pointe shoe. 8:10. Two hours she’d been in the empty studio tucked at the end of the hall, only the hawk-eyes and bitter laugh of the mirror for company.

For the past month, she’d taken to running the exam combinations in some pretense of preparing for the winter final. In ballet, no amount of midnight cramming would shuffle the pecking order. Anna would top the list, Svetlana and Maria eating at her heels a few miles removed. She would powder the bottom, placidly hanging on the brink of expulsion as only one who’d lived bare-necked beneath the guillotine for five years and four months could.

She hadn’t gotten past the first set of pas de bourrées, engaged in a staring contest with the knee she’d hammer straight, the bones she’d melt and remold, the feet she’d shape into the neck of a goose.

She peers at the face in the mirror, fixed with a melted and molded smile, like a wax mask worn in the sun. The janitor would be making his rounds soon. He was a stubby hunchback who reeked of greasy bacon and cottage cheese and picked his teeth with the rusted keys on his belt-sized keyring - one she preferred not to cross.

She wobbles over to her bags and collapses by them, a boney addition to the hobo pile. Practiced hands dig out the knot and unravel the ribbons. They leave red tracks crisscrossing her calves - she’d tied them too tight. Her nails absent-mindedly trace the straw-like veins, some purple, some blue along her feet, peeling off millimeter by millimeter each patch and piece of toe-tape. They pull at her skin and reveal the scabs, the welts, the splotches of red. She slips out the studio, leaving a foot-width slit as the teachers did, a silent dusting of her tracks.

The two-minute trek back to the dorms was enough to stain her exposed cheeks crimson and numb the fingertips poking out of holes in her winter gloves. The knob gives too easily.

No Anna, but the heap of dress and stockings, shed like a lizard's skin at the foot of the bed, confirmed her lurking presence.

Stealing food again.

At this, the girl allows herself a haughty flick of the lead eyebrows smeared to the crown of her forehead. The fading desk lamp huffs out a sickly-yellow glow on the knots of hair, specks of dust, bits of paper, and the torn sole of an unwashed stocking poking forth from beneath the bed. They invaded the edges of her vision, rubbing a crude line around the corners.

The girl picks up a corner of the lilac leotard, the sheer purple skirt would clumsily about the waist and noted with a bitter cornrow twist of the lip the xs tag, the letters faded and cracked, but the jeer no quieter. Hers was two sizes bigger - two sizes too big. A fist-sized patch of sweat bloomed at the chest. She smells in its sticky sweetness, browned toast, and poached eggs. Hands bring the damp clothing closer to her hankering nose. She stumbles at the rusty stutter of the doorknob and flings the dress back atop the pile with a flinch.

Anna slips in, lithe as a cat. She flips the lock shut with a blind hand, balancing in the other a plate piled with the usual - tattered cheese squares and soggy folded between slices of flaking bread heels.

“Back already?” The words are puffy and thick. Two folded sandwiches balloon from her cherry-petal lips; a scrap of ham flags the corner of her mouth. The lilt fills in the rest - given up already?

The girl hums, letting the implication roll off her like a raindrop caught on an umbrella.

Anna flops on her bed, sidestepping the strewn clothes and bunched skirts on impossibly high relevé. A few sandwiches flop open, but no creak of the headboards. A few sticky stabs of the remote control and a projection flickers to life on the far wall, bathing her form in a hazy-blue hue. It flecks her hair, mud brown and unbrushed, but pretty in that careless way only those who didn’t care their appearance seemed capable of. A white collarbone peaks out the collar of her nightshirt, paper-strip legs from the mouth of flared pajama pants. A flat chest and masculine frame suspended her at that blissful age where the body seemed an insatiable black hole, vanishing the food she ate without a trace. The girl stares at the way her kneecaps vanished into the line of her leg, and the natural doming of her foot, even unpointed, and subconsciously shoved her numb toes and bruised legs further beneath her bed.

She was the same once - wolfing down oil-crisp fries and cheese-dripping burgers at the KFC beneath her ballet class, shoving a bag of chips to the tail of the conveyor belt, being chased around the house by her grandmother, begging her to down the last gulp of soup.

It had come about gradually, imperceptibly, like the callouses about her big toe. A few arched eyebrows, a few frowns, and a simple “Katia switch with Sofya” relegated her to the spot by the exit door. The ones who occupied it never stayed long - dismissed, or crushed under the pressure of digging themselves out.

Her fork lingered over the beefsteak, wound an uneasy pirouette, and stabbed into the neighboring mound of greens. That had been easy. The academy canteen didn’t serve much red meat in the first place. Fish was harder, especially the cuts of smoked salmon she slapped on everything from burnt toast to insipid spinach leaves. Eggs went because she forgot to grab one breakfast. Then milk, because the skim milk pitcher had run dry one morning, and if she wasn’t drinking milk anymore why keep up with the yogurt.

She forced down finger-sized carrots, bitter brussels sprouts, and broccoli florets that sunk into her teeth. First with leftover dribbles of salad dressing, then fruit, then nothing at all. She gazed at the squares of beef steak wedged in others’ mouths, trying to taste the greasy, crumbly juices in her raw cucumber slices.

She took to keeping food and water on her person at all times - an orange bulging like a tumor in her clutch, a thermos tucked in the rooster pouch of a holey jumper. It was to avoid starvation, the dull cramp in her stomach that tugged down the corners of her lips and inevitably followed by overeating. She never ate the food but kept bringing it along anyway - on the two-minute walk from her dorm to the academy, the few hundred-step walk from cafeteria to class.

Partly, she derived some warped pride from the fact that she could eat, but would not. Partly, she came to enjoy voicing with a breathy, bogged-down sigh, “I’m too full, anyone want this?” when she spotted a teacher turning the corner, and answering calls of “I’m starving, anyone got a snack?�� with granola bars, and too-large apples shoved in her classmates’ faces, smiling an evasive smirk when they accepted.

She scanned barcodes and tallied up the calories, grinning in triumph when she dragged herself through the day at under a thousand - net, of course, she was careful.

“Want one?” She realizes she’d been staring, and by the arch of Anna’s single crow-bar brow, for too long. Without shame, the girl raises her eyes to meet Anna’s pitch-black orbs, poised before an eye-roll she would probably share with her bed lamp.

“No thank you.” Creaks the automatic reply. “I don’t eat bread.” She adds to strengthen her conviction, though nobody would spare a glance at her plate at lunch to check if she’d kept her word.

“Your loss.”

A buoyant, techno tune draws her gaze to the projection. For the night, Anna had passed up the flabby American rom-coms she inhaled under the pretext of learning English. Instead, flappy, armless sleeves, squirming tuber dresses, and pendulum purses paraded down coffee-stained roads, easily avoiding the few puddling gulps dotting the curbs. Towering lampposts, shop signs, wobbly curbstones, each leaf bleached grey. A flap of bat’s wings and the occasional lilting bird whine completes a pretend eeriness ruined by the too-matte paint, the too-smooth roads, the too-new metal benches.

The camera whirled about, favoring a bottom-to-top shot that lent full view to jutting, crooked knees, and bowed legs. The girl frowns at their pastry-thin shoulders, chicken-wing spatula, and pigeon-toed walk. She sees in bed-sheet expressions not aristocratic coolness, but contemptible misery - a silent plea on weighted lips.

“You can become a model if you’re dismissed.” Her smacking lips pork chop the words, her mouth brimmed like her suitcase, its zippered mouth perpetually open in half-hearted surprise. She tears open the final sandwich, nails pressing crescent-moons into the holey bread pockets. The girl lifts a corner of her lip in a wan smile.

The words pick at hardened scabs, no more than a tickle. She’d been suspended on the chopping block from the moment she was accepted, and the sense of urgency had long since worn thin. The studio hours after class was fulfilled out of habit, not any imminent fear of dismissal.

The girl thought it was Anna’s brand of helping - disaster prevention through repeated exposure. They walked the no-man’s-land between friend and stranger on a scaffolding of convenience and pity.

“They have it easy. Just starve themselves, look miserable, parade around clothes slapped with some expensive brand name. And people shower them with praise.” She sucks the tips of her fingers with a pop.

“We have to starve ourselves and look happy doing it.” She stands up with the empty plate. A few dark specks had already seized on the leftover crumbs.

“You’re showering first.” A phrase stranded between question and demand.

The door croaks shut, and her wobbly “Yeah” sinks in the empty room. The bed groans as she stands. She wants to peel off the bark and tear the baseboards but glares dully woodgrains for a few beats before grabbing her shower duffel from the doorway.

The shared bathroom is conspicuously empty. The others had showered after class, she assumed. She twists off her jumper and lets the cold prick at her bare arms, observing each pimpling goosebump. Slowly, she peels off the lilac leotard and rejoices at the wrinkle of fabric bunched beneath the armpits. Cold fingers trace along the ribs, revealed one by one, pressing a chill to each angled, protruding bone. In the mirror - lustrous despite the grimy tiles and cracked sinks, copper wire lips bend into a smile.