#lupanare

[primepaginequotidiani]

PRIMA PAGINA Il Mattino di Oggi lunedì, 26 agosto 2024

[valentina-lauricella]

Da "Partitura" di Enzo Moscato (1988)

L'origine della controversa scena del lupanare ("S'agapò") nel film "Il giovane favoloso"

Hic Moritur Angelus: l'ho detto ccà schiatta 'o Ranavuottolo Il Rospo forestiero brutto, che scrive d'idilli e di splendide Aspasie Ccà iette 'o sanghe lo Scriba, maleodorante e scartellato, l'èlève des Materialistes, trainè a la chaine fino agli arenili azzurri fino ai sassi più consunti del golfo delle Bugie! Napoli, sono io il tuo prezioso ago nel pagliaio sono io l'anonimo, il nascosto, l'introvabile. Sono io questa carne queste ossa questi pensieri da giocare al lotto, edificante meraviglia di me si cerca, quando si cerca, una tomba, nu fuosso da nessuna parte posti. Mi faranno autopsie lo sai. Sono io l'incerta Graziella, suicida dalle rupi di Vivara io, la Ginestra, 'e pontone, muta. Io, lo schernito disgustoso sembiante dei diari d'amore di Rainer quell'amico, mio infermiere, mio aguzzino. […] Ho spesso pregato in cuor mio che Rainer - il mio ineffabile amico - l'esule impuro che trascrive i miei pensieri - non mi trascinasse, qualche sera, su quella casa ai Ventaglieri - quel lupanare dal lumicino rosso sul davanzale di finestra. Le donnacce già mi aspettavano ansiose, sedute, ma, dovrei dire meglio, sguaiatamente aperte su delle poltroncine ricamate. Ridevano e sgranocchiavano dolciumi, squadrandomi da capo a piedi con la falsa ironica pietà che si porge ad un cadavere, già attardatosi a crepare parecchio. Capii subito che Rainer le aveva informate di tutto. Addirittura leggevo nei loro sguardi i nomi scritti dei miei bizzarri, infelici amori: Fanny, Gertrude, Teresa, e i capoversi, le righe, le cancellature del mio tradito dolore. Feci l'atto di alzarmi dalla sedia, dove mi avevano costretto a guardarle divertirsi, quando una di esse mi prese la mano e "Allora?" mi disse, indicandomi una porta, "Llà??". Aveva le labbra dipinte di viola, gli occhi fieramente bistrati; un sesso decapitato, dalle calze rosa, ornate d'oro, rettile, impudico frutto dei mercati di questa città, innominabile. "S'agapò! S'agapò!" gli aveva suggerito di sospirarmi Rainer a perfido spregio del mio amore per la lingua e il mito dei greci "S'agapò, pauetà, s'agapò" e mi venne dietro oltre la porta oltre la risata delle sue grasse amiche e di Rainer gli occhi intontiti dal rosolio e dal fumo dei sigari E questa esclamazione di sfottente, indecente amore "S'agapò" questa pernacchia alla mia gobba questo epitaffio pagato in anticipo ai miei restanti giorni si sparse ben presto per i vicoli, come un eco pulcinellesca per la salita di Spezzano, per l'ansa di Pontecorvo per lo spiazzo della Cesàrea su, su, fino al vicolo del Pero, dovunque lo sberleffo del mio turpe persecutore/persecutrice fece adepti, ciurmaglia canora: "S'agapò, s'agapò, s'agapò" tarantellavano gli scugnizzi arrancandomi dietro "S'agapò, s'agapò, s'agapò…s'agapò s'agapò s'agapò" e neppure sapevano che volesse dire ti amo o che nella più viva delle carni iniettassero quel grido come il più indelebile veleno.

[museum-of-artifacts]

Lupanar (Brothel) Sign, Pompeii :

In Pompeii; Penises can be found not only as graffiti roughly drawn and carved onto public walls, but built into the roads as well.

It is guessed that phallic symbols on the streets point towards nearest brothel, to direct foreign sailors who may be heavily intoxicated and/or unable to speak the local language.

Blog https://bio.link/museumofartifacts

[pascalhowlett]

Ethereal (Chapter One)

A/N: Hello everyone! This is my first time posting a novel length fan fiction on Tumblr, so be patient with me! If you would like to read this on A03, you can find that here!

Warnings: Mentions of r*pe, implied r*pe, graphic depictions of violence, major character death, smut

Summary: After the Roman Empire takes over Numidia, Cecilia is purchased by Emperor Geta as a pawn in his attempts to take over Rome. What will happen when she meets General Marcus Acacius, the soldier who was responsible for the death of her lover, Atticus Claudius?

Pairing: Marcus Acacius x Original Female Character

This is Chapter 1! Word Count: 5k

More parts will be added as I edit them. Please let me know what you think! :)

Numidia, a small territory on the coast of Africa, was her home. Quaint and full of life, settled on the Moulouya River, it had everything she needed. Numidia was home to her entire family, amongst them her beloved Atticus.

Her life was idyllic until Rome decided to invade the land. The attack, a nightmare that replayed in her dreams every night, remained vividly etched in her memory. The Romans burned down their homes, cast their belongings into the river, and herded them onto their boats like cattle. Some whispered that those who died had been granted a mercy that was denied to those who were taken captive.

She vowed never to forgive the man who had killed Atticus. He had been trying to save her brother, a young boy no older than ten, who had wandered too close to the burning structures. Atticus, seeing the fear in her brother’s eyes, had rushed forward, shielding him with his own body. The Roman soldier, a young recruit, panicked and fired an arrow. It found its mark, piercing Atticus's chest with a sickening thud.

Cecilia, witnessing the scene from a distance, felt the world tilt on its axis. Atticus, her lover, her protector, lay sprawled on the ground, his blood staining the earth a crimson hue. His eyes, wide with disbelief, met hers before the light faded from them. The sight of Atticus, his lifeblood ebbing away in the dust, was a wound that would never heal. The image of his lifeless body, the terror in his eyes, haunted her dreams, a constant reminder of the brutality of the Roman invasion.

"It's not your time, flower," Atticus had told her as she held his limp body close, "the sun always rises after the darkest night."

Atticus, a poet in his own right, had always possessed a way with words. Even in death, his words continued to resonate within her, an indelible mark upon her soul.

But, my dear Atticus, when will that sun rise? She asked herself that question every night.

Once the people of Numidia were taken to Rome, she was sold into slavery. No one else from her family had survived the journey. She was sold to the lenos of Rome's biggest brothel, becoming a slave to the highest bidder. She wasn't proud of the things she had done, and would do. Even now, she couldn't fully reconcile with her actions that kept her alive.

When the girls of the brothel were informed that Emperor Geta was seeking a wife, the news spread like wildfire. Every single woman who was unmarried and childless was vying for the position. Except for her. Cecilia’s thoughts never left Atticus. She was convinced she could never love another man. Marriage, especially to the murderers of her beloved, was the furthest thing from her mind. However, it seemed Emperor Geta was drawn to those who didn't immediately fall at his feet.

"Geta has ordered that we present him with our finest woman," the men discussed as they pulled Cecilia aside, their eyes leering over her body like vultures circling prey. "And who better than our youngest, newest acquisition? She's fresh meat, still trembling. He'll love that.” 

“Besides," one of them added with a cruel smirk, "the other lupanars always get the best ones. It's time we showed them what we have."

Emperor Geta arrived at the brothel that evening. All the girls greeted him, flaunting their breasts and wearing nothing to attract his attention. Geta ignored them, marching straight forward to where she rested on the large bed in her gown.

"She's our best one, your highness," the lenos told Emperor Geta as he entered the room, "you won't find another like her anywhere else."

Geta's eyes met hers, and a chill ran down her spine. He was a bloodthirsty, cynical man. His eyes made that abundantly clear. Like those of a predator sizing up its prey, his eyes lingered on her lips, then slowly traced the curve of her neck, a chilling smile playing on his lips.

Geta leaned closer, his voice a low growl, “Speak.”

“I have no name for you,” she spat back, her voice trembling with defiance. 

“Her name is Cecilia,” the lenos corrected, their eyes wide with a mixture of fear and anticipation.

For a fleeting moment, she swore she saw a glimmer of adoration in Geta's eyes, as if he cared or even liked her, just for a brief instant. But that was quickly replaced by a proud snarl.

"Look at me," Geta commanded, placing his hand on her chin, "you shall be my wife. This is an honor. I paid an awful lot for you."

"I am no empress. Nor will I ever be your wife," she declared, "perhaps death would be a higher honor."

He laughed at that, sliding her gown off her shoulders. "You will be my wife. I would watch my tongue, darling. There are many women who would kill to be here in your position."

"Pick someone else," she told him, his hand roaming across her chest.

"No," he drawled, his finger tracing up to her jawline once more, "I don't think I will."

She felt herself shiver, both from the sudden chill of exposed skin and the fear that was slowly consuming her.

"I like this one," Geta said to the lenos, "I like women with a little bit of fight in them. But nonetheless, she will be tamed."

Even his hand was icy as it slid across her skin, pulling her gown completely away. She was accustomed to such exposure, but his gaze made her feel anxious, unsafe. He smiled as he touched her, as if he derived pleasure from her reluctance. "You'll do just fine," he observed, his eyes lingering on her body, "the Roman people will love you."

She remained silent. He saw her not as a woman, but as an object, a prize to be displayed, a tool to be used. He saw her as a symbol of his power, a testament to his dominance. And that, perhaps, was the most terrifying aspect of it all. She remained silent, her gaze fixed on the floor, her mind racing as she tried to ignore what was happening. Escape seemed impossible, a distant, impossible dream. But she would not give him the satisfaction of seeing her fear, of seeing him break her. 

Then, she looked up at him, her eyes blazing with defiance. "I will not rest," she said to him, her voice low and lethal, "I will fight you and your ideals until the day I die."

Geta, taken aback by her unexpected defiance, was momentarily speechless. He had expected her to cower, to submit. Instead, she met his gaze with a fire that mirrored his own, a fire that ignited a strange, unsettling thrill within him. This was no ordinary woman. This was a caged bird, desperate to break free, and she would not go down without a fight. He found himself strangely intrigued, drawn to this woman who dared to defy him, who dared to challenge his authority.

His touch lingered over her breast, then moved to run a finger over her lips. “You’re a charming little dove, aren’t you?” He asked, his voice a low growl, "But doves are meant to be caged, caged and admired."

Cecilia felt another shiver crawl down her spine, not from the cold, but from the chilling amusement in his eyes. His words, though simple, held a sinister undertone. She knew, with vast certainty, that he was not merely admiring her. He was assessing her, sizing her up, seeing just how much she could handle. 

Geta leaned closer, his breath against her neck as he placed a tantalizing kiss there. "You have a spirit," he murmured, "a spirit that needs to be…refined." He ran a finger along the peak of her breast, his touch a burning brand against her sensitive skin. "You will learn to appreciate your place, Cecilia."

She closed her eyes, the image of Atticus, his blood staining the dust, flashing before her. 

"You will learn to obey," Geta repeated, his voice hardening.

Cecilia opened her eyes, meeting his gaze with a defiant stare. "Never," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Geta's eyes narrowed, a dangerous glint entering their depths. "We shall see about that," he hissed, his grip tightening on her arm. The air in the room crackled with tension. The music, once a vibrant backdrop to the festivities, had faded into an eerie silence. All eyes were fixed on the Emperor and this defiant woman, their faces a mixture of fear and morbid curiosity.

Cecilia, trapped in his iron grip, felt a surge of adrenaline. This was a battle she knew she could not win.

She was taken to the palace the next morning. They dressed her in silk white tunics, preparing her for her marriage to Emperor Geta. A handmaiden bathed her, dressed her, and braided her hair before adorning her with gold jewelry.

She barely recognized herself in the mirror as Emperor Geta stood behind her.

"You look beautiful, Cecilia," Geta smirked, wrapping his arms around her waist.

"I feel like a doll," she gritted her teeth, attempting to lean away from him.

"Perhaps you are a doll, dulcissima," he whispered in her ear, "You're a puppet, my puppet. Don't forget that."

The smile he gave her in the mirror was nauseating. His words sounded like an unwanted oath, a promise to torture her for the rest of her days.

"I want you to know one name before we wed,  Geta," she said to him, their eyes meeting in the mirror.

He remained silent, awaiting her response.

"Atticus," she said, "that was the name of my lover, before you sent your men to kill him."

"You dare mention your past lover to me?" Geta asked, his voice laced with momentary anger.

“You will never be him, nor will you ever have my love the way he did,” she said. 

Geta's face contorted in a mask of fury. His grip tightened around her waist, his knuckles white. "You will not speak that name in this palace," he hissed, his voice low and menacing. 

Cecilia met his gaze unflinchingly, a defiant spark igniting in her eyes. Geta's fury escalated. He released her abruptly, his eyes burning with rage. "You will learn to obey," he growled, his voice echoing through the room. "You will learn to fear me."

Cecilia watched him storm out of the room, his footsteps heavy and menacing. She sank to the floor, the weight of her despair momentarily crushing her. She prayed for peace, for just one beacon of hope in the unrelenting darkness that seemed to be her new life.

The wedding was a spectacle of Roman opulence, a grand display of power and wealth. Cecilia, adorned in a heavy silk gown that felt more like a prison than attire, stood before Geta, her heart a hollow ache. The ceremony was a blur of Latin incantations and the clinking of gold. Geta, his face a mask of forced amusement, placed the heavy gold band on her finger, the touch of his skin sending a wave of disgust through her. 

As Geta leaned in, Cecilia felt nausea wash over her. His breath, heavy with wine and the scent of expensive perfumes, reeked of power and entitlement. Closing her eyes, she braced herself for the inevitable. His lips met hers, a forceful, demanding kiss that tasted of metal and regret. His lips on hers felt more like a death wish than a promise to a lifelong commitment. She felt that he had won before she even had a chance to fight. 

Cecilia's body recoiled instinctively, but she remained frozen, a captive bird caught in a hunter's snare. Every fiber of her being screamed in protest, yet she was utterly powerless. The taste of him, the metallic tang of his wine, invaded her senses, a grotesque parody of intimacy that was on display for the people of Rome. 

A single, silent tear escaped her eye, tracing a path down her cheek. It was a tear of disgust, of despair, of a love lost and a life stolen. Pure helplessness. In that moment, Cecilia felt a profound sense of violation, her spirit crushed beneath the weight of her gilded cage. Emperor Geta noticed her tear, a small smirk plastered across his face at the sight of it.

He whispered, pressing a kiss to her cheek, “caged, little dove. Caged.” 

She was no longer just a pretty face, but one of politics and cynical tyranny.

As the celebrations commenced, Cecilia stood apart, observing the many people who congratulated Geta. She watched the revelers with a detached gaze, their laughter and cheers sounding hollow and meaningless. Then, she saw him.

General Marcus Acacius stood apart from the throng, his gaze fixed on the festivities with an air of weary amusement. He was a striking figure, tall and imposing. His face was etched with the lines of battle, and he adorned a pair of piercing brown eyes that seemed to hold the weight of the world. There was a melancholic air about him, a sense of quiet strength beneath the surface. Cecilia found herself inexplicably drawn to him.

To General Acacius, she stood apart from the other women, a solitary figure amidst the swirling gowns and leering faces. Her posture was defiant, her gaze distant. Her skin, pale as moonlight, was etched with a sadness that mirrored his own insecurities. Acacius had seen many women in his life, women of privilege and women of the streets, but none had affected him like this in a mere glance. There was an ethereal quality about her, a wildness that resonated deep within his soul. It was as if he was looking at a creature from another world, a creature both fragile and fierce. A creature that must be discovered. 

He found himself drawn to her, a strange pull that defied logic. It was as if a dormant part of himself, a part he had long believed dead, was stirring to life. He watched her, mesmerized, as she moved through the crowd, a ghost of truth haunting the edges of the faux celebration.

Later that evening, while Geta was occupied with his guests, Cecilia found herself drawn towards the gardens, a place of peace and silence. She wandered aimlessly, the weight of her gilded cage heavy upon her. She took her brown hair out of the loosely woven braids, wiping the makeup from her face. And there, beneath the starlight, she encountered him again. General Acacius was gazing at the stars, a pensive expression on his face.

"A beautiful night," he remarked, his voice a low rumble to not draw attention to the two of them. 

Cecilia, startled, turned to face him. "Indeed," she replied, her voice barely a whisper.

A comfortable silence fell between them. For the first time since her capture, Cecilia felt a sense of calm, a momentary respite from the suffocating weight of her guilt and fear. The one thing she had prayed for.

"You seem out of place here," Acacius observed, his gaze lingering on her.

Acacius, a man accustomed to observing behavior, recognizes this difference in Cecilia. He sees a lost spirit, a soul that yearns for something more. This, in turn, piques his interest and draws him toward her like a moth to a flame. 

Cecilia managed a small smile. "I most certainly am, I did not ask for this."

As they spoke, Cecilia noticed a subtle shift in his gaze, a fleeting hardness in his eyes that was quickly masked by a practiced indifference. Something about him, a certain arrogance in his bearing, a cruel set to his jaw, seemed strangely familiar. Then, it hit her with the force of a physical blow.

The engraved insignia on his breastplate. She had seen it before. On the breastplates of the Roman soldiers who had pierced Atticus through the chest. It was the symbol of the Third Legion, the legion that had ravaged her homeland, the legion that had taken everything from her. Panic clawed at her throat as if it were swelling shut. This man, this man who had offered her a fleeting sense of solace, was the enemy. He was the embodiment of everything she hated, everything she had sworn to fight.

Her carefully constructed facade shattered. The calm she had fleetingly experienced evaporated, replaced by a sense of dread. 

Acacius, oblivious to the turmoil raging within her, continued to speak, his voice a low, hypnotic drawl. "This city," he mused, "it suffocates the soul."

Cecilia forced herself to meet his gaze, her voice trembling slightly. "It certainly does."

But, she was unable to hide her fury. Cecilia had always been an impatient girl, who was never one to hold her tongue. “You’re the leader of the Roman army, yes?”

Acacius's eyes narrowed, the amusement fading from his expression. "And if I am?" he inquired, his voice indifferent.

Cecilia felt a surge of adrenaline. This was it. The truth was out. "The Third Legion," she hissed, "The one that destroyed Numidia. You were there, weren't you?"

Acacius's eyes narrowed further, a predatory glint entering his gaze. He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a menacing whisper. "You think too much, little bird. I am the General of the Roman Armies, of course I was there. I ordered the attack.”

Cecilia felt a chill crawl down her spine, loss still gripping her heart. The blood drained from her face, leaving her feeling faint. The man who had offered her a brief moment of solace, who had seemed to understand her pain, was the architect of her suffering. He was the monster who had taken everything from her. Anger, cold and furious, surged through her. She wanted to scream, to lash out, to tear him apart with her bare hands. But she knew better. This was not the time for defiance.

"Perhaps," Acacius continued, his voice a silken caress, "we should have a discussion.”

He reached out, his hand hovering over hers. Cecilia flinched, fear and uncertainty overtaking all of her other emotions. How could she trust him? 

“A discussion of what, General?” her voice was bitter, “how your army killed everyone I loved? And destroyed my home?”

Acacius's smile faltered, a flicker of something akin to guilt crossing his features. He withdrew his hand, his gaze hardening. "Sometimes," he said, his voice low and seemingly insecure, "the ends justify the means."

Cecilia scoffed, the sound bitter and harsh. "What ends could possibly justify the slaughter of innocents? The murder of my lover?”

Acacius remained silent for a moment, his eyes fixed on the ground. Then, he looked up, but was still unable to meet her eyes. "The preservation of Rome," he said, his voice devoid of emotion, as if his words were rehearsed. "The expansion of our empire. These are noble goals."

"Noble goals?" she repeated, her voice dripping with sarcasm as she laughed. "Goals built on the bones of the innocent? On the tears of the bereaved?"

Acacius remained unfazed. "Sentimentality has no place in matters of state," he said coldly. "The weak must be sacrificed for the greater good."

However, Cecilia sensed a dissonance in his words, a disconnect between the icy facade he presented and the flicker of something akin to regret that had crossed his features. She sensed a warmness within him that she could not quite pinpoint. He was playing a role, reciting a well-rehearsed script as if he had known it his whole life. But beneath the surface, Cecilia sensed a deeper, more complex emotion, something that hinted at a man who was not entirely comfortable with the atrocities he had committed.

Suddenly, Geta appeared in the garden, a look of enraged fury on his face. He saw Cecilia standing with the General, his wife not among the revelers as she should be. His jealousy, like a venomous snake, coiled within him.

"Cecilia!" Geta growled, his voice echoing through the garden. "What in the name of the gods is the meaning of this?!"

Cecilia's heart pounded against her ribs. This was a disaster. Acacius, however, remained stoic. He turned to face Geta, a cool smile playing on his lips. "Enjoying the festivities, Emperor?" he inquired, his voice laced with a hint of bitterness.

The tension in the air crackled as Emperor Geta ignored General Acacius’ remark.

“My dear,” Geta said to Cecilia, “there is someone I want you to meet.”

In walked Emperor Caracalla, Geta’s older brother. If she thought Emperor Geta was mad and cynical, she had not yet felt the wrath of Emperor Caracalla. Caracalla’s face was etched with a brooding intensity as he strode into the room. He was a man of imposing stature, his eyes cold and calculating just like his brother, but in a more intense way. Caracalla surveyed the room, his gaze finally settling on Cecilia.

Geta, noticing the intensity of his brother's stare, giving  Cecilia a possessive squeeze around the waist. "Caracalla," he said, "meet Cecilia, my wife."

Caracalla's gaze lingered on Cecilia, a predatory glint in his eyes. She was not sure if he wanted to touch her or kill her. He stepped closer, his voice a low growl, "So, this is the woman who has captivated my brother's attention?"

Cecilia forced herself to meet his gaze. Caracalla's eyes were unsettling, a chilling mixture of lust and desire. She felt a wave of apprehension wash over her. This encounter had the potential to be far more dangerous than she had anticipated. Caracalla did not care about weddings, he would have what he wanted.

Geta, misinterpreting her fear as shyness, chuckled. "Don't be intimidated, Cecilia," he said, his voice laced with a hint of mockery. "Caracalla is merely admiring your beauty."

Caracalla's smile was a wolfish grin. "Indeed," he murmured, his gaze sweeping over Cecilia's form with a predatory gleam. "You are a captivating creature."

Cecilia felt a surge of dread. This was the opening act of a dangerous game, a game where she was the prize. “I know all about you,” Cecilia said to Caracalla, “you came to the brothel every night. You’re a man of the streets, Emperor. You shared a bed with almost every woman in the lupanar.”

The room fell silent. Geta's jaw dropped, his eyes wide with disbelief. Caracalla, however, remained unfazed. A slow smile spread across his lips, revealing a set of sharp yellow teeth.

"Indeed I have," he acknowledged with a laugh, his voice a low growl. "I have my pleasures. And I have a keen eye for…interesting specimens." He stepped closer to  Cecilia. "You, my dear, are quite intriguing."

Geta, furious, stepped between them. "Caracalla! This is my wife!"

Caracalla chuckled, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "Relax, brother," he said dismissively. "I merely meant to express my admiration. We did share a bed a time or two at the lupanar.”

Geta's face contorted in a mask of fury, his eyes blazing with a dangerous light. Caracalla, sensing his brother's rage, leaned back, his eyes still fixed on Cecilia, a playful smirk playing on his lips.

Cecilia, meanwhile, couldn’t help but stifle a laugh. Although the air in the room seemed to thicken, the irony of the situation was too much to bear. She was caught in the crossfire of a deeply personal and potentially explosive conflict between the two brothers, the two emperors.

Geta stepped even closer towards Caracalla. "You dare to flaunt your…associations in front of my wife? Your associations with my wife?”

Caracalla, unfazed, raised an eyebrow. "And why not? After all, we both know the pleasures of the flesh, brother. You wouldn't deny it."

But Geta’s gaze lingered on Cecilia, a possessive gleam in his eyes. Cecilia could still feel the tension in the air, the atmosphere thick with unspoken threats. She had just thrown a match into a powder keg, and she had no idea what the consequences would be.

Acacius, observing the scene unfold, remained calm. He watched the brothers gripe with a grim satisfaction. He had expected this. These two brothers, bound by blood yet driven by insatiable ambition and incontinent desire, were a powder keg waiting to explode. Cecilia, with her defiant spirit, had just ignited the fuse.

He watched, his eyes narrowed as the brothers sparred. Acacius, a seasoned warrior, understood the dynamics of power. He had seen empires rise and fall, witnessed the corrosive influence of ambition on even the strongest men. Geta and Caracalla, with their unchecked power and ruthless ambition, were a ticking time bomb. Their sibling rivalry was fueled by jealousy and greed.

Acacius knew adding Cecilia to the mix was only going to cause their empire to crumble even quicker. He had no illusions about the brothers' intentions with her. They saw Cecilia as a prize, a symbol of their power and dominance. After all, an empress would fortify their power. But Cecilia, with her quiet defiance, was more than just a trophy. She was a catalyst.

Acacius, a man weary of war and the endless cycle of violence, saw an opportunity in this chaos. He could use this brewing conflict to his advantage, to further his own agenda, to perhaps even restore some semblance of order in a world consumed by greed and ambition. He knew that playing this game would be dangerous, a high-stakes gamble. But Acacius had always been a gambler, a man who thrived on uncertainty. And in this dangerous game of thrones, he was determined to play his hand. 

Caracalla's smile vanished, replaced by a cold fury as he spoke to his brother. "She is a prize, Geta," he hissed, his voice dripping with venom. "And prizes are meant to be admired, to be…appreciated."

Geta's grip tightened on Cecilia's arm, his knuckles white. "She is my property," he snarled, his eyes blazing with rage. "And you will not touch her."

The tension in the room was palpable. Cecilia, caught in the crossfire, rolled her eyes. “I am owned by no one,” she said, yanking her arm away from Geta.

Geta staggered back, his face contorted in a mask of fury. He had never been defied like this, not by anyone. His eyes, blazing with rage, darted between Cecilia and Caracalla. "You will regret those words, woman," he spat..

Caracalla, however, found himself intrigued by Cecilia's defiance. He admired her courage, her refusal to be cowed by her captors. This was not the meek, submissive girl he had initially expected.

"Now this," Caracalla mused, a slow smile spreading across his lips, "is far more interesting."

Caracalla stepped towards Cecilia, his eyes gleaming with a predatory light. "You have a spirit, little bird," he purred, his voice a silken caress. "A spirit that needs to be… tamed."

Cecilia felt a shiver crawl down her spine. Caracalla's gaze, intense and unsettling, made her skin crawl. Geta, seeing the predatory gleam in his brother's eyes, knew he had to act. He stepped between them once again, his hand hovering near the hilt of his dagger. "This is enough," Geta growled, his voice thick with barely suppressed rage. "This is my wedding feast, not the gladiatorial arena."

Caracalla, however, ignored his brother. He reached out, his hand brushing against Cecilia's cheek. "You will learn to obey," he whispered, his voice a low growl. "I will teach you if my brother cannot."

Cecilia’s heart was pounding like a drum. She was trapped in a web of lies and deceit, a fresh target. And she knew, with an unwavering certainty, that this was only the beginning.

Suddenly, a voice cut through the tension, "Perhaps a little decorum is in order, brothers."

All eyes turned towards General Acacius, his face a mask of impassivity. His presence was radiating an aura of calm authority. Geta and Caracalla, momentarily stunned by Acacius's intervention, exchanged wary glances. Acacius, a respected military leader, held a certain respect even within the Imperial court.

"A wedding celebration should be a joyous occasion," Acacius continued, his voice low and measured, "not a display of…sibling rivalry."

He turned his attention to Cecilia, his gaze searching hers. "You seem distressed, my lady. Perhaps a moment of fresh air would do you good."

General Acacius  offered her his arm, his gaze challenging Geta. Geta, still seething with anger, hesitated for a moment, then nodded reluctantly. Cecilia, seizing the opportunity, accepted Acacius's offer. She placed her hand on his broad arm, feeling a surge of odd relief in his touch. Acacius, she realized, might be her only hope.

As they walked away from the tense scene, Cecilia turned to Acacius, her voice barely a whisper, "Thank you."

Acacius smiled faintly. "Consider it a…favor."

He knew this was far from over for her. The brothers, their rivalry now further inflamed, would not easily forget this incident. But for now, he had provided Cecilia with a brief respite, a moment to gather her thoughts.

“You seem troubled,” Acacius said to her, not releasing her arm. Cecilia did not pull away, but seeked refuge in the feeling of his strong bicep. 

“Very troubled,” she replied, “I did not ask for any of this. Death would be a privilege compared to what I will face tonight with Geta.”

Acacius's gaze softened. He understood the fear that gripped her, the brothers were relentless and would use her to please even their wildest fantasies. He had seen that same fear in the eyes of countless women who crossed their path.

"You are not alone," he said, his voice a low rumble, a promise whispered in the night. "I will not let them harm you."

Cecilia looked up at him, surprised. He was an enemy, a Roman general, yet he offered her an immeasurable amount of comfort, a promise of protection. It was a strange sensation, a flicker of hope in the midst of despair.

"Thank you," she whispered again, her voice barely audible.

Acacius turned his head to face her. "Consider it a…debt paid."

Cecilia's eyebrows arched. "A debt?"

Acacius's gaze met hers, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his eyes. "Let's just say," he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "I have my own reasons for wanting to keep the peace with you, at least for now."

[munstysmind]

WARNING/S: non-con, rape, loss of virginity, rough sex, rough vaginal sex, rough oral sex, rough anal sex, unprotected sex, multiple men, blood, assault, abuse, slavery, trauma, threats of forced prostitution, mentions of kidnapping/abduction, mentions of death, mentions or murder, mentions of injuries, mentions of suicide. If I’ve missed anything, please let me know.

DEAD DOVE, DO NOT EAT

THIS IS A DARK FIC, DO NOT READ IF THIS TYPE OF CONTENT TRIGGERS OR OFFENDS YOU.

You and you alone are responsible for what you choose to consume online.

YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!!

DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT GIVE PERMISSION FOR MY WORK TO BE USED IN ANY CAPACITY

Divider by @firefly-graphics

Thank you to @dragonsneversharetheirtreasure for being my ideas gremlin, and @themaradwrites for beta-ing. This wouldn’t have been written without your help.

MAIN MASTERLIST

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CH. 1 - THEIR REWARD

{54 BC}

Her heart pounds in her chest as she slowly walks down the hall towards the man she despises more than anything in this world.

Dominus Julius Fabius. Her owner. Her master.

She wishes she could stick him in the neck with a dagger and watch him bleed to death, just like all the men he condemns when he forces them into the arena.

He’s pure evil.

The kind of evil Orcus uses to make an example of. The God of punishment and the Underworld is going to have fun with her master when he passes into the afterlife.

She’s lost count of how long it’s been. Five years? Probably more, if she’s being honest with herself. She doesn’t even know who she is anymore.

Except her name.

Amina.

To everyone around her, she’s a thing. An object meant to do as she’s told. No exceptions.

She runs her finger along the cold iron bolted around her neck, her slave collar.

Thirty coins. That’s what he paid for her. She didn’t know you could put a price on someone’s life but that’s what hers was worth, thirty whole coins.

“There you are girl” he growls as he grabs her wrist tightly and drags her towards a door at the end of the hall “I’m in a right mind to give you a lashing for making me wait”

“I’m sorry, they… they wanted to make sure everything was perfect” she mumbles, keeping her eyes on the floor to help hide her tears as she recalls the looks of pity on the faces of the women who got her ready.

She knows they know what her Master’s plans are, and she suspects the reason they took so long was to keep her from her fate for as long as they possibly could.

“I don’t care. Those fighters in there won me a lot of denarii today. You’re going to let them do whatever they want to you. All. Night” her master tells her, getting so close to her she can feel his warm, vile breath across her face.

“I… I’ve never…” she stammers, her eyes going wide as she realises what he’s saying.

“I know. I know you’ve never laid with a man before, they checked you when I brought you. That’s why I chose you” he says, a smirk spreading across his face. “Maybe I should put you in the Lupanar and whore you out after they’ve broken you in. Gods know you’d make me a fortune”

It takes everything in her not to turn and run as fast as she can as she swallows down the bile rising in her throat.

It would be pointless though, there’s guards everywhere. She wouldn’t make it to the end of the hall before they caught her. She’d be guaranteed a lashing too, a public one at that. Just like Vesta.

“I mean it girl. You’re theirs tonight. I don’t care if it hurts… in fact, I want it to. A lot” he whispers, pulling out a small dagger and cutting one of the shoulders of her dress, exposing her breast.

He runs the dagger tip over her nipple, pressing it into the sensitive bud until it breaks the skin, making her let out a small whimper of pain.

“If you resist, or put up a fight, you’ll be punished, and it’ll be much worse than what they’re going to do” he growls before pushing her into the room.

She can’t help but flinch as the large wooden door is slammed in her face, the echo of the metal latch being closed ringing in her ears.

She just stands there, staring at it as she takes shuddery breaths.

She knows what’s about to happen. What she’s about to go through. And there’s nothing she can do about it.

She’s trapped.

Locked in a room with three blood covered fighters.

Their reward for winning their master 5000 coin.

She’s their prize.

“Turn around” a deep voice commands, making her jump.

She closes her eyes, praying to the Gods that she wakes up from this nightmare as she slowly turns around.

She sees the man the voice belongs to and her breath catches in her throat as she fights back tears.

He’s the one who killed her brother.

Champion gladiator August.

“Name” he growls, slowly approaching her with a look similar to the lions in the arena before they attack.

“Am… Amina” she stammers, stumbling back against the door as he towers over her.

She can smell death on him. The twang of iron, of blood. Was it her brothers?

Her stomach churns at the thought and she wants to be sick.

“Amina” he repeats “honest, faithful. Beautiful name for a beautiful woman”

Under any other circumstance she might have smiled and thanked him for his compliment, just like she was taught, but not this time. She just can’t.

“I like to know their names before I take what I want” he tells her with a smirk.

He remembers them, every name. All the women he’s taken this way. Amina’s the latest entry on his ever growing list.

He grabs her dress and tears it off her body, letting the fabric crumple to the floor.

She instinctively tries to cover herself, but he stops her, prying her hands away from her body before grasping her breasts and squeezing.

A grin spreads across his face as he continues to grope her, pinching and rolling her nipples tightly between his fingers, making her whimper in pain.

The noise makes him let out a low growl from deep in his chest and his eyes go dark, almost black.

Before she can fully register what’s happening, he grabs her by the back of her neck and yanks her towards the small table on the other side of the room, forcing her onto her back.

He takes her legs behind the knees and pushes them open, exposing her to not only him, but the other two men in the room who are now standing behind him and looking over his shoulder.

Her stomach churns as she stares at the ceiling, her face burning with embarrassment as she tries to think of anything to distract her from the way he’s inspecting her.

She bites back a whimper as he touches her, his fingers playing with her most intimate area before spreading it open.

He lets out a satisfied hum, a smirk spreading across his face when he sees she’s intact, just like their Master promised.

“I’ve never had a pure one before” he says, to no one in particular as he pinches the small bundle of nerves above her opening, making her gasp loudly.

“They’re my favourite. Oh, the noises they make” one of the other men says excitedly, much to August’s annoyance.

“She’s mine, Lloyd” he growls, glaring at the man before turning his attention back to her, really looking at her for the first time since she entered the room.

And as much as she tries to look away, to look anywhere but the face of the man that’s about to brutalise her, she can't. Her green, terror filled eyes just stare at him, transfixed.

He’s seen her eyes, and that look, before. He knows he has. There’s something so familiar about them and it takes him a minute to place it. The man he killed in the arena a mere hours before. Her brother.

“You’ve got his eyes” he tells her before turning his gaze back between her legs.

She’s so caught up in the flood of emotions at what he just said that she doesn’t notice his finger pushing into her until it’s too late.

She lets out a loud yelp at the sudden pain between her legs, her body instinctively trying to close her legs and move away from the beast of a man in front of her.

He lets out an angry growl and yanks her up by her arm, turning her around and bending her over the table with so much force all the air leaves her lungs when her chest makes contact with the wooden surface.

“Don’t move” he growls, kicking her legs apart with his feet.

She grips the edge of the table, so tightly her fingers hurt, as tears well in her eyes. She prays the talk of his stamina is wrong, that it will be over quickly.

But it won’t.

When he’s done with her, there’s two more waiting.

And they have her all night…

The sound of his armour dropping onto the ground behind her makes her heart pound.

It’s happening.

Right now.

She squeezes her eyes shut, trying her best to relax when she feels him prod at her again, but it doesn’t matter.

He snaps his hips forward and tears into her with force, pulling a scream of pain from her that makes him grin.

In all the beatings she’s gotten over the years, she’s never felt pain like this.

It’s like a searing hot poker being forced into her over and over as she’s split in two.

The tears in her eyes escape and spill onto the table as he thrusts into her, over and over and over again. It feels like the more she cries, the harder his thrusts become.

“Best one I’ve had yet” he grunts as he lays over her, pressing her against the table with his full body weight, and starts grinding into her, moaning loudly in her ear.

He’s enjoying this, getting pleasure out of hurting her. How can he not? He’s a sadistic bastard!

Little does she know she’s not the first woman he’s forced himself into. It’s the whole reason he’s stuck fighting in that gods forsaken arena in the first place. And unless he dies there, she won’t be the last.

“You’re mine now, gonna take you like this whenever I want” he pants, making her let out a loud sob at the thought of him doing this to her over and over.

It all becomes too much and her stomach churns as bile rises in her throat, burning it as she chokes and coughs it up.

His moans start becoming louder as he ruts into her hard, his hips slamming her body into the table over and over and over.

“Oh Gods!” he roars, moaning loudly as his hips stutter then still before he thrusts into her as hard as he can, filling her with a strange warmth.

He says something to her, but she doesn’t hear a word of it, unable to hear anything except the loud ringing in her ears.

She lets out a loud whimper as he pulls out of her before kneeling and pushing her legs wider, smirking at the blood mixed with his spend dripping out of her.

He catches some with his fingers and pushes them inside her, forcing it back into her as she lies on the table, her entire body shaking and twitching from shock as she takes shallow, gasping breaths.

“My turn” the second of the men says, all but pushing August out of the way before grasping her by her hair and pulling her to her feet, making her cry out.

He pushes her to her knees, making quick work of removing his armour as she glances behind him at August drinking wine from a goblet and sees the size of him for the first time, enough to make Priapus himself blush.

She looks back at the second man, terror spreading through her yet again as she comes face to face with his member.

She can’t tell if he’s bigger, but it doesn’t matter. He’s going to defile her the same way August did without a care for her.

He hooks his finger into her mouth and forces it open before pushing himself in until she starts to gag.

He holds onto the sides of her head and starts thrusting, hitting the back of her throat with each snap of his hips.

A smirk spreads across his face as he moves one of his hands to the back of her head and forces her down onto him, deep throating her.

He holds her there, moaning at the feeling of the muscles in her throat squeezing him as she chokes.

“We can’t kill her, Lloyd” August warns as she starts scratching at his legs, trying desperately to get air.

He lets out a growl as he pulls himself out of her mouth and slaps her hard across the face before grabbing it and pulling her to her feet.

“You’re going to pay for that” he hisses, manhandling her onto the small bed in the corner of the room.

He climbs on after her, roughly pulling her hips up and slamming into her from behind.

“Gods, I’ve not taken a woman this good in years” he moans, throwing his head back and gripping her hips tightly as he thrusts hard, spurred on by her cries.

“I wonder if her other hole’s just as good?” August says with a smirk, leaning against the table he just had her bent over.

“Let’s find out” Lloyd replies, spitting on her ass. He pulls out and lines himself up with her tiny puckered hole before pushing himself into her, moaning loudly at the muscles squeezing him tightly in an attempt to force him out.

She lets out a shriek of pain, her body going rigid as she tries, and fails, to get away from the man violating her in a way she didn’t think was possible.

He lets out an evil laugh and pushes her face into the bed as he starts thrusting, going out of his way to hurt her as much as he can.

The noises leaving him as he uses her body for his pleasure are burned into her mind as she prays to the Gods to take her and put an end to the indescribable pain coursing through her body.

He looks down at where he’s thrusting in and out of her and smirks proudly at the sight of blood.

“It’s even better” he grunts to August, gripping her hips so tightly his nails break her skin.

“I’ll have to try it next” August says, slowly stroking himself as he watches Lloyd pound into the woman at their mercy over and over again, moaning to himself at the sound of her cries.

Lloyd lifts her hips higher, thrusting as hard as he can into her at the new angle, turning her cries into screams with every snap of his hip.

He lets out a long moan, throwing his head back as he cums hard, filling her with the same strange warmth August did.

“Gods, I’m doing that again” he pants as he slowly pulls himself out of her bloody back passage before slapping her ass, making her yelp as she collapses into the bed.

“You’ll get your chance. It’s your turn, Nick” August says, getting the attention of the third man standing on the other side of the room.

Until now, he’s not paid much attention to the events happening in the small room, trying to drown out her cries and think of anything other than what he wants to do to her.

It’s wrong, he knows it’s wrong, but he doesn’t care. He wants her. And it’s his turn to take her.

He slowly walks towards her, removing his armour as he does before gently turning her over and climbing into the bed.

“No more… please” she begs quietly as he spreads her legs with his knees and settles between them.

Asking for mercy is useless, she knows that. All she is to them is an object to seek pleasure from, to defile.

The only thing she can do is close her eyes and brace herself for the pain as he slowly pushes in, a long moan leaving him as he fills her.

But when he starts to move, the pain doesn't come.

She opens her eyes and stares at him, confused, and scared, by what she's feeling.

Why doesn’t it hurt?

Why is it so different?

Why does it feel… nice?

“Gods” she gasps, her eyes fluttering shut as he starts to speed up, letting out a moan that drowns out the one that slips past her lips.

She has no idea what he’s doing differently to August and Lloyd but she prays he keeps doing it because it feels good, amazing even.

Her mind races as she tries to understand what’s happening. Why does she feel bad, so embarrassed and ashamed, when what’s happening right now feels so good?

He moves his hips faster, harder. The sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room as he gropes one of her breasts before pinching her nipple hard, pulling another moan from her.

He slowly glides his hand up her chest to around her neck, squeezing the sides. The sudden restriction of air makes her panic and start clawing at his hands, making him squeeze even more.

Her eyes roll back as a weird pressure builds between her legs, making whatever he’s doing to her feel even better.

It suddenly breaks, making her moan loudly as a pleasant burning sensation washes over her, before everything goes black…

VENERIS FILIA TAG LIST: @dragonsneversharetheirtreasure @themaradwrites @secretaryunpaid @pixie88 @aussieez @identity2212 @fanfics-r-us-official @km-ffluv @ktficworld @sillyrabbit81 @juliaorplI78 @kingliam2019 @thebejeweledwatercat @red-write-hand @queenzee27 @therockandaroll

[juanitasupreme]

No one cares about it : Spice Girls' ranking of how much their accents changed (basically how more posh they sound)

Geri : I say this with the most respect in my heart but Geri used to sound like the most sophisticated woman of the lupanar, who smokes two packs a day. Nowadays, she is cosplaying as the lady of the castle and her pretend-to-be-posh-since-birth accent is something else

Victoria : obviously Posh sounds posh but yeah it got upgraded. Even though I saw some old ass comments from brits [derogatory] saying she wasn't legitimate as Posh because she is from Essex or something (brits are weird)

Mel C : honestly, it was for the best because up to 2007 I didn't understand half of the things coming out of her mouth

Emma/Mel B : they just grew in their normal voices/accents

[perdrelacellule]

Un des trucs qui me désolent le plus c'est que toutes les séries qui se passent dans la Rome antique finissent par être annulées (ou alors elles sont nulles). Laissez moi voir des consuls s'empoisonner entre deux tours au lupanar s'il vous plaît c'est un besoin vital.

[libero-de-mente]

Dear RAI, I tengo an idea.

A grand idea.

I credev, dopo la suspension of Noos and the success of Temptation Island, che we tutt'nnoi avessimo touch the found. Si il "found", il fondo pe' capisse.

Ma after avery visto la ceremony of the 2024 Olympics Games in Paris, agg' compreso che non c'é end al bad gusto.

Ora, torniamo alla mia great idea. (si legge "aidea" come "aigor")

Perché non metti on the air Temptatio Insulam next year?

Is fyco. (Si legge "is faico")

- Spiegazione:

Alberto Angela sarebbe conduttore, tentatore e narratore.

- Località:

Necropoli di Tarquinia / Lupanare di Pompei / catacombe di Priscilla e Colosseo /l'isola di Procida con i proci in piena prociaggine / città di Troi@ dove le troiane troiano / isola di Lesbo / isola di Creta

- Svolgimento:

Alcune coppie dovranno dimostrare il loro vero amore. (Per la cultura)

Verranno separate le coppie. Gli uomini andranno nelle lupanare di Pompei dove ci saranno le poppee, invece le donne nel Colosseo dove ci saranno i gladiatori. Quelli con il mirmillone assai pronunciato.

In qualsiasi momento un membro di una coppia può, tramite piccione viaggiatore, richiedere il falò dell'oracolo di Delfi.

Qui, alla presenza di Alberto Angela, la coppia si confronterà.

Se entrambi decideranno di mettersi alla prova, per sicurezza, l'uomo verrà mandato a Troi@ ("Ciao Penelope, vado a Troi@" -cit.; "Ma che pe' davero? E me lasci sola co' sti Proci?" -cit.), mentre la donna andrà a Cnosso dove c'è il Minotauro dotato. In un labirinto arredato con molto gusto da Arianna. Carinissimo, proprio... vorresti non uscirne più.

Se resisteranno alle tentazioni, ma sarà un'Odissea riuscirci, la coppia si ricongiungerà e usciranno di scena su una biga phiga che sfila senza sfiga in mezzo alla folla nel Circo Massimo.

Se la coppia non resisterà, l'uomo andrà a scontare le Forche Caudine a Procida con in Proci, la donna finirà sull'isola di Lesbo, indossando l'originale cintura di castità della Regina di Francia Caterina de' Medici, deve Saffo e le saffiche scrivono poesie e testi delle canzoni trap tutto il giorno.

-Finale:

Alla fine vincerà chi, tra le coppie riuscirà a dire correttamente, davanti ad Alberto Angela, i nomi de:

- i 7 re di Roma

- i 7 colli di Roma

- i 7 nani

- le 10 piaghe d'Egitto

- le 3 tentazioni di Cristo

- le 5 dita del piede sinistro

- le 5 Terre

Bonus: ripetere il nome dell'antico dio Maya "K'ukulk'an" in dialetto calabrese, guardandosi negli occhi senza ridere.

Dear RAI, what do you pens di questa my idea?

Is verry faiga second me.

Non ce ne sarebbe for anyone, all concorenza spazzata street (via).

Pensacete, think about it, atriment we're all cornut.

With love.

p.s. la scritta "Temptatio Insulam" non è grammaticamente corretta, sarebbe stato più giusto "Insula Tentationis", ma la prima scritta, seppur errata, assomiglia di più alla scritta originale di Temptation Island. ☺

[primepaginequotidiani]

PRIMA PAGINA Il Mattino di Oggi lunedì, 26 agosto 2024

[eddy25960]

Nureyev y Erick Bruhn ambos talentosos primeros bailarines tuvieron una intensa y apasionada relación sentimental, Erick sentía una verdadera pasión por el caucásico ruso al que profesó casi una adoración en el plano artísticos sentimental y profesional, ambos eran bellísimos y jóvenes, pero Nureyev no era monógamo, gustaba de aventuras eventuales, amores furtivos y buscaba encuentros con otros chicos en los bares, lupanares e inclusive en sitios a veces marginales; le gustaban los encuentros furtivos, riesgosos y sin complicación sentimental, solía inventar excusas y se escapaba en busca de otros estímulos más allá de la pareja, aunque muchos biógrafos aseguran que Erick lo aceptaba calladamente y que prefería simular que nada sucedía. Erick sabía que Nureyev era epicúreo y hedonista, finalmente ésto y otras trifulcas entre ambos quebrantó profundamente la relación sentimental hasta que terminó. Pero como los grandes artístas que fueron la separación no quebrantó la amistad, ni la mutua admiración que ambos se profesaban.

(Angel A. Padron Hernandez publication)

[deromanuscoven]

༯𝖂𝖊𝖑𝖈𝖔𝖒𝖊 𝖙𝖔 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝕾𝖕𝖗𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝕱𝖊𝖘𝖙𝖎𝖛𝖆𝖑 𝖔𝖋 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖉𝖊 𝕽𝖔𝖒𝖆𝖓𝖚𝖘 𝕮𝖔𝖛𝖊𝖓༯

𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕾𝖕𝖗𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝕱𝖊𝖘𝖙𝖎𝖛𝖆𝖑 𝖜𝖎𝖑𝖑 𝖇𝖊𝖌𝖎𝖓 𝖔𝖓 𝕬𝖕𝖗𝖎𝖑 24 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖗𝖚𝖓 𝖙𝖍𝖗𝖔𝖚𝖌𝖍 𝕸𝖆𝖞 8 𝖜𝖎𝖙𝖍 𝖆 𝖇𝖔𝖓𝖚𝖘 𝖉𝖆𝖞 𝖙𝖍𝖆𝖙 𝖜𝖎𝖑𝖑 𝖈𝖔𝖓𝖈𝖑𝖚𝖉𝖊 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖊𝖛𝖊𝖓𝖙 𝖔𝖓 𝕸𝖆𝖞 9.

-IMPORTANT- 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝘄𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝗯𝗲 𝗱𝗶𝘃𝗶𝗱𝗲𝗱 𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗼 𝘁𝘄𝗼 𝘄𝗲𝗲𝗸𝘀: 𝗪𝗲𝗲𝗸 𝟭 - 𝗔𝗽𝗿𝗶𝗹 𝟮𝟰 𝘁𝗼 𝗠𝗮𝘆 𝟬𝟭 𝗪𝗲𝗲𝗸 𝟮 - 𝗠𝗮𝘆 𝟬𝟮 𝘁𝗼 𝗠𝗮𝘆 𝟬𝟵 𝗧𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝘄𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝗯𝗲 𝘁𝘄𝗼 𝗱𝗶𝗳𝗳𝗲𝗿𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝗽𝗼𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗿𝘀 𝗲𝗮𝗰𝗵 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝗽𝗿𝗼𝗺𝗽𝘁𝘀 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗱𝗮𝘁𝗲𝘀 𝗼𝗳 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘄𝗲𝗲𝗸 𝗼𝗳 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝗼𝗻𝗴𝗼𝗶𝗻𝗴.

-Important-𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘬 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘵, 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘵𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘣𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘴 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘈𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘭 24 𝘵𝘰 𝘔𝘢𝘺 01.

-The poster for the second week of the event will be posted on the Coven blog on May 02, it will contain all the prompts for the second week of the event, until its conclusion.

-𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝖔𝖓𝖑𝖞 𝖗𝖚𝖑𝖊, 𝖜𝖍𝖎𝖈𝖍 𝖞𝖔𝖚 𝖆𝖑𝖑 𝖐𝖓𝖔𝖜 𝖇𝖞 𝖓𝖔𝖜, 𝖎𝖘 𝖗𝖊𝖘𝖕𝖊𝖈𝖙 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖑𝖔𝖛𝖊 𝖋𝖔𝖗 𝕬𝖓𝖓𝖊 𝕽𝖎𝖈𝖊'𝖘 𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖗𝖆𝖈𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖘.

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘚𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘍𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘢𝘭 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘈𝘯𝘯𝘦 𝘙𝘪𝘤𝘦'𝘴 𝘊𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘪𝘤𝘭𝘦𝘴. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘸𝘰 𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘬𝘴, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘬 𝘪𝘯 𝘈𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘩 𝘰𝘧 𝘝𝘦𝘯𝘶𝘴, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘬 𝘪𝘯 𝘔𝘢𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘩 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘧 𝘳𝘰𝘴𝘦𝘴, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘢𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘝𝘦𝘯𝘶𝘴.

༯𝘈𝘯𝘺 𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘬 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘦 𝘢𝘤𝘤𝘦𝘱𝘵𝘦𝘥, 𝘧𝘢𝘯𝘢𝘳𝘵, 𝘮𝘰𝘰𝘥𝘣𝘰𝘢𝘳𝘥𝘴, 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘤𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘯, 𝘱𝘰𝘦𝘮𝘴, 𝘴𝘮𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴, 𝘧𝘢𝘯𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘦𝘵𝘤….

༯𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘦 𝘵𝘸𝘰 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘵𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩 𝘥𝘢𝘺 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘍𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘢𝘭 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘣𝘰𝘵𝘩 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘢𝘭𝘴𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘦𝘯, 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘯𝘰 𝘭𝘪𝘮𝘪𝘵.𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴!-

༯𝘓𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘣𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘦 𝘢𝘤𝘤𝘦𝘱𝘵𝘦𝘥, 𝘢𝘴 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘧 𝘣𝘺 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘬 𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘤𝘵 𝘶𝘴 𝘴𝘰 𝘸𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘢𝘥𝘥 𝘪𝘵.

༯𝘞𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘢𝘴𝘬 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦 𝘵𝘢𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘬 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 '𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘰𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘶𝘴𝘤𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴' 𝘴𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘪𝘵 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘨.

-𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒃𝒂𝒏𝒏𝒆𝒓 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒎𝒑𝒕𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒇𝒓𝒆𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒖𝒔𝒆, 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒔𝒆 𝒘𝒉𝒐 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒖𝒔𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎 𝒕𝒐 𝒂𝒄𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒑𝒂𝒏𝒚 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒊𝒓 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒌

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘬𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘪𝘱𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘮𝘪𝘵𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘫𝘰𝘺 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘱𝘶𝘵 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘬𝘴!

-A very special and heartfelt thank you to @shittyravencarcosa and @herbeloved82 for preparing and working passionately on the prompts. Thank you for your efforts, and thank you for the prompts.

-Below are the prompts that will accompany us during the duration of the Festival:

༯𝖉𝖆𝖞 1༯ - Fuck like a God/Venus as a boy

༯𝖉𝖆𝖞 2༯ - Lupanare/Little satyr god of the woods

༯𝖉𝖆𝖞 3༯ - Quotation from "Blood & Gold"/ On the concept of resurection

༯𝖉𝖆𝖞 4༯ - I want only love or death/Self improvement is masturbation

༯𝖉𝖆𝖞 5༯ - Petit mort/Light of my life,fire of my loins, my sin,mysoul

༯𝖉𝖆𝖞 6༯ - Floralia/Bed of roses and thorns

༯𝖉𝖆𝖞 7༯ - Rose mouth/The ballad of blind love

༯𝖉𝖆𝖞 8༯ - Loved by the god of love/Cold like a statue, burning like fire

[waltfrasescazadordepalabras]

Franz Kafka solía frecuentar los prostíbulos de Praga. Desde muy joven, su padre le había aconsejado acudir a una meretriz. Después de una primera y rotunda negativa (él siempre intentó ser lo opuesto a su padre), en 1912, cuando dejó su papel como lector y empezó realmente a escribir, también exploró otra inquietud. Mientras viajaba por Europa con su amigo Max Brod, además de realizar unos dibujos curiosísimos y asistir a playas nudistas, visitó diversos burdeles, lo cual terminó convirtiéndose en un hábito. Kafka disfrutaba de la playa, jugaba al tenis y a menudo se lo veía sonriente. Manejaba su motocicleta a toda velocidad rumbo a los lupanares. Le escribe a Max Brod: “Ayer, de pura soledad, me llevé a una prostituta a un hotel. Era demasiado vieja para seguir siendo melancólica. Y solo le apenaba que los hombres no fueran tan cariñosos con las prostitutas como lo son con sus amantes. Y no la consolé porque ella tampoco me consoló.” Lo anterior puede chocar con la imagen idealizada que se ha difundido de él: el genio oscuro de laberintos opresivos, el asceta lumínico que nos libra de su revelación. El monje, el monasterio que es Franz Kafka. También se lo suele ver, al igual que a Poe, como un escritor atormentadísimo que solo retrata sus miserias. En lo personal, yo he visto otra imagen: la de un genio que puede leer este mundo, pero también la de un artista que juega y, desde una recóndita y lúcida imaginación, impone sus visiones infantiles y terriblemente hilarantes. Si hay alguien que me ha hecho reír, tiene que ser él. Hay un cuento que se titula "La cigüeña". Un personaje encuentra un huevo de cigüeña encima de su mesa, así que se propone alimentarlo y lo hace con pescado podrido. Todo con la condición de que, cuando el pájaro crezca, lo lleve volando hacia las tierras del sur. Como no confía completamente en el ave, y para mayor seguridad, le pone una pluma en el pico y la obliga a firmar un contrato. No solo en su biografía, sino también en su obra, podemos entender que en realidad no se parece a la imágen mítica, atormentada y sacrosanta que quieren hacernos creer. Lo veo mucho más extrovertido y cómico, renuente al aislamiento y en busca de placer carnal. Mientras escribía, solía beber leche azucarada.

Escrito por Francisco Sandoval

[greekmythcomix]

For an ongoing commission: a very quick sketch of the fresco of men gambling from the Bar-Lupanar Osteria della Via di Mercurio Pompeii VI 10, 1-19 (photograph by Nicolas Monteix 2003)

I had to move the right hand side figure in for the image, but otherwise this is my attempt at a faithful rendition. The final image has less cartoonish faces, but I think they’re cute!

[aurevoirmonty]

Les grands lupanars d’arts modernes, les immenses clans hollywoodiens, toutes les sous-galères de l’art robot, ne manqueront jamais de ces saltimbanques dépravés… Le recrutement est infini. Le lecteur moyen, l’amateur rafignolesque, le snob cocktailien, le public enfin, la horde abjecte cinéphage, les abrutis-radios, les fanatiques envedettés, cet international prodigieux, glapissant, grouillement de jobards ivrognes et cocus, constitue la base piétinable à travers villes et continents, l’humus magnifique le terreau miraculeux, dans lequel les merdes publicitaires vont resplendir, séduire, ensorceler comme jamais. 

Louis-Ferdinand Céline

[lepartidelamort]

L’horrible Marine Le Pen dénonce le « racisme nauséabond » de la gauche qui dit que les Mahorais ne sont pas français.

Pour nourrir ses noirs fétiches, le RN veut instaurer l'esclavage des Blancs.

C’est l’extrême-gauche les vrais racistes.

Mayotte en France précédemment :

Rennes : un homme grièvement blessé après une rixe au couteau dans un Mc Donald’s 

Père de famille tué dans l’Aveyron : « Il n’y a aucune excuse à ce qu’a fait mon fils » 

Brest : pour le ramadan, organisation de combats de moukères de Mayotte 

À Rennes, un pédophile de Mayotte viole une lesbienne

Toulon : après avoir refusé de donner une cigarette, il se fait arracher le pied par un SDF mahorais

Montpellier : poignardée au cou pour un téléphone par un Mahorais déjà connu de la justice

Châlons-en-Champagne : un primate mahorais agresse sexuellement une femme enceinte

Rodez : une jeune Française brutalement violée en pleine rue par un Nègre musulman de Mayotte

Le patriotisme antiraciste saucisson-pinard est une maladie mentale.

Marine Le Pen arrive même à nier que les cafres de Mayotte appartiennent biologiquement au peuple comorien et ce, peu importe comment on le mesure : génétiquement, linguistiquement, géographiquement, religieusement.

Un drapeau tricolore, et voilà !

Nous sommes plus proches des babouins de Mayotte que des Allemands – source : souverainiste moyen

Je jubile à la vue de la réalisation de ma prophétie, ici annoncée depuis longtemps. L’émergence du nationalisme mahorais intégral est un processus irréversible, dernier clou dans le cercueil de Charles Maurras.

Notez-le bien et archivez-le : la droite antiraciste acceptera (au futur, pas au conditionnel) d’abandonner Beauvais ou Limoges avant Mamoudzou. D’ailleurs il n’y a rien à abandonner à Mamoudzou, ils sont déjà tous noirs et musulmans.

Mamoudzou, comme Londres en 1940, devient le coeur battant du souverainisme français, pas Paris – de toute façon déjà livrée à l’Afrique noire.

C’est marron et ça pue, véritable Haïti de substitution, c’est l’omphalos du Frexit. Ce lupanar aimante d’instinct tous les obsédés de l’Une-et-Indivisible dans leur défi lancé à l’existence des races depuis 1789.

La seule chose qui pourrait susciter un flottement quant à cette passion obsessionnelle, ce serait d’exiger de cette droite antiraciste qu’elle choisisse entre Israël et Mamoudzou. Ce serait un dilemme, surtout pour beaucoup d’homosexuels patriotes.

Très souvent ici, nous engageons des discussions pour lesquelles la très grande majorité des gens ne sont pas prêts. Mayotte, et par extension la litanie de ces glorieuses îles à sauvages « d’Outre-Mer », en fait partie et en bonne place, même si le miracle mahorais, de par sa dimension islamique, se hisse en haut du podium.

Macron est arrivé sur place et je peux déjà dire que la barrique Marine Le Pen va hurler de rage contre « l’insuffisance » des montants de cash qui leur seront donnés.

Ces noirs au français approximatif sont très en colère contre les Blancs qui refusent de donner à ces glorieux compatriotes tout le pognon qu’ils méritent.

Macron parle en babouin à cette occasion.

Il a une longueur d’avance sur l’alcoolo-tabagique.

Entendez-vous jamais Marine Le Pen parler de l’Auvergne, du Béarn, de la Savoie ou de la Bretagne ?

Cela n’existe pas dans sa géographie mentale.

Sans cocotiers, sans rhum et sans nègres rigolards, cela ne peut pas intéresser Dalida.

Après Dreyfus, c’est Mayotte qui a conquis l’âme de la droite française pour ne plus l’abandonner. Plus tôt vous le comprendrez, plus tôt vous vous émanciperez de cette entreprise humaine désastreuse.

Miousette ne sait pas.

Vous n’êtes pas tenu de devenir un aliéné au service de la négraille pour complaire aux gens atteints par la névrose souverainiste qui se font élire avec ses voix.

Le racisme vous délivrera de toutes vos chaînes, de toutes vos entraves dont les escrocs du souverainisme essaient de vous convaincre qu’elles sont aussi légères que des plumes.

Rien ne vous oblige à être l’esclave des nègres et sûrement pas la rente électorale du gang lepéniste.

« Nourris ma bête, Aryen maudit ! »

Démocratie Participative

[leseffrontesfr]

— Bonjour Monsieur Diogène… Je ne vous dérange pas au mauvais moment ? — Ôte-toi de mon soleil. — Pardon Monsieur Diogène, mais ce n’est pas moi qui vous fait de l’ombre, c’est la rampe de l’escalier. Je suis Thaïs. — Inconnue au bataillon… Ah si ! La blondasse du Rassemblement Paphlagonien ? Elle veut quoi la pépète ? — Maître, accordez-moi je vous prie un peu de votre temps et de votre sagesse. — Il n’y a qu’un doigt de différence entre un sage et un imbécile. — Les femmes modernes surestiment leur valeur et ce qu’elles méritent réellement. Plutôt que de se confronter à la réalité de ce qui est optimal pour elles et trouver ainsi un bonheur atteignable, la plupart préfèrent rester cramponnées à leurs rêves et leurs illusions, jusqu’à y sacrifier leur vie sentimentale. Voilà pourquoi elles ne se marient pas, divorcent, trompent ou préfèrent rester seules. — Grand bien leur fasse. Les jeunes hommes ne doivent pas encore se marier, et les vieillards ne doivent jamais se marier. — Le devoir conjugal d’un homme n’est-il pas de protéger sa famille et son épouse de tous les dangers ? Le devoir conjugal d’une femme n’est-il pas de respecter son mari, de lui offrir sa pureté et sa beauté et élever des enfants sains ? — Pour quoi faire ? Nous venons au monde seuls et nous mourons seuls. Pourquoi, dans la vie, devrions-nous être moins seuls ? — Vous êtes cynique ! — Ben oui ! (mort de rire) Les chiens et les philosophes font le plus grand bien et obtiennent le moins de récompenses. — Si vous êtes indifférent au dessein, soyez au moins bon conseiller quant à la méthode. Sûrement, vous serez d’accord avec moi : Avant de s’engager sérieusement avec une femme, un homme devrait avoir connu trois à cinq jeunes filles d’abord, pour poser un choix éclairé. S’engager avec la première venue, c’est prendre le risque de faire exploser son couple dans les quinze ans à venir. — Bof… Quant on est jeune, il est trop tôt ; quant on est vieux, il est trop tard.Et puis, bah… pour connaître trois à cinq jeunes filles, ce n’est pas difficile : il suffit d’aller au lupanar, ou d’acheter une pórnai. — Monsieur Diogène ! Vous ne pouvez pas prétendre être un homme traditionnel et être accroc à la pornographie. Avant de critiquer les femmes qui se prostituent sous les péristyles, arrêtez de consommer leurs services. Sinon, vous êtes un hypocrite. — Oh ! Mais elle me les piétine menues, l’hétaïre à particule ! — Moi, une hétaïre ? Je n’ai posé et ne poserai jamais en strophion, à moitié dénudée, ou en perizôma, car je suis la future épouse d’un homme. À côté de cela, la validation d’inconnus sur l’agora est insignifiante. Voilà comment devrait raisonner n’importe quelle femme qui se respecte. — À propos, tu n’as pas mis de perizôma sous ta robe aujourd’hui… On voit tout en transparence. Le soleil brille à travers et n’en est en rien pollué. — Mais… mais… Respectez-vous Diogène, un peu de dignité ! — JE M’EN BRANLE ! Il exhibe son phallus, elle pousse un cri et s’enfuit. Tout en se secouant le bidule, il soupire : — Si seulement, en se frottant de même le ventre, on pouvait aussi calmer sa faim !