#signor g

[gertjanvr]

[queerstuffonscreen]

Il signore delle formiche (Lord of the Ants) (2022)

134 min.

Country: Italy

Genre: History, Biography, Drama

Language: Italian (stream with English subtitles)

Based on true events of the late 60s in Italy, poet, playwright and myrmecologist Aldo Braibanti is prosecuted and sentenced to prison for the love he shares with his barely-of-age pupil and friend, Ettore. Amidst a chorus of voices of accusers, supporters and a largely hypocritical public, a single committed journalist takes on the task of piecing together the truth, between secrecy and desire, facing suspicion and censorship in the process.

Watch or rent when available

[spettriedemoni]

Giorgio Gaber - Chiedo scusa se parlo di Maria

[dilemmaontwolegs]

Undercover || CL16

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x fem!detective!reader Summary: When reports of a crime sends Charles into your path you could never imagine what an effect it would have on your life and the case that you lived to solve. Warnings: 18+ only, mentions of s*x traff*cking, g*nshot wound, reader injury. Enemies to friends to lovers WC: 7.2k

F1 Masterlist

“You do realise it is my day off? That means I don’t need to answer my phone, and definitely not at,” you pulled the glaringly bright screen back to see the time, “two in the morning.”

“I know, I know,” your boss sighed apologetically. “I’m really sorry to do this but I know you were working anyway.”

You sat up and rubbed your bleary eyes to see the pages of reports scattered across your bed. Once again you had fallen asleep working on your own time. “Shut up.”

Chief Conti gruffled a dry laugh knowing he was right and you heard the blinds on his door rattle as he closed it. The sound set you on edge and you tossed the blankets back to start getting dressed as you tucked the phone between your shoulder and ear.

“You are at the station. What the hell has happened?” The only time the Chief was at the station outside of nine to five was if there was a national emergency. Your eyes drifted to the papers on your bed and a slither of hope started to creep in. “Did they find-”

“No. Still no word, I’m sorry,” he said, dashing the hope as soon as it started. “It���s a high profile case so I need to come in.”

You swallowed down the disappointment and grabbed your keys off the nightstand. “Alright, be there in five.”

When you arrived at the police station there were reporters with cameras filling the lobby and they even overflowed onto the front steps that you avoided by skirting around the building to the staff entrance. You were already annoyed with the case and you hadn’t even swiped your access card to the offices - but it was disturbing the air that helped you to focus.

“Ah, Detective, thank you for coming in,” Chief Conti greeted formally as he handed  a large mug of coffee over and waved a hand to the man at his side. “This is Charles Leclerc.”

You took a big gulp of the hot drink, burning your tongue without care, and willed the caffeine to work its magic quicker as you stifled a yawn. “I don’t think he needs an introduction, boss, everyone knows who he is. But, I don’t do babysitting, that’s rookie work.”

“He doesn’t need protection.”

You turned your attention to the Ferrari driver and noticed all the small details, from the way his shoulders hunched in on themselves to how his eyes darted around the room. Something had rattled his confidence and trust and you felt sorry for the man. “What can I do for you, Signore Leclerc?”

He cleared his throat and looked at his shoes with a hint of embarrassment colouring his cheeks. “My watch was stolen.”

“Your watch?” you asked slowly as you glared at the Chief, all sympathy gone in an instant. “I was called in because of a stolen watch.”

Your boss sent you a warning look and you sighed as you swiped the manila folder from his waiting hands before turning and sauntering off to your office. “Follow me.”

You didn’t look back to confirm he was following since the cheap linoleum floor made it impossible for anyone to walk quietly and you held your door open, closing it behind him as you pointed to the cushioned chair opposite your desk. You dropped down into the chair without spilling the coffee and moved enough papers around to find space for the cup to sit while you picked up a new report that had been deposited on your desk since you left last night. 

“Are you going to take my statement?” Charles asked quietly, breaking the silence that had filled the last ten minutes.

The new information you were reading didn’t serve to help your case as much as you wished it did and it was hard to keep the bitterness of that knowledge from leaking into your tone. “I have everything I need.”

“I haven’t told you anything.”

“You don’t need to,” you said looking up from the photo you had been scanning. You closed the folder and crossed your arms as you rocked back in your squeaky chair. “You were targeted by adept thieves, two at least, near la Darsena di Viareggio while you were signing autographs, given the ink stains on your fingers. The watch is worth at least 250k, which they knew since they neglected to take your wallet from your back pocket or the, what is that Cartier?, diamond necklace you have tucked under your shirt.”

“APM…” he corrected with his mouth agape. “How did you know that? I didn’t even get to explain that to the Chief.”

“There is a strip of green confetti on the sole of your shoe and last night was the celebration of the croce verde services. Then, there is the fact you were at the Red Corsair - their bouncers use ultra-violet stamps. I can see the reflection of it on your hand. Both point to la Darsena di Viareggio. Chief wouldn’t wake me for anything less than grand larceny and the rocks on that chain around your neck would have been easier to take, same with your wallet.” You grabbed a pen and spun your chair around to see the sleeping city out of your window and longed to go back to sleep too. Turning back, you tapped the pen against your lip and tilted your head inquisitively. “So tell me, Signore Leclerc, what can you add that I have missed?”

“Are you always this rude?” he asked, his eyes looking to the door like he was wishing someone would come and rescue him.

“No,” you said as you returned to the photo and lifted it up to the lamp on your desk to get a better look, “but I am tired and I have far more important things to focus on than a spoiled rich kid whose watch costs more than my apartment.”

Charles pushed himself up from the chair and you glanced up as he spoke. “I see. I’ll let you get back to your evening then.”

You frowned as his brows pinched a little in recognition and you moved the photo to see his eyes following it. “You know this man,” you surmised as you stabbed your finger at the pixelated face.

Charles leaned closer and shook his head. “I don’t know him, but I have seen him before, in Monaco.”

“Sit,” you said as you snapped your fingers and pointed to the chair. “Where does he go, how often, who does he speak to? Tell me everything.” The desk vibrated as your knee bounced excitedly beneath it and you grabbed a notepad, flipping to the blank page.

“Are you still going to look for my watch?” Charles asked as he crossed his legs and sat back with a small smirk.

“I have been looking for this man for ten years, but every time I get close to the cockroach he goes into hiding.” You opened another folder on your desk and grabbed the stack of portraits, tossing each one down on the desk. “Clarice, Shannon, Dakota, Brenna, Aliah…the list goes on. All missing on a night out along the coast, from Livorno to Sanremo. They had all just turned eighteen and wanted to have fun until they met him.”

“No offence but you don’t look old enough to have been policing for ten years.”

“I never said I was.” You stared at the portrait still in your hand and gently traced the smile that graced her lips before sliding it across the desk. “Her name was Kayla. She wanted to have a quiet night in but I begged her to go out for a few drinks. Her mother still calls me for updates and you know what I have to tell her?”

Charles swallowed as he shook his head.

“That I am too busy tracking down pickpockets because a rich boy got robbed. I have to tell her that her daughter's life, my best friend's life, has been calculated by the department and it is worth less than a 250k watch - along with the 16 other missing girls linked to this trafficker.” You grabbed your cell phone and found Mrs Ricci’s number before offering the device to Charles. “Do you still want me to look for your watch? If so, would you like to make the call and tell her yourself?”

Charles shook his head and turned the ring around his index finger, a nervous habit that you had quickly noticed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”

“Don’t apologise, just tell me everything you know about this bastard.”

The dive bar was thick with cigarette smoke and the haze only added to the sleazy vibe that it was renowned for. Nodding to the bouncer as he let you pass, you snaked your way through the crowd of delinquents and criminals that frequented the place to the bartender.

“You’re not meant to be here, not tonight,” he growled as he looked around the busy room.

“Yeah, well, it’s not exactly my idea of fun,” you scoffed as you accepted the bottle of beer he placed in front of you, “but it beats bringing the whole force down here, don’t you think?”

“Just don’t break the pool sticks again, they are new.”

You saluted him with the bottle and made your way to the doors that led to the back rooms that very few people outside of the family were given access to. You hated this side of the job, balancing on the knife edge that was morally grey, but sometimes a little oversight on a report may be in your favour at a later date. You hoped that was going to be the case this time.

This bouncer was unlike the one at the front door and he had no qualm about you seeing the revolver on his hip when he lifted his hand to rap on the door. It cracked open an inch, a thick chain glinting in the fluorescent light, and the bouncer’s whisper of warning carried along to you, “ghisa in casa.” 

The door closed and you had no doubt the men on the other side were quickly hiding whatever illegal items they were inspecting before the chain rattled off and the door opened.

“Ghisa, we weren’t expecting another visit so soon,” Vincenzo greeted, as he plucked a fat cigar from his lips.

“I’m here to call in a debt,” you said as you stepped inside and rolled your eyes at the careless job they had made of hiding half a dozen guns.

“A debt?” he chuckled. “I didn’t know we had a debt, but I can do you a favour.”

“Cut the bullshit.” You pointed to a roof tile that wasn’t quite back in place. “I don’t need a warrant to search if I have probable cause, wanna call my bluff?”

“It’s always a pleasure to deal with you,” he grumbled and took a seat, pointing to a seat that was quickly vacated. 

“A necessary evil, unfortunately.” You sat down with your beer and nudged the overflowing ashtray further away as you cut to the chase. “Richard Mille-”

Vincenzo huffed and interrupted you with a gruff, “never heard of him.”

“Funny, it’s a watch. A very expensive one too. Now, I know pickpocketing isn’t your MO but I figure scum knows scum.” You took a swig of the beer and he digested the words.

“So, my men get this watch for you and then you owe us.”

You nearly spat the mouthful of beer as your laughter filled the room. “Giacomo was there for his daughter’s birth as a free man, now he gets to see her grow. One word from me and that could have weekly visits for the next seven years.”

“He might be wishing for that now,” Vincenzo joked, earning a round of chuckles from the other men. “His wife is a bitch at the best of times but without sleep and having a newborn, prison doesn’t seem so bad.”

“I can make it happen,” you offered with a smirk. “So?”

Vincenzo cast his eyes around his men and nodded with a wave of his hand. “Go. Start with the whores, see if anyone’s come into money or wearing the Leclerc watch.” Your eyebrow curled up and he returned the look. “What? I see the news now and again. Forza Ferrari.”

“Didn’t pick you for a racing fan,” you admitted as you pursed your lips. “I figured you stuck to sports you could fix.”

His face split in a wry grin, cigar hanging from the corner. “Who said it wasn’t?” 

The country liked to put their faith in God but you found the devil was always better at getting results and Vincenzo pulled through not even a day later when a small mysterious box landed on your desk. You debated calling security but figured a bomb would have been bigger as you pulled open the bow and found the Richard Mille watch nestled on top of a note. Curiously, you picked up the watch to get the note and gagged as you found a finger underneath.

“Fucking hell,” you muttered with a shaky breath as you turned the paper over and read the promise. Slippery fingers no more, V.

It wasn’t a pleasant task to do but you wrapped the finger up in tissues and buried it at the bottom of the bin of confidential paperwork to be incinerated before pocketing the watch. You felt the weight of it the entire walk to your car where you made a phone call you didn’t want to be overheard.

Chief Conti didn’t question your sudden request for leave and you were grateful for it as you stuffed some clothes into a duffle bag and rushed down the stairs as your ride arrived. The moment the sleek black car pulled in you wanted to slap yourself. You didn’t think you really needed to tell him to be inconspicuous but obviously that was an oversight on your part as the Ferrari came to a stop.

“You stick out like a nun in a whorehouse.” 

“Hello to you too, how have you been? I’ve been better, thank you,” he muttered as you slid into the passenger seat and dumped the bag at your feet.

“Yeah, yeah, pleasantries aside - what the fuck are you driving?”

“My car. How else are we getting to Monaco?”

You looked out the window at the standard black sedan you were given by the department, the police lights not as noticeable as a police car but also not well hidden. “This is going to be a long drive,” you muttered under your breath as he started to pull out of the street. 

“Not as long as it would be in your car,” he joked but his smile disappeared when he looked across and saw your lack of amusement. “Oh, come on, lighten up.”

“I’m a little stressed alright, I need this to work.” You sighed and watched the city pass in a blur as you twisted the friendship bracelet on your wrist. “I need this to work.”

“You want to know what I do when I’m stressed?” 

You wrinkled your nose at the question and cast your eyes over his body. “You’re a man, so I’m sure I can guess.”

His laugh filled the car as he shook his head and reached for the stereo. “Music, it soothes the soul.”

“How old are you again?” you asked, the words dripping with mockery. 

“Did you always want to be a cop?” His curiosity had you sit a little straighter and you dared him to continue with the lifting of an eyebrow. “Most I have met are a little more…empathetic, nice?”

“I can be nice,” you huffed as you crossed your arms. Granted it wasn’t your strongest trait, it might have been if your life didn’t come to a screaming halt one night. Now your entire future was fixed on solving this one case, maybe then your conscience could give you a break. 

“A pâtissière,” you broke the silence and Charles glanced across with a look of confusion. “I was training to be a pastry chef.”

“That…wasn’t anything close to what I was expecting.”

“I quit and joined the academy when the case went cold. I wasn’t going to let Kayla be another unsolved file in a box on a dusty shelf in the basement. She deserves better than that. They all do.”

Charles’ knuckles tightened around the wheel until they turned white and you watched the muscle in his jaw clench as he turned to look at you. He may have been dubious about your plan before but now he had the same determination as you did. “We’ll catch him.”

Charles' apartment was exactly what you had imagined it would be. White walls, light furnishings, framed race tracks in lieu of artwork and memorabilia lining the shelves. The only surprise was an upright piano against the living room wall, though on second reflection it wasn’t all that surprising. The long drive had been filled with an eclectic range of music, including classical pieces.

Taking a seat on his couch while you paced the room, he leaned forward and began playing with the rings on his fingers. “Okay, what do you need me to do?” 

“First of all, stop that,” you said pointing to his fingers. “If you are nervous he will pick up on it. You need to look confident.”

Charles rolled his eyes and sat back in the chair, draping an arm along the back as he crossed one leg over the other. “I can be confident.”

You nodded at the change, a little impressed by how naturally it had come for him. “Play pretend a lot?”

One side of his mouth tipped up in a cocky smirk and even his eyes seemed to darken as they followed you across the room but just as suddenly as the act was switched on, he returned to his comfort of twirling his rings. “Enough to know I can do this.”

It was a little disconcerting how convincing he could be but you didn’t have the time to read too much into the problems the driver was going through internally. Maybe at another point in time you would have asked why he faked his confidence so much but that wasn’t your priority now. “Good. I’m counting on it.”

The items in the bag you had packed weren’t strictly legal since the department didn’t know you had taken them from the station but you were beyond caring. You were so close to catching the cockroach that there was nothing going to stop you. 

“Shirt off,” you said as you tipped the bag upside down on Charles’ coffee table. 

Charles frowned in confusion as he looked at all the cords and equipment. “Why?”

“I’m putting a wire on you, so strip.”

He stood up and pulled his shirt over his head, dropping it onto the couch where he had sat. It was impossible not to appreciate the sight before you tore your eyes away and returned to untangling the electronics that had been packed in a rush. He was just another informant you were prepping for the job, being fit and handsome didn’t change that.

Charles jumped a little as you ran the cord down his sternum and goosebump began to prickle across his tanned skin. “You couldn’t have warmed your hands up first, could you?”

You made a show of rubbing your hands together before continuing. “Don’t you take ice baths?”

“Don’t you have a bedside manor?”

“Sure, when the guy is in my bed.” You laughed as his eyebrows rose in response. “What? Surprised a cop can get laid or just me?”

“No, no, nothing like that, you are very good looking, I just…I’m used to women being more reserved. It surprises me to hear you talk like that.”

“The station is 95% men,” you explained as you tore a piece of tape off and stuck the wire to his chest. “If I want to fit in I have to be just another one of the boys, and they love to talk about sex. Turn around.”

Your eyes traced the straps of muscle that ran down his back to a point at the base of his spine where two dimples sat above the jeans that hung low on his hips. There had to have been dozens of people you had prepared for undercover work but none had been a canvas as perfect as this. Biting off a larger piece of tape, you secured the small battery pack and recording device to his lower back before clearing your throat.

“Where’s your closet?”

 Charles turned back to face you and you hoped he didn’t notice any change in you as you avoided his inquisitive eyes. “Down the hall, but I think I can manage getting dressed on my own.”

“Congratulations, you’re a big boy,” you muttered as you rolled your eyes. “I’m more worried about the wire showing through. Let’s go.”

He led the way through his home and into his bedroom, the bed made with a haphazard attempt to just toss the blankets down that left the corners untucked and crinkles rippling across the top. His eyes flickered around the room before his foot slyly kicked a pair of boxers under his bed and you laughed at the attempt.

“Don’t worry, I’m not your mother,” you teased before pointing to the bedside table. “If I was, I would totally shame you about the tissues and moisturiser over there.”

“I wasn’t expecting to bring anyone home,” he muttered as he opened the drawer and shoved them in before slamming it closed, making the lamp nearly fall over.

“Rich, good looking guy - figured you always had the place ready to bring a hookup back.”

“Well, you thought wrong,” he said a little bitterly as he picked up some pairless socks and tossed them in a hamper. “One night stands aren’t my thing. I prefer to have a connection with someone if I’m going to let them come into my home.”

“Connections.” You wrinkled your nose at the sentiment and started opening his drawers in search of clothing that wouldn’t interrupt the sound feed. “How’s that working out for you?”

“Been better,” he admitted, taking a seat at the end of his bed and catching the white tank top you tossed at him. “But I haven’t given up.”

“Hopeless romantic, I should have known from the sad songs you played so much.”

Charles stood up and started to pull the singlet over his head as he spoke, “It has to be better than the bitter spinster act.”

“Who said it was an act?” You caught the hem and carefully eased it over the microphone so it didn’t tug off the tape and found Charles watching you intently. Ever the perfectionist, you ran your palms down the material to erase the creases and bumps that may have given away what was hidden underneath. “I see the worst humanity has to offer every day. I see what love does to people.”

You turned away from the pity in his green eyes and walked into his wardrobe, skimming your fingers over the dress shirts that hung neatly on the racks. “I see what people do to the ones they supposedly love,” you murmured as you selected a crisp white linen shirt and held it up to his chest when you saw he had followed you into the narrow space. “I’d rather be alone.”

“That isn’t the only option,” Charles said as he took the shirt and reached past you to return the empty coat hanger, his body coming close enough to feel the heat radiating from his skin. “You could find someone who would cherish you for the rest of your life.”

“It’s a nice idea,” you smirked up at him, “for a five year old. First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes the baby in the baby carriage. I remember the nursery rhyme.”

Shaking his head, he gave up on arguing as he swung the shirt over his back and began buttoning it up while you moved onto the line of tailored trousers, then the ties. “Can you do this yourself?” you asked as you selected a rich sapphire tie that matched the pants you held. “Or do you normally have an assistant.”

Charles swiped the tie from your hand as you bit your lip to stifle the laugh and you watched his fingers thread the tie around his collar. He gave a satisfied smirk as he finished the basic knot but the smile fell at your unimpressed stare. “What? It’s perfect.”

“If you’re a 50 year old man,” you scoffed as you untied in and started over. “I’m thinking a Trinity knot will suit you better anyway, given the size of your neck.”

“Do you get off on insulting people or just me?”

“You have a thick neck, that is a fact that I’m sure saves your life given your profession. It is not an insult,” you stated plainly. “Would Usain Bolt be offended if I said he had big calves?”

“You basically called me a 50 year old man,” he huffed as you tightened the knot around his neck and pulled the collar down over it.

“No, I said the Windsor knot is perfect for a 50 year old man.” You secured the tie with a gold pin and patted his chest with a nod before you grabbed his shoulders and turned him to the full length mirror. “Looks good,” you said as you peeked around his body to see the reflection. “You’re on your own with the trousers. I believe you can manage that: zip up, belt on, done.”

Charles rolled his eyes but a small smile played at his lips as he finally stopped seeing everything you said as an insult. “Thanks for the faith, I hope it isn’t misplaced.”

“It must feel quite strange to have a voice in your head,” you whispered as you watched Charles arrive at the exclusive restaurant where you were already seated.

“Not really, this part actually feels familiar,” he replied quietly.

“That’s good, I won’t have to worry about you touching it then.” The earpieces only had a short range but you planned to stay close enough that he wouldn’t be alone while he attended the soiree in the private room above. “What is Couilles De Mouton?”

“Mutton testicles,” Charles answered with amusement thick in his tone. “A delicacy, you should try it.”

“I don’t understand how a country with such exquisite desserts can have such disgusting mains. Who saw a sheep’s testical and thought, you know what? I bet that tastes good. It’s sick.”

“Charles, good to see you again.” 

You could barely breathe as you heard his voice for the first time in almost ten years. You had memorised that sound in case you ever heard it again but imagining and hearing it were vastly different as your heart began to thump wildly in your chest. 

“Are you alright, my friend?” Ferdinand asked and you started to rise from the table as you feared Charles had frozen up.

“Charles?”

“Sorry, I was distracted by all the beautiful women here,” Charles answered, though you weren’t sure who it was aimed at. 

You heard the quiet slap and rub of material like Ferdinand had clapped Charles on the back. “You have a good eye, they are indeed beautiful. Come, I’ll make some introductions while we eat.”

“No, no that won’t be necessary,” Charles chuckled nervously and this time you did leave the table only to stumble as you heard his smooth lie. “I am actually in a relationship.”

“I won’t judge. What’s a little secret between friends?”

Your finger stabbed the elevator button over and over as time seemed to drag and Charles' answers grew weaker and weaker as he struggled with the discomfort he was facing. He had never noticed how the man he thought was just another rich part time resident of Monaco, wanting the perks of the tax haven, was always surrounded by young women. He never noticed that upon closer inspection they all held a vacant stare in their dull eyes though their smiles were permanent and bright.

“There you are, honey,” you greeted as you placed a hand on Charles’ back and rubbed it softly, slow circles to calm his racing heart. “I was looking for you everywhere.”

“Who is this?” Ferdinand asked with a smile that made you shiver. Those pearly white teeth were akin to a shark’s, ready to sink into your flesh.

“My girlfriend,” Charles said as he curled his arm around your waist and pulled you closer while you scanned the dozens of pretty faces before landing on the one that mattered most. Your throat constricted at the almost emaciated frame and how she would’ve hated wearing the cut out dress that hung off her once-enviable skeletal figure. “Amour?”

“Kayla…” you whispered as you took a half step towards her before a hand caught your shoulder, squeezing tight enough that the pain broke through the daze you were in.

“You look familiar, have we met?” Ferdinand asked as his nails dug into your skin. You didn’t even think as your hand slipped between the slit in your dress to grab your handgun from the thigh holster. 

“Yeah, when you made the biggest mistake of your life,” you spat as you drew the weapon and aimed it at the centre of his chest. “You’ve pissed off a lot of people, Ferdinand. Even the Cosa Nostra doesn’t lower themselves to sex trafficking and they are very keen to have a little talk with you when we get back to Vaireggio.”

You waved the gun towards the elevator as some guests noticed the guns and screams erupted. “Let’s go, now.”

“Aren’t you going to arrest him?” Charles asked as he took a step back, the movement catching the others around your periphery. Ferdinand didn’t appear worried because he had more than enough security to stop you from leaving with him.

“You’re just a cop,” Ferdinand laughed and Charles winced as he realised his mistake. “I bet you don’t even know anyone in the Cosa Nostra.”

Your lips curled into a dark smile that made him hesitate. “I have made friends far and wide to find you, some high,” you nodded your head to Charles, “and some low.”

“Friends are just weaknesses to exploit.” Ferdinand thought for a moment before flicking his hand with a signal. “I’ll call your bluff.”

A glint of metal beside Charles had you throwing your arm out and knocking him to the ground before the gunshot rang out. In all the movies you had seen, none of them ever truly captured the sound of a gunshot. The initial explosion of the firing pin hitting the bullet was deafening in a confined space and dozens of people fell to the ground clutching their ringing ears.

For you, it was painless. 

Numb. 

Silent.  

You felt your heart beating. The pulse of it throbbed in your brain and heat spread along your arm with each lub-dub until the pain became white hot fire licking your skin and your fingers came away wet and red. 

Time had warped in the second that the bullet had fired, slowing down enough you were certain you would be able to see a hummingbird's wing beat if one were to pass by. You saw the individual specks of dust dancing in the rays of light before the sun dipped beneath the horizon. You saw the doors exploding into shards of wood as blackclad police infiltrated the private room like an arm of death. 

“Chief?” Your vision started to swim and you were sure his presence was merely a mirage as he rushed in behind the Armed Offenders Squad. A pair of arms caught you as you stumbled back and you found tears in the green eyes that appeared above you. “Are you hurt?”

“No,” Charles said with a shaky voice as he pressed his palms to your shoulder, your blood staining his skin. “Thanks to you.”

“Then why are you crying?”

Charles laughed but it broke with the tears that leaked down his cheeks. “So you have something to make fun of me about later.”

You hated how he disappeared from your view but medics had arrived with Chief Conti and Charles backed away to let them through.

“Hey, Chief,” you greeted with a groan as the initial shock wore away and even more pain rushed in. “You stalking me now?”

“You haven’t taken a single day of leave in all the years I’ve been working with you. I knew something was up, and this old dog was right.” Chief watched as Ferdinand, and the armed men linked to him, were led out of the building in handcuffs while more medics arrived to check the women he had brought, along with the innocent guests like Charles who were in a state of shock. “Is that her?”

Every little movement sent waves of pain across your body but you followed his line of sight to Kayla where she was wrapped under a thermal blanket looking dazed and nodded. 

“I’ll ride to the hospital with her,” Chief promised as he looked at the reason why his best detective had ever joined the force. She was the reason so many young women were going to go home where they belong. “I’ll check in on you soon.”

“Thank you, Chief. Shit,” you swore as you remembered the promise you had made to Kayla’s mother. “I have a phone call to make.”

Charles was already there, reaching for your handbag that had fallen to the floor as the medics packed the gunshot wound and lifted you onto the stretcher. “I’ll call her mum,” he promised as he walked by your side, translating what the medics were saying along the way. He looked a little ashen as he listened and he leaned against the elevator wall as it descended to where the ambulances waited. “The bullet is still inside there so you need surgery.”

“Oh, that’s why it hurts.”

“No, it hurts because you took a bullet meant for me.” Charles pushed off the wall and swayed a little before following the stretcher to the ambulance and climbing into the back with you.

You hissed at the sudden flash of pain that sent stars dancing around your vision as the van rattled to life. “I think, ow fuck, any bullet would hurt, to be honest.”

“Is there anyone I can call for you?” he asked as he sat where he was directed and took your hand in his, the blood on his palms sticky to the touch. “Your parents?”

“No, it will just freak them out.” A tube of gas was passed over and you shoved it between your lips to inhale the pain relief. “This isn’t working.”

“Keep breathing,” Charles murmured and you laughed around the tube after inhaling another deep lungful of the gas.

“I wasn’t planning on stopping, thanks.”

Charles rolled his eyes and dropped his forehead to your joined hands. “I’m glad you can joke at a time like this.”

“If I don’t laugh I will cry and I’m an ugly crier, like really ugly.”

“You’re being ridiculous,” Charles whispered too quietly to hear, except you had the earpiece still firmly plugged in your air and it picked up the whispered words. “You’re beautiful.”

“You’re pretty alright yourself,” you whispered back, his head shooting up as he heard you loud and clear. You raised a shaking hand to your bag and pointed to it. “I got you a present.”

“Me?” You rolled your eyes and nodded to answer his question before he opened your bag and spotted the little box. He tugged the little bow open and lifted the lid, a loud laugh erupting as he saw the gift. “Thank you, I needed a new watch,” he said as he leaned in and kissed your cheek. 

You hadn’t been able to resist buying the ferrari-red Spiderman watch from the corner shop on the walk to the restaurant but you weren’t sure the children’s sized band would fit around his wrist as he tried it on. 

“You’re welcome,” you chuckled as you painfully opened the front zip on your bag and held it open so he could see what was inside. “But you might like that one more.”

“What? How did you…” Charles was gobsmacked as he reached for his Richard Mille watch and slipped it on next to the cheap plastic one.

“Called in a debt,” you said with a yawn as the pain faded away and you closed your eyes as the swaying of the van made you nauseous, “it’s no biggie.”

You were almost certain you felt a hand stroking your cheek but almost everything was going numb. “Why don’t I believe that?”

Your head was starting to spin from the laughing gas and you were incredibly sleepy all of a sudden, with all thought and reason slipping from your mind. “Because you can be pretty smart…and pretty…annoyingly pretty…that face…hidden by a helmet…unfair.”

Three Months Later - Viareggio The double shot of espresso warmed your fingers as you sat on the terraced rooftop along the waterfront and watched the seagulls gliding on the wind above the yachts. The chair beside you was quickly occupied and Charles apologised for being almost late as he placed a kiss on your cheek. 

“I ordered for you,” you said after spotting the waitress arriving with his macchiato- since it wasn’t race week he could enjoy the extra calories. “I also said you would pay, since, you know, I took a bullet for you and got fired for it.”

“Technically, you got fired for stealing surveillance equipment,” he recalled as he pulled his wallet out and placed a few notes on the bill holder. 

You waved a careless hand. “Let’s not argue semantics, it’s too early in the morning.”

He chuckled as he took your hand and laced his fingers with yours. “You do realise bakers start before dawn?” 

“I’m used to working weird hours.” A small frown crept onto your forehead as you tried to remember the long shifts but they seemed like a lifetime ago. 

Charles’ thumb caressed your hand and it pulled you away from the memories that felt like an oil slick on your brain. “Do you miss it?”

“No, it was never my dream - just a necessity,” you answered slowly as you tasted the truth on your tongue. “I’m excited to start training again, it’s like I can finally start living again instead of surviving. Chasing every lead, the highs and lows when they went cold, I don’t miss that at all.”

“How is Kayla doing?” 

You swirled the espresso around the small cup, watching the thick golden crema coat the walls as you shook your head. You visited her every week but progress was slow as her body weaned off the drugs Ferdinand had used to keep her and the others docile. “Some days are better than others.”

“She’ll get there, amour,” Charles promised as he lifted your hand to his lips. “She has the most supportive friend who never gave up on her, and never will, right?”

“Right,” you nodded as he lightened the mood as he often did when he came to visit between the trips to Maranello for work. “Can you stay the night?”

Charles chewed on his lip that threatened to curl up in amusement. “I don’t know. I’m a spoiled rich kid whose watch costs more than your apartment. That would damage my reputation.”

You chuffed a laugh as you slapped his arm but the range of movement tweaked the bone that wasn’t completely healed and you froze at the sudden pain. Concern instantly erased the amusement and Charles helped ease your arm back down as his brows furrowed, guilt in those green eyes. “It isn’t getting any better, is it?”

“You worry too much,” you said as you reached out and brushed away the frown lines from his forehead before cupping his cheek. “I’ll be fine, the physio seems to be helping but I might never have full rotation again.”

“I’m sorry,” he sighed, leaning his face into the warmth of your palm.

“I’m not, I’d do it again in a heartbeat. You made a cute French maid.”

“Monégasque,” he corrected with a smile. “I’ll do a lot of things for you, but I’m not going to wear a little maids outfit.”

“That’s a shame,” you laughed. “I arrested a man who sold photos like that on the black market, made a fortune.”

Charles’ nose wrinkled at the idea over the rim of his mug and he almost choked on the mouthful before he swallowed it. “Always good to have a backup plan if my racing career ends earlier than expected.”

“Just skip modelling and go straight to OnlyFans. Solid business plan, babe.”

“No, I know what I’d do,” he said as he cast his eyes over the busy beach below. “I’d invest in a little coffee shop, one that has a reputation for the best pastries in town.”

You smiled at the idea and played along with his hypothetical plan. “You know, all the best coffee shops have an old piano for anyone to play.”

“Of course, and ours would too. Then, at the end of the night I’ll play it for you while you close the shop. I would offer to close it for you so you could get off your feet, but it has to be perfect and you are bossy.”

“You’ve really thought this all out,” you laughed as he was absolutely correct.

“I’m always thinking about you. The long nights without you drive me crazy otherwise.”

You were about to correct him on how he spent his nights without you, acts involving lotion and tissues, but there was a growing audience who had noticed where Charles was.

“Time to go undercover,” he said as he grabbed his sunglasses from the V of his shirt and he placed them onto his face.

“You are never going undercover again,” you scoffed at his charming attempt. “Last time was a nightmare and now I actually care about you.”

“You cared about me then too, especially when you called me pretty,” he said with a lopsided grin. “We had a connection, don’t deny it.”

“That was clearly the drugs talking.” He laughed at the lie and kissed your hand as he pinned you with those green eyes that you saw whenever you closed yours. “Fine, I thought you were hot as fuck. Happy?”

“Very much.” His laugh warmed your temple before he kissed it and you started to walk faster at his sweet whisper in your ear as he promised you the night. “I’ll be even happier when I get you home.”

“Me too,” you smirked as you bit your lip just thinking about getting him out of the clothes he wore. “Then you can show me this ‘connection’ you speak of.”

His smile was blindingly bright as he waved to a few fans, but his hand tightened in your grasp. “It goes very deep.”

“The deeper the better.”

Tagging: @moonvr @copper-boom @yunnie-f1 @ophcelia @lightsoutletsgo @alwaysclassyeagle @neiich @omgsuperstarg @starwarssavy23 @fdl305 @faeb1tch42069 @sweetestrose569 @pleasantducktimetravel @zendayabelova @dr3lover @writerscurse @christianpulisic10 @alexisquinnlee-bc @purplephantomwolf @belennasif @ryiamarie @mickslover @tyna-19 @destourtereaux @sunf1ower16 @octaviareina @laneyspaulding19 @booknerd2004-blog @mimimarvelingmarvel @chonkybonky @jpg3 @bangtanxberm @ohthemisssery @eviethetheatrefreak @kimi240302 @formula1mount @storyteller-le @dakotali @daddyslittlevillain @elijahslover @formulas-bitch @faithm120601 @ynbutbetter @allabouthappiness @simpingcorner @chasing-liberosis @jspitwall @sociallyinepludi

[fiorescente]

Bologna mi fa sentire sempre come se qui le leggi della società fossero diverse da quelle che regolano la vita altrove. Per esempio: oggi ero a fare la spesa e un tipo che sembrava non so, un padre di famiglia, molto di cuore comunque, si è avvicinato alla cassa dopo aver attraversato tutto il supermercato e ha chiesto se ci fosse il topinambur. No, non c'era e allora cerca di uscire e il signore della sicurezza a cui voglio tanto bene ha scoperto che stava cercando di rubare del tonno in scatola. Mi sono tanto dispiaciuta e in realtà mi sento una merda e una borghese privilegiata del cazzo, mi odio tanto perché non posso fare niente di globale affinché queste cose non accadano a nessuno.

Però poi il tipo girava comunque per strada con una ragazza, in modo molto normale, erano tranquilli, con gli occhi dolci

Io mi sono sentita tanto scossa e sono tornata a casa e ancora un po' mi devo riprendere

Sto facendo le girelle alla cannella con la polpa di mele, ho acceso una candela, dal telefono suona la musica di Lana del Rey e piove ancora, mi sembra di non vedere il sole da settimane e forse è così. Mi sento sempre un peso sulla gola e sul cuore e spero sono che il tempo passi e le cose accadano e di superarle.

Io e G per poco non ci facevamo lo stesso regalo per i quattro anni e che bello starsi vicini anche se so che gli faccio male, mi dispiace così tanto che non si può dire. Lunedì mi rivedo con la mia psicologa, la mia per antonomasia perché con lei ho avuto i miei primi incontri in assoluto e anche perché sento, sentivo, che mi capiva davvero e che mi aiutava senza lasciarmi quel sospiro di insoddisfazione che mi lasciavano le altre.

[ihavemanyhusbands]

Santa Comunione

Part I // Hannibal Lecter x Fem!Reader

Also on AO3

Summary: Hannibal Lecter often does things just to see what happens… and seducing a holy woman is one of those things.

WC: 3.9k words

Warnings: MINORS DNI THIS FIC IS 18+, Corruption, Blasphemy (?), Religious Imagery, Italy arc (Rome instead of Florence), Canon divergence, Self-Harm, Some whump, Angst, Eventual smut, religious trauma (i think?), I’m not a religious expert btw tho i grew up Catholic, mentions of wounds and scars, Ofc Hannibal has a God complex, Catholicism, dead dove do not eat, reader is a nun lol, lmk if i missed anything!

A/N: Unsure of why this idea suddenly possessed me but it’s been a real delight to write. As usual, thank you to Stray, G, my wife beelmons for all the help hee hee <3 I do not condone or encourage any of the actions depicted, you’re responsible for your own media consumption.

——————

“Angel of my life… my body, my blood, my soul, are all yours;”

– Victor Hugo, from The Complete Works; “ The Hunchback of Notre Dame,”

——————

It was easy to get lost in menial tasks.

You’d mastered the ability to slip into your thoughts as your hands diligently worked. Whether it was mending clothes, polishing candelabra, or even refilling prayer candles for all the tourists visiting the basilica.

In the summer, it was especially useful in order to manage the larger crowds — A sea of anonymous faces that quickly faded from memory. Bright shining eyes and rapacious hands reaching to touch things they shouldn’t; Always hungry for a taste of something holy. 

The pack of bodies made you anxious, their cloying scent overpowering the all-too-familiar myrrh and incense.  Their shrill, excitable voices could be especially grating in such a place, where echo was ever-present. Even more so after reminding them that a low volume was imperative, for such sacred spaces had to be respected.

It was a true test of your virtues, more often than not. Patience, especially, was one you were still working on, even after so many years. It proved to be the hardest to fully harness, no matter how much self-discipline was employed.

In repentance, you found yourself praying more often than not, the repetition of the words putting you in a meditative state.

Angel of God, my guardian dear, to whom God's love commits me here, ever this day be at my side, to light and guard, to rule and guide…

“Mi scusi?” A deep voice brought you back to the present, much too close for comfort.

Startled, you winced a little and quickly looked up. A tall, well-dressed man stood right in front of you, amusement at your reaction tugging at the corners of his full lips. He was handsome in a way that was reminiscent of Renaissance paintings; Like an aristocrat, or a fallen angel perhaps. 

“Si, signore?” You asked, keeping your voice low.

He gestured towards the candles. “May I?” 

You handed him one, already lit. His fingers just barely ghosted over yours in the exchange, and your breath caught. The small flame cast shadows on his angular face, giving him a more severe look. A bit macabre, too, in a way…

Don’t think such things. He is but a man.

“Grazie,” he said, the smile still not leaving his face.

“Prego.”

You averted your gaze, intent on resuming your work. He stepped to one side, looking over at the statue at the far end of the room — Bernini’s Ecstasy of St. Theresa.

“The pain was so severe that it made me utter several moans,” he recited. “The sweetness caused by this intense pain is so extreme that one cannot possibly wish it to cease, nor is one's soul content with anything but God.”

You followed his line of sight, and before you could stop yourself, you said. “You must see her up close.”

He looked back at you, tilting his head slightly to one side curiously. You tried to keep your eyes on the statue, still beautiful despite endless days of looking at it.

You cleared your throat, continuing almost absently. “There are many proofs of God’s love, but this one might be my favorite. We are most like Him in that through immense agony, we can become holy.”

Your gaze snapped to his, and you stared at each other in slight disbelief for a moment. Just what had compelled you to share such a thing? 

“Are you able to accompany me?” He asked. “I’d be delighted to hear more of your thoughts.”

That made you remember yourself, so you shook your head. “No, signore. Do go on, though. It really is a sight to behold.”

“Very well,” he nodded. “May I ask your name?”

You hesitated, but told him out of politeness. He repeated it slowly, as if savoring it on his tongue. Your traitorous eyes were drawn to the way his lips formed around it, and he didn’t fail to notice. 

Before you could even think of asking for his name in return, an elderly couple came up to you asking questions. You muttered a quick scusi in his direction as your attention shifted, both frustrated and relieved.

He lingered for just a moment longer before continuing on his way, and you forced yourself not to glance back at his retreating form.

Usually, the few brief conversations you had with visitors barely registered in your mind. Seldom did anyone really gain your interest, but on the rare occasion someone did, you had to immediately tamp down any inane desires.

For you, chastity often oscillated between being a cruel companion and a comforting blanket. There were times, in the darkest hour of night, when you couldn’t help but yearn for things you’d long lost. Sensations, images, smells… all vanished from existence.

You had not always walked the path of piety, but the days before you made that change were not ones you let yourself think about any other time. Especially not when those old feelings stirred like ashes in a charred hearth.

Once you were by yourself again, you caught another glimpse of him in the crowd; His long, sturdy frame was hard to miss. He was engrossed in his surroundings  — the gilded architecture, the magnificently carved marble, the myriad scenes of haloed saints soaring through the heavens.

You pulled your rosary out of your pocket, feeling the urge to resume your prayers. The smooth slide of the beads in your palm was usually reassuring, but you were too distracted to even conjure the words.

You squeezed it in your fist, the metal cross digging into your skin. Bright pain ran up your arm as it broke through, a rivulet of blood running through your middle and index fingers.

You released a breath as you relaxed your fist. It was a small penance for a momentary slip, serving also as a reminder of your vows. Pain was the best teacher, after all. It was one of the first things you learned when you converted.

Covertly, you wiped your hand clean with a handkerchief. You stared at the splotch of crimson on the white fabric, slightly entranced by the mundanity of your mortal blood.

Out of your notice, he observed your every move. He wanted to approach once more, to get a whiff of your life’s essence — A sharp note of copper, slightly sweet and endlessly enticing.

But he knew that, like any good hunter who had zeroed in on prey, he had to bide his time.

————

The setting sun streaked the sky in swaths of pastel, orange and violet and pink. The last of its golden rays illuminated the marble floors, setting ablaze the portrait of the praying skeleton.

His eyes lingered on this detail as he silently walked in, his long shadow dragging across it. 

Most of the visitors had left by that time, but a few stragglers lingered for evening prayers. He was delighted to find that one of those stragglers was you, still unaware of his presence.

Your knees were on the worn cushion of the praying kneeler, your clasped hands resting on the bench in front of you. Your eyes were closed, face tilted up slightly in quiet reverence.

He saw the hem of your habit had ridden up a little, revealing a small portion of your calf. Just a sliver of flesh, really, but not one you were conscious of showing. 

Glancing around, he approached slowly, bending down to fix it. You were mid Hail Mary when you felt the fabric being pulled, which made you stumble over the words.

You stiffened, but didn’t move. Instead, you peered from the corner of your eye to see a familiar figure straightening to his full height.

How curious that your prayers seemed to summon him, even if he was not who you called on.

Or was it?

A day had passed and you’d tried as best as you could to banish that whole initial interaction from your thoughts. His lupine features had begun to blur in your mind’s eye, the sound of his voice losing itself in the din of the crowd. What little you slept, you didn’t even dream.

But now that he was back, looming right behind you, you were on edge again. Shakily, you finished the last string of prayers you had left on your rosary. 

Then you did the sign of the cross and rose slowly, turning to face him. Your eyes were darker in the low light, doe-like and fathomless. But there was no naïveté in their depths.

“I hope I didn’t offend you by taking such liberties, Sorella,” he said. 

“Finding me or touching me?” You challenged.

He blinked, stunned at being put on the spot. "I figured you must value your modesty and didn’t wish to see you embarrassed. Forgive me.”

You looked him over, assessing. He seemed sincere, if a little clueless. The look didn’t quite fit him, but you wanted to believe it all the same.

“Thank you,” you said finally, glancing over your shoulder. “Come to see the statue once more? I told you it was striking.”

“Indeed, but not quite here for it,” he admitted. “I was unable to stop thinking of your assessment.”

“Oh, I assure you, I’m not nearly as interesting as you might believe.”

“I beg to differ.”

Your eyes narrowed slightly, and you noticed how quickly the light was waning outside.

“Expecting a private tour, then? It’s rather late for that. Doors are shutting to the public shortly.”

“Perhaps I can help you in some way or another. Think of me as a volunteer.”

You huffed in amusement. “Are you trying to get me in trouble?”

He smiled, gesturing around him. “We have God’s eyes on us here. Nothing to fear.”

Why you were even entertaining this, you weren’t sure. It’d been a while since you’d been intrigued by anyone — anything, really — and being the object of someone’s intrigue felt nicer than you wanted to admit. 

You were surrounded by people all day, but that didn’t make you feel any less lonely. Not that solitude really bothered you… for the most part.

You were only human, after all. Full of faults you were meant to atone for.

“Very well, then. Usually, there’s more help, but it seems tonight it’s just us. Start with the candles, will you?”

And so he started extinguishing each candle as you took one last lap around the structure, making sure everything was in place and every last visitor was gone. The two of you worked like a well-oiled machine, covertly glancing at each other whenever you crossed paths. Soon enough, you were locking the doors of the basilica.

Silvery moonlight and a few orange street lamps were the only illuminations outside. The stars above were like the million eyes of an archangel keeping watch over the nocturnal creatures. That evening, it felt like being closely examined, waiting for any slip-up to impart judgement.

You nodded at the night guard as you handed him the keys, and then you descended the steps along with your new companion.

“May I walk you home? It’s not safe to walk alone in the dark,” he said.

 You raised an eyebrow. “Something tells me you’re not really asking.”

He smirked at your cleverness. “I wouldn’t forgive myself if something were to happen to you, when I could have prevented it.”

You wanted to roll your eyes at that, but you opted for being polite. You’d walked the same path many times and had long stopped being afraid of the darkness. What lurked in it, on the other hand…

“I am not so proud that I’d refuse kindness,” you said finally, nodding for him to follow as you turned around. “Wary as I may seem around it.”

“I’ve noticed,” he commented, falling into step next to you. “Has your God been cruel to you?”

You shook your head. “No,  but men have. His most perfect creation, indeed.”

He smiled wryly, enjoying the sarcastic venom in your tone.  

“We can appreciate divinity by bearing witness to imperfection,” he said. “It helps us relate to one another, sometimes on an unconscious level.” 

You nodded slowly, peering over at his profile curiously. There was something truly mystifying about him — as if he was someone that only existed in intervals of time, like the cover of night — which was perhaps what kept drawing you in. 

You walked through the cobblestone streets, speaking in hushed voices. You discussed things like art and poetry, quickly veering into more philosophical topics. His mind was like a maze, clearly difficult to navigate, but you did not feel discouraged.

You did always like a good challenge, even if it wasn’t good for you.

All too soon,  you reached the old wooden door of the small convent. He noticed there was a small smudge of soot on your jaw, so he pulled his handkerchief out of his breast pocket and gestured to your face.

“May I?”

You nodded, frowning a little in confusion. He stepped closer, reaching up and gently wiping off the smudge. You forced yourself not to blush, barely breathing, keeping your eyes averted.

“There we go,” he murmured, pulling back and extending the handkerchief towards you. “Here, you can keep this until you get a chance to wash yours.”

“My…?” You started, but then his words clicked in your mind. 

Your heart began thundering in your chest at the realization, beads of sweat forming on the back of your neck. You took it all the same, finally looking up at him with wide eyes.

You were met with the smirking face of a jackal – a beast turned man. The lamb in you knew this, even if his demeanor was outwardly friendly. The look in his amber eyes was so ardent you couldn’t tear your gaze away, rooted to the spot. 

Had anyone ever looked at you like that? You couldn’t recall, and it didn’t seem to matter.

“What is your name?” You asked breathlessly. “I realize I never asked.”

“Hannibal,” he said. “Doctor Hannibal Lecter.”

————

Much later into the night, you were still unable to sleep. You tossed and turned, the sheets sticking to your feverish skin. You were plagued by contradictions,  internally waging a war against a feeling that had suddenly yawned open in the pit of your stomach. Something too much like hunger, sharp around the edges. 

With a frustrated sigh, you shifted onto your back and stared at the ceiling. You were no stranger to restlessness, but this time, you couldn’t be bothered to kneel beside the bed and pray. There was something far more pressing in the forefront of your mind. 

It was that look, like he could see beneath the veil of your piety — through you, even. He’d seen you punish yourself, too, which was an intimate act all on its own. A subtle art that you’d perfected over time, or at least thought you had.

And still, you could tell he liked what he saw.

Yanking the covers off of yourself, you padded over to your desk, pulling the handkerchief out of your satchel. The material was much finer than anything you’d ever owned, gliding smoothly in your hands. 

Gingerly, you ran your fingers over his embroidered initials, faintly smelling a note of something rich and earthy, like bergamot or perhaps clover. 

Your eyes fluttered shut as you brought it closer to your face, absolutely entranced. It was at these late hours that consequences seemed nonexistent. The truth seemed less frightening when shrouded in darkness, with only the moon witnessing your downfall.

You brought it back to the bed with you, lying down on your back once more. With the silken fabric pressed against your face, you inhaled slowly. The linen shift you wore to sleep rode up past your hips, exposing your legs and part of your lower abdomen.

Your fingers moved on their own, barely dipping into the hem of your underwear before stopping. A sensation akin to electricity crackled inside your chest, seizing your muscles. Blood roared in your ears as your heart galloped frantically. 

Was this what being on the edge of damnation was like? Too much like seeing your reflection on the forbidden fruit, bright red and infinitely tempting?

Your teeth scratching the skin, about to sink into the sweetest of knowledge…

As if scalded, you yanked your hand back, sitting up on the bed. You felt as if air had been squeezed out of your lungs, panting harshly, clawing at your throat. 

The room felt unbearably hot, the walls seemingly closing in on you. You stumbled out of bed and gripped the edge of your desk, knees buckling. The pulsing between your legs quickly simmered into a dull throb, shame, and guilt following in its wake. 

You were being tested, you had to be. What else could explain such recklessness? 

At least you’d gotten yourself away from the cliffside and could still get back on the right path. Surely, the Shepherd would not shun one of his lambs for almost being lured by a wolf.

But how could you ever explain that inane desire of yours to be devoured, ravished, utterly adored in your last gasping breaths? 

He was not blind to the way you’d bared your throat at the first glimpse of fangs.

This time, retribution would require more bloodshed — a lingering sort of discipline. After all, what was one more scar to add to the latticework of pink, raised skin all over your back?

You undid the laces at your throat and pulled your slip off, letting it fall to the floor unceremoniously.  You reached into the bottom drawer of your small dresser, finding purchase amidst the few austere garments you owned.

Your hands no longer shook as you gripped the twisted handle of the cat o’nine tails — it was salvation at your fingertips, and you held on so tightly it left indentations on your palm. You focused your gaze on the wooden cross on the wall, prayers for mercy at your lips. 

And the only other thought in your mind at that moment was ‘Fifteen lashes should suffice.’

——

Perhaps you’d gone overboard. 

In the sobering light of day, you lay on your stomach next to the open window, listening to the trilling of birds. You felt ill with the aftermath of your slight overindulgence of masochism.

Earlier that morning, you’d feigned stomach pain and nausea. The latter wasn’t too far from the truth, and the pallor of your face – which was also dotted with cold sweat – helped sell the lie. 

None of the Sisters – much less the madre superiora –  were privy to your violent bouts of self-discipline. Not only would they disapprove, but… it would lead to situations you did not want to bring upon yourself. 

You were just drifting off to sleep, exhaustion finally overpowering you, when you heard a soft knock on the door. You pulled the blanket back upon yourself, hiding the incriminating evidence.

“Si?”  You called softly, shifting your head to face the door.

It swung open to reveal the madre superiora herself, accompanied by… Oh, merciful God. 

Hannibal tensed at the doorway, his nostrils flaring as he scented the coppery tang permeating the small room. Though the window had been open for some time, your essence still lingered – a narcotic in its own right. He kept his composure as his mouth watered, and his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard.

“How are you feeling, Sorella?”  the madre inquired, concern all over her gentle, weathered features. 

“Still about the same,” you said, attempting to keep your eyes on her and not on her companion – none other than the man who’d tried to coax you away from the Lord’s pasture.

“Doctor Lecter here said he helped you home yesterday. He expressed concern for your well-being and has offered to examine you.”

“Free of any charge, of course, madre,” he assured. “I merely want to help however I can. If that is okay with you, that is.”

You merely nodded, not trusting your voice at that moment.

“Your generosity shall be returned doubly, Doctor,” the madre said with a smile. “I shall give you some privacy. Please let me know if you need anything.”

And with that, she left the room, shutting the door behind her. 

Hannibal approached slowly, as if you were a skittish animal he didn’t want to spook. You eyed him peripherally, wary all the same. He knelt at your side, taking a moment to observe you. 

“I was worried at your absence today,” he said as a way of explaining his being there, voice low. “I hear it is some sort of stomach bug?”

“Not quite,” you murmured. “It is something far more… visible.”

He slightly tilted his head to the side in curiosity. “May I take a look at you?”

“How can I refuse the most  generous doctor?” 

You shifted your shoulders to indicate he should pull down the sheet. He reached out to do so, finding some resistance. The fabric clung to your wounds, which had crusted as scabs began to form. As he had to use a little more force, you sucked in a breath through your teeth.

Upon seeing what you had done to yourself, he was momentarily flummoxed. His eyes trailed over the angry red welts, appreciating the macabre artistry. The scent of blood was stronger now; A few of the wounds had reopened and were weeping crimson. He stifled the sudden desire to catch one of the drops with his tongue.

“What have we here?” he asked.

“The consequence of sin.”

“And what sin might that be?”

You pursed your lips, refusing to give voice to your faults. Your silence only compelled his curiosity further, but he decided not to press. That didn’t mean he wasn’t good at getting the answers he wanted, though. 

 “I was unaware such practices were still… observed.”

“Not usually. It is my best-kept secret,” your eyes fluttered closed as he pulled the sheet further down, until the barest glimpse of the top of your ass was visible. “Something for my own.”

His response was a thoughtful hum, and he stood to get some supplies from a small bag he’d brought.

When he knelt once more, you could smell alcohol. “Let’s clean these up then, shall we?”

You nodded, attempting to brace yourself. The lacerations on your back sang with agony as he began to dab at them, your teeth clenched so hard you feared they might crack. Still, his touch was so tender — almost to the point of reverence — that you thought you might weep. 

“We are most like Him in that through immense agony, we can become holy,” he quoted, perhaps attempting to distract you. “Is that not what you said? I admire your determination.”

As the sting just barely began to dissipate, you could speak again.

“Think I am redeemed in the eyes of Heaven?”

“Perhaps,” he said. “In my eyes, at least, you are.”

Near delirious with a pain that made your brain feel like glass — and that cursed longing you suddenly couldn’t tamp down — you arched closer to his hands as he dressed the wounds. 

“What do you gain from all this?” You ventured, needing to know the answer.

“Must I gain something?”

“I can’t seem to find another explanation.”

He was quiet for a moment. “I am merely intrigued by you. I can’t help being drawn. Can you blame me?”

“Perhaps I just don’t understand what makes me so interesting.”

“In time you will see. I will make sure of it.”

----

Part 2

[jadarnr]

TRINITY BLOOD

RAGE AGAINST THE MOONS

(Sunao Yoshida)

Vol.1 From the Empire

FLIGHT NIGHT - Capitolo 1

Traduzione italiana di jadarnr dai volumi inglesi editi da Tokyopop.

Sentitevi liberi di condividere, ma fatelo per piacere mantenendo i credits e il link al post originale 🙏

Grazie a @trinitybloodbr per il suo prezioso contributo alla revisione sul testo originale giapponese ✨

“Hostess, scusi? Potrei avere del latte nel mio te? E anche diciamo dodici… no tredici cucchiaini di zucchero?” Chiese.

Jessica si voltò a guardare il giovane uomo dall’altra parte del bancone. Indossava occhiali spessi ed una semplice e scolorita veste da prete. Quel povero viaggiatore sembrava parecchio fuori luogo.

Anche se gli ultimi tempi erano stati duri, la sala panoramica era elegante ed affollata. Uomini e donne ben vestiti chiacchieravano e ridacchiavano, una musica allegra suonava, bicchieri tintinnavano, e l’aria era pervasa dal fumo dei sigari. La sala era piena di persone ricche ed importanti.

Era una notte perfetta per volare.

“Mmm? Hostess? Signorina?” Chiese nuovamente l’uomo.

“Uh? Ah s-sì!” Rispose lei.

Jessica fece scorrere una mano lungo i suoi capelli castani lunghi fino alle spalle, sforzandosi di svegliarsi dal suo sogno ad occhi aperti. Si allacciò il suo grembiule. Il suo sorriso la rese più giovane ed il suo viso pieno di lentiggini si illuminò.

“Uh, aveva chiesto dello scotch?”

“No un te con il latte. E tredici cucchiaini di zucchero”

L’hostess sbattè gli occhi: “Beh, se vuole dei dolci abbiamo anche torte e pasticcini, signore”

“Sono sicuro che sono fantastici ma…” Il prete guardò il suo portafoglio. Le sue spalle si afflosciarono “Ho solo cinque dinari… quindi prenderò soltanto un te per favore”

Persino i bambini dei ricchi che correvano nella sala avevano più soldi di lui. Lo stesso stipendio del mese scorso di Jessica ammontava a duemila dinari. Come aveva fatto quel povero prete a salire sulla Tristan - la nave piú lussuosa a volare tra Londinium e Roma?

“Mi lamento sempre con la sede centrale” scherzò il prete “E la caffetteria qui fa pagare cento dinari per la cena. Che furto! Sono cosí povero, un solo pasto svuoterebbe tutto il mio conto in banca”

“Non mi dica che non ha mangiato?” Chiese la ragazza.

Lui scrollò le spalle: “Non da circa venti ore. Ho tentato di non stancarmi troppo rimanendo a dormire nella mia camera, ma stava comunque iniziando a girarmi un po’ la testa. Ho pensato che se avessi alzato un po’ la glicemia, avrei potuto tenere duro fino a Roma” rispose in tutta onestà.

“I preti vivono una vita molto dura”

Il prete prese le parole comprensive di Jessica come un complimento. Annuí come se stesse pregando Dio. “Come vede si tratta una questione di vita o di morte… Dunque, potrei avere il mio te zuccherato ora?”

Lei annuí. “Certo, ecco qui”

“Mh… questo te è così buono. È autentico, vero? Non quello nelle bustine che ti lascia—“

SBAM!

Prima che il liquido denso potesse raggiungere le sue labbra per un secondo sorso, un bambino che correva per la sala con un palloncino in mano andò a sbattere contro una gamba del prete, che finì con lo sbattere la testa sul bancone, rovesciando ovunque l’intero contenuto della tazza— sui suoi lunghi capelli, sulla sua veste, sui suoi occhiali, ovunque. Nel frattempo il bimbo inciampò, cadde per terra e si mise a piangere.

“Va tutto bene piccolo? Ti sei fatto male?” Chiese Jessica.

Ignorando completamente il prete dai capelli d’argento, che gocciolavano di te, corse dal bambino. Per fortuna il ragazzino era più impaurito che ferito.

Jessica afferrò la corda del palloncino che aveva consegnato ad ogni bambino che era salito a bordo e aiutó il bimbo a rimettersi in piedi.

“G-grazie signorina” balbettò il ragazzino.

“Di niente. Ma devi tornare dai tuoi genitori. É quasi ora di andare a letto.”

“S-sì. Mi scusi Padre” disse il bambino imbarazzato.

Il prete, che stava cercando di sistemarsi i capelli bagnati, sorrise in modo rassicurante al bambino che lo stava guardando preoccupato “Ah ah ah! Non è successo nulla. Era solo una tazza di te. Nessun problema. Non devi preoccuparti. Davvero.”

“Hai visto che prete gentile? Ora però devi andare a letto. Mi raccomando torna dritto nella tua stanza”.

Il ragazzino annuì e corse via. Jessica si assicurò che lasciasse il salone sano e salvo prima di tornare a rivolgersi al prete.

Lui stava guardando il te rovesciato. Stava lì a fissarlo, la sua espressione piena di rimpianto.

“Padre, vorrebbe un sandwich? Non c’è bisogno di pagare… offre la casa”

Lui si illuminò. “Offre la casa? Davvero? Oh Signore, grazie signorina. Lei è un angelo forse? Ora che ci penso, mi è sembrato di vedere un suo ritratto in una chiesa”

Lei alzò gli occhi al cielo “Sono solo una hostess”

Con un crepitìo, una voce meccanica parló da un altoparlante posto sul bancone.

“Parla il ponte di comando—Jessica, potresti portarci le nostre cene?”

“Sì Capitano Connelly… Uhm, Padre, può attendere un minuto? Torno subito” disse.

“Aspetterò quanto vuole, Signorina…?”

“Lang. Sono Jessica Lang”

“Lang?” Ripetè. Per un momento il prete sembrò cercare di ricordare qualcosa. “Ha forse una qualche parentela con la designer di questa nave, morta lo scorso anno, la Dottoressa Catherine Lang?”

“Sì, era mia madre”

Il prete alzò le sopracciglia “Quindi è lei al comando di questa nave?”

“No! Sono solo una hostess. Ho studiato un po’ per diventare pilota, ma non ho ancora la certificazione, e poi sono una donna…”

“Non c’è nessuna legge che le impedisca di volare, Jessica. Io stesso conosco una donna che pilota una nave volante… Oh, mi scuso. Non mi sono presentato. Il mio nome è Abel”

Il prete sollevó i suoi occhiali rotondi e si presentó inchinandosi “Abel Nightroad— prete errante al vostro servizio”

[gcslingss]

don't wake me, i'm not dreaming | sierra six.

chapter 01: an old friend

you can also check this fic out on ao3!

summary: six had an old friend from his time in prison. he never expected her to come back.

timeline: post-gray man movie

pairing: sierra six/court gentry x oc (atlas wright)

warnings: for this chapter, swearing, guns, arm wound, hospital scene, canon-typical violence, slightly graphic descriptions of violence, sassy six

word count: 2.4k

notes: yayyy i'm finally posting this on here! i only have one thing to say - i hope you all are kind towards ocs :')

part 2 here

SICILY, ITALY, 2020.

“You better be as good at this job as you say you are, Ms. G.”

“If I wasn’t, sir, you wouldn’t have even found me in the first place.”

The big man smirked at this as he stood at the huge terrace of his grand, bustling house in Sicily, Italy, where an entire crowd of rich men and women, gangsters, businessmen and whatnot had all gathered in celebration of his 57th birthday. There was a DJ, lights, cool wind, and the beautiful night sky overhead.

His name was Dennis Vito, and although he was no Michael Corleone, he was a pretty big figure in the underground.

He had paid the famed hired assassin, Ghost, aka Atlas Wright, eight million US dollars to keep him safe on this day, which she had gladly accepted.

Atlas was dressed as a server, sproting a crisp red vest, white shirt tucked into her trousers and a tray of drinks in her hand, and as she blended in with the people, she heard her earpiece crackle to life. Owen Hedge, Head of Vito’s Security’s voice spoke in her ear. 

“Keep in mind if you mess this up, you’re dead, Ghost,” he said, and she could see him standing by Vito’s side as he sternly eyed her. “Try not to fail.”

“I mean, it's not my fault you don't trust in me, mate. We’ll be fine, don’t worry.”

Vito got down the stairs and started to mingle with the crowd. Even if he did have Hedge and another guard by his side, she made sure to keep an eye out. She knew multiple ways to get past the guest list, so she really had no faith in that. But she did in the helicopter that was away from the action, sitting patiently.

Fifteen minutes passed, and nothing had happened. No weirdo pouncing at the big man with a knife, no bullet shots, no threatening whispers - nothing.

This place should’ve been swarming with enemies by then, but it was rather pleasant. No red flags.

Until Atlas spotted a tall man in a nice blue suit with his back to the entire party. He looked to be deeply admiring the skyline.

It was a beautiful view, but something told her no one would be so indulged in it when Vito was around.

“Keep an eye on the bloke over there, by the railing - blue suit, blonde, about six feet tall - Is he on the guest list?” she asked into her earpiece.

“...A Mr. Hermes Reynard? He’s a businessman - worked twice with Mr. Vito before.”

“I dunno, he seems….off. Let me just check him out. Be alert.”

Atlas walked over to where he stood. She asked him in Italian if he wanted a drink.

“No, thanks, I’m good,” he replied, and something about his rough voice struck a chord in her brain, but she didn’t pay attention to it.

“Okay, sir- oh-“

And with a deliberate flourish, she tipped a glass of champagne over his shirt before hurriedly pulling out a cloth and wiping the spreading stain. 

As she apologised over and over, she stepped close enough to feel the warmth of his body, and as she just barely grazed over his left hip, she felt the outline of a Smith and Wessons hidden beneath his coat.

Gotcha.

“I’m so sorry, signor, apologies,” Atlas muttered once again before raising her tray high enough to cover her face and walking away as fast as possible.

Instinctively, she looked over her shoulder, and she saw him staring at her, his body relaxed but his eyes dead cold .

He knew.

“Hedge, get Blue suit - he’s armed. Not a friendly.”

She could see the servers begin to approach Blue Suit, and a soft commotion was heard behind her with the servers trying to usher him outside while he casually argued.

And then someone’s skull cracked.

“Hedge, get Vito in the air, now !” Atlas yelled - she pulled out her gun and shot two bullets out into the air, making everyone else scatter. Vito and Hedge started running towards the helipad. 

She felt Blue Suit push past her, and she quickly slipped on her signature mask before ramming an elbow into his spine, making him stop in his tracks for a moment. Before she could completely tackle him he got hold of her arm and twisted it hard enough to make her immobile for several moments. She wrenched her arm out of his grip with a grunt, but wasn’t able to respond quickly enough to protect herself from the fist clashing against her masked jaw. He started running.

Only a minute had passed and she could already tell this guy was loads better than anyone she’d ever encountered.

But so was she. 

Blue Suit reached into his back pocket to take out his gun, but only felt thin air. 

He looked back, and saw Atlas grinning at him, his gun spinning in her hand.

He gave her an exasperated look and seemed to make a quick decision as he sprinted towards Vito and Hedge, who had reached the helipad, but seemed to be unable to wake the pilot. Clearly Blue Suit’s handiwork. 

She sent a shot towards him that just missed, and he gave her a cheeky wink.

He was really getting on Atlas’ nerves now. She’d given him a chance. Not anymore.

“You’re dead now, you bastard.”

She took a second to steady her aim, then pressed the trigger. The bullet cut through his tricep, lodging in the muscle.

She heard him groan out and stumble, and with a triumphant sigh she took the opportunity to dart to where he was and tackle him down, holding the gun under his chin He let out another groan of annoyance, almost.

“You can fly a fucking helicopter, can’t you, Hedge?!”

The HoS threw off the dead pilot and got in.

“You did terrible!” He yelled, before the vehicle started and took off.

Now it was just Atlas and this fucking idiot.

“Thanks for shooting me in the arm,” she heard him say, and she looked down to see him giving her a rather tired look. “Could’ve got me in the important places.”

“Yeah, no, I wanted to beat you to death, actually.”

“That sounds fun - I’m looking forward to it, really. You’re, uh, great at your job.”

Atlas punched him in the face. “Thank you.”

“God, you’re strong,” he choked out.

“God, you’re strong - does the academy make you workout, or something?” 

“It’s… more of a personal choice.” 

She knew this voice. She knew its low, gravelly notes.

Suddenly, everything about this man from his voice to his face and hair was the most familiar thing she’d ever seen in ages. She felt almost paralyzed.

His cool blue eyes, his nose, his thin mouth…

Fuck. No.

Without even realising, she whispered, her features twisted in perplexity, surprise, and a hint of fear-

“Court?”

He froze, his face stiffening. His brows lowered by the slightest.

“What did you just call me?”

His hands deftly grabbed the gun from Atlas’ as he flipped her over with no backlash from her, holding it to her head. 

His eyes were livid, and bewildered.

“How the fuck do you know my name?” he growled, pressing the gun harder into her flesh.

“I’m….”

He pulled the mask off her face and tossed it aside, and the gun nearly fell out of his hand.

“ Atlas? ” he breathed out, looking shit confused.

The sound of her name leaving his mouth like that made her brain shut down and reset, and suddenly she was hyper-aware of the situation.

“What’re you-“

A palm slammed against the underside of his jaw and he went numb, involuntarily collapsing onto the floor.

Atlas stared at Court’s unconscious body on the floor. Her chest heaved as she took in deep breaths. 

She had not, in her forty two years of existing, expected something like this to happen whatsoever. And she was not willing to let some stupid old memory from her past come in and ruin her focus. 

It was best to kill him. Put a bullet in his head so he never woke up again to come back to her.

She raised her arm, and aimed the pistol at his forehead. Her finger was on the trigger, resolute.

The bullets scattered everywhere, hitting anything but Court, and after 6 shots, the gun fell angrily to the ground.

“Fuck you, Court,” Atlas huffed, keeping her hands on her hips and glaring at him. 

“Fuck you.”

…. …. …. ….

Agent Sierra Six awoke with a throbbing head and a slung and bandaged arm that was positively numb in what looked like an angel’s bedroom, but the smell of fresh disinfectant said otherwise.

He softly grunted as he sat up, reaching to touch his head and instantly regretting it when his vision blurred out for a second.

He wasn’t entirely adjusted to the blinding whiteness surrounding him yet; part of him questioned why hospitals liked to do this to their already overwhelmed patients.

A nurse walked in and started to check his vitals.

“Do you feel better, Mr. Justice?”

Six’s brain slowly spurred into function. He frowned at the nurse as she checked his IV.

“How’d I get here?” he asked.

“Your friend got you here around 2 hours ago. She said her name was… Ms. Gazetteer?” The nurse looked visibly confused by the name.Despite the pain, Six automatically smirked at the mention of the name. It was a knee-jerk reaction at this point.

It took him a second to realise why he was smirking, but his brain connected the dots, and he sort of lost the ability to think for a minute.

Wow.

He stared at his blanket-covered toes, a million thoughts running in his head.

Six hadn’t seen Atlas in seventeen years. The last time he’d ever seen her face was in the prison compound, where the CIA had picked him up.

He’d assumed she had been still working there, or maybe in a stable job like at a grocery store or a bank firm with a kid and a partner who wasn’t him.

But he’d just seen her shoot him in the fucking arm with that mask on her face, which had been covering that long scar on her cheek.

Something, probably seventeen years of blades and bullets and bad guys told him she’d been through just as much as he had all this time.

She still looked so fucking pretty, he remembered, with her almond shaped brown eyes, and her little nose, and her full mouth, and her boyishly-cut, flowy black hair, and her-

“You’re a fucking idiot, Six.”

Six’s Atlas-based reverie was broken quite unceremoniously by a CIA agent with a cellphone in her hand. She looked very pissed off at him.

Not the first.

“Great to see you too,” he said, giving her a blunt smile. “And you are?”

The agent threw the phone on his lap, but before Six could even bring it to his ear, Denny Carmichael was screaming in it. 

“What the hell did you just do?!”

“Kinda need you to be more specific.”

“You not only risked getting seen by the people at the party, but also lost Vito and blew this fucking mission!” Carmichael shrieked, and Six could almost hear the saliva frothing at his mouth.

“I told you to work with another agent, someone actually bothered about this case, but your arrogant ass did not listen to me, and now look where it got you, Six.”

“I feel like a lot of your job is just screaming,” Six said, completely ignoring all of Carmichael’s words. The former could’ve sworn he heard something break, probably a mug.

“What the fuck went wrong?” he hissed.

Six saw the way the agent in the room was watching him, hawk-eyed.

He thought about it. He could either tell this fellow everything that had actually happened, or give him a stupid-ass excuse.

“I messed up with my timing. I’m sorry, all right?”

“You’re sorry?” Carmichael let out a hysterical laugh. “You’re sorry?! ”

Six rolled his eyes.

Silence. Then, Carmichael flatly said, “an agent will be accompanying you on all your proceeding missions.”

“Come on-“

The call abruptly cut. Six whistled as he threw the phone back to the lady.

“He really needs to try yoga,” he told her, and she pursed her lips.

“You’re gonna be shifted to your cell in 3 days.”

Six shrugged in response. “Sure.”

The agent left the room, to his relief. He settled back in bed, careful not to strain anything. The headache had reduced.

Even after all this, Atlas’ head was still in his face, and he was unable to not think about her.

He’d managed to forget her until today, but now that he knew that she was out there, close enough for him to see her again, it stirred up a long forgotten feeling he could only compare to waiting to see a school crush in the corridors in the morning.

God. he couldn’t deal with this. He forgot her once, he could do it again.

“Shit,” he whispered to himself, as he closed his eyes and fell back on the bed.

[mimisempai]

You were always on my mind

Summary

An innocent question from Muriel about Crowley's sketch of the Mona Lisa leads to an unexpected reaction from Aziraphale, and allows the angel and demon to talk about a past they do not share.

Notes

The characters of Leonardo and Salaï are based on their characterization in Assassin's Creed: Brotherhood.

On Ao3

Rating G -  1494 words

"Crowley?"

The demon, who was watering his plants, turned to Muriel and saw that they were standing in front of his precious sketch of Leonardo da Vinci's Mona Lisa.

As he approached, Muriel turned to him and, pointing to the painting where the inscription read, "Al mio amico Antonio dal tuo amico Leo da V." they asked, "Were you really friends with Leonardo Da Vinci?"

Neither of them saw Aziraphale, who had stopped to put away a book in order to listen to Crowley's answer, for he himself knew nothing of the origin of this friendship.

He had seen the inscription "To my friend Anthony". But he had chosen to ignore it, or rather to ignore the odd feeling it aroused in him.  

Leonardo and Crowley sat across from each other over a drink, both quite intoxicated, but still lucid enough to talk.

Crowley looked around at all the sketches of the same woman, then pointed to one hanging on the wall and said, "That one, that's the best, even better than the finished painting. 

He pointed to the canvas on the easel.

Leonardo rested his head on his hand and replied, "I got her bloody smile right in the cartoons, but it went all over the place when I painted it. Her husband had a few things to say about it when he was in yesterday, but, like I told him, Signor del Giocondo, apart from you, who's ever going to see it?"

Crowley chuckled, "Well said! Leo, if it's all right with you, I'd like to buy this from you." 

The demon pointed to the sketch pinned to the wall and added, "I'll give you eleven florins for it."

Leonardo shook his head and said, "Antonio, canaglia! I want twenty!"

"Fifteen!"

Leonardo held out his hand and replied, " Deal. Now, explain this helicopter thingie again, win you?"

Crowley shook his hand and explained.

"Wow. And what was he like?"

Crowley replied with a gentle smile, "An interesting guy, much more open-minded than people of his generation, and way ahead of his time even before I told him a few secrets. The kind of person you don't forget."

Aziraphale briskly closed the book, causing Muriel and Crowley to turn at the noise. Then, pretending not to see them, he put the book down and returned to his desk, feigning concentration on a manuscript while seething inside.

He hadn't liked the look on Crowley's face when he had spoken of his "friend." He hadn't liked it at all.

Crowley and Muriel had continued to chat in front of the painting, but Aziraphale tried not to pay attention, and soon, lost in his thoughts, he didn't notice that Muriel had come out.

"Angel?"

Aziraphale tried not to show his distress as he turned to Crowley.

The demon continued, "Maggie asked me to give you this."

He showed him a plate with a slice of apple pie and continued, "She said she made it for you to thank you for your little arrangement. How about a little break with a cup of tea?"

Crowley was so thoughtful that Aziraphale felt even worse for being consumed by jealousy. He nodded and followed Crowley to the round table, avoiding looking at the painting as he passed.

He sat down at the table where Crowley had placed the plate and a steaming cup of tea. The demon sat down not far from him, a mug of coffee in his hands.

Aziraphale avoided his gaze and took a spoonful of cake. The cake was delicious, but given his state of mind, Aziraphale had to force himself to show his appreciation.

Crowley, not fooled, frowned and asked, "Angel, is something wrong?"

Aziraphale said hesitantly, "You never told me about your friendship with Leonardo Da Vinci."

"Oh, that? Well, you see, Angel, sometimes so much time passed between our meetings in the past that, amidst all we had to say and do, there wasn't room to cover it all. I had come to Florence for some temptations, but, as usual, the ingenuity of human beings in matters of sin surpassed me, and I found myself here with nothing to do. One evening, in a tavern, I made the acquaintance of his assistant, Salaï, who told me that I had the type of figure his master liked to draw, and dragged me to Leonardo's studio. And after that evening, when I bought the sketch of the Mona Lisa, we met again several times to drink and talk, he was much more enlightened than his contemporaries, clever and an excellent artist as well as a good drinking companion".

Aziraphale, growing increasingly annoyed, replied, "And besides, he knew your name was Anthony, or should I say Antonio."

He couldn't hide the bitterness in his voice and Crowley noticed and asked him bluntly, "Are you by any chance jealous, Angel?"

Aziraphale didn't answer and looked away.

"Angel?" insisted Crowley, who had moved closer.

He grabbed the Angel's chin, forcing him to turn his head toward him, and said softly, "Because if you are, you should know that you have no reason to be jealous. Leo was already involved with someone."

Azirapahel replied in a sulky voice, "But you liked his company."

Crowley replied in an amused tone, "For the reasons I told you. I even told him about you."

"Don't make fun of me, Crowley!"

The demon protested, "I'm not laughing at you. Just listen. The love of his life was his assistant, Salaï, which is ironically short for the Italian word "saladino," meaning "little devil." Which he was, by the way. He really had Leo wrapped around his little finger.”

"Leonardo, I'm going to have a few drinks with my friends, don't wait up for me tonight!"

Salaï blew him a kiss before closing the door behind him to the sound of the artist's light laughter.

Crowley turned to him and asked, "Is there a... special bond between you and this brat?"

Leonardo shook his head, "He's just my assistant."

Crowley raised an eyebrow and replied, "If he were just an assistant, you wouldn't have to specify, mio amico."

Leonardo took a sip of wine before replying quietly, "My past has taught me to keep those aspects of my life, private."

Crowley replied gently, "You need say no more."

Leonardo smiled and replied in a cheeky tone, "You know my biggest secret, tell me something about yourself, Antonio."

Crowley waited a few seconds before answering, also smiling, "There's this person, he's annoying at times, we're very different and don't often agree, but he's the only person I feel close to and have absolute trust in. We're a bit like two sides of the same coin, and it's only on the edge that we can meet."

"Then what are you doing here?"

"Huh?"

"Antonio, mio amico, what are you doing here with me? 

Crowley didn't answer and Leonardo continued, "La vita senza amore, non è affatto vita. A life without love is no life at all. It doesn't matter what kind of love it is, maybe you don't know, but if it's the only person you feel close to, that's who you should be with."

"You see, Angel, you have no reason to be jealous, he even sent me to you. He probably saw the nature of my feelings for you long before I did." 

Still holding the angel's chin between his fingers, he leaned over him and pressed a tender kiss to his lips. Then, pulling back a little, he continued, "You know, even when we haven't seen each other in centuries, you've always been in my thoughts. Especially since Job, there has been this other someone who went with his side as far as he could. Like me. Alone together, but aware of each other, so not quite so alone."

Aziraphale smiled and, placing his hand on the demon's cheek, said softly, "I'm sorry for my irrational jealousy. 

Crowley shook his head and, leaning into the angel's hand, replied gently, "There is nothing to forgive. If anything, it's rather flattering. But more seriously, it shows us that there is so much we don't know about each other."

"You're right, and after hearing what you just told me about him, I'm glad you had a friend like that."

This time it was Aziraphale who leaned in to give Crowley a gentle kiss, and when he pulled away, he had a cheeky grin on his face as he said, "And thanks to that, I can boast that I'm the owner of the only bookshop to have an authentic Da Vinci hanging on one of its walls."

They both laughed, then the angel picked up his spoon and resumed enjoying his slice of apple pie while the demon took a long sip of coffee.

Their unoccupied hands sought each other across the table, intertwining their fingers. 

They looked at each other, smiling knowingly, aware that they had cleared another small hurdle.

Just talking and listening.

Learning together.

_________

Still not beta'd

Still not my native language

Still hoping you'll enjoy this story  🥰

Still thanking you for bearing with me 😝

Ineffable Growing Love series : here (After season 2)

Ineffable Husbands masterlist : here (Before season 2)

[curiositasmundi]

Elena Basile

Vorrei che i cantori della propaganda occidentale, coloro che affermano che “la guerra in Ucraina l’ha creata Putin”, che inneggiano all’Occidente perché da sempre in grado di “aiutare i Paesi a combattere per la libertà”, che recitano il catechismo neoliberale senza mostrare alcun ripensamento: tutti questi vorrei fossero deportati a Gaza o in Cisgiordania o in Ucraina a combattere al fronte e rimanessero lì inermi ad osservare la realtà del massacro, vorrei che vedessero i corpi dilaniati o bruciati dei bimbi palestinesi, che assaporassero la verità alla quale sono tanto indifferenti. Ho un‘impronta cristiana e come ho imparato sui libri di Dostoevskij, c’è una umanità che ci accomuna, una pietas che trionfa. I Giuda odierni, dinnanzi all’orrore della guerra, cadrebbero in ginocchio e finalmente smetterebbero di fare sviolinature all’Occidente bellicista: una macchina mostruosa di abusi e di crimini impuniti. Ascolterebbero l’urlo delle vittime e cadrebbero in ginocchio di fronte ai bambini palestinesi, iracheni, afghani, libici, libanesi, di fronte alle vittime dei bombardamenti di Belgrado, di fronte ai diciottenni ucraini sterminati o mutilati.

Usciamo dal moralismo e dai commoventi miti cristiani. Torniamo alla politica internazionale. Le Nazioni Unite sono state distrutte dall’Occidente. Le risoluzioni relative ai soprusi israeliani avrebbero potuto essere imposte da una mediazione tra i membri del Consiglio di Sicurezza se gli Stati Uniti non avessero voluto assicurare l’impunità a Israele. Oggi il Segretario di Stato Blinken ha la faccia tosta di affermare in pubblico che le alture del Golan (terre considerate occupate dall’ONU) possono essere utilizzate per la difesa di Israele. Il Governo criminale di Netanyahu spinge per un conflitto allargato contro Libano e Iran, e con l’esplosione di “cerca persone” semina morte tra civili e non solo tra miliziani. Il conflitto non è ancora scoppiato in virtù della saggezza diplomatica iraniana, ma i titoli dei giornali più letti si limitano a descrivere l’escalation tra Hezbollah e Israele come se fosse un evento voluto dalla provvidenza e non determinato dai comportamenti concreti di uno Stato terrorista.

I Dem Usa non hanno  voglia di farsi trascinare nel conflitto a due mesi dalle elezioni. Sono impotenti di fronte alla lobby di Israele che decide di fatto la politica statunitense, molte volte contro gli interessi americani e del popolo di Israele.

In Ucraina la superiorità russa sul campo militare è un fatto che non sarà sovvertito dall’utilizzo degli Storm Shadow. Zelenski, l’ex comico assassino del suo popolo e distruttore del suo Paese, chiamato dai giornali mainstream, eroico, intrepido e via dicendo, tenta di portare la NATO in guerra. Con un gioco delle parti e una divisione dei compiti il Parlamento europeo, guidato da donne senza cultura e senza memoria del dolore, dichiara nei fatti guerra alla Russia autorizzando l’uso di armi letali, manovrabili soltanto da militari NATO, per un attacco in profondità nel territorio russo. Washington rimane dietro le quinte e prepara la destabilizzazione nel Pacifico. BlackRock e gli altri fondi speculativi che detengono l’80% della ricchezza mondiale attendono le nuove avventure, in vista di ingenti profitti futuri.

La guerra in Ucraina non è iniziata con l’attacco russo del 2022. I signori dei maggiori giornali oscurano le voci del dissenso e strombazzano slogan senza fondamento. Signor Ezio Mauro, possibile che non conosca la Storia, che voglia distruggere i libri e la cultura? Perché non racconta ai suoi elettori della dicotomia OSCE NATO? Della strategia USA iniziata nel lontano 1997 che provocò le accorate parole di G. Kennan? Perché non racconta della guerra civile in Ucraina e della mancata applicazione degli accordi di Minsk? Perché non afferma che il principio caro all’OSCE e all’ONU di “non ingerenza negli affari interni di un altro Paese” è stato violato infinite volte da Washington e dagli Stati colonialisti europei? Possibile che sia così strabico da vedere solo l’aggressione russa, pure da considerare secondo diversi studiosi alla stregua, quella sì, di guerra preventiva (“preemptive”), per impedire l’ennesima spedizione punitiva contro le popolazioni russofone e l’assalto al Donbass da parte di un esercito che aveva incluso tra le sue fila il famigerato battaglione neonazista AZOV? Come mai a suo avviso sui giornali di maggiore impatto non vi sono voci radicali di dissenso che possano informare i lettori su una narrativa alternativa basata sui fatti documentati e non su slogan ideologici? Condivide anche lei il trionfalismo col quale Molinari ha celebrato l’assassinio di civili libanesi grazie all’esplosione dei “cerca persona”, un atto terroristico considerato dal giornalista un avanzamento tecnologico in grado di rafforzare Tel Aviv?

Mentre poniamo queste domande, i cantori dell’Occidente alla Mauro, alla Mieli, e persino alla Quirico, tanto per indicare i nomi più autorevoli, restano silenti. Alimentando nel cittadino più consapevole la percezione che esista un “quarto potere” sempre più separato, complice e autoreferenziale.

[sagmirmal]

Due film fluviali

Quasi per espridelescalié rimando i necess. saluti e giocomi il bonus titolo per due film, lasciando ai Cahiers du cinéma / Castori auf Tumblr, ossia @jacobyouarelost , palabras mas precise e serie. Sono due film speciali su adolescenti famiglie e questo mondaccio pazzo.

Il primo è 怪物 Mostro / L'innocenza di Kore'eda Hirokazu (cognome + nome). Uno dei più bei firm sui ragazzini e i maestri e i genitori e la scuola, LA SCUOLA, e l'amore «da li tempi de Truffaut» (la cit. ci tiene a essere non zerocalcarea - pur con tutto ir rispetto - bensì holliwoodpartiana). Costruito come il bellissimo Nel bosco di Akutagawa Ryūnosuke, che fu poi Rashomon, e (meglio di) Anatomia di una caduta, fatta la tara a Sandra Hüller, che Gott (sempre gelobt sei) la preservi sempre e per sempre. Kore'eda ci insegna il disastro di tutti e i loro effetti sui picc. Le chiuse tracimano, i fiumi scorrono e poi esondano. È anche film di rinascita e resurrezione: e su questo, per favore, si suggerisca ad Alice Rohrwacher di tornare indré nel tempo, und rifare il catechistico La chimera dopo essere andata a guardarlo. Musica, ultime musiche di Sakamoto Ryuichi. Al tuo arrivo ti accolgano i martiri, e ti conducano etc.

Il secondo è La vita accanto, MTGiordana incontra l'alter-ego più anziano MBellocchio. Circolano frasette sceme su questo film; mi sento un po' autorizzato a blaterarci anche me, perché ebbi conosciuto: anni molti li conservatori; le aule delle elementari con Tania, che anche lei come etc.; troppi giorni, prima der Pisano, tri(-meno1)veneti (lascerò alle etnografie di @trilo-bite disamine più fini, e all'Istituto Nazionale di G e V); alcune signore iscambianti l'esistenza per gl'ingranaggi; molti occhiali con la montatura nera squadrata und spessa. Chi dice che MTGiordana non fa film così squadrati non ricorda Quando sei nato non puoi più nasconderti.

Fantasmi, cadute, i disegni I DISEGNI della gente bimba, anche quando bimba non è più, e i libri, TUTTI QUEI LIBRI, come diceva Adriana Asti da qualche parte, che Dio preservi sempre. Gli sguardi di quella particolare società dell'aidòs che è il Veneto e plebeo e borghese, e di nuovo i nefasti quod Deus avortat effetti sui piccoli, soprattutto le piccole più o meno piccole, e l'acqua che Vincenza bagna, sempre lì disponibile per la soluzione. Che belli i volti (le riprese dei volti), e la musica, e la Bergamasco che torna a suonare. Film-Méliès, con inquadrature e dialoghi di grande tenerezza e altre specchio della grande inquietudine. Una tragedia greca nella città del teatro olimpico e dei militari americani. Terra terra e insieme alta come quelle greche, davvero.

Francesca Bellè: voleva fare la rockstar, è sempre più brava. Michela Cescon, che era in Quando sei nato, non la accarezza nessun tempo che scorre, recita come davanti al Grande Manito.

[donaruz]

Giorgio Gaber - La libertà

Voglio essere libero, libero come un uomo

Vorrei essere libero come un uomo

Come un uomo appena nato

Che ha di fronte solamente la natura

Che cammina dentro un bosco

Con la gioia di inseguire un'avventura

Sempre libero e vitale

Fa l'amore come fosse un animale

Incosciente come un uomo

Compiaciuto della propria libertà

La libertà non è star sopra un albero

Non è neanche il volo di un moscone

La libertà non è uno spazio libero

Libertà è partecipazione

Vorrei essere libero come un uomo

Come un uomo che ha bisogno di spaziare con la propria fantasia

E che trova questo spazio

Solamente nella sua democrazia

Che ha il diritto di votare

E che passa la sua vita a delegare

E nel farsi comandare

Ha trovato la sua nuova libertà

La libertà non è star sopra un albero

Non è neanche avere un'opinione

La libertà non è uno spazio libero

Libertà è partecipazione

Vorrei essere libero come un uomo

Come l'uomo più evoluto

Che si innalza con la propria intelligenza

E che sfida la natura

Con la forza incontrastata della scienza

Con addosso l'entusiasmo

Di spaziare senza limiti nel cosmo

E convinto che la forza del pensiero

Sia la sola libertà

La libertà non è star sopra un albero

Non è neanche un gesto o un'invenzione

La libertà non è uno spazio libero

Libertà è partecipazione

La libertà non è star sopra un albero

Non è neanche il volo di un moscone

La libertà non è uno spazio libero

Libertà è partecipazione

La libertà non è star sopra un albero

Non è neanche il volo di un moscone

La libertà non è uno spazio libero

Libertà è partecipazione

Il Signor G.

[xxsycamore]

Hello great idea you had for our challenge if I may can I have Comte x Leonardo with the prompt Office AU ?

Thank you have a wonderful day 🙏😊

Glad that you like the idea!! 🥺 You too have a lovely day & enjoy the business daddies~

[ 🌈 part of the character x character or genderbent!character x mc requests🌈 ]

For Different Universe, Same Love content creation challenge, hosted by @queengiuliettafirstlady and me.

𝐎𝐅𝐅𝐈𝐂𝐄 𝐀𝐔┅┅┅Leonardo x Comte (slightly suggestive)

𝐥𝐞𝐭'𝐬 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐟𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐞

"Tsk, Leonardo. Feet off the desk, please."

"You're not my boss."

It's practically true. After the company merged, Germain & Da Vinci's legal CEO is no other than Leonardo himself - for better or for worse. The family-owned business that Leonardo inherited came in a package deal with all its complicated management that dear Comte, the vice-president, was ready to shoulder as a part of his secret deal with Leonardo. The guy is just not fit for a boss; or so he claims.

"I suggest we leave those formalities in the office. You surely know what day today is, signore CEO?"

Leonardo has to briefly spin on his office chair to reach for the small calendar on his desk and move the date to what he assumes it might be, in order to get an idea of what's so special about today. It's a whole miracle on itself that he can find said calendar among the mess that his desk is, seeing that he'd once again dismissed the secretary before she could do her job.

"I saw Dazai by the coffee machine wearing his kimono ... Casual Friday... July 7th." The confident guess is accompanied by a snap of his fingers. "What is July 7th?"

Comte sighs, visibly disappointed by his antics and the fact that he'd forgotten. It's better to show than tell.

Like a magician performing for his one-person public, all it takes is a few ministrations of Comte's capable hands to undo and shrug off both his business suit and diligently ironed black shirt to reveal...another shirt underneath. Short-sleeved. Palm-tree printed. Hawaiian.

"Vacation. That's what it is. Our flight is in 5 hours, I believe you're clueless about this too."

It's good that office chairs are no good for attempting to balance them on two legs. Leonardo would've found himself on the floor. NOONE in team meeting would believe him about this. At least he's able to shake off the surprise pretty fast.

"Well, heh. Guess I need the holiday if my head is such a mess, huh?""

Comte's gaze softens, because, that's actually something he can't argue with. Managing the company aside, Leonardo works hard on the research front to better the formula passed down in his family business. That's always been what the genius wanted to do.

"Nice shirt, by the way. You got one my size?"

Comte's soft chuckles soundtrack his approach to the desk and die down to a small humming noise by the time he arrives at Leonardo's side. A slender finger nudging the first button of his shirt - the first buttoned one, anyway - until it slowly, annoyingly slowly comes undone.

Leonardo moves in for a kiss, but the other party withdraws all too fast.

"I might just have one your size. But I told you. Feet off the desk first."

Taglist: @arsnovacadenza @ale-teodora @kimi00twin @otomelady @privilegedpancake @g-kleran    @pumpumnnnp @thesirenwashere @ravenarld @kimmy-banana @devonares @galaxyprison @sadshaxk @starshards26 @pro-cat-stination @acethephoenix256 @ikevamp-shrine-2 @nad-zeta @crystal13unny @keen19thcenturygoatsstudent @lordsister @ikemen-banshou   @themysticalbeing @canaria-blackwell @otome-scribbles @rhodolitesrose @coornn @kpop-and-otome @queen-dahlia @kisara-16 @chaosangel767 @ikemenlibrary @aurora-morning @aquagirl1978 ​ @ikemenlover24 @violettduchess @mcofthemansion @joy-the-reader @katriniac @ikemen-writer @tele86 @lovely-bubb1es @aria-chikage @babyblue0t7 @thewitchofbooks @rhodoliteschaos Let me know if you want to be tagged/untagged!

[libriaco]

Ancora sugli imbecilli

Abbiamo bisogno di voialtri. Voi siete le vittime del nostro piacere e il sottosuolo della nostra grandezza. Siete affondati perché possiamo emergere; vi abbassate perché possiamo salire. Permettetemi di pregare per l'anima vostra, imbecilli convinti e innumerabili. Quando vi contemplo seduti alla tavola di un ben illuminato caffè — le vostre facce hanno bisogno di molto luce — quando vi guardo per le strade e per i teatri, nelle botteghe e nei tranvai, una grande e invincibile tenerezza mi assale e duro fatica a reprimere la tentazione di buttarvi le braccia al collo e di baciarvi le mani. In quei momenti la mia pietà è realmente infinita e debbo nasconderla sotto la più brutale durezza per non umiliarvi più del bisogno. Quando penso a quel che vi manca e vi mancherò per tutto la vita; quante emozioni non sentite; quanti aspetti delle cose non scorgete; quante verità non alienate; quanto bellezza vi sfugge e quanto coraggio vi fa difetto, io, che non ho le lacrime facili, avrei sul serio voglio di piangere. Io so che passate attraverso il mondo senza intuirlo nella sua diversità e solidità; senza fermarvi a contemplare quelle minime cose che son le più grandi nell'emisfero della poesia; senza penetrare né l’anima delle vostre donne né quelle de' vostri compagni e neppure la vostra, la vostra infinitamente piccola anima. Io so che il genio può passarvi accanto, vivo, in carne ed ossa, in parole e in ispirito, e che voi non lo vedete, non siete capaci di vederlo, di avvicinarvi, di parlargli, di andare con lui, di lasciar padre e madre e ogni trascurabile bene per seguirlo all'interno dei suoi proibiti piaceri. Io so che quattro, cinque, dieci idee vi bastano per tutta la vita, vi servono per tutti gli usi quotidiani, per il giorno e per la notte, per l'amante e per il parrucchiere, per parlare e per scrivere, per alzarvi la mattina e per andare a letto la sera e che nel vostro cervello, senza finestre dalla parte del cielo, non hanno diritto d’ingresso che le verità diventate luoghi comuni e l'idee che a forza d'uso son fatte imbecillità. Io so, e lo so con matematica certezza, che pensate coll’altrui pensiero, che vedete cogli occhi degli altri, che giudicate col giudizio degli estranei e che le vostre ammirazioni e i vostri entusiasmi vanno soltanto a quelle cose che qualcuno di voi timbrò ripetutamente col sudicio bollo della fama più infame. Io so tutto questo — ed altro ancora che non dico per dignità — e non dovrei commiserarvi sinceramente dal profondo del cuore? Non crediate ch'io sia cattivo o che mi eserciti nel sarcasmo. Vi amo perché siete il contrappeso necessario dei pochi e la mia pietà è senza nessun sottinteso. E vi amo, vigliaccamente, anche perché ho paura della vostra vicinanza. […] Permettetemi dunque di pregare anche per voi, imbecilli preziosi e desiderabili, almeno una volta. Io non so quali sono le parole che posson farvi piacere e le grazie che ricercate ma lodo e celebro il Signore perché vi dia quel che domandate e perché tutti i vostri desideri siano speditamente esauditi.

G. Papini, Gli imbecilli [1913-1951], Viterbo, Millelire, 2007

[ravenzeppeli]

Daddy Prosciutto |Prosciutto x Reader Lemon|

Warning: daddy kink, dom and sub relationship, spanking, spit.

   "You see.. this just isn't acceptable attire for you to wear. You can't represent your commitment to me in a short skirt and a shirt that has your breasts hanging out. Throw these out," Prosciutto commended, throwing the items of clothing on the floor that he found slutty for some reason. "No more of this."

       You raised your hands in protest, in practical utter disbelief at what he was telling you to do to most of your clothes. "You're expecting me to throw half of my wardrobe out. Why?! These are my clothes Prosciutto, this is not fair!" Why was he trying to control you like this? So lame. So hot. Such a daddy.

       "Oh shut up. I'll just buy you some more clothes, clothes much more suitable for you. You need to cover up and respect me as your boyfriend now," he said, closing your clothes drawer gently. He turned around, purple eyes staring at you with sternness. "How does that sound?"

         You shook your head, prepared to give him a hard time. You didn't care about his stupid ass rules. You would break them with ease. "No! I don't need a man buying me things, I'm independent, so drop your shit." You rolled your eyes at him, glaring in his direction. You tried to hide your arousal. He was such a dominant man, and you liked that. That's why you agreed to date him. You needed to be dominated and controlled. It was so fucking hot, especially when he did it in front of the team and humiliated you.

        "You've been a huge brat lately, and I'm fed up." He shook his head, walking over to you. You stayed still, letting him grab you and drag you towards your bed. "You're getting punished and fucked," he snapped, ripping your shirt open, revealing your breast automatically because you weren't wearing a bra. "So naughty," he muttered, smacking your left breast with force, leaving a red handprint behind.

       You moaned, "Will you be my daddy Prosciutto?" You touched his face, causing his blonde eyebrows to furrow in confusion. "I want you to punish me and put me in my place because I like to be a real bad girl. I don't think that you'll be able to handle me, though. I see you breaking up with me in a week tops." Guys were never able to keep up with you. They always gave up. Ran for the hills. Was he actually different?

        "Break up with you? Please, I'm not going anywhere, so cut your shit. You are my girlfriend and you will stay my girlfriend. I have made my final decision, and I'm sticking with it, little girl." He raised his hands, grabbing your breast. "You want me to be your daddy? Let me show you who daddy is then," he muttered, fingers pinching your erect buds. "Pull down your pants and underwear and show me your pussy now.

      You were ready to listen to him, unbuttoning your pajama pants and pulling them down, revealing that you were wearing no underwear. You hoped that he wouldn't say anything because you did it in hopes of him spending the night with you. You were eager to please him always, you liked him so fucking much.

      "I want you to ask me to spank and fuck you, okay? Ask daddy to punish you for having a smart mouth for these past six days." He slipped two fingers inside of you, curling them inside of your core, automatically hitting your g spot. "Come on, be a good girl for me."

       "Yes, signore," you whined, collapsing into his body, your head resting on his exposed chest. "Oh wow, you smell like vanilla. That's so fucking hot, you're so fucking hot daddy. I'll listen to you, fuck those clothes. Fuck them," you practically moaned, face turning a bright red as you grew much too wet for your taste because he just started.. why were your juices already running down your thighs.

      Prosciutto let a gentle laugh escape his lips as he pumped his two fingers in and out of you, his other hand roughly smacking the middle of your bare ass. "See? Why were you pretending like you weren't going to listen to me, cara? You're so be silly but also very naughty for testing me," he spoke softly, letting his hand crash down on your left thigh, leaving behind a red handprint.

       "I'm sorry, Daddy!" You exclaimed, hands raising to grip his shirt, forehead pressed against his chest as you practically trembled in his arms, his hand raising to smack down on your left ass cheek three times. You were going to behave for him, take your punishment with no complaints, but you could at least apologize. You have been a huge brat for the past six days, but for a good reason. "I was just being a brat because I wanted your attention!"

      "How naughty of you," he said sharply, hand raising and crashing down on every inch of your bottom and sit spots, leaving every inch of your ass a bright red. He slipped a third finger into you smoothly, picking up the pace as he felt your juices leaking, running down his arm. "You're enjoying this so much. You've been needed a man in your life to take care of you and set you straight, haven't you?"

       "Yes, Daddy!" You exclaimed, tightening your grip on his shirt as you hopped up and down, his smacks causing tears of pain and pleasure to fill your eyes. "It hurts though, I didn't mean you that much harm! I'm really sorry!" You tightened around his fingers as his hits ceased, his hot hand gently rubbing your ass, trying to sooth your stings to no avail. You definitely were never going to push Prosciutto. He wasn't the kind of man who liked to have his buttons pushed.

        He pulled his three fingers out of you, gently pushing you onto the bed. "It's okay, I forgive you, baby. I know that you'll be a good girl for me now," he said softly, unbuttoning his suit, revealing his toned body and light six-pack. "You were about to cum so I had to stop, I want you to cum on my cock. Lay on your back and spread your legs for me please." He kicked his shoes off, unzipping his pants as he pulled down his pants and underwear, his 8 inch cock springing to life.

       You obeyed, positioning your head on the pillow as you lay on your back, legs spread and slick with desire for him. "Thank you so much for forgiving me, I promise that I'll be good for now on and listen," you whined, staring up at him with impatience as his purple eyes slowly creeped down your quivering, naked body. You talked shit for six whole days just to be put in your place in like 10 minutes. Damn.

       His cock twitched with anticipation, "you're so pretty.. and you're all mine. I feel bad for any guy that dares to approach you because I'll kill them. I have to keep a close eye on you." He shook his head, walking over to you. He climbed on top of you, hands wrapping around your waist as he pushed inside of your slick core with ease, a deep moan escaping his lips as he fully entered. "Fuck.. you feel so good. Such a perfect little cunt, want daddy to sleep with my cock in you all night? Want to get use to having daddy's cock inside of you?"

      You moaned, arms wrapping around his neck as you pulled his face close to yours. "I know I've only known you for five months but I love you, I fucking love you. I don't care if you love me back though, just please don't leave me. Stay with me please," you begged him, his cock bulging in your stomach, unmoving.

       "I love you too. That's why I've been so protective over you. You're so precious to me Y/N, so fucking precious," he said, licking his lips before he slammed his lips into yours, his cock thrusting in and out of you. The bed creaked back and forth, his tongue forcefully slipping into your mouth. He let his right hand drop, two fingers rubbing your clit fiercely- he was going all in tonight.

       You moaned into his lips, legs shaking as you tightened around him. When he pulled away from your lips, your face turned a bright red once his hungry purple eyes met yours. You felt so fucking filthy. "Spit in my mouth daddy," you whined softly, your juices wetting your sheets. Fuck, you didn't want to do laundry tonight.

       "I'm going to fucking murder your pussy if you keep talking dirty to me like that, I'll have to get you a wheelchair once I'm done with you cara," he practically growled, two fingers now gently slapping your clit as he rolled his hips and in and out of you, his free hand raising to grab the headboard as he spit in your open mouth. "You're driving me fucking crazy, fuck!" He added his two fingers inside of you, fingers moving next to your cock, stretching you out beyond your limits.

        You swallowed his sweet spit gratefully, trembling beneath him as you shook your head. "No no no please daddy," you begged, multiple orgasms flowing throughout your body as you squirted, refusing to hold it in. "I can't take it, I really can't!" Hot tears rolled down your cheeks, your body feeling overstimulated. You've never in your life been fucked this good before, the harsh sting in your bottom not even bothering you in the slightest.

        "But I'm not done," he taunted, shaking his head as he gripped the headboard, fingers and cock violating your poor pussy- you were going to be sore for days if he didn't stop soon. "I'm not fucking done baby, don't you want daddy to destroy your pussy? The bed isn't wet enough." He grinned down at you, the bed violently rocking back and forth.

       "No, no, please, please stop it, Daddy! I really can't take it anymore, please give me a break!" You begged him, snot and tears running down your face, more of your juices soaking the bed. "Stop it," you whined, hands dropping to push against his chest.

        He pulled his fingers out of you, sticking them in his mouth as he gave you three more violent thrusts before he pulled out, his hand dropping from the headboard to wrap around his cock, giving it three pumps before shooting his cum all over your breasts. "Was that fucking good? Did you like that?" He questioned, free hand smacking your sore womanhood twice. He panted above you, eyes wild with lust as sweat dripped from his body. His blonde locks were a hot mess, chest heaving up and down as his six pack glistened. Fuck, he was so fucking hot.

       You nodded your head, a low groan escaping your lips. Your entire lower body was sore, but it was so worth it. "Yes, Daddy," you whispered, hands dropping limply next to you. "But I can't move, I'm sore. You fucked me so hard daddy." Best sex ever.

        "How about I run you a bath and throw the sheets in the washer? I'll put some clean ones on the bed, and then I'll get in the tub with you and wash your little body. Sound good, baby?" He questioned softly, leaning down to place a soft kiss on your lips before standing up.

       You nodded your head, closing your eyes as another low groan escaped your lips. "Thank you, Daddy," you mumbled, letting your body go limp. Fuck, it was going to take you days to recover.

[musicaintesta]

E tu, Stato

E tu, Stato

così giusto e imparziale

col tuo onesto sistema fiscale

s’intende demenziale

che affronti i problemi più urgenti con tasse nuove geniali e stravaganti

ancora non mi è chiaro cosa ci fai del mio denaro

non vedo né ospedali, o tribunali

ma solo allegri e spiritosi

i servizi sociali generalmente

se uno paga e non ha indietro niente

se non è proprio idiota

rivuole indietro la sua quota.

E tu, Stato

inginocchiato e impaurito

sempre più incerto e cupo

che gridi disperato “al lupo! al lupo!”

sempre più depresso, sempre più codardo

te la sei fatta addosso

per colpa di un balordo lombardo.

E tu, Stato

che tu sia ministro, politico o magistrato

ci avete castigato mettendoci di fronte

ad una tragedia inaspettata e sconvolgente

e noi che lo vediamo

come vi agitate per far pagare a noi

quarant’anni di cazzate.

Ma la sola vera riforma delle istituzioni

è che ve ne andiate tutti fuori dai coglioni.

Giorgio Gaber

Buon compleanno Signor G ❤️