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londonfog-chan · 12 days ago

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Emperor Caracalla x Fem!Reader: Hermâs

A/N: The little lad dances once again.

I got this idea from listening to the soundtrack for Spirit. I’m a fucking horse girl at heart.

I also wanted to write about the true “quirky girl” experience. The majority of the time, the quirky girl isn’t beloved by all. In fact, many find her quite annoying.

I wanted to write about a sheltered, immature girl whose main character syndrome fucks her over when she finds someone that can match her delulu. I wanted to write a story where the reader is genuinely as stupid and naive, as well as childish, as the moron twins are.

Sometimes, we need a stupid reader.

Summary: Was this truly happening? Have the gods at last acknowledged your existence as the main character of your childhood narrative?

Warnings: Caracalla being a creep, period accurate misogyny, mentions of marrying off daughters to old men, Geta plotting evil, slight smutty elements

Credits: massive shoutout to @writhingg and @rxqueenotd for beta reading my clown shoes writing, as well as dealing with me screaming about my Shayla.

Dividers by: @strangergraphics-archive

You found yourself groaning awake in your bed the morning after your sojourn in the stables.

Despite the consistent treatments of echinacea salve and rendered animal fat, the large bruise on your thigh still stung and bled through the linens— your father’s new war stallion was not one to be trifled with. Whereas you had intended to capture the hearts of the handsome stable hands by taming the horse, your poor planning and recklessness had almost killed you.

The stallion had been a gift— war spoil— from a distant land far to the east. The animal was a beautiful golden buckskin with singed brown legs and dark mane; for a moment, you mistook him for one of the golden horses that pulled Sol’s chariot across the sky. One could imagine the distinct markings as telling a story of his divine origin.

Perhaps the fiery rays of the sun singed his legs, mane and tail, and maybe the light bleached his hide— just as it tended to wash out the dyed colors of forgotten laundry hanging on a line.

He was beautiful.

So different from the broken ones you had been able to ride bareback as a small child, you naively thought all this poor creature needed to be tamed was a tender hand. Someone who understood his divine origin, and respected him for it. Only heroes in your childhood fairytales could tame such a beast, and you fancied yourself to be of their rank.

Unfortunately, your status as a chosen one was called into question. The animal was still half possessed by the wilds, and the scent of the working mares around him drove him into a lovesick madness. You jumped without thinking onto his back, and the animal had tried everything in his power to throw you. Both of you went down when he reared, and landed on your sides when the horse lost footing in the arena.

Instead of a potential stable hand suitor rushing to your side to help, your father corralled the stallion, and it was Mother Lucilla who appeared with her maid Leta when she heard your cries of agony. Leta scolded you with a clicking of her tongue as she hauled you up, and your mother’s deep contralto barked out as she gave you a verbal lashing.

“What were you thinking?! Moronic child! Preposterous piss-ant! Behaving as though I’ve never taught you sense! You could have broken your neck, you could have been killed! Foolishness!”

While you were carted back to the house in a lectus, you could hear the young stable hands laughing at your idiocy. Doubled over, they slapped at their bare knees and mimicked your cries and moans of pain in high pitched voices. Baiting, ugly, almost sexual sounding cries, they laughed and hooted until chastised back into their duties by your father’s hard gaze.

The old stable master had yet again approached your father, begging Acacius to do something about these repeated infractions.

“General! With all due respect, your daughter is a nuisance, a menace to my animals and to society! The horse may be ruined because of her stupidity.”

“She is only a child…”

“Does she not count nineteen years, General?! She is more than old enough to be wed, certainly old enough to know better. Perhaps it would do her some good to marry a man of advanced age and wisdom, surely he would straighten out her insolence with a sound beating!”

Even though the war horses were your favorite creatures in all the land, never again would you enter your father’s stables. Far too much embarrassment had cowed you, and you feared that if you made just one more misstep with his animals, that this time your father really would punish you rather than make excuses. Acacius had been cross this time, inflexible with your punishment. Under threat of a good thrashing by your mother, you were not to leave the domus, nor were you allowed to breach even the threshold of the atrium for any excuse. Never in your life had you seen your father so angry…

For a moment you were afraid. Afraid that this time, he would listen to the advice of those he trusted, and ship you off to some shriveled old man who would break your spirit.

You stayed put in your bed as your mother and her maid bathed your wounds and stood by as you recovered. When you began to grow restless, your impotent begging for mercy from hateful Mother Lucilla earned you a few moments alone in the hortus.

You loved the hortus. It was a grand design of your late mother’s creation, consisting entirely of things which were either medicinal or able to be used in various dishes. This time of the year it would be awash with a rainbow of perfumed shrubbery; the marigolds and roses would be in bloom with the purple lavender, interspersed liberally with chamomile and pansy, and you could preoccupy yourself with endlessly plucking blossoms to savor the taste. The peppery marigolds and aromatic rose petals were the taste of summer, a comfort whenever you were distressed.

This task could be accomplished alone, leaving you to ruminate on your embarrassment. Settling against a marble bench near the laurel tree, you lay reclined, with legs splayed on either side of the seat as you chewed the petals on a marigold blossom.

There was no one to stop you. Lucilla’s impatience and eye for meticulous detail were soon distracted by matters of the home. With strict instruction to stay put until she came to fetch you, she departed to attend her responsibilities among the servants in preparation for Acacius’s departure. There was food to be purchased and stored beforehand, monetary affairs to settle, as well as a thousand different things to consider for the duration of the General’s campaign. Certainly no time to devote fully to a rambunctious youth who paced the length of the gardens, limping the entire way.

You could hardly imagine it. In a week’s time, your father would be gone for nearly half a year…

The thought was almost frightening and would have put you in your sickbed, had not you already gone to great lengths to harden your heart. This was nothing at all new. Acacius had left often before when you were young, hence why he’d married Lucilla. The marriage was one of mutual benefit: you would have someone to care for you besides your late mother’s selected wet nurse, and Lucilla would have a child of her own to love and raise, a comfor to her heart for the one she’d lost.

You loved Lucilla. But the thought of losing your father, your last biological connection, and being left alone in the world still frightened you. There was always a chance that this would be the one time Acacius wouldn’t come back— and you wished that the emperors would stop sending your father away.

When Acacius left the domus, the mood of the home became sullen. Prayer was ceaselessly carried out in the lararium. Tithes, incense, and blood libations offered to the gods were overseen by your mother, and she could be gone for hours at a time at temple while you stayed behind in your cubiculum.

When at last you tired of eating flowers, you began carelessly scattering blood red rose petals into your mother’s font filled with carp while asking questions of Venus. You were imagining her responses, looking for her answers taking shape in the patterns the petals made in the water, when you heard mad giggling from behind a pillar towards the domus’ portico.

Whipping around, you looked for the source, eyes widening at the unfamiliar sound.

The giggle increased, and you could see wine colored silken damask dart behind a marble column.

What in the name of the gods was that?!

Nymph? Genius loci? One of the marble gods from the lararium— a statuette— come to life to play with you? You weren’t sure, but your heart was racing, breathing staccato as you crept closer to find out.

The scraping of leather sandals against marble could be heard when you approached. Heavy footed and a little clumsy: the perpetrator moved opposite you. You veered to the left, he to the right.

You saw a flash of hair the color of sunset. As well as the smallest glimpse of blue-gray eyes.

Grinning at the game, you decided to go for a feint. The two of you circled the pillar for a time, the high pitched giggling increasing. The giggle drowned out the sound your footsteps made when you doubled back around the pillar, laying hands on the shoulders of the intruder.

“Caught you!” You sing-songed.

He screeched, his ringed hands covering his face, and you both toppled out of the portico into the grass.

“I caught you!” You cried out again, as you leaned down to pull his hands away from his flushed face.

“You did not! Liar! I was hunting you for sport.” Exclaimed the intruder.

“You aren’t supposed to giggle when chasing your quarry.” You smiled, finally yanking his wrists apart and holding them.

“Liar! You lie! No you didn’t!”

You loved the way the man’s face turned rose pink across pock marked cheeks, his aquiline nose scrunching in anger.

“The laughter was a tactoc… um… A tac… it was an idea of my own design to catch you unawares!”

“Fool!” You smiled, keeping his wrists in a secured hold.

Quickly you rolled off of the interloper when he attempted to knee you between your legs, not knowing who he was or what he was doing snooping in the hortus. He must have been some sort of benevolent spirit sent by the gods. Perhaps even one in disguise, for he was certainly dressed in such opulent finery. Wine colored damask silk with golden zardozi embroidery made his toga picta, with gems of all size and color sewn into the fabric. They caught the sunlight, and the pinpricks of color reflected against your skin.

“You look as if the gods laid your gold and jewels across your neck themselves.” You whistled.

The intruder’s movements were feminine, almost demure. So unlike the more burly movements of generals, or the confident strides of the stable hands. As he sat cross legged, the sound made by the cuffs at his wrists clattering against the gems was captivating. Golden discs the size of libum hung from his ears and chimed with his movements as well.

“You dress like a nymph.” He murmured.

Pert, pink lips parted to allow his tongue to lick across, his smile revealing a single shimmering gold incisor. Surely he must be something otherworldly… you’d never seen someone with a golden tooth before.

“Tell me, nymph, have I stumbled into your secret grove?” He asked.

“No.” You were tickled at the insinuation, “I am no nymph. This is my father’s garden.”

“Your father? That’s not so, this is General Acacius’s garden!”

“General Acacius is my father.”

The intruder shook his head in vehement denial.

“Liar! Lady Lucilla counts forty nine years, and I would have known if she had birthed a child!”

“She is not my blood mother. I counted only three years when my father married her.” You responded, flicking off a half chewed petal from your chin.

Although you knew stories of wicked stepmothers, Lucilla had managed to break the molded stereotype. The first time your father left you alone with her, you bawled like an infant. The good lady had not punished you for your insolence, instead she swept you into her arms and showered your forehead with a thousand kisses.

She was a doting mother, your true mother, the one not of womb but of the heart; who held you and cared for you even when you were insolent.

“And your mother allows you to romp wild in your father’s garden?! To dress like a brothel whore, entertaining strange men?”

The stranger let forth a high pitched giggle, one that made you laugh with him. It was easy to feel inadequate, particularly in the face of such opulence and finery as he wore. The privacy of the garden allowed for leniency in your dress. You had wandered out of your cubiculum in a shrunken, thin, faded green stola that gave a clear view of your bandaged thigh and leg. A mismatched pale pink palla was slung carelessly around your shoulders, and you had long since abandoned your worn out calfskin sandals somewhere in the shrubbery.

“No! I dress like this because I should do as I wish in my own domus. And besides, what would a strange man be doing in my father’s garden to begin with?” You asked, “We were not told of visitors coming.”

“Not all visitors have to announce themselves.” He said haughtily, “Certainly not one as important as myself!”

A fist pounded against his chest in an intimidating boom, the sound reminiscent of a drum.

“Important?” You asked, cocking your head to the side, “Are you a messenger of some sort?”

Your nursemaid and her chatterbox daughter often told you stories of such divine messengers. Half asleep with daydreaming, you would sit at your window as your nurse embroidered crisp linens with geometric patterns, telling stories about Mercury— Hermâs she called him, in the language of the Hellenes— and his wily ways of bestowing divine fortunes and boons upon unsuspecting persons.

“Perhaps I am— a god’s messenger— in my divine disguise…!” exclaimed your stranger.

Your eyes were sparkling. Innocent and sweet.

“Truly?” You asked, crawling to him on all fours. Blissfully unaware of the sensuality in such a movement.

“Indeed. I am a bearer, a messenger, sent by Jupiter himself.” He said, his eyes trained lower on your body, “And I come bearing a secret, strictly for the young flower that hides in her father’s garden.”

“What message have you come to give me?” You asked.

“This divine message is for your ear alone.” He said, his voice lowering to a conspirator’s whisper, “Keep it secret, keep it safe. The gods have deemed you worthy of a special gift, but should you spoil the secret, they will take it away and rain down lighting from the west upon your house!”

“How wonderful!” You exclaimed, your excitement masking the fear of the stranger’s thinly veiled curse, “I’ve never had a message of my very own before!”

“Well then, prepare to be blessed, sweet one. For this message is for your ears alone… Come to my knee, let me whisper it to you.”

You sat upon his lap as he beckoned, nodding enthusiastically and sighing, holding both hands to your cheeks. The stranger leaned closer, cupping his hands over your ear as his lips grazed the shell.

“The gods have great plans for you.” He breathed.

A gasp of delight escaped you, enjoying the fact that your mystery messenger was so close. Whispering sweetness into your ear.

“The gods have told me you are to be given everything your heart desires, my beautiful nymph.” He said, “You will be the envy of all: walking marbled halls while draped in damask silks, vibrant jewels, and gossamer. Your name whispered in reverent prayer upon the tongue of the thousands who will see you in the imperator’s box at the colosseum-…”

“How would this be possible?” You interrupted softly, “I’ve never been outside of these walls, let alone in the palace.”

“You dare to question your divine messenger?! Do not underestimate the might of the gods, nymph. They can make anything so.”

He held your chin in his hand, the softness of his fingertips contrasting the tight grip he maintained, as if expecting you to try and get away.

“They can elevate you to a princess— no! To an empress, if they so desire. The gods wish to use you as their instrument, and they desire to give you everything you could ever want. Money, luxury, power, wine, sexual pleasure…”

“And… and how soon would this happen?” You asked softly.

“Very soon, my sweet one. Your time will come on the first day of the month of Juno, matter of fact.”

It felt so impossibly far away. Too far to even consider. But the fact that such an exciting blessing was to be bestowed during the month of weddings eluded you.

You bounced in excitement on his lap, his hands immediately reaching out to hold your hips steady. Hissing at the pain as he pressed your bruise, you attempted to re-adjust yourself when you felt something press against your inner thigh.

“What in the name of the gods is that?! It… it feels as though you’ve a dagger strapped to your leg.” You said, grinding your thigh against the protrusion.

The messenger froze, and his cheeks turned crimson. A large, impish grin spread from ear to ear, catlike, as if he was preparing to steal a morsel.

“Undo the belt at my tunic, and find out what it may be.” He said, breathless, a perverse look in his eye.

With an impatient huff, you almost rent the damask fabric of his robes in two, demanding that your messenger help you…

But the calling of your mother interrupted the overwhelming need to see what he had strapped to his leg.

“Oh…!” You sighed, a puff of breath escaping past your lips, “I have to go. I’m sorry, but thank you! Thank you for bringing me this message! Tell the gods I will accept this blessing and that I am most thankful to them, and to the messenger who told this to me!”

Before the messenger could protest, you quickly kissed both of his cheeks, scrambling to your feet as you ran off towards the house. As you approached your mother, running breathlessly up to her, you noticed something odd. It appeared as though her heart was racing, almost as if Lucilla was agitated

“What is it, mother?” You asked, out of breath.

Servants were darting every which way, making preparations to feed their guests and make the house presentable. Leta— your mother’s servant— was ordering the others to set the domus to rights, and you were shocked when Lucilla glowered at your unkempt visage.

“What have you been doing?!” Lucilla exclaimed, brushing leaves and petals off your stola, “I allowed you to take a walk, not roll in the shrubbery— is this a stain?!”

“What is this fuss mother…?” You attempted, but your words were stopped by Leta turning your head to look at you.

“My lady, shall I clean your daughter and dress her in the damask?” Asked the handmaiden.

“Yes, quickly! Make sure she is presentable.”

“What’s going on?!” You squeaked, both women taking you by an arm and leading you away like a prisoner to your cubiculum.

“We have been… graced, by the presence of the twin imperators—…”

“THE EMPERORS?!”

“Hush! Yes, the imperators, my darling. You will not speak out of turn again. You will smile and say little more than a polite greeting, after which we shall keep you in your cubiculum, and pray to the gods that you are spared from the lechery of men…”

Lucilla gave you no room to fret, nor to protest. She instead lead you away, to dress you in her armor of modest silk layers and a thick palla.

All the while, you could not stop thinking of the messenger’s promises.

Luxury…

Wine…

Sexual pleasure…

Unannounced guests and the multitude of problems they brought with them hardly made an impression upon your mind, not when there were such wonderful boons coming your way. All divinely ordained, draped like a zardozi embroidered sheet over the hidden evils of the machinations at hand.

In your ignorance, you believed in the lies of the powerful. Blindly trusting in your place as the chosen of the gods, and feeling the least bit better than at last, your worthiness was recognized.

“Caracalla, what in the name of the gods are you doing…?”

The stern tone of his brother, Geta, interrupted his moment of thoughtfulness as Caracalla watched his nymph run back to the house. His brother was scheming, his giggling increasing to a fever pitch, and Geta raised an eyebrow as Caracalla pointed to the home.

“Enjoying the touch and warmth of a beautiful nymph.” Caracalla beamed.

“… a nymph…” Geta deadpanned.

“Indeed. Simple and pure, with a supple breast-…”

“There are no nymphs in a general’s garden.”

“There are!” Caracalla argued.

“You are mistaken. For I only saw a pauper run from you. What have I told you of infecting the inferiors of other men’s houses? You will deplete Rome of slaves with your appetites.” Geta groused.

“This one was no slave! She is Lucilla’s daughter.” Caracalla snapped.

“The general and Lucilla have no daughters.” Geta said.

“Oh but they do, brother! Acacius hides this charming rose in his garden, away from the eyes of men.”

“Is not Lucilla past the age of childbearing?”

“His seed must have overcome that obstacle.” Cackled Caracalla, “For he has quite the lovely young spawn. Very innocent, and eager to believe every word from my lips.”

“What schemes do you invent in that empty head of yours…?” Geta asked, although he knew the answer already. He could see Caracalla’s maddened mind already concocting the most convoluted, outrageous ideas; the grey blue of his iris overtaken by dilating black pupils.

“Do not tell me…” Geta grinned wickedly.

“You know me so well.” Caracalla smiled, “It is a simple thing, really. Turning nymphs into empresses…”

Geta laughed out loud at his brother’s plotting.

“And how much would you ask for her?”

“Two million denarii!”

“Charity, brother, charity...” Geta laughed, “Acacius is a general after all, not a nobleman. Keep your dowry request under one hundred thousand denarii, or you shall never have her.”

“Only one hundred thousand?!”

“Yes, brother. To be paid in coin, land, or flesh, in the customary three years time-… Well… No, no. We may extend the dowry installments to five. After all, we are sending him away to fight your campaign in Numidia. He will need some time. You’ll want to wed her and bed her before he leaves as well.”

“I would have preferred the two million…” pouted Caracalla.

“Whatever for? The money is of little consequence. You would only piss away two million on whores, and her father would sooner give her away to someone else. This conquest will be far more simple, exercise your power and will it so. I shall give my blessing as the arrangement is not without benefits.”

When Caracalla’s feverish mind could not connect the dots, Geta prompted him.

“She is Lucilla’s legitimate heir. Marry her daughter, and you secure not only the title, but a closer position to the good lady herself… Slake your thirst for flesh with both this nubile creature’s affections, and with the attentions of her comely mother as well.”

#gladiator ii #emperor caracalla #emperor geta #emperor Caracalla x reader #gladiator 2 #gladiator movie #general acacius #lucilla

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wibben · 3 months ago

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O Sol Et Mare

Higuruma and Nanami take a much needed day off from work to enjoy the beach and each other.

↳ pairing: hiromi higuruma x kento nanami

↳ warning: no real warnings, established relationship, PDA, body worship, soft!nanami, obsessive!higuruma (just a little bit) but can you blame him, fluffy, ...sand god i hate sand

↳ wc: 4,929

↳ notes: higuruma art by @/nandemorokasu. i'm not a fan of the beach but oh, i would brave any amount of sand in undesirable places for these two.

Waves crash against the packed damp sand, sending a fine spray of iridescent saltwater into the air, a misty halo that kisses Nanami’s skin. It’s a sound that worms its way into his bones—steady, reliable, like the ticking of a perfectly tuned clock. He stands at the water’s edge, his quiet gaze glued to the horizon where the sky and sea make an indecent exchange of afternoon yellows, as if they’re trying to out-pastel each other.

Peace. This is peace.

Nanami Kento has found his peace, and he doesn’t take any bit of it for granted.

Behind him, Higuruma lies sprawled on a towel, eyes closed but not quite tipping into sleep, soaking up the sun like a lizard on a rock. He’s lost track of how long he’s been there, letting the golden warmth do the hard work of unknotting every last bit of tension from his body. But he knows one thing: it’s been long enough for Kento to start getting restless.

He cracks open one eye, catching sight of Nanami silhouetted against the shimmering water—a living postcard. For a moment, Higuruma just admires the view: the strong, clean lines of Nanami’s back, the way his hair catches the light and sways under the gentle persuasion of the breeze, the quiet, unshakable strength that radiates from him even in stillness.

Higuruma’s lips curve into a faint smile. Nanami looks like he belongs here, like the sea itself might reach with one great wave and pull him out, claiming him as one of its own. It’s a rare sight, this serenity in someone who carries the weight of the world with such quiet dignity. Higuruma doesn’t say anything, just watches and appreciates, content to let the moment ebb with the tide that laps at Nanami’s feet.

But Nanami must sense his gaze. He turns, meeting Higuruma’s eyes with a look that’s both questioning and knowing, the corners of his mouth lifting in the smallest of smiles. Without a word, he starts walking back towards him, each step weighted and slowed through the dunes, sand crunching softly underfoot. Higuruma doesn’t move, waiting as Nanami approaches with an eyebrow that creeps higher with each step closer.

“Are you planning to sleep the day away?” Nanami’s tone is light, almost teasing, as he squats down in front of Higuruma. The movement is unhurried, and Higuruma’s eyes flicker, just for a moment, to where Nanami’s swim trunks tighten around his thighs, the fabric stretching over solid muscle. The visual lingers—a quiet indulgence—before Nanami’s shadow falls across his face, blocking the sun’s glare and drawing his eyes appropriately upward. Higuruma chuckles, shaking his head.

“Only if you’ll join me,” he replies, the words paired with a quick wink—so fast that anyone less perceptive might have missed it. But Nanami doesn’t miss much, and the way his smile widens, just a fraction, is enough to let Higuruma know he’s been seen.

“Later,” Nanami murmurs, his voice low as he reaches for Higuruma’s hand, their fingers intertwining easily. His thumb brushes over Higuruma’s knuckles, roughened from work but gentled by kindness. “But for now… up you get.” He gives Higuruma’s hand a gentle, insistent tug. Higuruma rolls his eyes, but there’s a smile playing at his lips as Nanami pulls him to his feet.

The sand shifts underfoot, warm and yielding, as they make their way back toward the water. The ocean stretches out before them, the surface glittering like a field of diamonds under the sun’s eye. Higuruma watches as Nanami steps forward, his movements measured, unhurried.

“They say cold water’s good for circulation,” Nanami remarks, glancing back at Higuruma to ensure he’s still following.

Higuruma snorts softly, falling into step beside him. “Is that your way of saying you’re about to shove me in?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Nanami replies, his tone too innocent to be believed.

They wade into the shallows side by side, the cool water kissing their sun-warmed skin. Higuruma inhales deeply, savoring the briny tang of the sea air as the ocean gently laps at his calves. Beside him, Nanami’s shoulders slowly unclench, the last remnants of tension dissolving with each step they take. If Nanami was peaceful before, now he’s practically serene, even more at ease with Higuruma by his side—within sight, within reach.

When the water is deep enough to reach their waists, Nanami stops. He turns to Higuruma, his face suspiciously blank. It’s a look Higuruma knows all too well, his own turning to wary exasperation.

“Don’t you dare—” Higuruma warns and takes a sluggish step backward, but it’s too late. Nanami flicks his hand, sending a splash of water Higuruma’s way. It catches him across the chest, cool droplets scattering like tiny jewels across his skin and he yelps.

Higuruma blinks, momentarily stunned by the playful attack, and then, without warning, he’s retaliating. He sends a wave of water crashing toward Nanami, who sidesteps with unsurprising agility, laughing—a low, rich sound that’s as rare as it is welcome.

Splashing and dodging, their laughter lost in the sound of waves and squalling seagulls. It’s a kind of freedom Higuruma isn’t used to, a lightness in his chest that he doesn’t question like he does everything else. He lets himself enjoy it, lets the moment stretch out, savoring the rare, unguarded joy that comes with being in Kento’s presence because Kento makes him feel so much younger and more alive .

This game is childish and aimless and it's one Higuruma never thought he’d play again. But there’s comfort in these soft edges, a reprieve from the sharp lines that have defined his life. Nanami brings that with him, a reminder that there’s room for fun, and joy, and love; for lowering the guard that’s been up since law school, a shield against both professional rivals and the curses that lurk in dark corners. With Nanami, Higuruma sheds the years, lets them slip like the water between his fingers, and for once and only with him, he doesn’t mind at all.

Eventually, they tire of the game, their energy spent but their spirits lifted. Higuruma is the first to stop, catching his breath as he floats on his back, staring up at the endless blue sky. The water cradles him, cool and comforting, and he closes his eyes, letting the sun's warmth above and the waters below seep into his skin.

Nanami floats beside him, their hands brushing occasionally as the current gently nudges them together. Higuruma takes the opportunity to lock their ankles together, toes curling against the top of Nanami’s foot as he creates their anchor point. No matter where the gentle, pushing waves draw them, they would be drawn together.

Higuruma tilts his head slightly, opening his eyes just enough to watch Nanami, to catch the way the sun glints off the water droplets on his skin, to see the peaceful expression on his face and the closed lashes against his cheeks.

Higuruma closes his eyes again, a private smile melting on his face as the sun beats down on them. It’s a sight he commits to memory, storing it away for when the days are long and the nights are even longer. For now, though, he lets himself be present, lets the moment linger and the ocean rock them both like flotsam.

They return to the beach once properly prune-y, and only after their hair is thick and heavy with salt.

Higuruma trails behind Nanami who drops onto the towel with a sandy swish. He reaches for the spare—the one not laid out for Higuruma beside his own—and folds it neatly, tucking it at the head of his towel for a makeshift pillow.

Nanami stretches out, one arm folded behind his head, the other resting on his stomach. The sunlight bathes him in a warm glow, highlighting the defined lines of his muscles and the way his chest rises and falls with each measured breath.

Higuruma’s eyes drift over Nanami’s form, a quiet admiration taking root as he takes in every inch of him. Nanami isn’t just built—he’s sculpted. He boasts a kind of physique that would make any artist weep, not crafted for vanity but carved out of necessity, a body honed by the brutal demands of his work.

There’s a raw, unyielding strength to him, the kind of strength that could punch a man clean through a wall, tear through concrete like paper, and fold Higuruma into a pretzel in ways that shouldn’t be physically possible—but Nanami somehow makes them very possible.

And yet, that formidable power is tempered by a softness, a layer of flesh that rounds off the hard edges, making him more touchable, more human. It’s this contrast that gets to Higuruma—the way those softer parts of Nanami invite his hands to wander, to squeeze, to press his teeth into yielding skin because it’s easier to leave marks in clay than it is in stone.

Higuruma busies himself with the umbrella, fussing over the angle until it casts just the right amount of shade. It’s a mindless task, really—something to keep his hands occupied so he doesn’t make it too obvious how often his eyes keep slipping back to Nanami.

There’s a certain shamelessness in the way he’s looking, yes, but he can’t pretend there isn’t a tinge of guilt too, a small voice reminding him that he might be ogling, not admiring, though the line between the two is blurring faster than he’d like to admit.

“You know,” Nanami says, that dry drag in his tone that Higuruma has come to love, “if you keep fussing over that umbrella, you’re going to miss out on a very nice nap.”

Higuruma doesn’t even try to hide his smile, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards as he finally drives the umbrella deep into the sand, securing it with a final push. “I’m not as inclined to play the human sundial as you are.”

Nanami’s eyes stay closed, but there’s that familiar, knowing curve to his lips, the one that always makes Higuruma’s heart skip just a little faster. “It’s called relaxing, Hiromi. You should try it more often. For my sake.”

A quiet chuckle escapes Higuruma as he relents, dropping onto the towel beside Nanami.

“Maybe I will,” Higuruma sighs, his voice softening, wrapping around the words like a warm blanket—reserved, like all the best things, for moments like this. No grand gestures, no need for declarations—they both know. It’s all there in the unspoken, the subtle shifts of their expressions, the way Higuruma’s gaze lingers a second longer. “For your sake, of course.”

Nanami’s hum is low and content as he reaches out, his fingers brushing over Higuruma’s wrist before curling around it, tangling their fingers. “Good. I like it when you relax.”

Higuruma lies back, eyes closed, comfortably settled in the shade he so meticulously adjusted. One leg cocked at the knee, his arm drapes lazily to the side, his palm brushing up and down Nanami’s arm in a slow, absent-minded caress. There’s no thought behind it, just a simple, instinctive need to feel the soft, sun-warmed skin beneath his fingers—because he can, because it’s there, because it’s Kento.

“Do you remember the first time we tried to take a day off like this?” Nanami’s voice breaks the quiet, low and steady, each word measured in that familiar cadence. His tone lilts, curling around the question like a well-worn joke that needs no elaboration. Higuruma doesn’t have to open his eyes to hear the smile that tugs at the corners of Nanami’s mouth.

Higuruma grins, his fingers pausing briefly on the firm curve of Nanami’s bicep before resuming their lazy, unhurried path. “How could I forget? You spent the entire day trying to convince yourself it was okay to relax, and I spent it trying to make you.”

Nanami turns his head just enough to crack one eye open, his gaze sliding over to Higuruma with a cat-like laziness—sly and appraising, the kind of look that strips away pretense without even trying. His smile is subtle, more in the crinkle at the corners of his eyes than the curve of his lips. “And now?”

“Now,” Higuruma shrugs, a touch of coyness in his tone, “you’re the one lecturing me about relaxation. Quite the turnaround.”

Nanami huffs, closing his eyes again as if marking this particular case as closed. “You’re a difficult man to influence, Hiromi.”

There’s no bite to the words, only the easy comfort of two people who’ve long since learned the cadence of each other’s lives. Nanami, with his relentless dedication that treads dangerously close to self-destruction, and Higuruma, who grinds himself down to the bone because someone has to, and the brutal systems they navigate decided he was just the right fit.

They’re worn out, drained, and the work is thankless when it’s done in shadows so deep. Maybe that’s why they mesh so well, because they’ve taken the time to really see each other, to offer quiet gratitude for the other’s efforts. They know when to pull each other back from the edge, to remind one another that they need to secure their own oxygen masks before assisting others.

Higuruma’s hand continues its slow journey, fingers tracing the solid line of Nanami’s forearm, up to the broad curve of his shoulder, then back down again. It’s a soothing, rhythmic motion, a way to keep the connection wired even in the silences. Even now, when they’re at ease, Higuruma can’t quite shake the quiet fear that one day Nanami might just slip away. He’d done it before apparently, long before Higuruma ever met him, and Higuruma hopes that if he ever does it again he’ll have the good sense to bring him along.

“Maybe you’re just not trying hard enough,” Higuruma suggests.

“Or maybe I know better than to argue with an attorney.”

Higuruma has to smile at that as his thumb traces over a scar on Nanami’s arm—a jagged line, the skin raised and pale with time, yet still so very present beneath the pads of his fingers. “Lucky for you, I’m off the clock.”

“Lucky for both of us,” Nanami murmurs, his voice dipping into that low, familiar register that always seems to reach Higuruma’s ears just right, flirting around his brain like a warm, sedating fog. It’s the same tone Nanami uses when they’re tangled in their high thread-count sheets, the kind that makes that indulgence feel entirely reasonable, or when he leans over morning coffee, his breath warm against Higuruma’s shoulder. The voice that belongs only to him, a sound that’s become as much a comfort as the man who owns it.

They soak in the peaceful lull, Nanami basking in the sunlight, the warm glow radiating just beyond the orbital reach of Higuruma’s shade. His fingers play with the sunlight, warming up under the golden beams that cast petals across Nanami’s skin. "Hey," Higuruma breaks the quiet, turning onto his side with a lazy, affectionate grin. "I love you."

Kento doesn’t open his eyes, but he doesn’t need to. The smile that softens the severe lines of his facial structure is enough to make the glaring sun seem dim. His hand drifts from his stomach to brush gently against Higuruma’s knee. “And I love you,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that seems as natural and effortless as breathing. For Nanami, it’s as simple as saying hello. For Higuruma, it makes his insides feel all gooey and sentimental.

Higuruma leans in, pressing a kiss to Nanami’s temple—a gesture so steeped in affection that it lingers a touch longer than he’d planned. His eyes shut tightly, letting the swell of avalanching emotion tumbling around in his chest settle. His lips remain firm against the spot and he hums, savoring the taste of salt and sun-kissed skin.

A billowing sigh blows from Nanami’s lips, muscled arm snaking around Hiromi’s shoulders to scratch blunt-nails through the salt-coarse hairs at the nape of his neck, the action holding him gently in place. “Sweet,” he sighs.

“Salty,” Higuruma corrects with a smile against his skin, rewarded with a gravelly chuckle dripping from Nanami’s lips.

Higuruma’s fingers move next, a thoughtless twitch against his arm on the upstroke to Nanami’s shoulder that has his course veering, drifting calloused pads over Nanami’s collarbone. Light, testing the weight of his touch against skin he knows isn’t as fragile as he treats it. Kento deserves to be treated gently, he thinks. Like a vase, or a flower.

Nanami draws in a soft breath, more felt than heard, the subtle rise of his chest giving it away. Higuruma doesn’t miss it. His thumb grazes the ridge of Nanami’s collarbone, smooth and delicate beneath his touch, fine as bird bones. He follows the gentle dip and rise, tracing the line down to the center of Nanami’s chest, brushing down his sternum with a careful touch, feeling each relaxed breath beneath his fingertips—his own slowly starting to sync until they rise and fall in tandem.

“You’re beautiful,” Higuruma murmurs, the words spilling out as if he’s been holding them back for too long. His voice is soft, reverent, and Nanami can feel the warmth of his breath against his skin, making him shudder. Higuruma dips his head lower, placing a gentle kiss just above Nanami’s heart, his lips lingering there, feeling the steady beat beneath.

He wants to crawl inside him.

To burrow into the hollow of Nanami’s clavicle, to curl around his heart like a vine, to root himself so deeply into the very marrow of his bones that there’s no separating them. Higuruma wants to be there, inside, where he can protect him from the inside out, even if it means losing himself in the process. It’s a wild, irrational thought—borderline obsessive, he knows—but somehow, he thinks Nanami would understand. He would get it, because that’s just who he is, the kind of man who makes such devotion feel not just possible, but inevitable.

Nanami turns his head, his nose brushing against the familiar crunch of black hair just beneath his chin, and he can’t help the smile that tugs at his lips, hidden against the top of Higuruma’s head.

Higuruma has always been the tactile one, the more physically affectionate of the two, a habit that Nanami once struggled to accept. Now, he can’t imagine anything else. Being the focus of Higuruma’s constant, tender touch has settled something deep within him, a part he never realized was so starved for attention. The feeling of being wanted and appreciated was novel, and it never ceased to loose butterflies in his belly. Nanami wonders if this desire is selfish, if allowing himself to crave and soak in Higuruma’s affection makes him greedy. But with Higuruma, he lets himself indulge, lets himself be greedy for him.

Higuruma’s eyes flutter open and he gazes up at Nanami, his head still cradled gently in the palm of his lover’s hand. Nanami’s fingers scratch lightly at his scalp, dark eyes heavy-lidded, content and warm, almost feline in their drowsiness as he lowers his head, nuzzling his hooked nose down over Nanami’s pec, right over the steady thrum of his heartbeat. “So, so beautiful,” he repeats. His kisses are loose, not fully formed, more a drag of lips snagging on Nanami’s skin.

His hand moves as well, drifting over Nanami’s side, fingers splaying out to trace the ridges of his ribs, just visible beneath the skin, taut and firm. Higuruma’s fingers travel back and forth, exploring the gaps between the bones, feeling the steady rhythm of his ribcage expanding and deflating with each breath, over and over.

Nanami’s voice is a low rumble, laced with the same affection that echoes in Higuruma’s words. “You spoil me,” he murmurs, eyes half-lidded as he tilts his head slightly to better feel the warmth of those scattered kisses. “I don’t deserve you. Far too good for me.”

The noise Higuruma makes is almost wounded, a low, dismissive sound as his eyes squeeze shut again. He presses a firmer kiss to the center of Nanami’s chest, as if to seal the words there, to imprint his affection directly onto Nanami’s skin. His hand follows the familiar path of ribs down to splay over his stomach, rubbing over the hard planes of muscle that contract beneath his palm. “Hardly,” he objects, drumming his fingers playfully over Nanami’s stomach, a light-hearted rhythm that departs from the weight of his feelings.

“I’m a bit of a mess, if you hadn’t noticed,” Higuruma murmurs between kisses, his lips moving against Nanami’s skin as he shifts on his towel to follow the path of his fingers with his mouth. The tip of his nose precedes each kiss, drifting in tandem over the defined muscles of Nanami’s abdomen, conducting a prelude to the tender touches that follow.

In these moments, Higuruma can’t help but feel like his life is divided into two distinct parts: before Nanami and now. Every moment before meeting him feels like a blur of time wasted—or perhaps, time spent becoming even half the man Nanami deserves him to be.

A low, involuntary sound rumbles in Nanami’s throat as Higuruma slips from the grasp of his hand, fingers twitching as they search for the contact again. As Higuruma drifts lower, a familiar prickle runs up Nanami’s spine, hot and tingling with a warning he’s learned to heed.

He cracks his eyes open, chin tucking to his chest to peer down at Higuruma, who meets his gaze shamelessly— love, adoration, worship. The sight is enough to make Nanami’s head drop back to his makeshift pillow with a huff, only for him to rock forward again, as if torn between surrendering and maintaining his usual composure.

“My mess,” Nanami sighs, the words slipping out with fond exasperation, lips pulled taut as he focuses on maintaining his iron-clad control over his own bodily reactions. It’s a familiar battle, one he’s long been trained for. The same disciplined focus that helped him manage the output of his cursed energy as a sorcerer, that same principle— inhale, remain calm, remain focused, exhale— served him well as a feral, hormonal teen, and serves him just as well with his feral, very adult partner.

Higuruma is acutely aware of Nanami’s almost otherworldly levels of self-control. He doesn’t seek to test it today, nor wrest it from his hands. Instead, he’s simply appreciative—so very grateful—for the man beside him. The fact that he gets to touch him, have him, hold him… It’s a realization that settles in Higuruma’s chest with a weight that’s both humbling and exhilarating. He might just be the luckiest man alive.

Nanami is worthy of worship, Higuruma thinks, his gaze tracing the contours of the man who’s become his anchor. And as that thought takes root, he vows silently to himself: he’ll never take Kento for granted. Not a single moment, not a single touch. Higuruma will make sure Kento knows just how cherished he is, every day, in every way he can. This is not a new vow for Higuruma—he wonders if he makes it often enough if it will someday be binding. He hopes so.

Higuruma’s hands tremble slightly as they glide over Nanami’s skin, an unconscious tremor that betrays the depth of his reverence. To him, every inch of Nanami is sacred, every scar a scripture, every muscle a divine artifact. He leans down, pressing his lips to Nanami’s sternum, a kiss that feels more like a prayer, a silent offering of his devotion.

His fingertips trail along the grooves of Nanami’s abdomen, lingering at each ridge as though they’re counting blessings, engraving them into his memory. Nanami is a temple, and Higuruma is the devout worshiper, eager to trace every line, commit every detail to the recesses of his soul.

"Perfect," Higuruma breathes, barely a whisper against Nanami’s skin. The word is a confession, a surrender, a recognition of the divinity that lies beside him. He drags his lips lower, each kiss a mark of veneration, each touch a benediction. There’s something almost desperate in the way he worships, trying to pour all of himself into these gestures, trying to convey the boundless gratitude that swells in his chest.

Perhaps selfish too, the way he wants to pour every dirty part of himself into Nanami to be washed and tumbled so that he might come out cleaner.

Nanami’s breath hitches ever so slightly, a subtle shift that Higuruma doesn’t miss. It’s a small reaction, but to Higuruma, it’s everything. A sign that his devotion is felt, that his touch is welcomed, the sacrifice he lays upon Nanami’s altar accepted. He pulls back slightly to meet Nanami’s gaze, eyes soft with awe. “You’re everything,” he murmurs, thoughtless, a simple truth that resonates deep within him.

Nanami’s hand drifts up to rest on Higuruma’s head, fingers threading through dark strands. He doesn’t speak, but his eyes, half-lidded and warm, convey more than words ever could. There’s a calmness there, a serene acceptance that only makes Higuruma’s heart swell further.

Higuruma returns to his task with renewed fervor, placing a series of lingering kisses along Nanami’s side, mapping the terrain of his body with his lips. He’s careful with the expression of his piety, treating Nanami as if he were something divine. “I’d carve temples in your name if I could,” Higuruma murmurs against his skin, voice low and thick with the weight of his devotion. “I’d paint your likeness in every corner of the world, so everyone could see the beauty I’m fortunate enough to witness daily.”

Nanami’s hand tightens just a fraction in Higuruma’s hair, the smallest gesture with a ripple effect that sends a shiver of satisfaction down Higuruma’s spine. “Shit, Hiromi.” Nanami mumbles, clearly flustered, and that’s all Higuruma needs. The tiniest sign, the quietest acknowledgment—it’s enough to light a fire in him, driving him to continue his worship.

“Unfortunately, I’m a shitty artist,” Higuruma breathes, the laugh that follows short and breathless. “So maybe fortunately, I can keep you all to myself. World be damned.”

Higuruma knows he could spend an eternity like this, worshiping the man beside him, losing himself in the quiet, adoring touches that speak louder than any declaration ever could. And if he had his way, he would.

Crunch.

Higuruma sits up, rather abruptly, the sudden motion like a splash of cold water that startles Nanami out of the serene haze he’d been drifting in. He blinks, disoriented, as Higuruma’s nose wrinkles in a way that suggests he’s either deeply perplexed or has just realized he’s been sitting in something unpleasant. There’s a look of vague discomfort settling over Higuruma’s features, a furrow between his brows that Nanami’s seen before—but never like this.

Concern lances through Nanami, sharp and immediate, propelling him up onto his elbows. “Hiromi—?” His voice is steady, but the worry is clear, and his hand moves instinctively to touch Higuruma’s cheek, seeking to soothe whatever sudden unease has seized him. But Higuruma, still caught in whatever internal quandary has taken hold, pulls back just out of Nanami’s reach, leaving his hand hovering awkwardly in the air.

Higuruma's tongue does a slow, deliberate sweep around the inside of his mouth, grazing behind his teeth, sliding over his soft palate, gathering a good mouthful of saliva. Then, without much ceremony, he turns his head, leans over his shoulder, and spits right into the sand—a frothy, bubbly mess, unmistakably tinged with brown and beige grit.

He glances down at the spit spot, then back up at Nanami, an apologetic, almost sheepish smile curling at the corners of his mouth. “You’re covered in sand…” he admits. And with a quick flick of his hand, he shifts some sand over the offending spot, like a cat trying to cover its tracks.

Nanami blinks, taking in Higuruma’s antics for a split second before the concern on his face melts away, replaced by a deep, resonant laugh. It’s the kind that crinkles the corners of his eyes and splits his usually composed mouth wide open, unguarded. “Well, I’m not sure what you expected—”

“Not a sandbox in my mouth, evidently…”

“—that’s hardly my fault, love.”

Hiromi grins and turns his head to wipe his mouth against his shoulder, trying to play it cool.

“Come here,” Nanami insists, reaching for Higuruma’s cheek again and this time he doesn’t turn away.

Higuruma is drawn in, his smile deepening as he leans in for one more kiss, this time aiming for Nanami’s lips.

Nanami’s hand cups Higuruma’s cheek and jaw, his fingers grazing the dark commas of hair that frame the side of Higuruma’s face. Their lips meet, slanting together with the familiarity of years, the kiss melting into something calm and adoring.

Higuruma’s tongue dips into Nanami’s mouth, savoring the familiar warmth, and Nanami meets him with a soft hum, the connection as seamless as ever. Higuruma’s hand lifts to cradle Nanami’s face. He never wants to let go, never wants to stop, maybe he never will—

Crunch.

This time Nanami pulls back, nose wrinkled with a mildly scandalized look on his face. “Sand in your mouth,” he complains gruffly.

Higuruma throws his head back, a laugh bubbling up from his chest, the bridge of his nose crinkling in delight. He turns with a fluid motion, rifling through the nearby cooler, and pulls out a bottle of water, offering it to Nanami with a grin.

“That’s hardly my fault, love. ”

#jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jjk fanfic #hiromi jjk #kento jjk #jjk higuruma #jjk nanami #higuruma hiromi #nanami kento #hiromi higuruma #kento nanami #higunana #hiromi x kento #higuruma x nanami #higuruma hiromi x nanami kento

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laurzvahll · 27 days ago

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dumb and dumber

#inspo? my own cold. I’m dying #my art #ososan #sol mares #solkara #karamatsu #karamatsu matsuno #osomatsu san #osmt #yumeship #also hi I’ve never posted solkara kiss LMFAOAOOA wtff.. I was saving the first for their first kiss post but oh well

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sirianasims · 4 months ago

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Chapter 44.2

Summer is coming to an end, and the warm glow of the early evening bathes everything in gold, casting long shadows and making everything seem almost dreamlike. The sturdy planks of the bridge creak slightly as we cross, the sound blending with the gentle thuds of hooves against wood and the faint rush of the river below. In the distance, the constant song of the waterfalls form a faint, rumbling backdrop.

The sound of Serafina’s hooves changes as we leave the bridge and turn onto the cobbled stone road that leads to the estate. On evenings like this, I love Tartosa so much it makes my heart ache, and I wonder why I ever leave. The air smells sweeter here than anywhere else, a hint of saltwater mingling with the ever-present lavender and the more subtle, grassy notes of the earth itself.

I slow Serafina down as we reach the large mosaic that marks the crossroads. The colour has faded slightly with time, but the motif is as clear as ever, two intertwined wedding bands surrounded by the waves of the Tartosan sea. My great-grandparents commissioned it for an anniversary years before I was even born, a tribute to their love story carved into the very ground.

Serafina tosses her head impatiently, the reins tugging on my hands and pulling me out of my reverie. I feel her muscles tense up under the saddle, and she paws at the ground with her foreleg, restless.

“Sorry, girl,” I murmur. “We’ll go back to your baby now.”

I dismount as soon as we reach the paddock, stroke her neck and thank her for the ride. The light sheen of sweat on her coat is warm against my palm, but her focus is not on me anymore. Her tail swishes in agitation as a delicate, high-pitched nicker can be heard from the stables and I quickly open the gate and lead her through.

My uncle Gio waits for us in the doorway, brushing bits of hay off his gloves. Behind him, Serafina’s foal whinnies excitedly at the sight of its mother.

“There you are. How did it go?” He takes the reins from my outstretched hand and lets the impatient mare into her stall.

“She did great, she’s definitely getting her strength back. I let her gallop along the coast for a bit, you should have seen her. She was practically flying.”

“That’s my girl,” Gio mumbles softly, almost to himself. “Thanks for taking her out, she needed the exercise. As much as Sofia tries, she can’t ride all of them every day and school starts back up soon. How long are you staying this time?”

“I haven’t decided yet. Another week, maybe more. I need a break from everything, some time to figure out what to do next.”

“And a week or two is enough for that?”

“It’s a start. I’ll be fine, you know me, Gio.”

“Exactly, I know you. Well, tell your aunt I’ll be in soon, I’m almost done here.”

“You don’t want any help?”

He laughs, waving me off.

“You were always more useful in the kitchen, my boy.”

As soon as I open the heavy front doors of the main house, I’m met with the sound of laughter. Aunt Teresa is wiping tears of mirth from her eyes as they both turn to me.

“Hi mum, Teresa. What’s so funny?”

My mother lights up at the sight of me, and I hurry over to give her a hug before she can attempt to stand.

“Paolo, did you happen to see Giovanni out there? Is he coming in too?”

“Soon, zia, he’s just making sure the vineyard doesn’t run out of fertiliser.”

My mother laughs, giving my arm a feeble squeeze with her left hand. “I don’t think that’ll happen any time soon.”

“Well, we better not take any chances, mum. The entire Romeo fortune could be at stake, and I’m currently unemployed.”

Teresa shakes her head, smiling, then calls towards the stairs. “Sofia? Come down, please.”

Seconds later, my youngest cousin skips down the stairs.

Her older sisters, Laura and Anna, both moved out years ago, but Sofia was a late surprise addition, still just a baby when I first moved to Del Sol Valley. To Gio’s endless joy, Sofia is just as obsessed with the horses as he is.

“Sofia, you can do your piano lesson while I make dinner. Is that alright with you, Rose?”

My mother nods and carefully gets up and walks to her usual chair by the piano. Her steps are agonisingly slow but dignified, and I resist the urge to help her, instead distracting myself by picking a few white horse hairs off my shirt.

Teresa disappears into the kitchen, and I opt for simply taking the shirt off before following her.

A copper pot simmers on low heat on the old stove. Teresa’s kitchen was always my favourite room in this house, filled with delicious smells and tastes. Ever since I could walk, I kept ending up in the kitchens, both here and at the vineyard, and my grandmother and aunts never hesitated to put me to work.

There are herbs everywhere, clay pots of fresh basil and oregano. Recently picked thyme and sage, still with their purple flowers, hangs from the ceiling and fills the air with their fragrance.

Teresa points to a bunch of ripe tomatoes by the sink, drying next to the carrots and zucchini she picked earlier.

“You can start by slicing the tomatoes.”

I wash my hands and begin cutting. There’s a small bowl of large, juicy grapes from the vineyard on the table, and I pop one into my mouth. The taste brings back memories of long summers helping out with the harvest, of sun and dirt and the first time I was allowed to taste the family wine.

“How are things over in Del Sol? Your mother says you’re no longer doing voices?”

“Yeah, the show I was working on has ended. But one of my friends is trying to set me up with her agent. For movie roles, I mean.”

“You’re going back to movies? That sounds wonderful! You were so happy back when you did that.”

I know for a fact that Teresa hasn’t watched a single second of Llama Man’s adventures, animated or otherwise, but she was always supportive.

“Yeah, I’m still considering it, but…”

A wildly off-key chord sounds from the living room, followed by laughter as my mother explains something and Sofia starts over.

I glance at the crutches leaning against the wall and lower my voice slightly, although my mother is unlikely to hear me over Sofia murdering a Tartosan folk song.

“How is she doing? When I’m not here, I mean?”

“You always worry too much, tesoro. Your mother is fine.”

“I know, I just… I haven’t been home much lately.”

“You’ve been busy. It’s understandable, you have your own life over there.”

“But now that… There’s nothing that really keeps me over there right now. And both her leg and her hand seems worse lately. I was wondering if I should take a longer break, stay home with her for a while…”

Teresa sighs.

“Paolo, listen to me. It is not your job to replace your father. Your mother is happy. She has family, she has friends, she has so much joy in her life. You need to try and find some joy in your life too.”

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#duchellilegacy #duchellichapters #duchelligen5 #paul romeo #giovanni romeo #teresa romeo #sofia romeo #rose romeo

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