#street souk

[forthepleasureofmylife]

Marrakech Morocco

Photo: Dieter Krehbiel

[mariekonrad]

marrakesh, marokko / oktober 24

[cogumellow]

the streets that feed us // tangier, morocco // 2024 // ©

[postcard-from-the-past]

Market street in Souk El Khemis, Algeria

French vintage postcard

[ahmadsayrafi14]

Marrakech, Morocco

Immerse Yourself in the Vibrancy of Marrakech

Marrakech is a sensory delight with its bustling souks, stunning palaces, and vibrant gardens. Visit the Jardin Majorelle, explore the historic medina, and stay in a traditional riad for an authentic Moroccan experience.

Plan your Moroccan escape today!

👉🏻 Book your trip to Marrakech now!

[mimok]

Street Photography in Muscat: Capturing Humanity

[equatortravel]

Dubai’s Must-Visit Food Markets: Experience Local Flavors Like Never Before

Explore Dubai's vibrant food markets and street food culture. From Palestinian falafels to Indian chaats, uncover authentic flavors with Equator Travels. Plan your culinary adventure now!

[eff4freddie]

For the Glory of Rome

General Acacius x F!Reader x M!OFC Words: 6k

Explicit. Minors DNI

Inspired by that slutty little knee in that tunic, and also general Acacius brainrot Leaving your farming village behind, you have managed to secure a position as the lady's maid for a Senator's wife, and while it's better than where you started, you can't help but feel you haven't quite found your home. Good thing you have your friend Antonius, the Senator's guard, and his ability to sniff out a rumour or two about the famed and revered General of Rome.

Warnings: Here be smut, MMF, oral (M receiving), fingering, dirty talk, praise, losing virginity, age gap (reader is 23, Acacius is...however old Acacius is), Roman orgies woop woooop, group sex, Lucilla being her Queenly self, the inner thigh omg, lifting tunics in a generally slutty manor, historical inaccuracy

Tagging @baronessvonglitter hope it was worth the wait!

You’d heard things. Not entirely on purpose. But as a lady in waiting for the wife of a Senator it was almost impossible not to overhear the occasional gossip over tea, whispers behind open palms. You knew of the proclivities of the emperors, learning words you’d never heard before back in your village. Having left at the age of 18, you realised quickly how much you still had to learn about the world the moment you stepped one gentle foot into it. Now several years later, you still felt in awe of the grandeur, of the marble and gold, of the magnitude of a city even if you were yet to feel you had fully earned your place in it.  

You didn’t mind the work. It was better than the fields, and on days when the sun beat down on the marble beneath your feet you remembered the unbearable heat of the swaying wheat, the burn of the dirt between your toes.

Still. Sometimes your robes itched, and you felt the ache in your shoulders carrying the urns of water up from the well to the lady’s bath. You often slumped into your quarters at sundown, bone tired and too weary to venture out of the statehouse. You had made it all the way to the Capital, you mused, only to teeter on the edges of it.

Only once a month were you able to take an afternoon to yourself, and on these occasions you wondered down to the markets, to the souks snaking along the inside of the walls, listening for your own accent, for your own words. You drank peppermint tea on woven rugs laid clean over dust, swapped tales with the other ladies’ maids, and as much as you could steered clear of the barracks, of the curious eyes of the soldiers as they trained, caked in grime and sweat, even in the heat of high noon.

It was through these expeditions that you heard news of the war, of the glory of Rome spreading its wings across the Empire. You heard rumours, snatches of victories brought about by the great General Acacius, a man you assumed to be as feral as he was cunning. No one you met talked ill of him, a whisper of awe passing over their faces as they swapped tales of having passed him in the street, of standing on the sidelines upon his return, upon his departure. You were aware of his famed good looks. You hoped, one day, to steal a glance at him, from him.  

--

Antonius, the Senator’s guard and one of your only friends at the statehouse, seemed to enjoy shocking you with stories of the palace, grinning at the way your cheeks grew hot.

He stood, slumped against the perimeter wall as he sought the shade, tugging at the collar of his leather cuirass, unadorned.

‘That can’t possibly be correct,’ you whispered, a load of linens bundled in your arms for washing.

‘I do not play,’ he defended, holding his hands aloft. You scoffed.

‘But how would they…fit?’ you asked, intensely aware of your innocence as the smile spread across Antonius’ face.

‘Well, one must be slow, one must be careful. But the hole in the centre…well, that is surprisingly pliant. The one at the rear, that can take some negotiation.’

You considered this, turning it over in your mind to try and make sense of it.  

‘But where do the…limbs go?’ you asked, watching as Antonius tried not to laugh. You swatted at him. ‘You know what I mean…’ you said.

‘All I know is that it’s Emperor Gata’s favourite method,’ he said, shrugging. You shook your head.

‘Such things…the Gods would never endorse,’ you stated, with considerable conviction.

‘My sweet dove, they do it with their sanction. They are the emperors, after all.’

You shrugged this thought away.

‘I have to attend to the linens,’ you said, ready to dismiss both the images in your mind and Antonius along with them.

‘I’ve heard of other, less…salacious affairs,’ he said. ‘The emperors tend to act with impunity. Not everyone has the same privilege. Not even the higher ranks.’

‘The higher ranks?’ you asked, your ears perking up.  

‘The military ranks, the Senators.’

You swivelled your head to the statehouse, your mind uncomprehending.

‘Not my…’

‘Oh Gods, no, not them,’ Antonius laughed. ‘They’d be more likely to break a hip than make a man come.’ You felt the heat furiously cross your cheeks at this crassness. ‘No, but the General…’

He trailed away, watching you closely as you felt your spine straighten.

‘But he has Lucilla, and everyone knows he is devoted…’

‘Just what I’ve heard,’ Antonius shrugged. My cousin is in the military, and he has heard…’

‘He’s heard stories, tall tales,’ you interrupted, a puff of indignation escaping you along with it. You weren’t sure why, but the idea of the General doing…those things…made your stomach flip in a way you weren’t entirely sure about.

‘I can ask him for more details,’ Antonius offered, and you rolled your eyes at him, heaving the linens over your shoulder and making for the riverbed.

--

You knew Antonius well enough to know that he spent more time with you than the other servants and lady’s maids, that he waited for you at the end of a long day to walk you back the 50 yards to your quarters. You were flattered, and you were aware that he was handsome, but he was also young, and impressionable, and thoughtless in his approach to the world. Just once he had attempted a kiss as he stood, a respectable distance from your room, his hat clasped tight to his chest. You had let him, because you were curious if nothing else, and had felt little when his dry lips brushed yours. You had wondered what all the fuss was about. He hadn’t attempted it again.

You also knew Antonius well enough to know he was unsatisfied as a simple guard of a Senator, that he too had ambitions of military life, of travels to foreign lands, of conquer. You knew that in these moments of quiet at the statehouse he drew his sword only to dance with his own shadow, the glint of the metal sometimes blinding in the afternoon sun. You knew he was often at the barracks, that his cousin often fed him news of the war, tales that he breathlessly retold to you and that you were sure he had embellished on the journey back.

So it was that the night he appeared at the door of your quarters, cheeks rosy from the gentle warmth of the night and of his own excitement, that you took several moments to believe him.

‘He’s returned, the army has returned.’

‘Who has?’ you asked, gathering your robe around you, not having ever had a man appear in your door.

‘The General…the troops return in a week. He has returned early. There will be a procession in the morning.’

‘Are you going?’ you asked, and you watched Antonius’s smile broaden on his ruddy cheeks.

‘The Senator will be on hand to welcome him, as will the emperors.’

You felt your pulse quicken at your breast.

‘Can I…’ you started to ask, and then faltered. You had already seen the way his face was falling.

‘The senator’s wives aren’t usually…in attendance,’ he finished, quietly, and you felt your stomach fall.

‘Of course,’ you said.

‘Are you not scheduled for an afternoon away?’ he asked, and you shook your head. ‘Could you not ask for…’

‘Good night, Antonius,’ you said, pushing him back so that you could close your door. You couldn’t stand the pity on his face as he gazed at you. Couldn’t stomach the idea of missing out, again, so near to the city and yet far enough to be as though still just a silly girl amongst the wheat.

--

You could hear the cheers of the crowds drifting up on the breeze as you stood, jug poised, in the courtyard of the statehouse. Beside you, the senator’s wife gazed idly at the sky.

‘Do you thirst for blood in the same way as the emperors?’ she asked you, coming out of her reverie.

‘No, my lady,’ you said, quietly. You watched as the breeze tickled the purple flowers of the vine crawling over your heads.

‘Do you thirst for anything?’ she asked.

You thought, a longing in your chest that surprised you, of the General. Of the crowds braying for him, of victory and of petals falling from the sky. You thought of being just that close to greatness, to what felt so much like real, actual life.

‘No, my lady,’ you repeated, setting the jug down beside your elbow.

‘I thirst for the lives of our soldiers, returned safe. And I long for peace, I think,’ she said, idly. You found yourself nodding.

‘I long for a thoughtful Rome,’ you said, quietly, and she regarded you, then. You watched as her painted brow arched.

‘Indeed,’ she said, after more than a handful of breaths. You found yourself exhaling as she stood.

‘I also long for a nap,’ she said, her little laugh tinkering along the stones as you walked with her to her room.

Later, when the evening sun was dipping low over the coast, and the Senator had returned cheerily wine-drunk and returned to his quarters to presumably inconvenience his wife, you stood with your shawl wrapped tight over your shoulders letting Antonius regale you of his exploits.

‘He is just as handsome as they said,’ he reported, breathless. ‘Broad, and…I don’t know how to explain it, just…an authority. He is poised. He is calm. He…observes.’

You felt a little shiver of something tight in your belly, and you swallowed it down.

‘What of the emperors?’ you asked, unsure why you felt the need to change the subject.

‘Mad, both of them,’ he dismissed, and you hissed for him to be quiet, glancing around to make sure no-one heard. He grinned at you, your concern for him evidently delighting you.

‘Gather your things,’ he whispered, trailing a hand over your forearm and watching the goosebumps appear. You looked up at him, questioning. ‘The Senator snores, your lady has eaten, there is no call for you now. Soon it will be dark, and I have solved a mystery.’

Even in the dying light you could see something dark, mischievous, glinting out from behind his eyes. You shivered, an involuntary little thing, as his fingertip dropped to trace along your side.

‘I don’t…’ you started but he shushed you.

‘You will need to trust me,’ he said. ‘But we’re not likely to ever have the chance for this again. Please, take it. With me.’

You found yourself nodding, a war of elephants in your chest. His grin only widened, his entire face now subsumed by it, it seemed.

‘Bring a cloak, and…your best tunic’, he finished, politely. ‘Perfume your skin and your hair. Don’t ask questions, and meet me in the courtyard as soon as you can.’

--

You were relieved that he led you away from the barracks, out to the east wall trailing down towards the docks. Here, there were fewer guards, but you were still careful, walking a step behind Antonius as he guided you, his hand trailing behind him to hold yours.

I have solved a mystery, you thought, turning his words over and over in your head. Beneath you your tunic shifted, light, over your softened skin and you felt the coil of something hot and tight in your belly. You were very sure this was a bad idea, and also that you were finally feeling something other than that of the observer.

At last, he pulled up beside a gate, bracketed by two short shrubs and a portly looking guard. Antonius pressed a coper token to the guard’s palm and he shuffled aside, nodding to you both, his eyes travelling over your body in a way that made you quite uneasy.

Antonius led you through the gate to reveal a simple courtyard, the smell of salt in the air lingering from the nearby shore.

‘These are the General’s quarters,’ he explained in a hushed tone as you felt your body go rigid. ‘The General and his lady Lucilla have a residence, of course, as befitting a man of his stature, everyone knows that. But he keeps this place also, close to the water in the event of naval attack.’

Over the rush of blood in your ears you heard laughter,  the gentle melody of a lyre, drifting from a room to your side.

‘Come…’ Antonius whispered, tucking you to his side and ushering you into the main doors in front of you. ‘It’s all true,’ he said, his voice dripping in awe.

For a moment, you struggled to understand what you were seeing. As you stepped into the low light you saw only a writhing mass beneath you, a constant movement accompanied by guttural gasps, by groans. As your eyes adjusted to the flickering torches you started to make out shapes, cloth laid over skin, fingers adorned with rings and wine stretching into the open air in the centre of the room. You took a step away, your hand flying to your mouth, Antonius holding you steady with a warm hand on the small of your back.

‘Antonius, those are…’

‘Lovers,’ he finished for you, ‘tens of them, coupling and recoupling.’ You looked back at him, the flickering light casting unfamiliar shadows over his features as he watched. A woman let out a high-pitched squeal, another laughing as she convulsed beneath the back of an unknown man.

‘But where is the…’ and you trailed away, then, your eyes further adjusting as you scanned the room. There, to your right and tucked away in the corner, two ornate chairs holding the General and his lady, their gazes trained on the writhing mass. You realised they were raised on a kind of dais, the General holding his lady’s hand as she sipped, simply, on wine. Their stillness, their stern observation, somehow more thrilling than the pleasure unfolding at their feet.

‘They just watch,’ Antonius whispered in your ear, pushing you from the doorway and over to the side wall where you could re-orient. ‘It’s said that Acacius only ever watches, but sometimes Lucilla…’

‘Sometimes Lucilla what?’ you asked, unable to take your eyes from the couple. Acacius, stripped of his ceremonial armour from the afternoon, sat wrapped in a simple tunic, gold stitching of laurels adorning his shoulders and his red cape. Lucilla, easily the most beautiful woman you had ever seen, sat beside him, cowl of fine silk over her head, legs crossed at the ankle as her husband occasionally let go her hand to stroke idly at her knee.

‘Sometimes she beckons for a pretty young thing to rub her feet, to sit across her lap and let her draw her fingers along their spine. She is apparently quite unbothered as to their sex.’

Your eyes drifted back to the General, the skin of his strong thighs, his scarred knees, peeking out from beneath his tunic.

‘Does he ever…?’ you asked, and Antonius shook his head.

‘Apparently, he could, if he chose to. Lucilla wouldn’t mind it, it’s said. But he refrains, on the basis that he has never found another to tempt him away from his wife.’

You nodded, tearing your eyes from him to stare hard at the stone beneath your feet. You could feel the heat pooling between your legs, the blush of your cheeks, your shawl suddenly heavy across your shoulders, across your chest. In front of you a woman sucked gloriously at the nipple of another as she poured wine down her chest, the red liquid pulling in the mouth of her lover as they both gasped in delight.

‘This is how they celebrate his return from war,’ Antonius informed you, glee lacing his words.

‘The heat…’ you said, sweat gathering. ‘Antonius, will you help me…’ you said, reaching for the fastening at your neck. He nodded, fingers light and reverent on your skin as he pulled it from you, your simple tunic falling free from underneath it and letting the air, finally, to you. You almost moaned, the relief of it so acute.

‘Oh…’ Antonius gasped, lowly, and for a moment you thought he had spotted some fault in your dress before you looked at his eyes and saw he was looking over your head. You turned your gaze to where his was looking, to the chairs in the corner of the room.

The General’s gaze had turned to you, the flip of your shawl enough to draw his attention even in the half-light, and you watched, transfixed, as he stared, unwavering. You felt the roaring fire of want sear up through your belly, unmatched only by the flames licking at your face.

You weren’t an experienced girl, although you had some dealings with one of the farm boys in the village before you’d turned 16, your father’s disapproval only driving you closer towards him, such that you had let him fumble under your tunic for a few minutes until he squirmed and gasped in release without you ever having touched him, his resulting shame keeping you from him far more effectively than your father’s words ever did.

But you knew what it looked like when a man was desirous. When he had landed his gaze upon an object and set upon wanting it, and you saw it now, in the hungering look of the General as his eyes travelled over your frame.

‘He’s seen us,’ Antonius whispered, and you nodded, letting him lead you by the elbow towards the throng in the centre of the room. You kept your eyes on the General’s, his own stare almost unblinking, as he watched your gentle progression.

‘Gods…’ Antonius muttered beside you, finding an empty seat on the end of a long couch and pulling you down onto him, your back to his so that you remained, front on, in the General’s eyeline. ‘The intensity of his study.’

You shuddered, turning to ash as the General’s eyes roamed over you, leaving a scorching path across your skin. You saw his eyes linger at your chest, your pulse thick and fast and your breathing near panting as Antonius shifted beneath you, allowing your knees to part either side.

‘If I can show him what I can do,’ Antonius whispered into your ear, your skin aflame where the General’s eyes touched it, ‘maybe he will have me for his army, his private army.’

‘What you can do?’ you asked, not comprehending, until Antonius grasped your breast in his paw and tugged, earning him a gasp from your pretty mouth.

‘How vigorously I can fuck,’ Antonius said, pausing to chew on the lobe of your ear, watching as your eyes listed close, a shiver running along your spine. ‘I think he would like to watch me fuck you, don’t you?’ he asked.

You weren’t sure you were hearing Antonius. The General’s eyes had not strayed from you, even in the half-light, even with the masses of bodies surrounding you both. From across the room, he watched you, his jaw set hard and his hand gripping tight at the arm of his chair.

‘Reveal me,’ you whispered, lifting your hands to tug at your tunic.

‘Yes, my lady,’ Antonius grunted, sliding his hands under the fabric and shifting you in his lap so that it slid smooth over your body. You felt your hair fall as it came away, your tresses tumbling over your shoulders as you bore yourself to the General of Rome.

You watched as his eyes slid over your skin, his deep gulp as they settled between your only slightly parted thighs. Hooking your knees over Antonius’, you settled back against him, leaning your head to his chin to nibble at his jaw while you kept your eyes locked to the General’s. Antonius’ hands came first to cup your breasts, tweaking and twisting your nipples hard enough to make you writhe on his lap, then travelled lower, tracing over your belly and towards your sex, your core open and exposed to the night air, to the darkness, to the heat of the General’s gaze.

‘Gods, you are soaking,’ Antonius groaned in your ear, his fingers sliding over your folds to stroke, slow and languid, at your bud. You let out a high little whimper, a ghost of a groan carried to the rafters, as your hips jerked all of their own. You felt him shift again, spreading his thighs wider, your sex unfolding like a water lily in the first light of dawn.

Behind you, beside you, the chorus of libidinous excess churned, a sea of cunts and breasts and aching, heavy cocks. You felt entirely outside your own body, for a moment watching from the rafters as you squirmed in Antonius’ lap, your sex open and drooling for the General as he watched from the other side of the room. You could feel the weight of his glare on you, your eyes drawn again to him as he leant ever so slowly forward, his elbows coming to rest on his knees as he took you in.

‘Such a pretty little cunt, look at him staring at it,’ Antonius grinned. ‘He’ll think I’m the emperor when I spread it with my cock.’

You groaned, Antonius switching his hands so that his right continued to strum at your clit while his left parted you, pulled your folds apart to slip a finger to your core. You stuttered, your hips rolling as you took him in, hissing at the stretch of even his single finger.

‘Gods, have you ever had another here before?’ he asked, and you shook your head.

‘Not properly,’ you said. ‘Not with his…thing.’

‘Such a sweet girl,’ he said, biting a little at your earlobe. ‘Can’t even say “cock” without pink atop your cheeks.’

You could feel that he was hard, his thing, his cock, grinding into your bottom as you squirmed in his lap.

‘Put your heels up on my knees,’ he said, leaning you back further into his chest to allow it. ‘Show him all of you, let him see me open up this pretty little cunt.’

You flopped, boneless, against him, gasping to the ceiling as he slid another finger to join the first. The sting of it soon abating, leaving only a pulsing need in its wake. Is this what everyone had been going on about all this time? Suddenly, you understood it.

‘Oh, Gods,’ you gasped, as he rubbed tight circles into your pulsing bud. ‘Oh!’ you shuddered again, something shimmering and hot in your belly starting to wind its way around your core.

Then, suddenly, stillness. You groaned in frustration, your eyes snapping open to turn to Antonius. You only paused when you saw shock, jaw hanging open and eyebrows arched high on his forehead.

‘Antonius!’ you gasped, his hands still inside you but unmoving.

‘He has beckoned for us,’ he whispered, and you turned, rising your head off Antonius’ shoulder to stare down the valley between your thighs. You watched as Acacius, his eyes now fixed on your spread sex, lifted his hand to the air, waving for you.

--

You had only been a girl when you mother took you aside and explained the unfolding paths your life could take. If you were to stay on the farm you were to marry, to bear children, to raise them up in the same fields she had raised you. To maybe have boys and watch them carry the glory of the Empire on their shoulders into battle, to maybe have girls and watch them birth the next generation of Rome. If you were to leave you would work, and it would be toil and largely thankless, servitude at the steps of a bigger life not likely to ever be within your grasp. The proximity of it maybe enough to carry you, maybe not.

You were to make your decision quickly. Soon, you would bleed.

And you knew that you were lucky, in a sense, to have a mother that afforded you a choice, to have a father that allowed you to pack your meagre belongings into a satchel of his design. But in the nights when you waited in your quarters for sleep to come, in the nights when your back ached from beating linens against rocks by the river, from pressing powder to the folds on your lady’s skin just to watch her leave to revel without you, you wondered whether you had made the right one.

The General only became more striking as you closed the distance between you, crawling on your hands and knees to get to him over the writhing bodies of your compatriots. You felt Antonius behind you, his shuffle to keep up as you waded, your eyes still locked to Acacius’ even now. As you neared him, as you felt the ambient heat of his body start to press into your own, as you met his hungered gaze with one full of longing, of desire, in your own, you felt for the first time at the core of your own life, at the pulsing centre of it. At the place you had been destined to arrive all this time, ambling towards it without knowing your heading.

You glanced to the General’s side, to Lucilla who watched you with a gentle smile adorning her lips. You saw she held her husband’s hand in hers as his other gripped the edge of the chair, his body leaning towards yours as you crawled to him.

‘Pretty little thing,’ you heard her murmur to him, and you again felt pink again adorn your cheeks. Acacius only nodded, his jaw set tight as he reached his hand to you. You reared up on your knees, stumbling towards him, letting him pull you forward until your arms rested atop his thighs. You could see, now, the tremble of the tunic as it covered his pulsing cock, could smell the sweet smell of orange and cedar that he had bathed himself in. Drunk on his gaze you let your hands slide, feeling the heat of his thighs as his muscles twitched beneath your touch, the man almost jumping out of his chair when you took the hem of his skirt in your fingers and folded it, lifting it gently to lie atop his lap.

Your eyes fell to it, his aching, leaking cock standing proud from the thicket of hair between his thighs. You watched, marvelled, at the way it pulsed in time with his heart.

‘I don’t know that she has ever seen one before,’ Lucilla commented, and you glanced at her, suddenly shy. ‘So precious,’ she continued. ‘So lucky that her first is that of the General of Rome.’

Acacius grunted, his fingers starting to tremble as your stare returned to his member. Behind you, Antonius approached, unnoticed, sinking down to his knees to lean over you, his hands steadying himself on your hips.

‘It’s beautiful, General,’ he said, as he trailed his fingers up your spine, idly. ‘Mouthwatering.’

You nodded, agreeing, flexing your fingers to try and push the shake out.

‘Reach out and take it in your hand,’ Antonius instructed, and you heard the General gasp, looking up at him to watch his eyes darken.

‘Gods, has she never…?’

‘She’s fresh as a new bud,’ Antonius reported, proudly, easing his fingers over your bottom and letting them slip again, to your dripping sex. ‘She tastes as a dew formed by the first dawn,’ he went on, collecting your slick at his fingers and then raising them, an offering, to the man seated above you. ‘Taste?’ he said.

Acacius leant forward, sucking Antonius’ fingertips into his mouth, his eyes closing in awe as he muffled out a groan. ‘Gods, like early Spring,’ he said.

You watched as his cock twitched again, your nose full of the smell of his hot skin, of something hard and masculine, something dangerous and deadly. You licked your lips, your mouth descending to his tip almost without thought, your tongue reaching to lick at the little ridge of skin on the underside of his glorious, throbbing shaft.

‘Oh, she’s fresh like a bud but filthy like a whore,’ Lucilla observed, smiling indulgently at her husband. Acacius turned to her, his brows saddled.

‘My lady, I…’

‘Hush,’ she said, raising a hand to her husband’s cheek as he shuddered, your tongue sliding to tease at the slit where he leaked. ‘Enjoy, my love. For all you’ve done, for the glory of Rome.’

You closed your eyes, hollowing your cheeks to prepare yourself to take him into your mouth, your jaw already aching at his girth. You heard him groan, his hands falling to your hair, tangling himself in your tresses as you worked.

Behind you, Antonius crouched, freeing himself from his tunic so that he could notch himself at your entrance, his cock prodding at your gentle, silken folds.

‘General,’ he gasped, as Acacius whimpered under your tongue. ‘She’s gripping me, pulling me into her untouched cunt.’

‘Go gentle,’ he grunted. ‘A precious one as this…’ he trailed off as you reached up to grasp him by the base, saliva and the General’s leaking come starting to collect and run over your chin. He found himself unable to speak as you opened your eyes to gaze up at him, the desire in his eyes bathing you in heat.

‘Gods…’ Antonius groaned as you felt him push into you, a gasp catching in your chest as you swallowed around the General’s cock. You felt the grip in your hair tighten, saw the way Acacius started to rock his hips, squirming on the seat beneath him as you took him further down, into your throat.

You felt the sting, the stretch as Antonius slid into you, his first thrust knocking you further into Acacius’ chest, his cock slipping from your mouth as you steadied yourself. You gasped, lungs burning for air. Your brows saddled, a whimper escaping you.

‘Does it hurt, my sweet little dolly?’ Acacius asked and you nodded, permitting a wince as Antonius again bucked his hips. Acacius breathed, his eyes roaming your face as a tear gathered at your waterline.

‘Want it to be you,’ you whispered, Antonius’ cock fucking the truth right out of you as you rocked backwards and forwards on your knees, leaning on the naked lap of the most desired man in Rome. He came forward, then, lifting his hand to cup the side of your head, fingers stretching over the back of your skull as he cradled your jaw. He allowed the fingertips of his other hand to travel the plains of your body, pausing only momentarily to paw at the swell of your breast before gliding them further, his muscled and sun-kissed arm extending to allow him to travel to your folds, to your straining, quivering clit.

You jolted, the pad of his finger rubbing gentle circles, the squeeze of Antonius immediately lessening, the pinch giving way, finally, to a sense of fullness, of completeness, of finally being entire.

You whimpered, the General holding your head in his hand to lock his eyes to yours, your body rolling and jerking beneath you as he held you fast to him. Behind you Antonius worked, his cock soaring into you, his fingertips digging hard into your hips.

The General watched you, studied the way your face twisted, contorted in pleasure. With his fingers at your sex, he spread your slick and you felt it collecting at the apex of your thighs, spreading over your skin. Your groans went unheeded, lost to the debauched sounds of the room, as you felt pressure build low in your belly, a coiling of something essential, tight in your core.

Still, he watched you, kept you trapped beneath him, his gaze warm, almost loving, as he held you through it. You realised, as the ache in your core set to burning, as the wildfire caught on dry grass and sparked an inferno racing from your cunt to your chest to your throat, that he was giving this to you, this first time, that he held you entirely in his orbit and in his grip, that you were his to play with, his to stroke and pleasure and consume, that you would let him for as long as he would have you, that more than anything in this moment you were cherished, that you were desired, that you were prized.

‘I want it to be me, too,’ he murmured low, a secret between two lovers, as you started to lose control of your breath.

‘General..!’ you gasped, the feeling so strong you were terrified it would wash you away with it, his gaze unwavering in the face of such peril.

‘Let it take you, little dolly,’ he said, his fingers continuing to push you further, your pulsing little clit aching for him, from him.

Behind you, Antonius grunted, his thrusts becoming fast and unruly as he started to lose his form.

‘I can’t hold it,’ he said over your head, almost apologetic.

‘Give her everything,’ Acacius ordered, his eyes still on you as your brows saddled.

‘Good girl,’ he murmured, your eyes slamming shut as you gave yourself in to it, as you let it breach your walls, flood the arena, made you breathe in not air but the whispers of the Gods above you, your shuddering form bowed in pleasure for their reverence.

--

Dawn threatened, and as the muddy light streamed in over the piles of bodies you counted fifteen separate sets of arms and legs. Perched on the end of the couch, wrapped in your shawl and your tunic again with no memory of having put them back over your skin, you roused Antonius and assembled yourselves before sneaking back to the Senator’s statehouse. His wife will be seeking breakfast and for you to wash her hair this morning. You will see if you can sneak some hot water for yourself as you pour hers.

On shaky legs, you stood with Antonius in the courtyard, seeking your bearings. You shuddered, the morning cold biting harder than you expected, an ache between your thighs a not-unwelcome reminder of the night before.

Above your heads, the General and his lady’s open window revealed the sound of gentle slumber.

You escaped through the back alleys, a giggle forming in your chest both at your memories of the night before and at your now complete inability to look Antonius in the eye. You found yourself mooning over him suddenly, as though your time with the General and his lady had forged something new between you, a bond you’re curious to explore. As you made your way back to the statehouse, contemplating this development, the dawn finally properly broke, the pink and purple light staining the marble around you. In front of you, the palace glowed, ethereal, the city only beginning to wake.

You looked down at your feet, stationed steady on the stones. You considered, for the first time, that you were home.

[corvus-frugilegus]

WIP Wedsthursday

Thanks for the tag @larkinna !!!

I'm gonna get weird with this again and share some of my notes from my Ventine Architecting Rabbit Hole. Eventually this will probably be a weirdly deep headcanon meta post???

I have a standing hc that because of the scale of Tevinter different parts of it have different cultures in a way very similar to how The Byzantine Empire was so sprawling and not a cultural monolith (which is iirc a place the da team took some influence from for Minrathous). Thinking about Ventus's proximity to Antiva, i feel like it's maybe got some Levantine influence and that's what I've been rolling with when thinking about Cusine & Architecture and how that all collides with Thedas. So right now I'm rabbit holing really hard on Historical Lebanese Architecture (Beirut specifically has some history that fits My Thoughts On Ventus). This is of course inexorably linked to culture when it comes to social structure and life style! Because Architecture is purposeful. Anyway. Without further preamble, behold, my notes app notes:

Furst Principle: "architecture reveals ways of life and expresses them through symbols of practical, social and cultural value" < it says a lot about the lives people live. In Lebanon, building a house has been an overarching idea of the family-oriented culture. < Your whole neighbourhood is cousins in Ventus i will not be changing my mind on this. Family and community oriented housing structures really supports this. ^ connection to the land is evident in structure of homes too. "The underlying concept of the Lebanese residential architecture is its organic integration with the landscape and its response to the natural aesthetics. In most cases, this interaction happens through a particular architectural element that links the interior and the exterior of a house. With this in mind, there are four types of residential houses distinguished across Lebanon: the closed court house (described above), the gallery house, liwan house, and the central hall house." live stock in proximity! 2-3 story homes, rooms are a later addition. Family usually lives on the upper levels. (early homes have phoenician influence, this feels like it tracks well with tevinter having a sprawling influence too) Phoenicians preferred to live in close and shared neighbourhoods: clusters of their residential units would be connected by a common courtyard (closed courtyard houses). urban settlements were always built in places w/ access to water, mineral resources and allow dev of agriculture. cultural shift towards trade orientation: merchants converted the ground level of their houses from storage into points of sale and workshops. Souks began to develop and attract people, for trade, triggering a dense growth of courtyard compounds that could support trade "Cities in the ancient Middle East appear to have contained commercial districts. Later, in the historic Islamic world, bazaars typically shared in common certain institutions, such as the position of the muḥtasib, and certain architectural forms, such as roofed streets and courtyard buildings known in English as caravanserais. The exact details of their evolution and organization varied from region to region." < wiki on souks Lebanon - sun-drenched humid climate and the mountains covered with greenery in summer and snow, in winter < based on the snowy mountains we see in Treviso I suspect this is a good read on Ventine Climate. How do some of these concepts fit Tevinter? What makes sense in the lore? Culture & Class, Altus influence vs the Soporati after generations of Tevene Colonization. Almost all of Tevinter was something else before it became Tevene - Based on Ventus Geography, the treatment of the north as Mediterranean-ish, the Byzantine influence on Tevinter and Ventus's proximity to Treviso is giving Levant. - What are some Ventine cultural staples that have outlasted Colonization? - How does proximity to Antiva over Minrathous have an Impact? - What about Arlathan? buikdings to look up: the Temple of Jupiter in Baalbek, Chamaa Castle south-east of Tyre, and the khans of Tripoli

Directions to push:

- Ventus likely has phonecian style homes, In Sporati homes it would probably be normal for the ground floor to be used for commerce or storage

- Ventine homes likely reflect a connection to the land, it's a hot and humid climate. Coastal. Nearby Mountainous areas may still experience Snowy Winter. Building materials would reflect this and may look different from forever rainy Minrathous

- Grape vines and Olive Trees are probably quite normal! Comics have suggested Ventus is quite Verdant. This requires lots of bright light. Open air markets and common spaces may help w/ increased plant pop.

- Open air or Covered markets are both possible. I suspect Ventus is large enough for both.

- What is the visual language of the Nerominean tribes? How has Tevinter Erased it? Where does it shine through anyway?

- How has frequent conflict with the Antaam impacted the city structure (literally) and culture?

- Where does Ventus align with the rest of Tevinter and where does it chafe?

I have also appended so many photos, really looking at shape and flow and considering how Ventus might have some aesthetic echoes of minrathous while having a unique visual identity.

All of this to say, Ventine architecture will say a lot about Ventine culture, and looking at historical architecture and culture in a similar biome is a really interesting place to start building ideas. Ventus has so much room to play and grounding it in its own identity is a really fun expercise. Also Lebanese Architecture is incredibly cool and a very interesting read. Also also cool to pick up on where the shapes and colours we do see in Minrathous have likely taken inspiration from.

Right now this is just in the learning about architecture and word salading out loose thoughts and questions stage. Eventually, i hope to have a set of notes on a Ventus that reflects a similar but different Tevinter to what we see in Minrathous? Starting with the real world is always a handy way to generate a lot of the questions you need to answer around world building.

Yeeesss this was all triggered by a Rook mood board tag game.

Because I've already yapped at them a tiny but about this, gonna tag: @ofcrowsanddragons @biowaredisasterbisexual

[noxious-fennec]

The ponderer's gift in the wonders of lands and the marvels of travels, "Salama Arrahala"

Entery #4: Fares, Fahlamais.

In the capital's rich and varied streets, Salama stumbles into souk Da'ak, the poets market, and accidentally enters an improvisation competition. The goal is to impress Al Yamama, a pragmatic scholar and scientist who does not believe in the romantic philosophy of the arts. Salama, flustered, recites an ancient sonnet from her tribe passed down by her mother. The novelty wins Al Yamama's favour, beating Badr ibn Amma Al-maghribi, the Sultan's sha'ir and the best in the trade, making Salama, allegedly, his rival.

Al Yamama, mesmerised by her apparent skill, hosts Salama during her stay in Fares, in exchange for a poem every night. Being that she isn't a poet, Salama seeks help from Badr. Every night, Salama recites a poem; every day, Badr writes a new one, growing more complex and sentimental. At the end of her stay, Al Yamama professes her love for her, only further complicated by Badr's own feelings, leaving Salama with a few hard decisions to make.

[ashwantsafreepalestine]

1 November 2024.

The US-backed terrorist state of Israel drops bombs heavily and randomly at the homes of Palestinian civilians in Sheikh Radwan, Al-Souk Street.

People who refused to leave northern Gaza are being hunted down.

Absolutely barbaric.

(source)

[hermesserpent-stuff]

Hermes, I I here to humbly ask thee for another songfic request.... it is for... the Ace In A Cage AU! You may choose your pick of which song on your playlist, as you will know which one fits that world best.

(You don't have to make this, but if you want to, a song might help you with writing it)

this is song 1. anywayssss this is what i got

Remy stares at the place where his den should be. His den with a nest that had been made for him and Henri when Creed had joined with the Guild. A nest that had been a safe place to run to ever since he was thirteen. When he had arguments with papa or Henri or big nightmares or little troubles and …

His heart shrieks and he leans against the sun heated wall. He trembles and shakes, eyes burning. 

Stupid Hydra.

Stupid portal thing 

Stupid Remy for hitting it with a card and getting exploded into a place where he feels so lost and confused. Everything looks like home. But to the left. Like looking at yourself in the ripple soft a pond or in a fun house mirror. His stomach twists and he finds a garbage can to throw up in.

After dealing with his wounds he had come straight to the nest. He probably should have gone back to the mansion but… he hurts so so bad right now. He adjusts the bandages on his aching arms. He turns and steps away. 

One foot.

Then the next.

Then the next.

His soul weeps as he moves alone through streets that are no longer his.

He starts heading north, up towards the mansion, with a vain hope of getting help. He slowly starts to avoid more people. They are all so much more sensitive to his eyes and him wearing glasses. Every once in a while he would seek help and shelter but…

People would try to get him to stay while calling for someone on the phone. He always slips out before the call connects, not wanting to know who would be interested in his red eyes. He needs to make it back to the mansion. See if anyone's there. The number no longer worked. He had tried it. It failed. He decides to make himself more scarce while moving through cities, terrified. Had something happened to drive his family underground? 

Maybe he should avoid the mansion… but he has to know.

Sticking to the shadows does not afford him much time to watch the news and get updates. After a driver tries to lock him in her car while trying to take him ‘where they help mutants’, Remy stops hitchhiking. 

A month passed in bursts of travel and he eventually snatches a bike, easily swapping the tags and kicking it into gear. His brother had taught him how to ride a bike anhas Creed htaught him how to be one with it.

Snow swirls down from the sky as he speeds across paved pathways that echoe what he knows. That fill him with a longing that cannot be healed. He has been running on fumes for the last few weeks. Not sleeping much for fear of his charm slipping out. Normally he would have been able to let it loose a few times in the safety of Creeds presence if he had been unable to get back into the nest. 

The dusky greys of the shadows snake across the fresh whiteness of the snow. Purples shade the darkest bits of shadow and Remy wonders at all the hues as he drives onwards. The snow only grows thicker as he goes, specks of cold becoming a wall that tries to soak into his souk. The fifteen year old knows that it is not much further to the mansion, just antoher bend and then!

Oh.

He really shouldn't be surprised, he thinks as he stares at a fence that is designed all wrong, with brickwork that is a mutation on what he knows. The colors are off. Instead of a stunning red with bursts of green and brown plant life, the bricks are a browner hue, with just a few vines creeping about. The mansion beyond is similar to home, but a little too big. Like a jacket stretched from use beyond its fit, with seams bursting and breaking and being patched with material that is the right color and texture but still wrong. 

He covers his mouth and hops off the bike as bile rises. He throws up in the bushes as his emotions smash past his mental shields. They splatter like blood on the world around him, sticky and clumpy. He wipes his lips with the back of his hand and steps back shaking. Something pokes at his mind. Something that feels like Xaiver, but its not. He lets his natural barriers throw whomever it is back. He raises up his mental shields sharply and bolts back to his bike as he hears… something. 

Something is coming. A roar that rings his soul.

But…

It is off.

Just like everything else. 

Remy has had too many experiences with clones to want to see how this world’s verion of his family is… twisted. Because he has finally accepted that somehow, some way, he has been brough into a new world. This is not his home. Could he even get back home??

He revs his bike and takes off, letting it shriek as he takes off. He hears the sound of motorbikes behind him as he zooms down the road. He twists off down a side road he kind of recognizes. he can hear the bikes behind him, more powerful than this stolen ride. He breathes and falls into almost meditative concentration. Running is what he is good at. He had learned how to run before he had ever learned how to stay. He pushes the bike faster and sharply turns off the road onto a side path that is gonna take him to a cliff, that has a road below. He launches the bike over the edge as he gets to it.  

He throws out a card at just the right time to hit the ground beneath him. The shock waves of his explosion gives his bike enough lift to keep it from snapping in half when hitting the ground. He revs his bike and flies, wind and snow swirling around him in wave like swells. He hears a crash behind him and a roar louder than any tiger or lion he has ever heard. Just as loud as Creed when he is pissed. 

Remy cannot help it.

He looks back. 

A man is chasing him on all fours, blond hair flaring behind him. 

Creed?

He heart leaps and he shakes his head. Remy narrows his eyes at the messy road ahead of him. He had seen twisted clones of his père. Half-melted things made due to Mister Sinister’s obsession with Remy, Jean, and Scott. He does not want to see what this world has cooked up. 

He throws cards behind him and blows up some of the road. He pushes the bike faster through the storm. 

--

Remy curls up on a random rooftop in New York, staring at the altered skyline. He sneezes wetly and takes another bite of his frozen sandwich. Snow is slowly falling from the sky. He has a bit of shelter over his head that keeps the snow off of him. He sneezes wetly again as he jots down another difference in the ratty notebook he had found thrown out. Remy keeps it all encoded just in case. 

“You're really stupid for stealing that face.”

A voice growls and Remy jolts. He stares, eyes wide at this altered Creed. Longer hair. Up in braids, looping and twisting up on itself is in a ponytail. The man is wearing pure black and Remy shifts out from his corner and takes a step back.

“Remy don't want no trouble monsieur, just tryin’ to live.”

He steps back as this twisted Creed steps forwards.

“Even bothered with the accent.”

Remy sneezes wetly again, shifts back further, and shivers violently.

“It's my accent, Remy not tryin’ to steal a face?!”

He is so, so confused, tired, and sick. Does… does this Creed think Remy is trying to be this world's Remy? 

The twisted Creed snarls and lunges. Remy spins and mourns the sandwich as he blows it up against the man’s side. He shifts and runs, leaping across the gap between buildings. Something hits his neck and the drugs swirl violently outwards. He tries to roll and fumbles, pain flaring up through his body as he skids across the roof. He whimpers as he tries to get up. But everything is shutting down. Remy whimpers loudly as hands pin him and his memory flares and drags at him. He struggles as much as he can, but his brain is fading fast. Gambit gasps loudly and sobs as he is pressed more firmly into the roof. 

No! No! No!

Not again!!!

He never wants to go through that again. 

And then blissful blackness overtakes him

[makotafi]

Trinkets the arcana characters would get for you from the street market [souk]

Ps : all the photos are taken by me from jjam3 al fna[how tf do u spell it in English]in Marrakech tehe

Lucio

Def something gold [pretentious fucker /affectionate]

Asra : shiny rocks :D

Portia : cozy pottery trinkets

Muriel : heerrbsssss

Julian: lamp :3

Nadia: clooothhhss

[justforbooks]

Iris Apfel was finally recognised as a great, original fashion stylist in her 80s, when the Costume Institute at the Metropolitan Museum in New York��had a sudden gap in its 2005 exhibition schedule. Many curators knew Apfel, who has died aged 102, as a collector stashing away clothes, especially costume jewellery, both couture-high and street-market-low, so the institute asked to borrow some of her thousands of pieces.

When Apfel wore them herself, dozens at a time in ensembles collaged fresh daily, they had zingy pzazz, so she was invited to set up the displays. There was no publicity budget, and her name was modestly known only in the interior decor trade, yet the show, Rara Avis: Selections from the Iris Apfel Collection, became a huge success after visitors promoted it online. It toured other American museums, changing exhibits en route because Apfel wanted her stuff back so she could wear it.

Apfel’s grandfather had been a master tailor in Russia; her father, Samuel Barrel, supplied mirrors to smart decorators; her chic mother, Sadye (nee Asofsky), had a fashion shop. They lived out in rural Astoria, in the Queens borough of New York, where Iris was born.

As a child, her treat was a weekly subway trip to Manhattan to explore its shops, her favourites the junk emporia of Greenwich Village. She was short, plain and, until her teen years, plump, but she had style; and the owner of a Brooklyn department store picked her out of a crowd to tell her so. During the Depression all her family could sew, drape, glue, paint and otherwise create the look of a room, or a person, on a budget of cents – the best of educations.

She studied art history at New York University, then qualified to teach and did so briefly in Wisconsin before fleeing back to New York to work on Women’s Wear Daily. Furniture and fabrics were in short supply during and after the second world war, and Iris began to earn by sourcing antiques and textiles; if she could not find it, she could make or fake it cheaply.

In 1948 she married Carl Apfel, and they became a decorating team: he had the head for business and she the eye. Unable to find cloth appropriate to a period decor, Iris adapted a design from an old piece and had it woven in a friend’s family mill; she and Carl then set up Old World Weavers in 1952, commissioning traditional makers around the globe.

Photographs and home-movie footage from the next four decades showed Apfel, adorned with elan, haggling for one-off items in souks, flea markets and bric-a-brac shops. She is the most decorative sight in each shot, her ensembles put together with complex cadenzas atop an underlying, tailored, structure– they are like jazz – not a statement, but a conversation.

Apfel was the last of those 20th-century fashion exotics who presented themselves as installations. Although she wore a priest’s warm tunic to the White House (President Richard Nixon underheated the place), plus armfuls of cheap African bracelets and thigh-high boots, she was not an exhibitionist like the Marchesa Casati, and, with her vaudevillian comic timing, was far funnier than the imperious Vogue editor Diana Vreeland.

Also, she never ever bought full-price: her many rails and under-the-bed suitcases of couture were sale-price samples, chosen for their cut, fabric, skilled craftwork and colour dazzle (“Colour can raise the dead”). She might wear them over thrift shop pyjamas, or under a Peking Opera costume, with hawsers of necklaces atop. Money could not buy personal style, she said, prettiness withered, beauty could corrode the soul. All that really mattered was “attitude, attitude, attitude”.

Old World Weavers discreetly refurbished the White House under nine presidents, as well as grand hotels and private houses, before the Apfels sold the company in 1992. They retired to a quiet life in their apartment on Park Avenue, New York, its decor an extension of Apfel’s outfits (bad garment choices were cut up for cushions), and in a Palm Beach holiday home where the Christmas decoration collection stayed up all year round, along with cuddly toys and museum-class folk art. Clothes shopping, and the improvisation of an outfit, became Apfel’s daily ritual, as cooking might be to a gourmet.

But after the Met show, and a book, Rare Bird of Fashion (2007), Apfel was back in as much full-time employment as she could manage in her 80s and 90s (she had a hip replacement because she fell after stepping on an Oscar de la Renta gown). She was cover girl of Dazed and Confused, among many other publications, window display artist at Bergdorf Goodman, designer and design consultant – superb on eye-glasses; she wore large, owl-like, frames to stylise her aged face into a witty, unchanging, cartoon.

She took seriously her responsibilities to fashion students on her course at the University of Texas, teaching them about imagination, craft and tangible pleasures in a world of images.

Her career lasted – nothing was ever too late: in 2018, Iris Apfel: Accidental Icon, a book of memoir and sound style advice; in 2019, a contract with the model agency IMG; and last year, a beauty campaign for makeup with Ciaté London. The documentarian Albert Maysles trailed her for Iris (2014), filming this “geriatric starlet” – her term – as she dealt drolly with new high-fashion friends, or laughed at an “Iris” Halloween costume (glasses, a ton of bangles).

She watched as a storage loft of her antique treasures was listed in lots for sale, and as white-gloved assistants from museums that had begged a bequest boxed up her garments; she still had, and wore, the shoes from her wedding. All things, she said, were only on loan in this world, even to collectors. The point was to enjoy them to the full before bidding them good-bye.

Carl died in 2015.

🔔 Iris Barrel Apfel, decorator and fashion stylist, born 29 August 1921; died 1 March 2024

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at Just for Books…?

[valoisfulcanellideux]

A Tale of Two Devotions - Chapter 22

The scent of the air was different. It was not that of the chill night kept at bay by the draped windows of his bedroom. It was not that of the incense, spices, and smokes that occasionally drifted high in the air from the souk and wafted through those same tall windows. It was not even that of the hot and dusty sirocco that sometimes brushed the distant dunes and brought his people out to sweep sand from the streets. It was soft and warm and dry, redolent of heavy cloth and burning charcoal, a remembrance of desert tents and crackling braziers, of an interminable journey through night and the warm light of hope at its end. Nashĭd opened his eyes, turned his head, and smiled. “Imaĭ'yah,” he murmured, as he propped himself on one elbow in the bedroll. “It’s good to see you again. I missed you.”

Read it in full at AO3: A Tale of Two Devotions - Chapter 22

Artwork by Sabira/floweroflaurelin.