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libidomechanica · 11 months

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“Vacant her word to my serenity— that goods”

And so both are lost my mouth it was betraying with buttons forth than Nanie, O: may ill be lucky together the stars of mine, lass, in fact, true as that true, ’ and to think; tis dance tells me ours is an earth has Nero, and having days’

sweet Idyl, and fall he shoulder, with wealth would I forgot, nor breathing into itself, or pines in a moment seemed pale and certain top which, elements of night, and as true; as spring of hem was getting go. To leap large a flute

of shame, the Gulf Stream and labour was but the Oppian Law. Arms Shirúeh’s Feet drenched it last? Vacant her word to my serenity—that goods. Come full before. Then make captive one, or bribe. Think how your heart is no common fated to prayse

is my gift of a garded be, at her husband having song: then despise; let crutches betraying: for Winters sorowe. With fluttryng wing, a beauty and ready, they circle they will not ask a kiss out-went to scent in furrow-cloven

falls below white heat till Eastern anti-jacobin at first time and it out, the shrilled, it is yet unborn: first Mrs. His soul with buttons for the Rain King, for they keep an’ kye thrice to woo: to woo: to woo: to woo: to woo:

to woo: to woo: to wooing music, sole echoed he; no soft face teacher’s breast rear’d on libbard’s paws, upheld them is alive, thy lips pursues! I have cloth. Upon the great oath I swear on the babe rest? There is most grac’d to nothing over

his mind! I waste in the meaning thee that late mouth with gold to the Almighty dove? Whose circle of sence horrid spring of the heauens did quake him run. What was mine, reverent nations fillet’s obay where and warm’d. To seize; she plain,

ended knees; her hands were were well as balm it is my gift where is love me, her rare flowery nunnery; by silently over herself with bulrush and grieve, so he wound of Retribute to hiccup or to be sing and when I’m

old, okay? That disastrous lifetime each pallid breast and measure with mother valentine. Yet since I sang of a God. Afar, a dwarfs and adorning doth admir’d. Wallow banks and hart still. Which Nature wondering in thys long wit,

and to proceeding, was never everybody yet your telephone can die by it, if not praised, I say, is then he is giving Love is the fair chamber up, close grow up child, and love more ways. How kenst thou are gratefull times a

sort not enamoured lands outrun the hoarse alarmed believe does not for a minute, come for the year; the opinion made of the Sunne: and at the summer’s flow, sun and other’s breadth, nor missed the tape rolling him, and a shade of

pillowing well that art now is rage; but one to stop my way; for shadows wide—be sure without a sound of Chian wine! The little time of this is morning a ding, ding; sweet side his pale yellow! Nor give a butterfly, land quiet—dull fence

facing, with busy brain around. The myrtle boatman’ and t is no stouter weapons under wanton thru the fields. Poor twist, or else stands, and when should lead a little smart? Suppose grown the fall of thy lustre of Death! In spring of

this such as gather truth like in plaster; you can say, some have. He was turn to their share our sun stand trust to an enslaver. And short armistice with the Lord Bacon’s bribe me then, I haue a syre, a fleeting, and tell vs, what late

by pearl or ill—Dear, but the wine ne’er the people’s banquet- room shone evades of light that heart, your little to give him Max, and riches,—and all the woman has’t by kind of the other outcry for Thee—Oh spurn the Seed of charm might fades

away; and before weak voiceless numbers breathe on thee, my heau’nly ioy, Yf still o’er dropp’d, am I ravisher thigh nearly urinating Toies, your hand, lass; and the moved in the coffee grind, when fated to re-assure him, while to

tell, motions the grass, beneath the happy. He gate, in springtime, since burns, seeing her badly dresses by the God once dead You have comes with it. Many dare not, lovelorn piteous as t were done: Marry a monstrous laws; there but Loues

winters sorowe. Mote be fast as it was a water, water the meed of child, too, and a hey nonino, that will confusion bred in mourning. Then all her, one not learne within her arms undo, bow patience in purpose. That compete.

#poetry #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Markov chains #Markov chain length: 6 #188 texts #ballad

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archonvs · 2 years

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FOTIA. the user is fitted with a heating and cooling system braided into muscle structure to ensure regulated core body temperatures, whether this is meant to withstand extreme heat (up to 46.5 °C (115.7 °F)), without severe repercussions or hypothermic temperatures; must be replaced after use of such situations.

ILEKTRIKOS. the user is fitted with an internal electromagnetic field reader that sends information transfer to the epidermis, causing a shiver reaction whenever there is a high reading of EMF - often used for work purposes; must be serviced once a year, no need for replacements.

NERO. the user is fitted with synthetic, easily-concealable gills slit into the sides of their neck for use of breathing underwater; must be serviced after three uses, no need for replacements.

AERAS. the user's lungs are outfitted with a carbon-dioxide filtering system, as well as adaptability to to regulate the body through high or low oxygen-level situations; must be serviced after extreme use; replacements needed every six months.

GI. the user can feel the most minute tremors on any surface within a five-mile radius via shock absorption implants in the feet and ankles; can also create quakes within a two-hundred-foot radius via the same implants once absorption takes place; must be replaced after quake release.

#member groups #the enhancements #archonvsrp

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incorrect-riordanverse · 4 years

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Tower of Nero Spoilers!!

Lester: I knew who I was. I was her dummy.

——

Meg: you’ll come back?

Lester: always. The sun always comes back.

Me:

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fascination-street-writing · 4 years

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Sober to Death | Teenage Au! Risotto Nero x Reader

Under the shroud of the moon, your shadows become ghosts

Content Warnings: Explicit Sexual Content (Not Underage), Mentions of Suicide, Implied Child Abuse, Underage Smoking, & Emotional Manipulation (Unhealthy Relationship Dynamics)

It is the summer of 1988. You have spent the past few days cooped within the shelter of your home to evade the arid, sweltering heat; even the spigots are dry. You long for autumn leaves.

The smouldering faces of painted women stare at you and watch, still, as you glide the twin blades of your mother’s cooking shears through pulp paper. She had promised you for weeks now to buy a new set of crafting scissors for you; your last pair disappeared, seemingly out of thin air. Your father insists that it was the work of garden fairies. You suspect interfamilial thievery.

A dollop of hot glue pools beneath the tip of the gun. A string not unlike a cotton candy fiber chases the glue gun upon separation; a scar on the back of your hand prompts you to not touch the simulant gemstone-encrusted tool. You press the trimmed image of a smoking model against the glue. Turquoise glitter rains down from the bottle and coaxes over the greyscale photograph. Plastic diamonds the color of honey, a magenta feather streaked in silver – you blow over the page of your scrapbook and grin.

The smooth voice of Mina Mazzini echoes from the turntable atop your dresser. Paper trimmings fall to the carpeted floor. Glitter sticks to the palm of your hand. Christy Turlington joins Isabella Rossellini and a nameless American model – the seventeenth page of your third portfolio is complete. You pride yourself in this hobby of collecting the images of women who have been frozen in time by glamour shots and risqué poses. Perhaps immortality truly means to be plastered inside of a teenage girl’s fashion scrapbook and hidden beneath her bed. You fancy yourself a curator – a conservator.

You kick back your feet and breathe in the perfume of the candle that burns on your bedside table. Instead of a pair of proper scissors, you mother had returned from the craft store with the caramel-scented candle. She is, admittedly, a bit forgetful at times.

You hear his fingers rapping against the pane of your window before you notice his presence: a pair of black-sclera eyes with red irises peer into your bedroom. You blow out the candle and turn off the overhead light. He is patient as he waits for you to slip on your Mary Jane’s. The bulge of a cigarette carton peaks out from the pocket of his torn jeans.

Through the opened window, Risotto Nero wordlessly extends his hand to you: yours is dwarfed by his calloused grasp. He leads you beyond your father’s wilting flower garden – you dance over marigolds, asters, and tithonias, careful not to step on the blossoms that suffer in this Sicilian drought.

Under the shroud of the moon, your shadows become ghosts. Cicadas and katydids sing. Risotto’s brooding, silent form matches your pace as walk towards your rendezvous place. Your legs have memorized the journey: up the hill, past the schoolyard, down the spiraling path behind the market, to the park across from the shoreline.

The wooden plank of the swing creaks beneath your weight. You grip the rusted chains and push, only enough so that your body sways, suspended above the ground. Risotto sits beside you, stagnant. Ashen earthiness wafts through the cloud that forms before his face. The smell of cheap tobacco is so strong that you forget how lovely the scent of the caramel candle felt in the well of your lungs.

The cigarette slips from his fingers to yours. Hot to the touch, you bring it to your lips and breathe in. “Mio padre said he could look at your bike, by the way,” you say to your companion, the first words of the night thus far. He takes back the cigarette. “He says he’ll let you work for him or something, just so you don’t have to pay him back for the new tires.”

He hums with the filter stuck between his teeth. “Thank you,” he mumbles through smoke.

You smile and nod. He had been without his bicycle for nearly a month now, ever since one of the boys in his tenement building slashed its tires. Risotto’s parents had refused to replace them, insistent that their son had purposefully dug his own grave with the older, less reputable residents of their complex – it was his responsibility to lie down and bury himself alive.

If not for his cousin Barolo’s intervention in the matter, you thoroughly believed that your friend would have been thrown out onto the streets. The Nero’s were a temperamental pair, to be sure. You have lost track of just how many times Risotto has come to school with a bruise on his cheek or a busted lip – how many times you have met him at your window in the dead of the night, to be greeted by the aftermath of a blackeye: and always, he blamed the welts on fights with his neighbors, but you knew better. To him, it had never mattered what his parents did – so long as he has his cousin. And you.

His mother and father terrify you, and rightfully so. And yet, a part of you is grateful for their negligence; it means that you have the chance to spend more time with their son, to whisk him away from the strain of his household. You are beholden to the burning in your legs because it reminds you that walking to the park takes longer than a simple bike ride. Though few words are ever spoken between you and Risotto, you savor every moment spent in his company.

His actions tell you that he is appreciative enough of your presence. He drops the spent cigarette into the carton and pulls out a second; the flare of the match glistens in his eyes. You hide the frown that creeps upon your face behind a curtain of hair.

A nicotine high is nothing more than a nasty headache and an upset stomach – you do not enjoy smoking nearly as much as he does.

Although, you have gotten rather good at pretending.

Insegnante di Scuola jailed, charged in Manslaughter

Sordi Fellini, 32, was arrested at his home after Polizia Municipale di Palermo said he fled the scene of the 1:50 a.m. accident. Fellini, insegnante di lettere for Istituto Gonzaga, has been charged for driving while intoxicated, manslaughter, and leaving the scene of an accident involving a death.

Dead at the scene of the 1:50 a.m. wreck was Barolo Nero, 20.

The dried leaves crunch beneath your feet. The wind pulses against your legs, pressing your pleated skirt taut to your stocking-clad skin. There is a certain bitterness that comes with walking home from school, alone. The autumn air becomes more frigid. The journey, longer. The weight of textbooks in the bookbag slung across your back is far heavier.

More than anything, you miss Risotto. You are reminded of him every moment that you catch yourself staring, longingly, at his empty desk in each classroom. Though you consciously leave a seat open for him next to you at your lunch table, as if he might sit down at any moment, you know that it is for naught.

You were not invited to the funeral, because there never was one. Barolo was cremated and scattered along the coast of the Tyrrhenian Sea. Signore Fellini, your estranged literature teacher, has been stripped of his certification – not that a degree would do him any good in prison.

And Risotto disappeared.

His bicycle has become something of a centerpiece in your father’s workshop: a drying rack for freshly cleaned hand towels. Each night that you find yourself hovering over your father – who is typically hunched in his desk chair – to press a kiss to his cheek and summon him for a meal, the bicycle taunts you. It is the emblem of your missing friend.

Tonight, you do not enter the workshop. A detour to the park has set you three hours behind. Your mother greets you from her place at the kitchen sink with a worrying tone. You have missed dinner, though truthfully, you are not hungry. Her water-pruned hands reach for you, yet you bat her away and retreat to your bedroom. Homework assignments wait to be completed. You strip yourself of your uniform and settle for a nightgown.

The evening sky has not yet settled to dusk – the cicadas and katydids no longer sing, for summer has passed and taken everything else with her: the drought, the wilted flowers, and Risotto. Still you sleep, a hand clutched to your chest, as if the meager act of cupping your aching heart might alleviate the dull rhythm that pulsates through you, even while you dream of cigarettes and torn jeans.

And when you open your eyes, jostled awake by the rattling of the window, you know that he has come back, perhaps compelled by devotion. Or perhaps, after all this time, it is that he could no longer bare the self-driven deprival of your affection.

In your room, Risotto’s battered shoes sink into the plush carpet. You close the window and draw the blinds shut. His gaze falls to the record player, then to a neglected crafting toolbox – scattered laundry on the floor, a framed watercolor painting of lilies: everywhere except for you. Your mouth opens, but words fail you. The questions that you have wanted to ask no longer matter because he is here now.

As you study his face, you wonder if his cheeks were always this gaunt. His fists are clenched. You pull him into your arms, crossing a line that you have only ever fantasized of toeing. His hands raise to your spine after a moment of hesitation. Fingernails pry into the thin fabric of your nightgown – he grips you tightly, like he fears that you might drift away if he pulls back. You feel the quaking of his shoulders before his tears fall and collect against the crook of your neck, to pool in the cavity of your collarbone.

Vulnerability has never come easy for Risotto. He wears stoicism like a mask. But here in your room – the forbidden safe haven – he wills himself to let it go; it falls to the floor as you lead him to your bed and pull his clothed body flush against yours, beneath the shelter of a duvet and wrinkled sheets.

“I’ve missed you,” you whisper into the dark. “I was so worried about you.”

His grip on you eases and he settles onto his back before he speaks: “I’m sorry.”

Your face falls. “Don’t apologize. I don’t want you to.” The mattress creaks. You lean against your bent elbow and watch him as he stares at the ceiling. You can practically hear the gears churning in his mind. He is begging for help, but he does not want it – he is drowning, yet he refuses the buoy. “You don’t have to talk about it right now,” you say, referring to Barolo’s death and consequently Risotto’s absence. “Just understand that I’ll always be here for you. Always.”

But he already knew that.

Your eighteenth winter hails no snowfall, but rather gentle rain. You clutch the steering wheel of your hand-me-down sedan, foot coaxing over the pedals. It had once belonged to your father, until your seventeenth birthday. The scenery blends and contorts through the windows and Risotto puffs on a cigarette, exhaling through his opened window. Softly, Christmas carols hum through the speakers. The noise of your tires grinding against the slick roads is muddling.

Midnight Mass was a blur. Tradition demanded your attendance, yet your thoughts wandered. You broke the bread with quivering hands and said your holy words to Mother Mary, fingers and palms conjoined ephemerally. When the bishop dismissed the clergy, you found Risotto in the crowds of embracing strangers and giddy children.

The car swerves into gravel. The scent of sea spray climbs to you. The waves crash against the sand just as the tide beckons them to. You have reached spiaggia di Capaci. The gingham blanket settles into the sand. You and Risotto take your respective positions, a considerable distance left between your bodies. You do not mind the early rain that peppers your face with mist.

Above your heads, the stars embellish the ethereal ink-black sky.

His thumb coaxes over the back of your hand, tracing the grooves between knuckles. Your breath hitches in your throat. It is unknown just how many times your hand has found its way into his grasp before. And yet, you shiver and flush because now it is different – because now, you are an eighteen-year-old woman in love with your childhood friend.

You crane your neck to face him, a question of his intent frozen on your tongue as his red irises meet your gaze. You are motionless, even when his stare falls to your parted lips. The chill that radiates from the ocean holds you in place.

Time stops as he speaks to you: the waves refrain from the shore – the steady drizzle eases – but your heart beats in a fury.

“Can I kiss you?”

You nod and suddenly his lips slant over your own, which remind him fondly of a freshly split strawberry. He bites back the gasp that betrays your composure. He kisses you with such fervor that he pulls his hand away from yours and tethers it to the back of your head, his fingers lost in the matted mound of hair. Like a kitten starved for milk, you explore the caverns of his mouth, the taste of communion wine heavy on his breath.

You find his shifting grasp on your hip daunting. A knee threads between your legs, parting them. A heat pools within you – you grab the back of his neck and pull him closer, closer. You lean into him, keening, desperate for friction.

He toys with your clothed sex and swallows the adolescent moan that you choke on. The hand beneath your dress is cold; goosepimples rise over your tender skin. He separates his lips from yours and pulls back to admire, through half-lidded eyes, as you bite your cheek and squirm while his thumb hooks around your dampened panties. You lie beneath him – your hair splayed around your head like a halo and a red blush stained to your cheeks – and he thinks, utterly and truly, that you must be Persefone herself.

Risotto’s heart beats, faster still; a contender only to yours. You feel like you might die, blissful that it would be a winsome way to go – on a beach somewhere, echoed only by thoughts of the one you might have loved in time. But when his long finger brushes against your untouched folds and tethers you to your very core, you know that you cannot possibly be dead. He curls himself and retracts. You raise your hips to meet the fever of his palm, eager for the second finger that he has yet to add.

“Please, Ris,” you beg. “More – please.”

He obliges. It is not long before you feel the coil tighten within your lower abdomen – before you fall apart for him.

Through your stupor, you manage to grab his wrist to cease his movements. “We can’t do this here,” you airily insist. “My car –”

He pulls you to your feet. Your shaking legs have you fumbling over sand. The key jiggles in the lock of the backseat door. You shimmy over crinkling faux leather. Your dress falls to the carpeted flooring.

A shirtless Risotto takes in the sight of your naked form. A body once saved for marriage, now prepared for sacrilege. He utters your name and groans: “Voglio scoparti.”

“Per favore.”

He fills you, slowly. Knees bent and tucked beneath his weight; you cry out against the skin of his neck. With little time to adjust, he rocks into you. Your arms wrap around his shoulders, desperate to anchor yourself. Every thrust elicits a gasp from your swollen lips.

You grimace peevishly when Risotto slows his pace. “I can’t do this,” he mutters. “It’s not comfortable.”

He pulls himself out of your folds, only to flip you onto your stomach without a moment to spare. A hand finds its way to the back of your neck, effectively pinning you down onto the car seat. His other arm ensnares your waist and hoists your backend into the air. On bended knees, he enters you again, pounding with a burst of newfound energy and desire.

Condensation coats the windows. The pressure on your neck deprives your lungs; however, the mere thought of Risotto asserting such dominance over your bent form has you reeling towards the edge. Your fingers fly to your sensitive nub, tweaking the it in your own grasp. Your release washes over you, and you cum on his cock with a moan laced in ecstasy.

He finishes on your back, lacquer to your sweat-slicked skin. He rubs something soft against you. You realize, as sand particles fall to the car seat, that it is your blanket. Head flush to his chest, you listen to the thumping within his ribcage. A sigh passes through your lips and your eyes fall to his discarded wristwatch. It is just after 3:00 a.m. – in five hours, you will wake to the sound of your mother’s knuckles rapping against your bedroom door to join her and your father for breakfast before an onerous day of entertaining relatives. But for now, you will enjoy the solace of Risotto’s embrace.

You press a kiss to his cheek. “Bon Natali, Risotto.”

He grins, tired. It is enough to fill you with unadulterated love.

“Bon Natali, bella.”

The early days of the springtime bloom yield the first wave of tourists to Palermo for the season. Market vendors inflate their prices. Restaurants become far too crowded. The beaches – the sacred places – lose their luster as they become a haven for foreigners.

You do not mind the influx of strangers, for you have never found a reason not to. After all, no one comes to your city to gawk at Catholic school students.

The hand pressed to your bare backend feels limp. Even as you trail your finger over his chest, through patches of hair and young muscles, Risotto is unresponsive. Your lips brush against his clenched jaw – he flinches but does not relax. He is perturbed beyond question.

“Ris?” you begin, waiting for him to look at you. He does not. You frown. “Are you alright?”

A stiff nod is his response.

“Well, if that’s the case, can I ask you a something?”

Another nod.

"Would you like to go out for dinner tomorrow night? You know – as in an actual date.”

"No.”

You sit up, tucking the blankets around your breasts. “Oh . . .” you trail off, suddenly self-conscious of the post-sex haze that lingers on the sheets. “Why not?”

Because I’ll be gone – he wants to say. The pair of crafting scissors that he once stole from you years ago, now tucked away within his backpack, is a nasty contemplation. “Because I don’t want to,” he huffs.

“Did I do something wrong? Are you embarrassed of me?”

No. “Yes.” He can feel the splitting of your heart – it feels just like his own.

“I don’t understand,” you insist. He reaches for his jeans, dressing in silence. “You’re just going to ignore me?”

“It’s easier than telling you the truth.” He shrugs on his jacket.

“What truth?”

I’m never coming back. “I’ve only been using you for sex, and now I’m bored – I never thought you were stupid enough to think that any of this was genuine. But I shouldn’t be surprised.”

You bring a hand up to catch the tear that rolls down your cheek. You wait for his rebuttal – for a smile, a shaking of his head, and an insistence that it was only a cruel jest taken too far. But the look in his eyes, that callous sneer, tells you that he is serious.

You will not cry for him – you will not beg him to stay. “Get out.” You choke over your words. The figs of your tree have shriveled and fallen to your feet, black as death itself. “Get out of my house.”

And so, he leaves you beneath the barren tree you once thought to have planted together. Springtime has left a sour taste in your mouth, after all.

Sordi Fellini Dead in Suicide at Jail, Spurring Inquiries

Signore Fellini, the insegnante di lettere sentenced for his convicted manslaughter of Barolo Nero in 1988, was not under suicide watch at the time of his death.

Signore Fellini was found around 6:30 a.m mercoledì mattina. He posted bail seventeen hours before his alleged demise.

On la Costa Smeralda, echoed only by thoughts of the one he loved a decade ago, Risotto Nero basks atop bloodied sand, dying. A crushed carton of cigarettes lies beyond the reach of his severed hand. The phantom pangs of adolescence remind him of you.

Years of schooling under the scrutiny of god’s eye have turned him away from religion: he was a deist and nothing more. Still, the silent prayer on his lips pleads that he might see you once more – to beseech your absolution, though he knows that he does not deserve it. To prove his fidelity. To give you the life you have always been so deserving of.

No, Risotto was never a religious man. But he worshipped the very ground you walked on. You were his savior – and he denied you like a disciple driven by guile.

The lump in his throat elicits a painful cough; a blade to his esophagus. He recognizes his folly far better than any man. How differently might things have turned out if he had just stayed by your side – if he had agreed to go on your silly little date; if he had never snuck his way into Fellini’s prison cell to slit the wrists of the man who bequeathed to him an unending grudge; if he had never found Passione.

He might have been a husband, if you would have wanted to marry him. He might have been a father, if you were so inclined to become a mother. He never knew your thoughts of the future because he had never asked.

He might have been anything other than a broken, dead man who has lost everything.

The wooden plank of the swing creaks beneath his weight. He grips the rusted chains and digs his feet into the dried woodchips. A katydid crawls over the mulch next to his sneakers and chirps; Risotto brings the sole of his shoe over the mating insect, ready to squish it.

A pair of Mary Jane’s comes into his view. He leaves the katydid be, which resumes its path to the second katydid beneath the opposite swing. The scent of cigarette smoke wafts through the air.

He meets your gaze. You smile and take your seat in the swing above the female katydid. The cigarette slips from your fingers to his. Hot to the touch, he brings it to his lips and breathes in.

Under the shroud of the moon, your shadows have become your ghosts.

| 3869 Words |

#risotto nero x reader #risotto x reader #risotto nero #jjba reader insert #jjba x reader

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da-helluo-librorum · 4 years

Text

Act III, Scene 2

ENGLISH;

Tis now the very witching time of night,

When churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out

Contagion to this world: now could I drink hot blood,

And do such bitter business as the day

Would quake to look on. Soft! now to my mother.

O heart, lose not thy nature; let not ever

The soul of Nero enter this firm bosom:

Let me be cruel, not unnatural:

I will speak daggers to her, but use none;

My tongue and soul in this be hypocrites;

How in my words soever she be shent,

To give them seals never, my soul, consent!

GREEK;

Τώρα της νύχτας είναι η ώρα στοιχειωμένη

που οι τάφοι χάσκουν κι η ίδια η κόλαση χνωτίζει

με μόλυσμα τον κόσμο, τώρα θα ρουφούσα

αίμα ζεστό και πράξες θα ‘κανα τόσο άγριες

που να τις δει να φρίξει η ημέρα. Μα σιγά -τώρα

στη μάνα μου. - Ω καρδιά μου, να μη χάσεις

την ανθρωπιά σου. Μες στο στερεό τούτο στήθος

να μην αφήσεις να ‘μπει Νέρωνα ψυχή,

σκληρός ας είμαι, αλλ’ όχι τέρας, μαχαιριές

να της τις δώσει η γλώσσα μου, καμία το χέρι

σ’ αυτό ψυχή και γλώσσα μου να υποκριθούν

και μ’ όσα λόγια η γλώσσα και αν την φοβερίσει

ποτέ η ψυχή μου μη δεχτεί να τα σφραγίσει!

#hamlet #shakespeare #dark academia #dark acadamia aesthetic #dark academic aesthetic #greek #greek blog

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keeroo92 · 4 years

Text

Be My Nightmare Chapter 17

Coming Home

~~~~Previous Chapter~~~~

Word count - 3,124

Warnings for surgical procedure, somewhat graphic. Blood and gore, minor.

_________

~~~~Nico~~~~

Nico took a deep breath and stepped forward, ducking under the yellow tape criss-crossing over the open doors of the subway. The acrid stench of death hung in the air, mixing with the signature piss and sweat of the underground. Not a pretty smell.

But the view horrified her, too. Cracked glass and smeared blood, a few bullet casings and two blue-clad bodies lying on the floor like dolls discarded by a child with a new toy. Her comrades deserved so much better.

Her heart clenched as she saw their frozen faces. It was Franklin and Taylor; she’d chatted with them by the water cooler the other day. Taylor told her that stupid joke about the zero and the eight, and Franklin… he was only just learning the ropes. His whole life ahead of him.

It made her want to scream.

She wasn’t unfamiliar with the unfairness of life. It twisted her up and spat her out more than once over the years. She’d fought tooth and claw to get where she was, struggle didn’t surprise her anymore. Misfortune had a cruel tendency to affect kind folks more than those who deserved it, but she always hoped to change that, even just a little. To leave the world better than when she entered it was all she wanted from life, despite how difficult the battle was. She could deal with the bad shit.

Still sucked to see the bad shit, though.

We gotta catch this fucker.

Balled fists held tight at her sides, she forced her eyes away from the corpses of her brothers in arms to scan the scene for any evidence that might lead to tracking down the psychopath who ended their lives. Anything would do, any thread she could tug to unravel the mystery and get to slap cuffs on the bastard. She’d never wanted to catch a criminal so badly, so deeply it kept her awake at night.

I’ll do whatever it takes. You’re going down, V.

The background check hadn’t given them much - he’d come from a middle class family, nothing remarkable about his childhood other than his fascination with art. By all accounts, while his young friends were off causing mischief, he’d be found visiting a museum or practicing his brushwork.

That is, until the shooting.

Regardless of his crimes, her heart went out to the poor bastard. Surviving a mass shooting by the sacrifice of a friend was enough to traumatize anyone. It was a damned shame (and an embarrassment to the healthcare system) that he didn’t get the help he needed afterward.

Still didn’t excuse killing folks, though.

At least they had one lead to follow - the doctor. After the dark-haired lunatic fled her apartment, it didn’t take long to get a search warrant. Techs were combing through the place, but they already had enough to put her away for at least a decade. Lobotomizing her own father, un-friggin-believable.

Tony was in shock, caught completely off guard by the doctor’s actions. His own hand-picked medical consultant, in league with the killer they hunted. A twist for the history books, he’d said. She’d never seen him so dumbfounded.

Despite being proven right about her suspicions, it turned Nico’s stomach to see the emptiness in Waras’s father’s eyes, the lack of humanity left behind. He was lucky to be alive, supposedly, but Nico had her doubts. Maybe death was a kinder fate than what the poor man endured.

He’ll never be the same. None of us will.

“I got a blood trail!”

Nico’s lips curved into a predatory smile. Franklin must’ve wounded the fucker, his last act one that could lead to the arrest of his killer. Cold comfort to his loved ones, but still. It was something.

~~~~Kotomi~~~~

The familiar click of her heels on cement vanished amidst the cries of the crowd. Enraged faces lined the entrance to Mundus Psychiatric Hospital, signs and shouts overwhelmingly oppressive. At least they weren't throwing fruit today. She’d count her blessings.

The protests first started a few days after the local news announced that V was the lead suspect in the recent killings, and that he’d escaped the historically secure facility. Citizens fearing for their safety flocked to the streets, calling for the hospital to close and the patients to go elsewhere, though nobody seemed to know where. As long as it wasn’t here.

Nobody cares about an actual solution, just that the problem gets dumped on someone else’s lap.

Then one of the orderlies told the tale of the fire, heightening the rage and terror. Malphas still hadn’t figured out who talked, but when he did, heads were going to roll. The director’s professional reputation was irrevocably tainted, along with the entire staff (though his was the only name being slandered in the streets).

It shocked her to see normal people so furious. People who barely registered the hospital’s existence before, now vilifying it at every opportunity. It didn’t matter that the place housed mostly harmless individuals, or that the staff genuinely tried to help them heal. All the goodwill vanished in the wake of V’s rampage.

“Bitch! Don’t you care that folks are dying?!”

Kotomi flinched as a protester caught her gaze and stepped forward from the picket line, foam-flecked lips spewing vitriol. She moved faster; maybe she could get inside before it got any worse.

“How many innocent people have to get slaughtered before you fuckers close this shithole?! Give ’em all the chair, I say!”

She crossed her arms and curled her shoulders inward, her heart hammering as she tried to pass the man by. She only wanted to go to work. Why couldn’t they just leave her alone? She hadn’t done any harm.

That’s not quite true…

In a way, it was all her fault. If she hadn’t frozen up during the fire, maybe things would have turned out differently. Why did she always freeze when it mattered most?

Her thoughts stopped as the man grabbed her shoulder, his grip tight enough to bruise. His rancid breath fanned over her face as he shouted at her, the words lost in the wake of her terror. Quaking legs barely kept her upright as her body flooded with adrenaline, her pupils dilating and sweat blooming on her palms and forehead. Maybe if she stayed quiet, he’d let her go? Could she just wait it out?

What choice did she have?

And then a familiar voice called her name, a pair of worried brown eyes replacing those of the protester as Rob led her inside. Someone else coming to her rescue yet again, because she lacked the strength to save herself.

“Are you alright, Dr. Ishida?” he asked.

She forced her fingers to relax their iron grip on her purse strap. “I- I think so.”

Rob sighed and glanced back at the crowd, their shouting audible through the glass door. “They’re getting bolder. I’ll talk to Aaron again, there’s got to be something we can do.”

But they both knew there was little point. Until V was caught, nothing would quench the fury of the citizens or lessen their drive to close the facility. Maybe her mother was right, she should’ve gone into a different field. It might be time to walk away.

~~~~V~~~~

The artist grimaced as he limped along, his palm pressed against his thigh to staunch the bleeding and ease the pain. Each step he took brought another pang of agony, and he couldn’t find an exit wound- the bullet remained. He’d have to get it out and treat the wound. First, however, he needed to find a safe place to recuperate.

He leaned against a shipping container, cautiously lifting his palm to check the blood flow. It was slowing, at least. Progress. His belt proved an effective tourniquet.

A gust of icy wind reminded him of his precarious position. The warehouse district wasn’t prone to pedestrians, which meant fewer eyes to spot him, but it also meant he stood out like a sore thumb to anyone who wandered by. He couldn’t afford to stay here long.

Keep moving. Can’t stop now.

He hobbled on, gritting his teeth against the pain. Sweat beaded on his forehead, itchy as it dripped through his hair. Aches ricocheted through his body, his muscles tired and close to quitting on him. He needed rest, a reprieve and a chance to plot his next move. Where could he go?

His friends stayed oddly silent. Did they abandon him? Unlikely, but he couldn’t discount the possibility. Either way, he had only himself to rely on.

Relying on others teaches one not to stand on their own. This is better.

Before long, his mind wandered to the worst three minutes of his life. It was inevitable after the reminders at the subway, the familiar crack of thunder as guns fired. How much pain had Nero endured that day? They said he’d been hit six times.

“Six… Six twelve Oak street…” he muttered. His vision swam and the artist faltered, shaking his head at his own foolishness.

He couldn’t believe he’d forgotten. Today was the day; he’d been looking forward to it. He’d had his doubts at first, but with each session Nero’s skill improved. The edges of his latest tattoos featured crisp definition, the whorls perfectly curved to follow the natural shape of his biceps.

The artist didn't notice the flush in his face and the dazed film in his eyes as he turned and set off in a new direction, his steps unsteady but determined. A slight smile graced his lips. What design would Nero add to the canvas of his flesh this time?

~~~~Reader~~~~

You sprinted to your ancient car, barely noticing the absence of the undercover cop car as you forced the engine to roar to life. No doubt they’d seen V leave and given chase, which meant you didn’t have the choice of going back to your apartment. The police would search it from top to bottom.

They’re going to find the sketches…

It seemed so long ago that the artist first grasped that tiny nub of charcoal in your office, portraying your face in shades of grey. The roller coaster hadn’t stopped since that day, and it showed no signs of slowing.

But fuck it. No sense dwelling on what could’ve been, the life you could’ve had if you hadn’t requested his case. What was done was done. Time to get on with it.

You flicked on the radio as you pulled onto the main road. An aggressive guitar solo blared out and you winced as you turned the volume down, switching the channel a beat later. Social media probably had better info than the radio, but reading and driving didn’t mix.

“-unarmed but extremely dangerous. Police are advising locals to leave the area immediately. Last sighted exiting the subway station on 119th street, but current whereabouts unknown-”

The subway. Smart.

As if you’d expect anything less.

Within ten minutes, you reached 119th. Flashing lights and sirens greeted you, blue-clad officers milling around as one of them plastered crime scene tape over the railing. Mid-morning sunlight streamed down like a sick spotlight.

If V was here, he was beyond your reach.

Shit.

You turned at the next cross street. The police undoubtedly had your license plate by now, you’d need to do something about that. No sense lingering in a place chock full of them. But where to go? Where would V go?

A soft ding stole your attention; a new message. You crossed your fingers as you pulled over to check your phone.

It wasn’t far, maybe a five-minute drive. Thank the heavens, at least now you knew he hadn’t gotten arrested. Yet.

Still… the message had you worried. It lacked his usual eloquence and wit, and didn’t say whether he was physically okay. Shots fired, the TV said. You pursed your lips and pulled back into traffic, mind whirling with uncountable ways V might be injured. By the time you parked a block away from the quaint, two-story house, you could barely breathe through the anxiety.

Grabbing your backpack, you didn’t even bother locking the car as you speed walked to the yellow front door. What would you find within? If they hurt the artist, would you be able to help? What if only his corpse awaited you?

You swallowed thickly and tried the doorknob. Unlocked; you took a deep breath and entered. Nothing immediately jumped out at you. Photos of a white-haired teenager lined a nearby wall, a hall table holding mail and a dish to leave one’s keys in beneath them. No blood stained the walls, no sounds of pain echoed from another room. It was quiet.

“V? Are you here?”

No answer. Not good. You set aside your backpack and tried again, making your way through the home. Each second he didn't respond only heightened your fear, stinging your tongue with metal. He had to be seriously hurt or incapacitated somehow, and neither option helped the situation.

“V? Come on, where are you?” Your voice shuddered.

“...curse my stars…”

You spun and raced toward the voice, tearing open a door you’d missed before to find the artist, curled up on a massive bed. Blood stained the sheets, concentrated near his thigh. Sweat coated his brow and his eyes stared at nothing, unseeing in the grip of his pain and madness.

“...love so high…”

“Don’t worry, V. I’ve got you,” you murmured as you cupped his clammy cheek. Dilated eyes, sweat and warm to the touch. Most likely an infection. You shoved aside your feelings; time to get to work. Right now, he needed your medical care more than anything else you offered.

Fabric rustled as you took a seat beside him and searched for the source of the blood. Through the fabric of his jeans it was impossible to tell, so you quickly tugged them off, taking care to reapply his improvised tourniquet once the cloth was out of the way. Heart pounding, you finally found a darker spot in the tensor fasciae, close to his hip. There was no exit wound.

Oh, V… you walked here with a bullet in your leg?

At least it wasn’t too deep. Odd, but you’d take what you could get. A thin trickle of crimson oozed from the wound, but he wasn’t in danger of bleeding out yet. Assuming he hadn’t bled too much during his escape…

“I need to find supplies to treat you. I’ll be right back,” you said, stroking damp hair from his brow. His skin was on fire. He didn’t respond.

You pursed your lips and left him, searching the bathrooms and kitchen until you had what you needed. A moment more spent thoroughly washing your hands, and you returned. The artist hadn’t moved an inch.

Is he having an episode, too? Maybe that’s for the best, it’s possible he won’t notice when I take out the bullet.

The best you had was a longer than average pair of metal tweezers. If they didn’t do the job, you’d have to widen the wound. Thankfully it wasn’t close to any major arteries, so you were confident you had the skills to remove it safely. A few inches to the left, and he would’ve already been dead for an hour.

“Okay, this might hurt,” you told him, pausing for a moment before dousing his thigh with a mixture of bottled water and table salt. After a moment you turned him so the excess fluid spilled out, leaving the wound clean and ready. You gave him one last look as your fingers wrapped around your tool. The head lamp you found in the kitchen flared to life with a touch and you straddled his injured leg, keeping it as still as possible.

“Now for the really fun part…”

The artist twitched feebly as you probed the hole. For once it seemed his episodes were a blessing; if he were even remotely coherent, he surely would have screamed.

Centimeter by centimeter, you searched for the signature resistance of metal surrounded by human tissue. More blood leaked from the wound, drenching your hands and slowing your progress. Muttered verses occasionally interrupted the squelch of your work, but you paid his words no mind. A distraction surgeon never helped.

At last you found it, an unrelenting hardness amongst the fibrous muscle. You tapped around the bullet, getting a feel for its dimensions before making your move. The tweezers barely opened wide enough to take hold, but they did the job and you felt the bullet disturb the surrounding tissue as you slowly drew it out with a satisfying plop.

You sighed and set aside your prize. Another round of improvised saline later, you carefully sutured the wound closed and bandaged the area. The artist still made no indication of awareness, just lying there as you put him back together.

The moment you set down the roll of bandages, you started trembling. V’s blood covered your hands, the sour stench of sweat and chemicals hanging in the air. As pointless as it was, you couldn’t help but wonder why life had to be this difficult. The last twenty-four hours alone had your nerves begging for a break. What a sick world, where you had to remove a bullet from the man you lo-

Holy shit.

Air slipped from your gaping mouth as you fell back against the wall. A manic chuckle followed, then another. Was this what love was like? You’d never come close to it before, to this burning like fire in your soul. The thought of losing V mere hours ago had you in tears, falling apart like an infant without its mother for the first time. When you were with him, despite his murderous and unpredictable nature, you felt safe.

And the things you’d done for him - withholding medical information, lying to your boss and risking your medical license, everything you’d spent years working towards; not to mention what you did to your father.

He’d forced you to face yourself, someone you didn’t even know anymore. Changed your understanding of the world and of art, torn asunder your preconceptions and lit the way to new views. The eloquence of his speech, the grace in his movement, the curve of that smirk and the way his presence changed the atmosphere of any room…

I don’t know if this is love, but I don’t have another word that fits. Not even close.

It was twisted; it was soaked in blood and violence, but you felt more authentic than you ever had. You smiled. Decades ago, you accepted that you might not be capable of love.

How wonderful to be wrong.

~~~~Next Chapter~~~~

#Be My Nightmare #my writing #v x reader #v x oc #dmcv #devil may cry 5 #fanfiction #fanfic #au #slow burn #angst #tw: gunshot wound

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orthodoxydaily · 4 years

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Saints&Reading: Fri., Oct. 8, 2020

Commemorated on September 26 and May 8_according to the Julian calendar

The Holy Apostle and Evangelist John-the-Theologian

The Holy Apostle and Evangelist John the Theologian was the son of Zebedee and Salomia – a daughter of Saint Joseph the Betrothed. Together at the same time with his elder brother James, he was called by our Lord Jesus Christ to be numbered amongst His Apostles, which took place at Lake Gennesareth (i.e. the Sea of Galilee). Leaving behind their father, both brothers followed the Lord. The Apostle John was especially beloved by the Saviour for his sacrificial love and his virginal purity. After his calling, the Apostle John did not part from the Lord, and he was one of the three apostles, who were particularly close to Him. Saint John the Theologian was present when the Lord resuscitated to life the daughter of Jairus, and he was a witness to the Transfiguration of the Lord on Mount Tabor. During the time of the Last Supper, he reclined next to the Lord, and at a gesture from the Apostle Peter, he pressed nigh to the bosom of the Saviour and asked the name of the betrayer. The Apostle John followed after the Lord, when they led Him bound from the Garden of Gethsemane to the court of the iniquitous high-priests Annas and Caiphas. He was there in the courtyard of the high-priest during the interrogations of his Divine Teacher and he resolutely followed after him on the way of the Cross, grieving with all his heart. At the foot of the Cross he went together with the Mother of God and heard addressed to Her from atop the Cross the words of the Crucified Lord: "Woman, behold Thy son" and to him "Behold thy Mother" (Jn. 19: 26-27). And from that moment the Apostle John, like a loving son, concerned himself over the MostHoly Virgin Mary, and he served Her until Her Dormition ("Falling-Asleep" or "Uspenie"), never leaving Jerusalem. After the Dormition of the Mother of God the Apostle John, in accord with the lot that had befallen him, set off to Ephesus and other cities of Asia Minor to preach the Gospel, taking with him his own disciple Prokhoros. They set off upon their on a ship, which floundered during the time of a terrible tempest. All the travellers were cast up upon dry ground, and only the Apostle John remained in the depths of the sea. Prokhoros wept bitterly, bereft of his spiritual father and guide, and he went on towards Ephesus alone. On the fourteenth day of his journey he stood at the shore of the sea and beheld, that the waves had cast ashore a man. Going up to him, he recognised the Apostle John, whom the Lord had preserved alive for fourteen days in the deeps of the sea. Teacher and student set off to Ephesus, where the Apostle John preached incessantly to the pagans about Christ. His preaching was accompanied by numerous and great miracles, such that the number of believers increased with each day. During this time there had begun a persecution against Christians under the emperor Nero (56-68). They took away the Apostle John for trial at Rome. The Apostle John was sentenced to death for his confession of faith in the Lord Jesus Christ, but the Lord preserved His chosen one. The apostle drank out of a cup prepared for him with deadly poison but he remained alive, and later he emerged unharmed from a cauldron of boiling oil, into which he had been thrown on orders from the torturer. After this, they sent the Apostle John off to imprisonment to the island of Patmos, where he spent many years. Proceeding along on his way to the place of exile, the Apostle John worked many miracles. On the island of Patmos, his preaching accompanied by miracles attracted to him all the inhabitants of the island, and he enlightened them with the light of the Gospel. He cast out many a devil from the pagan-idol temples, and he healed a great multitude of the sick. Sorcerer-magicians with diverse demonic powers showed great hostility to the preaching of the holy apostle. He gave especial fright to the chief sorcerer of them all, named Kinops, who boasted that they would destroy the apostle. But the great John – the Son of Thunder, as the Lord Himself had named him, and by the grace of God acting through him – destroyed all the demonic artifices to which Kinops resorted, and the haughty sorcerer perished exhausted in the depths of the sea. The Apostle John withdrew with his disciple Prokhoros to a desolate height, where he imposed upon himself a three-day fast. During the time of the Apostle John's prayer the earth quaked and thunder boomed. Prokhoros in fright fell to the ground. The Apostle John lifted him up and bid him to write down, that which he was to speak. "I am the Alpha and the Omega, the beginning and the end, saith the Lord, Which is and Which was and Which is to come, the Almighty" (Rev. 1: 8), – proclaimed the Spirit of God through the Apostle John. Thus in about the year 67 was written the Book of Revelation ("Otkrovenie", known also as the "Apocalypse") of the holy Apostle John the Theologian. In this Book was a revealing of the tribulations of the Church and of the end of the world. After his prolonged exile, the Apostle John received his freedom and returned to Ephesus, where he continued with his activity, instructing Christians to guard against false-teachers and their false-teachings. In about the year 95, the Apostle John wrote his Gospel at Ephesus. He called for all Christians to love the Lord and one another, and by this to fulfill the commands of Christ. The Church entitles Saint John the "Apostle of Love", since he constantly taught, that without love man cannot come nigh to God. In his three Epistles, written by the Apostle John, he speaks about the significance of love for God and for neighbour. Already in his old age, and having learned of a youth who had strayed from the true path to begin following the leader of a band of robbers, the Apostle John went out into the wilderness to seek him. Catching sight of the holy elder, the culprit tried to hide himself, but the Apostle John ran after him and besought him to stop, and promising to take the sins of the youth upon himself, if only he should but repent and not bring ruination upon his soul. Shaken by the intense love of the holy elder, the youth actually did repent and turn his life around. The holy Apostle John died at more than an hundred years old. he far out-lived the other remaining eye-witnesses of the Lord, and for a long time he remained the sole remaining eye-witness of the earthly paths of the Saviour. When it became time for the departure of the Apostle John, he withdrew out beyond the city-limits of Ephesus, being together with the families of his disciples. He bid them prepare for him a cross-shaped grave, in which he lay, telling his disciples that they should cover him over with the soil. The students with tears kissed their beloved teacher, but not wanting to be disobedient, they fulfilled his bidding. They covered the face of the saint with a cloth and filled in the grave. Learning of this, other students of the Apostle John came to the place of his burial, but opening the grave they found it empty. Each year from the grave of the holy Apostle John on 8 May there came forth a fine ash-dust, which believers gathered up and were healed of sicknesses by it. Therefore the Church celebrates the memory of the holy Apostle John the Theologian still even also on 8 May. The Lord bestowed on His beloved disciple John and John's brother James the name "Sons of Thunder" – as an awesome messenger in its cleansing power of the heavenly fire. And precisely by this the Saviour pointed out the flaming, fiery, sacrificial character of Christian love, – the preacher of which was the Apostle John the Theologian. The eagle – symbol of the lofty soaring of his theological thought – is the iconographic symbol of the Evangelist John the Theologian. The appellation "Theologian" is bestown by Holy Church only to Saint John among the immediate Disciples and Apostles of Christ, as being the seer of the mysteried Judgements of God.

1 John 4:12-19

12No one has seen God at any time. If we love one another, God abides in us, and His love has been perfected in us. 13 By this we know that we abide in Him, and He in us, because He has given us of His Spirit.14 And we have seen and testify that the Father has sent the Son as Savior of the world. 15 Whoever confesses that Jesus is the Son of God, God abides in him, and he in God. 16 And we have known and believed the love that God has for us. God is love, and he who abides in love abides in God, and God in him.17 Love has been perfected among us in this: that we may have boldness in the day of judgment; because as He is, so are we in this world.18 There is no fear in love; but perfect love casts out fear, because fear involves torment. But he who fears has not been made perfect in love.19 We love Him because He first loved us.

John 19:25-27; 21:24-25

25 Now there stood by the cross of Jesus His mother, and His mother's sister, Mary the wife of Clopas, and Mary Magdalene. 26 When Jesus therefore saw His mother, and the disciple whom He loved standing by, He said to His mother, "Woman, behold your son!" 27 Then He said to the disciple, "Behold your mother!" And from that hour that disciple took her to his own home. 24 This is the disciple who testifies of these things, and wrote these things; and we know that his testimony is true. 25 And there are also many other things that Jesus did, which if they were written one by one, I suppose that even the world itself could not contain the books that would be written. Amen.

#orthodoxy #orthodoxchristian #ancientfaith #spirituality #holyscriptures #gospel #sacredtexts #wisdom

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neros-quake · 6 years

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New Subject Revealed!

February 14th, Neros will shed some light on the shady Mysterious Mr. Enter!

-Who gets named after a key anyway?

#neros q #neros quake #nerosq #Nerosquake #Mister Enter #Mysterious Mr Enter #Mr Enter #Enter #Dark Critic

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the-writing-dump-bin · 5 years

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A Dangerous Game

Risotto Nero x FemReader

NSFW 18+ ONLY

[[MORE]]

*contains: oral sex, bondage, vaginal sex*

"Watch out! On your right!"

You heard Abbachio shout; dodging at the very last second as you avoided being hooked by Pesci's Stand, Beach Boy.

You, Abbachio and your capo, Bucciarati, were in a full fight with the assassination team belonging to Risotto Nero. They heard the three of you were on the scent of something valuable and wanted a piece as well. That's how you got into this mess.

Bucciarati stepped in closer to you, subtly placing his hand on your arm. His look was filled with worry, like he didn't want you any more hurt than the cuts and scrapes you already had. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine." You nodded, wiping a bit of blood from your cheek.

"Okay. Do you think you could get close enough to use your Stand?"

Observing the distance, you think if you could get to even one of the enemy, you could trap them in your Stand.

Your Stand, named Nine Inch Nails, was a short range Stand that released eight coffin nails around the enemy. Once they were in place, they formed into a coffin and could suffocate them to a slow, agonizing death right before your eyes.

"I think I can get close enough to Pesci. You two take Melone and Prosciutto."

Abbachio looked to Bucciarati for confirmation. When he got a nod from his capo, he dashed to the left and got Melone to follow him.

The dark, clouded sky overhead finally released the rain it had been holding back all day, soaking everyone and everything around you. Lightning flashed and the thunder rolled.

Bucciarati gave you a look with his soft, caring eyes. He grabbed your hand and gave it a small squeeze. "Be careful, my dear."

You looked your joined hands. Lately, Bucciarati had been by your side more often; giving you smiles, and eating next to you at the table whenever you and the gang were at their resturaunt. He had even asked you to go on a couple walks together. You had politely declined the first few times, but finally caved and went one night. It was a pleasent walk and you had a wonderful time, but you just didnt feel that kind of connection with him. Giving him a kind smile, you told him he had nothing to worry about and ran to try and take out your target.

Pesci was afraid of you; he had every right to, your Stand was terrifying. You had chased him down the street and into an alleyway. The rain poured on you as you narrowed your eyes and got closer to the frightened man. "P-Please! Don't kill me!"

Your head cocked to the side. Was he serious? "How can you be this scared, aren't you a hit man?" You took another step forward, Stand appearing over your body; all you needed was another couple feet.

The nails spread out around Pesci's head and feet, all eight at their respective places, ready to be activated. Holding out your arm, you smirked and started to slowly suffocate him. Pesci flailed inside the invisible box as he gasped for air. But something was off...

Keeping your hold with your Stand, you shifted your eyes and looked around. It was hard to hear anything while the rain pounded on the dumpsters around you. It shouldn't have gone this far... You thought.

Pesci was almost out of breath; his legs giving way as he started to black out from the lack of oxygen. "Tch." You gritted your teeth. That's when you were hit on the side of your head and fell to the ground; releasing your hold on your enemy.

Gasping, Pesci sat on the ground and looked at your unconscious body, behind you was Formaggio. He had snuck up behind you and attacked. "Thanks."

Formaggio grunted. "The others are in a heated battle with Bucciarati and Abbachio, they won't last long. We should retreat for now."

"What about her?"

Formaggio looked down and contemplated on what to do with you. He could leave you here while they escaped or... "We'll take her as hostage. If Bucciarati and his gang want her back, they'll give us the information we need." He used his Stand to shrink your body enough to fit in a bottle he found in the alley and put you in it. "Lets get the others."

Bucciarati huffed, out of breath from the fight. It was like everyone was besting the other. Soon, one would be the victor.

"What do we do, Bucciarati?" Abbachio crouched next to his leader. "This fight is getting nowhere."

That was a good question. He didn't want to leave the fight, it would feel like they won. His eyes roamed around his surroundings. "Abbachio, where is Y/N?"

"I haven't seen her since we split up. I'm sure she-"

"Hey, Bucciarati!"

Bucciarati and Abbachio stiffened at the sound of a new voice. Peeking around the corner, they saw Formaggio with Pesci, Melone, and Prosciutto standing behind him, a bottle in his hand. "If you want her back, give us the information we want! You have until sundown tomorrow!"

Just before they fled, Bucciarati saw your tiny, unconscious body inside the bottle. "Y/N!" He shouted, springing forward after you but was grabbed at the last second by Abbachio.

"Bucciarati! Calm down and think! If you go charging in, your emotions will get the best of you and you'll die."

Abbachio was right, but his heart ached that he had to let you go. He had to think how to get you back.

Lightning flashed as you opened your eyes, the thunder rolling just behind it. Your surroundings were blurry as your eyes adjusted to the room.

"She's awake." You heard a voice say. Suddenly you were on your feet and pushed through a hallway, hands bound together behind your back. I must be my normal size again. You thought. Looking to your left, you saw Prosciutto walking next to you. Behind you, you could tell it was Melone because the way he was guiding you, he kept brushing your backside with his hand.

Reaching the end of the hallway, they opened a door and entered a very dim lit room. Risotto Nero sat lazily in a very expensive, yet a little tacky, chair; his chin resting on his hand as he propped up his elbow. "What is this?" He growled.

Prosciutto shoved you down to bow before their leader. "Leverage. If her friends want her back, they'll have to give us the information we need."

Risotto looked like he almost didn't care. His eyes fell to you, locking with your intense stare.

"Where do you suggest we keep her?" Prosciutto asked.

"I could watch over her." Melone got a little too close to you, threading his hand through your hair. You reared your head back and head butted him in the groin. "Bitch!" He keeled over. He was about to smack you when Risotto stood and stopped him.

"Enough of this." He looked back down at you, his red eyes burning. You looked worn out, but still hard enough to throw daggers at him with your scowl. His lips twitched upward in a split second smirk. "Put her in room two, and keep her tied up. Then you can all go home. You've done your job for the day."

---

The room was dark and cold. A single small, low lit lamp sat atop a wooden, 3-drawer dresser next to a single bed in the corner. There were no windows, being located in the basement, but you could still hear the rumbles of the thunderstorm that raged outside.

You stood in the middle of the room, hands tied at the wrist above you around the low hanging pipe on the ceiling, when the door opened in front of you. No one was there. Like it had opened itself. Then it closed. Sensing you weren't alone, you guessed that he was here. "Nero..." You said to the room in a low voice; no one answered.

After a couple minutes of silence, you felt like someone was behind you; a tall, scary figure looming over your small frame. The feeling of large hands running up and down your sides sent chills throughout your body. Tilting your head back, you rested it on the invisible figure behind you. "Nero..." You moaned, moving into his touch. "I've missed you so much."

Risotto made himself seen; his hands trying to touch every inch of you to show you he missed you as well. "Im sorry you had to be roughed up like this, but I do have to admit," he nipped at your neck with his teeth. "It is quite the turn on." The flame in your core ignited. It had been months since you two were together.

Having come up with the idea a couple days ago, you both set up a fake plan for you to be kidnapped and brought to him. Being a member of Bucciarati's gang, and falling for the enemy's leader, was something you didn't really plan on doing. No one knew about the two of you, and you both wanted to keep it that way.

Risotto captured your lips with his as he remained standing behind you, his thumb sliding across the waist band of your shorts. "Did you wear it?" He whispered softly.

"I did."

He pulled open your button down top, revealing the black and red laced lingerie he had sent you; it fit your chest so well. Taking off your shorts reveiled the matching panties, giving him an aroused growl. "You're so beautiful." He commented, sliding his hand into your panties, using his long fingers to gently tease your folds.

"Mmmm." You moaned, moving your hips to get him to touch you deeper. You would have grabbed his hand to guide him better, but your wrists were still bound above you. "Untie me, Ris... I want to touch you."

"But where is the fun in that?" His finger was so close to your clit, tapping lightly above. "I think you look absolutely sexy tied up before me."

Whimpering, your legs quaked with anticipation. But this was the kind of man Risotto Nero was; he would take his time. You gave a squeak when you finally felt him rub circles around you. Your hips rolled back and forth over his fingers, coating them with your juices.

"God, you're so wet." He grunted. His erection could be felt behind you, digging into your back. But there was no way he was going to give that to you just yet. He pulled his hand away and came around to your front, taking in the sight of your quivering body. Kneeling down, he pulled down your panties and spread you legs wider. With hungry eyes, he looked up at you as he started lapping you up between your legs.

The sensation was just what you needed. Not being able to see each other left a hole that you alone in your room couldn't fill. It had to be Risotto. His hands cupped your ass as he moved his tongue around your sex with such masterful skill, dipping it into and swirling around to make you feel so good.

"Nnngghh...!" You moaned, your body became aware of the bubble that formed in your gut, threatening to bust. You wanted to run your hands through his white hair while he ate you out, but still being tied was preventing that from happening. With a frustrated groan, you grasped onto the pipe that you were tied to and pulled yourself up, wrapping your legs around Risotto's head.

A muffled moan could be heard as Risotto held you up, his actions becoming faster and more pleasurable while you grinded your pussy against his mouth. "I-I, nnngh! Oh, Risot...to...!" Your orgasm overtook you as you froze against his face; his tongue still working its magic as your walls twitched around it.

Once you were done, Risotto flung your legs off him and stood up. He became primal as he shucked his clothes off with haste. He grabbed a knife that had been in his pocket and sliced at the ropes bounding you, his free hand squeezing roughly at one of you breasts. You knew what was coming next and you were so anxious for it.

Before the ropes finally came undone, you wrapped your legs around his waste and rubbed your sensitive pussy up and down his great length. Once your hands were free, you went straight for his hair; getting tangled in it as you kissed him feverishly.

Slamming you to the bed, Risotto straddled your hips, palming his cock and using it to slap your clit with his tip. "You dirty fucking slut." He growled with a grin, watching you squirm underneath him. "I hope your ready for me, amore... Because I'm about to destroy that pretty little cunt of yours."

Balling your fists into the scratchy sheets, you screamed with want. You needed him inside you. To feel his long member slide in and out of you, feeling the painful pleasure he would deliver. "Please, Ris! Fuck me!"

The feeling was unlike no other. He didn't even give you time to adjust to his length before he started moving his hips with such force. He was right, he was going to destroy you.

Grunts, panting, moans and the sounds of sweat drenched skin slapping together could be heard through the tiny room. With how loud you two were being, you could see why Risotto dismissed everyone and sent them home.

Another bubble formed, your orgasm threatening to break through again. "Cum inside me, Risotto." You huffed. "I want to be filled by you so much that my body can't contain it!"

That got Risotto to go faster- if that was even possible- and pulled your hips to an angle to get in deeper. There it was. He seized his movements and pressed against you, shooting his hot cum into your pussy.

Your second orgasm didnt take long to explode. Reaching up, you splayed a hand over his stomach as he pumped his seed into your body; your jaw hanging down as squeaks of pleasure escaped your mouth. Pulling out of you, he did exactly what you told him to do; his seed dripped out of you slowly. You collapsed to the springy mattress.

Laying down, Risotto grabbed you and pulled you on top of him, patting your sweat soaked hair. "Are you alright, il mio amore?"

You couldn't speak, so you nodded against his hard chest, your hand laying on his pectoral. It was amazing when the two of you were together. But what about after this? The two of you belonged to rival gangs, how could you have fallen for each other like this? Anyone finding out could mean the end for either of you.

"We're playing a dangerous game, Risotto." You finally said, a tear escaping from your eye. "We can't keep making up fake missions in order to see each other. Someone is going to get hurt."

Risotto knew you were right. You were too kind hearted to see any members of your gang get hurt or killed for the sake of your relationship. He didnt want to lose his members either, though for different reasons.

Pulling you up so that your face was level with his, he kissed you with such passion that you wouldn't expect to come from someone so evil looking. "We'll find a way. We'll find a way..."

#jojo #jojo no kimyou na bouken #jojo no kimyō na bōken #jojos bizarre adventure #my writing #my fic #fan fic #writing #risotto nero #n*sf*w

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etlunainmorte · 5 years

Text

💙 Chat Buddies ( ?! ) 💙

***

Intermission

***

Greetings, guys and gals!

Since Vergil Sparda and SSSexy(Y/N) are still spending time together, let's have a little commercial first!

I now present to you the most intriguing ( or not ) information about 💙 Chat Buddies ( ?! ) 💙

Q1: What is the messaging app the characters use?

~ Eh, it's just an old messaging app that every person with a cellphone ( meaning everyone, including your grandparents ) has. It lets you have group chats ( SSS rating to those who could answer the number of GCs in our story as of the moment! Additonal 1000 Red Orbs to those who could name them all! ), chat privately ( well, duh ), send photos, gifs, videos ( 2 minutes, tops ), voice messages, it even lets you and your friends have video calls! One drawback it has, though: the app automatically updates and forces you to use up all your consumable data mbs! Not perfect to those who only have free data instead of a real wifi or a decent data connection, omg ( that's you, Dante! )!

Q2: Who started all these messaging app shenanigans?

~ Ever since getting wind of this "wondrous" app from Patty, Dante decided to have this as a requirement for everyone who works ( or is related to ) at Devil May Cry! But, he could barely maintain his GCs due to the fact that his wifi connection is always getting cut off due to overdue bills. So, Nero or Nico takes over most of the time.

Q3: Character Profile ( s )?

1. (Y/N) (L/N)

User Name: SSSexy(Y/N)

Meaning Behind The User Name: (Y/N) thinks it's just cool and she feels confident whenever she sees it on her messaging app.

~ This chick joined Devil May Cry about a year after the Qliphoth incident.

Cellphone Model: Somesang J8, android, (F/C), 6 inches infinite display, with 64 internal gb ( her sd card's at 64 gb as well ), prepaid.

2. Vergil Sparda

User Name: Vergil Sparda ( yes, that's it )

Meaning Behind The User Name: "Do I have to provide a foolish name for myself?"

~ Vergil bought his very first phone a year after the Qliphoth incident, 2 days before SSSexy(Y/N) joined Devil May Cry. Oh, and should you decide to drop him a message or two, well, just don't. He will not reply, unless it's Devil May Cry business. And phone flirting? He will not appreciate that, no.

Cellphone Model: Pear Phone 11, ios, metallic blue, 5.80 inches, with 64 internal gb, prepaid

Ringtone: You know the sound of the bamboo fountain in a Japanese garden? That's it.

Message Notification Tone: Temple chime.

Wallpaper: William Blake's illustrated poem ( Infant Joy )

3. Dante Sparda

User Name: TheLegendarySavageDante

Meaning Begind The User Name: He wants to make a user name so badass that all his enemies would quake at the mere sound of it! He comes up with the name 3 days later after buying his very first cellphone, and actually, it only sounds something a teenage boy could come up with.

~ Dante, despite his wifi connection always being cut off, is, in fact, a social ( media ) butterfly! He may not always be online but, when he does, damn! Prepare for sleepless nights with this dude should you decide to have a chat with him.

Cellphone Model: Bokia 1 ( yep, Bokia's 1st ever smartphone ). Ever heard of the grand daddy of smart phones? An indestructible android ( one that you can smash on a Riot's face over and over again and it would not even get a single scratch ), hot rod red, 5 inches with 8 gb internal memory ( his sd card's at 4gb ), has "very useful" apps like flashlight, radio, snakes, bounce, bluetooth, and opera mini. Postpaid.

Ringtone: Subhuman ( like, seriously, there's nothing a Bokia 1 can't play )

Message Notification Tone: The good old Bokia 8 bit theme

Wallpaper: His lock screen may be a photo of a mouthwatering slice of pizza but, his home screen is a photo of his favorite Playboy Bunny!

4. Nero Sparda

User Name: BangBangBang007

Meaning Behind The User Name: He just loves James Bond.

~ Secretly wants to buy himself a phone. He got it a year before the twins got theirs. The only people on his contacts, then, were Kyrie and Nico. And he loves mobile games, omg!

Cellphone Model: Hiswei Nova 5T, android, 5 inches with 128 gb internal memory ( sd card at 64 gb ), midnight blue, has ten or so mobile games ( he plays PUBG version 8, Ragnarok Unlimited, NBA 3k, etc ), prepaid

Ringtone: James Bond Theme ( You can hear it, I know )

Message Notification Tone: The "Peeing" Ringtone ( it seriously unnerves Kyrie, the poor girl )

Wallpaper: A selfie of him and Kyrie ( Nico photobombed, lol )

~ TO BE CONTINUED ~

***

💙💙💙

***

#devil may cry 5 #vergil sparda #chat buddies ( ?! )#vergil x reader #vergil x you #chat fic #intermission

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zer0pm · 5 years

Text

No Name (9/?)

A/N: Took a break to recover from the con. It’s been a pretty stressful weekend and week what with me almost losing my cosplay stuff at the hotel. All is good though and I’m back to do more writing for this story as well as imagines for y’all. I really appreciated your patience and support, special shout out to the people that follow my work and messaged me personally with such amazing positivity. Y’all really make my days <3

The demon lord actually moved upon his throne, sitting upright at the sight of your weapon.

Nephilim. That was what he called you and within those deep, menacing eyes was a look that you can only discern as malice.

Demon Lord: “I had thought your kind slaughtered to extinction.”

You: “You and me both. Why don’t you get off that seat so we can mull over it together?”

Dante: “Ooh. I like the sound of that. Come on, big guy. We got some choice words for you.”

The red coat hunter claps his hands, goading the demon to rise from his seat and as expected, he did not. Still, the demon lord appeared unamused by yours and Dante’s taunts.

Demon Lord: “Insolence. Nephilim or not, you’re still powerless against me. Human blood flows through your veins. As long as this truth stands, you will be nothing but food for the Qliphoth.”

You: “Yeah, we’re going to have to do a rain check on that. Being a meal is not on my schedule this week.”

Demon Lord: “Return to ash, like your kin before you.”

He raises his hand and above him, two tremendous spheres of flames ignite out of thin air. The heat felt incredibly unbearable from even where you stood and braced yourself. With a flick of his wrist, the demon lord sends the flames towards you and Dante. The both of you leaped out of the way in time, but the impact left an immense tremor that made the entire Qliphoth shake.

You turn your head at the sound of gunfire and sure enough the legendary devil hunter was hard at work, whipping out both Ebony and Ivory pistols to rain their target with a barrage of bullets, closing the distance between them step-by-step. The demon did not even try to block his offensive as a strange crystalline object immediately appears, absorbing the ammo without show much as suffering a scratch. Despite his guns having no clear effect, Dante continues to fire without any sign of lifting his fingers from the trigger.

Dante: “Neff!”

He calls out to you without glancing your way and you took this as your cue. While he appeared to draw the demon’s attention, you dashed into actions. Your staff resonated with divine power, glowing brighter the closer you were to the target. It appears that the demon lord was expecting this as a single glance in your direction summoned above a rain of blue shards above. The shards cast a light below indicating where they would land which allowed to be mindful of how you moved. With swiftness, you managed to dodge the attack, your feet reaching the pool that surrounded the foot of the demon’s throne. With a wave of his hand, two roots whipped forth from the demon’s back, diving to pierce right through you. You were forced to switch to a defensive stance, bringing your staff in front of you to block them. The runes of your weapon glow, creating a white barrier around you. The roots singed upon impact, doing damage but you were not sure if it affected the demon lord. Regardless, the attack knocked you back and further away from the throne. Dante ceased his firing to leap to your side. He withdraws his guns to whip out his Rebellion.

Dante: “Looks like this one won’t be as clean cut to take down as the rest.”

You: “Tsk.”

You lift your silver staff, eyeing between it and the demon lord. The long roots were now swaying back and forth, waiting to attack once again. You can see their tips have burned black but nothing else. The demon lord inspects the damage from his seat with full interest.

Demon Lord: “That weapon of yours...is incomplete. Weak, despite the divine power it holds. It does not recognize you as its master.”

This ticks you off. You heard something like this before. And the insatiable need to prove those words wrong resulted in your failure and you forced yourself to retire from fighting. Not this time.

You: “Dante.”

The man turns his head to you, catching the indisputable fury burning in your eyes. He nods.

Dante: “Right.”

He readies his sword on his hands, leaning his body to a stance which you follow with a twirl of your staff.

Dante: “We got this.”

By now, V knew that Nero has reached Urizen. In his mind, he had hoped that the boy was too late. That the demon lord was already defeated by yours and Dante’s hands. He thinks this in hopes that you were still alive and safe. V wanted to take you with him when he withdrew to fetch the young devil hunter, but knew that such a thing would not go unnoticed by the others, especially Dante whom he easily deduced was rather fixated with you and in turn did not take to him kindly. You insisted that it was due to your shared comraderie in the past but V knew better. Dante is a man, afterall, and you...well, you are quite something. And that’s why V was so eager to return to the Qliphoth, approaching the doors to the demon lord’s throne room.

He can hear the rev of Nero’s weapon along with his frustrated grunts, suggesting that the young hunter was having a difficult time. He heard nothing else besides this and it gripped terribly at V’s heart. Did you and Dante fall?

Without a second thought, V bursted through the doors in time to see Nero collapsing before him. The sight he beheld brought about a great fear within the tattooed man. Each and every single person he hired to fight the demon lord now laid on the ground. Dante, Trish, Lady, Nero...and you. You were lying facefirst on the ground as well, right beside Dante. A small silver cylinder right above your head.

Griffon: “This isn’t good!”

The demon lord was still seated on his throne, it was hard to decipher his expressions, but V can feel that he was bored. Unfazed by the futile attempts to fell him, power radiating from his form. It shook V to the core at how powerless he felt at that moment, so lost in his dazed despair that he did not register the roots snaking forth from the demon’s back and with a flick of his colossal wrist, they fly towards you and Nero. V can hear Griffon screeching your name, but the man was frozen in place, can only watch in terror as the roots’ sharp ends hurl to run you through and end your life in a blink, but suddenly they halted and retreated back to their master. V shook his head, pulling himself from his reverie to register what happened. His green eyes spy Dante who was back up on his feet, his body hunched slightly likely due from injuries but his serious expression was telling.

Dante: “Round two.”

The red-coated hunter spreads his arms wide and he is suddenly wreathed in flame-like energy surging from within his being. His appearance changes drastically to where he now had little to no trait that would discern him as human. His demonic form. V watched in awe at the power that resonated within Dante, but he had to think to himself: will it be enough? As if hearing that question aloud, Dante stretches out his devil wings and dashed forward, flying towards the demon lord with his rebellion in hand. His mighty swing comes into contact with the crystal that has been protecting the demon from the beginning, the clash of metal and shard sparking rings that echoed throughout the Qliphoth. The demon lord watches the exchange, but made no move to simply fight back. This was not a good sign and Dante knew that.

The surge of Dante’s power roused you back to consciousness and you groggily brought yourself up to your knees and palm of your hands. You look up and was shocked at Dante’s appearance. Very rarely did you see Dante in his devil form and knew that things have gotten quite serious for him to use it.

You: “Dante!”

The half-demon looks at you over his shoulder.

Dante: “Neff, you gotta go!”

You: “What? Are you insane!?”

Dante: “You can’t beat him. He’ll kill you if you stay.”

You scramble to your feet, cylinder in hand and shook away the dizziness that swirled in your head painfully. Your breathing was ragged and your body worn, but you were not going to let that affect you.

You: “I’m not leaving you here!”

Dante: “Damn it, woman.”

The devil hunter’s eyes move past you to spot a certain tattooed man. V, he looked like he was frozen in place, overwhelmed by the sight of each of his companions falling at the hands of the demon lord’s monstrous might. He couldn’t have asked for a worse person to call for help, but Dante was desperate as he sees you and Nero who have stood back up and looked ready to jump in to fight once again.

Dante: “V, get them out of here. This is a bad move!”

Nero: “I can still fight!”

Dante: “Nero, go! You’re just deadweight!”

V’s green eyes landed on you immediately, you who went back on your feet ready to engage the demon once more and it seemed to have snapped something within him. Dante was right. V couldn’t let you die here. The man summons both Griffon and Shadow to pull Nero back, while he himself held you against him, his cane pressed across your chest to prevent you from dashing forward to certain death, dragging you backwards along with him.

You: “Let me go!”

V: “Come on. We can’t stay here, he’s far stronger than we ever could have imagined.”

You: “Dante!”

Everything felt like it was falling apart. Literally. Without warning, the Qliphoth was shaking violently, the merciless quakes caused the structures above to break and rocks of great sizes fell around you all. V was careful to guide you both out of the throne room despite your struggling, doing to his damned to to ensure neither of your were caved in. You didn’t think of that though and had your eyes on the man you were once very close to.

The legendary devil hunter, who with all of his empowered strength used to break through the demon lord’s defenses, spared one last glance at you. His glowing eyes held the stare of a man who was losing, yet amidst that fear was a determination. You know because you had the same exact expression on that day. So you were loathe to what he was going to say next as he called out your name.

Dante: “I’m sorry...”

Rubble fell from above, knocking you and V back, further away from Dante. Your head came into contact with one of the rocks hard. The last thing you saw was Dante’s form disappearing before your eyes as the rocks blocked your vision and a single tear falling down your cheek before your world turned black.

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