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pearlywritings · 7 months

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Sometimes the name doesn't matter

synopsis: sometimes it matters that you are his wife. PART 2

pairings: Capitano, Kaveh, Tighnari, Zhongli x fem!reader (separately)

tw: fluff, established relationship, hurt/comfort; hybrids, unwelcomed courting, kind of female objectification (all in Tighnari's part)

word count: 6.9k+ words

a/n: part 1 can be read here!

Capitano

Fast elegant fingers of a pianist run across the keys of black and white and the violins in the hands of other musicians are there to serve together with the chorus of beautiful voices, selected by Lady Columbina personally. The music infiltrates the souls of the nobles present, filling them with the sense of grandeur and glory, touching even their harsh unfeeling hearts.

The atmosphere of the gathering is gratifying, would’ve even been endearing if not for the stately figures of the Harbingers standing on both sides of the throne, where the Tsaritsa would've been seated had she not decided to refrain from attending it altogether. She has more important matters to take care of, and nine of her most loyal servants can definitely fill in her place on that yearly event.

Sure, this year it is more important since the two Harbingers are missing and the seats stay vacant - it's been the talk of the nation. Who is going to be nominated? Can it be influenced? Will they claim the names today?

Is the mysterious Commander, whose arrival became the topic of multiple speculations, be the one? A fierce warrior many heard of, but almost none saw face to face. The man was believed to be as powerful as the 11th Harbinger or maybe even the 10th! Having an army and an establishment of his own on the farthest line of the Snezhnayan border, he still is under the command of Lord Capitano, which makes it even harder to fish any more information than what is already known to the public.

"I only heard about him. He and his troops are protecting our borders from the monster's invasion in the North."

"Ew, who would've wanted to live in the North! It's much harsher than all the Snezhnaya."

"Shush, the Commander is wealthy and respectful, you can bear some cold."

"What do you imply?"

"The Commander is unmarried, there is no way he isn't, not with a life like this. But it can always be changed, and the woman he takes as wife would be one of the luckiest ones!"

"You are right… Maybe he is actually handsome. Maybe he'd be even willing to buy a whole mansion for his promised one and not take her with him to that awful place. Maybe…"

Maybe, maybe, maybe. It travels through the crowds like a storm in its wake, eventually reaching the Harbingers, who, for the first time after appearing and greeting the already arrived, stop resembling the statues. Eyes shift among the people and each other; some gazes hold interest, some - annoyance. Only Pantalone has an ever present smile on his face, fingers clasped in front of him and sapphire rings sparkle in the ballroom light.

"Looks like Capitano's estimated soldier caught everyone's attention. My, my, how curious and nosy the people can be…"

"I understand the curiosity though," admits Childe, arms crossed to prevent laying even a finger on his blade, that is resting on his hip. "This person sounds like an interesting specimen… I've heard of his talents in both strategy and tactics, and it seems like his strength is a legend. I'd love to spar with him."

"Oh you, thinking only about fights, young man," Pulcinella disapprovingly shakes his head and raises his cane to point in the gingerhead's direction. "I highly doubt our guest will have time to spare, considering the period of time concerning the stay that was mentioned in the letter we received."

"And I believe the majority of that time would be spent with Il Capitano, isn't it right?" Columbina's soft voice must be drowning in the music, but everyone hears her loud and clear.

"..." The Harbinger stays silent and nothing can be read from his body language since he is the only one remaining still in his place, his huge looming figure resembling one of the full-set armor nobles like putting in their halls as a part of interior. Except this one isn't empty.

"So much potential to become my test subject, to be perfected... Yet lost to the lands of Northern regions," Dottore huffs in disappointment, his sharp teeth peaking when he clicks his tongue. "Say, Pierro, can't things be rearranged? I'd happily have our dear border protector as my underling."

The silence between the nine suddenly becomes thick. There is something indescribably tense in the air and only Childe can't understand why some of his colleagues seem to be more interested in how the Captain would react and not the 1st of the Harbingers..

"You know why this can't be rearranged, Dottore," the stare of an icy blue eye would pin everyone to the ground, destroying their will and order to obey, though doing little to scare the Doctor. "And it was favored by the Tsaritsa herself."

The finality of the short statement makes the scientist back down from the proposition he's been bringing up every time the topic touches the Commander, yet ending up the same way as always - with an ultimate rejection.

Three heavy thuds make everyone in the room fall silent. Many heads turn to look at the ceremonial staff hitting the floor the last time and staying still in the hand of a tall, thoroughly dressed man.

"The protector of the Northern border, the glorified and esteemed warrior of Her Majesty Tsaritsa, The Commander has arrived," the master's of ceremonies voice carries like a thunderclap, cutting off the quite leisurely music the orchestra was playing for the dances and entertainment.

The rustle of note sheets is fleeting and not a moment later the musicians straighten in their seats, taking a deep breath. Trumpets boom in a spacious room and make nobles shiver in surprise, some especially susceptible women even lean on their partners for support. The choir and the violins join the triumphant song the brass instruments sing, signaling that the time has come.

Everyone holds their breath as the tall heavy doors leading to the ballroom are being pulled open. Everyone has their gaze glued to a slowly growing gap. Everyone keeps their eyes wide open, afraid that even one blink can cost them missing the legendary sight.

Everyone gasps.

The tall figure enters, posture straight and shoulders squared, confidence evident in every step. Black satin clothes are adorned with golden chains and intricate patterns. The white military coat stayed resting on the shoulders - showing off the position, the closeness to the Harbingers. And then there is the face - a scar crossing the left brow, calm bored eyes, not sparing anyone a glance, which do not fit the other female features of your face.

Yes, the Commander happens to be a woman.

Stopping by the steps leading to the throne, you bow - not kneel, bow, - holding your open palm by the heart and respectfully closing your eyes. Music stops.

“Greetings, my lords. Let Tsaritsa bless you and your mission.”

“Let Tsaritsa bless you and your service to her,” Pierro says, raising his hand. “Lift your head,” which you do, looking him right in the eyes, yet still holding your hand by the chest. “There is time for duties and there is time for entertainment. And tonight, given your rare visits to the capital, I suggest you enjoy the latter.”

“Much obliged, Lord Pierro.”

And with a wave of the older man’s hand, the orchestra starts a new composition, waking up the ones who were in a daze, reminding others they are here for drama.

And the first one to take action is the 11th Harbinger.

“Commander, Sir- I mean, Lady?” The gingerhead is the closest to you out of all his colleagues, having only to descend a few steps to be on your level. “I’ve heard a lot about you, many admirable things. How do you look at sparring?”

“Right in the middle of a ballroom? Quite positively, young man,” your lips twist in a half-smirk, baring a sharp pearly canine. “But I believe the nobles have already had enough shock to take and rumors to create. Maybe another time. Haven’t seen you before though. Are you new?”

“Tartaglia, the Eleventh Harbinger, Lady Commander.”

“Ma’am would be enough,” you click your tongue, glancing behind and noticing how slowly, but surely some of the aristocrats are inching towards you, clearly interested in conversation, Well, you are not. “On second thought, starting a duel right now and here doesn’t sound like a bad idea…”

“I’ve always known you are quite insane,” Arlechino butts her way in the conversation, giving you only a small nod as a greeting. You simply glance at her.

“For years I’ve been hearing of my insanity, think of something new,”

“How about, ‘the one who knows no limits’?” Pantalone’s smile is as dazzling as it’s fake and sometimes your hands are itching to strangle the man. Maybe even go all the way out and bite his head off. Literally.

“The only ones who know no limits are the wind and the stupidity. I’m neither. Who I am though,” your gaze travels higher, to the steps closest to the Tsaritsa’s throne, to there Pierro and the first three Harbingers are standing, “is a wife. And I’d like to have a dance with my husband.”

Not many heard your words, but the ones who did, gasp loudly, staring at you with wide eyes. Which get even wider when Il Capitano, a seemingly motionless statue before, turns in his place and, without a pause, steadily descends to you. Now, as you are standing so closely it becomes evident how obviously your outfits match. The chains, the patterns, even the precious stones - everything. Perhaps it is terrifyingly cute. Perhaps it's cutely terrifying.

“Husband,” your smile again, offering him your hand, which he immediately envelopes in his big clawed one.

“Wife,” is the first word the big figure rumbles for the evening, the void of its helmet staring at you. And that’s all you speak to each other, hearing the beginning of another melody and turning to join the dancing pairs.

“...What was that?” Childe voices what’s been plaguing the minds of the attendees. “First the Commander appears to be a woman, and now she is married to the Lord Il Capitano?” He glances at Pulcinella, who joins his side and decides to watch the pair that caused a commotion have their fun. “Do they not use their names?”

“They find no sense in them,” the Rooster answers just the last question. “And,” he lowers his voice and the ginger has to bend down to hear the next words, “I didn’t tell you that, but the Captain really loves calling her his wife. So be quite cautious while seeking a fight with her. You might end up impaled. By either of them.”

Kaveh

With a soft smile you watch a group of children merrily leaving their classroom, interrupting each other in attempts to tell everyone how exciting the lesson was. They do not forget to grin and wave at you, passing by, and you return the sentiment, contently observing their happy faces and sparkly eyes.

Every time this happens, a strange sense of fulfillment overtakes you - supporting and sponsoring Kaveh was one of the best decisions you’ve ever made. The greatest architect of nowadays is offering his guidance to the young generation, teaching them everything about beauty and practicality, helping them to develop their own creative vision, and at the same time boosting the confidence of kids of all ages. And you couldn’t be prouder of him.

Him, who meticulously prepares for every single lesson. Him, who is oh-so-gentle with his words and precise in his speech. Him, who teaches both Sumeru citizens and people coming from abroad. Him, who is as passionate about it, as he is about his designing job, telling you every single detail of how the lessons went on your way home or over the dinner. Him, who is happy and who makes you happy too with that fact alone.

When the last kid leaves, marking the ending of the final class for today, you glance at the clock. Now Mister Meticulousness will need half an hour to tidy up the classroom and put all the tools away. Tomorrow is free from classes at his (he always corrects your as in the both of you) school, so you can collect your stuff as well - after all, being the manager of this establishment and Kaveh specifically requires your presence. You can be strict and unyielding whenever he can’t and this partnership proves to be successful every day.

Just as you are writing down some financial staff, there is a soft knock on the doorframe. Immediately lifting your eyes you hum, observing a very good-looking woman and a boy, shyly holding onto her hand.

“Hello, how can I help you?” With a quill laid on top of your accounting book, you stand and round the table, offering the two to step closer.

“Ah, hello, miss…” eyes with long, pretty lashes flit to the name tag attached to your clothes, “...Y/n. This is master Kaveh’s artistic school, am I correct?”

“Yes, you are. Are you here to sign your boy up for a class?” You offer her son a sweet smile and he answers you with a small lift of his lips.

“Mhm. You see, he is a big fan of master Kaveh and his works - can study the pictures of his designs taken by Kamera day and night.”

At that, the boy lowers his gaze and blushes a little, digging a hole in the ground with the tip of his shoe.

“Oh, really?” A gasp that escapes your chest is one of excitement. “That’s marvelous! I am sure your hopefully soon-to-be-teacher will be very interested in hearing your opinion of his works, young connoisseur,” he giggles, lifting his eyes at you again, and there you see undisguised delight. “Oh, but my bad, I didn’t ask your names…”

The woman’s lips bare two rows of perfectly white teeth as she smiles at you, introducing herself and her son.

“We are from Fontaine actually. But my parents wanted to spend some indefinite period of time in Sumeru for their health and we decided to join them. So while we are here, I thought I’d make my son’s dream come true.”

“That’s so nice of you,” you can’t help but admire her a little for that. “I can tell you first a little about our school, you’ll ask all the questions you need to, and then I’ll show you around. Kaveh should be done with cleaning by then, so there’s a big chance you’ll even talk to him personally.”

“Really!?” That’s the first time throughout your entire interaction when the boy opens his mouth and actually makes a sound. “Master Kaveh is here right now?”

“He is. But can’t promise a long conversation - there are still blueprints waiting for him back at home.

“Ah, right… He is the great architect after all,” the woman hums, staring to the side as if in thought. “Between the commissions he takes and this school he must be making good money. Not to mention so handsome…”

Oh… What a familiar tone, what a familiar look in those eyes. Suddenly that ounce of respect you felt for her disappears.

“Money is irrelevant to him as long as he reaches his goal,” is your restrained response.

“Ah, of course! Handsome, sweet, kind, good with kids and is not a snob. Sweety, you ought to charm him for me!” She pinches her son’s cheek. “Imagine Master Kaveh as your daddy!”

Oh Archons, again?

There is absolutely no doubt that the light of Kshahrewar is not only well-known and popular among kids, but is thirsted after by women. In a half of a year your school has been existing, there were numerous times when moms of little students made comments alike or some single females trying to schedule private sessions with the architect. What a sagacious decision it was to make group studying only, it saves you some drama, once the legal document is shown. Though there are exceptionally persistent examples…

But this time you pity the kid a little, because he genuinely seems to admire Kaveh. And his next words make you internally cheer for the little guy.

“Master Kaveh as my dad? But mom, I have a dad already,” the boy pouts, rubbing at the pinched cheek. You notice a red mark and two little crescent moons that her nails left on a tender skin. “I love him and don’t need another one.”

“Sweety, you just don’t understand how great it would be to have such a dad! Just trust my word-”

“Ahem, Madame, I kindly ask you to deal with your family affairs once you are out of here. As for the school - I am open for discussion.”

The displeased way she glances at you doesn’t go unnoticed, but you do not show it anyhow, calmly staring back at her, while your hand reaches up to your chest. As if finally remembering her initial reason for coming here with her son, the woman sighs and puts a palm on the boy’s shoulder.

“Of course, miss- I’m sorry I forgot your name…” And her eyes flit to the name tag again.

Momentarily the woman squints from the light reflecting on the metal, and when she blinks the bright spots away, there is a beautiful golden ring on your hand. The hand that is holding the flipped tiny plate with just two words engraved in it.

"Kaveh's wife"

With widened eyes she stares back at your sweetly polite smile. Not saying a word as if letting the notion sink in, you walk to the wall. Grabbing the backs of two chairs you drag them to your table so they could sit, and take your rightful place in front of them.

“If you are here for something aside from or instead of signing your son up for classes, I believe my name should be irrelevant to you. My status though,” you knock a nail twice on the badge, “must. So… what are you here for, Madame?”

The boy climbs onto his chair right away, while his mother tarries a little, still shocked by the revealed fact and your suddenly changed demeanor. She needs a couple more seconds to compose herself, but eventually she too sits down.

Despite what happened earlier, your conversation proves to be fruitful and fifteen minutes later you are showing around the school, sharing some additional information and answering every single of the kid’s questions.

When in the last room you find your husband, closing Mehrak and looking ready to leave, the boy lets out a gasp. The sound attracts the man’s attention, and he turns to the three of you with a soft smile.

“Oh, hello there, little guy!” The blond waves at him, breaking the blissful stupor of a child that immediately turns red and hides behind his mother. Surprised, Kaveh looks at you for explanation but, instead, takes notice of your name’s replacement. Oh wow, this again. What was the last time you did that? Two weeks ago?

“Ah, Master Kaveh!” The woman charmingly smiles, batting her lashes at him, which would’ve made you cringe had it never happened before. “You see, my son-”

“Pardon me, Madame, give me a moment,” the male softly interrupts her and reaches for a similar metal plate on his chest with his own name to flip it. It’s almost comical how sour the temptress’s face got in a second.

And there is what for. Now two words are proudly matching yours, engraved in an equally beautiful cursive to remind the world who the two of you become once stripped of your names.

Just his ”Y/n’s husband” to your “Kaveh’s wife”.

And like that one more kid takes part in your lovely school and one suitor less is after one of its founders.

Tighnari

With each passing day of your team’s research in the desert you found it harder and harder to control yourself. Some days you were even on the verge of clawing and biting, tail and ears twitching in annoyance and pupils turning into wild slits, making your hybrid nature more obvious.

Was it because of the research? No, it couldn’t be farther - your colleagues have been making so much progress, heeding your advice and following your lead. Was it the location perhaps? A little, but you learnt how to deal with heat and dryness. Was the process taking too much time? On the contrary, you are on your way home already, having finished the job 4 days earlier than you estimated in the beginning.

Then what on earth could possibly trigger you like this?

Well…

“Hey, forest foxy, want me to catch the Consecrated Flying Serpent for you?”

Ah yes, him.

Never again will you trust the higher ups at the Akademiya to sponsor your team with the bodyguards. Out of every possible candidate, your Herbad-titled colleague concluded that hiring five descendants of Valuka Shuna would be a marvelous idea.

“They are the desert kind - they’ll be good guides.” “Look how much stronger they are, they’ll definitely protect all of you.” “They are of the same kind as you, Y/n. Don’t you think it’ll be easier for you, as the leader, to have someone akin with you?”

No, it absolutely would not!

Desert fennec hybrids are different from the forest ones - and it’s not even the case of your green and their sandy brown fur or their more brutal physique against your more delicate one. It’s their character and world perception. You’ll never call them barbarians, but they really developed more of the animal nature than your kind did.

And from day one it was a pain in the butt.

One of your five new bodyguards was clearly the leader - he was bigger and broodier, with more scars littering his body, and his whole stance was screaming of a higher position. When you were introduced for the first time, something lit up in his grayish eyes, which were looking you over appreciatively. You ignored that, more focused on the discussion of the upcoming expedition and making sure the five were aware of what was required of them.

Luckily they were, and, admittedly, they did fulfill their task meticulously, proving to be great help. If only one of them wasn’t so diligent.

You lost count of how many times the leader tried to get into your personal space and you had to move away. Of the numerous invitations to hunt together. Of the endless displays of his strength and abilities. Of the many conversations you didn’t even try to eavesdrop on (they talked pretty loudly) around the topic of when will your shell be cracked and you’d accept the male’s courting attempts.

The answer was obvious, but he just never got it. Even when you called him for a serious conversation on the turning-into-an-issue matter.

“With all respect I must ask you to stop with whatever you’ve been doing to woo me. I have a husband.”

You still remember how he blinked at you dumbly, clear lack of understanding written on the sun-kissed face.

“...and?”

“The heck do you mean ‘and’?”

“Well, you don’t have a mate?”

It was your turn to stare at him speechless, ear twitching and tail curling closer to your legs. It was getting worse than just ridiculous.

“If we are speaking in such terms, then my husband is my mate. So, please-”

You nearly gasped when the male immediately leant closely, violating your personal space and practically stuffing his nose against your neck. Shocked by such lack of shame, you lost the ability to talk or move for a moment, gaping at him sniffing around and humming upon the discovery.

“You don’t wear anyone’s smell on you.”

You were not proud of yourself at that moment, but you absolutely lost it. Sharpened claws dug into his chest and with an angry snarl you pushed him back.

“Get away from me!”

You must’ve been a sight - canines bared and fingers twitching, ready to attack; fur standing on both your ears and tail, signaling your distress and eyes slitted in pure rage while directed at the man in front of you. The worst part? The idiot seemed to like it even more.

“What me and my partner do must be of no concern to you. I told you ‘no’ and I mean it.”

But bold of you was to assume he’d stop. Oh no, it’s gotten worse. Now he was actively calling you a ‘forest foxy’, absolutely abandoning your name and even trying to scent you. It was suffocating - the desert aridity was lighter in comparison to the male hybrid’s pheromones.

Never in all your academic practice have you wanted to return home so badly.

Fortunately, your colleagues quickly caught on to what was going on and always helped you to escape the unwanted interactions. Plus they were equally as mad as you were, because his individual scent irritated their human noses - and that was the main reason why you and Tighnari, both spending a lot of time around other people, did not practice it. Partly, you are sure, this whole situation was the reason for your earlier return - and you were grateful for their understanding.

However, your stubborn suitor did not dream of giving up. Killed desert animals were still offered to you, stories of his legendary battles with monsters were told for the hundredth time (even though no one was interested in listening at that point) and attempts to lure you with the musky smell once again made. Archons, and the green-furred fennec girls from your teens used to dream of that.

Maybe Lesser Lord Kusanali would be merciful and you’ll meet your husband somewhere on your way?

“Herbad Y/n!”

…wow, that was quick. Not Tighnari, but incredibly welcome too.

“Collei!” For the first time in days there is a reason for your soft smile. Which the young girl mirrors, waving at you from not so far away. You notice a couple more of the Forest Rangers at her side, and that sight alone makes you finally exhale in relief. You are so close to being home.

“Master is here too! Want me to get him?”

Oh, Dendro Archon, thank you.

“I’d really appreciate it, dear!” With a quick nod the green-haired apprentice disappears in the bushes, and you turn back to the scholars of your group. It’s time to abuse your power a little. “We are almost at the Devadaha Pool. Since all of you live in Sumeru City I hope you’ll excuse me for staying behind. As for you five,” your gaze moves to the bodyguards and it’s so hard not to rejoice - soon they’ll be just a memory, “I ask you to accompany the rest of my team to the Akademiya. Then you can consider your job done and be free. Keep the payment for the last three days that didn’t happen - think of it as a bonus for a good job.”

All but one eagerly nod and bid you farewell with wishes of getting home safely. And frankly speaking? You couldn’t care less for that one when you spot familiar and oh so dear big pointy ears with an intricate golden earring adorning one of them.

“Tighnari!” You didn’t want to sound so desperate, you really didn’t. But when those forest-like lovely eyes look in your direction, it becomes clear to you - the yearning has gotten unbearable.

“Y/n…” His smile is dazzling and the way his body immediately pushes to walk to you almost makes the memories of the last weeks’ events go away.

The key word - almost.

Someone grabs your elbow when you want to meet him halfway. Oh right, you already forgot about him.

“Let me go, you, imbecile!” And again you have to snarl and be rude, ripping your arm out of the strong hold and quickly darting into your husband’s embrace. The natural smell of the leaves, the flowers, the sweet and bitter concoctions he makes in his home laboratory, comfort you and your whole body goes nearly limp in his hold. It’s been weeks and you are tired of fighting with the brick wall - this time you want your lover to handle it for you.

“Y/n, my lotus, are you alright?” Gentle fingers comb through your hair and scratch at the base of your ears - a whole ass adult, that you are, wants to tear up. But you can only shake your head a no. “Has this man been bothering you?” This time it’s a yes. “I got you, dear.”

“So,” the browny green eyes sharpen upon staring at the cause of your current state, when it starts speaking, “you are that ‘husband’ the foxy has been talking about? I thought you’d be stronger. Or at least taller. Now I see that I was right and you really can’t be her mate.”

“Oh but I am. Not that we have to prove anything to a stranger. Y/n,” he carefully pries your face from his shoulder, caressing your cheek with a beanie pad, “let’s go home. You must be so-so tired.”

“I am, ‘nari. I am exhaus-”

“There’s no smell of you on her and vice versa,” the desert descendent of the Valuka Shuna seems to not be planning to stop. “Her neck is not marked. You let her wander by herself for weeks? And you keep calling her by the name. Her name should've stopped mattering once she became your mate!”

The hand around your waist tenses and you can feel the claws threatening to tear through the gloves he always wears. You don’t need to look at the face of your lover to know how pissed he is. And if Tighnari decides to attack him and tear his tongue out? You will not stop him.

“I am going to say it once and only once. She is not just a mate, she is my wife, by the Sumeru law and by the blessing of the Dendro Archon. And this fact must matter to you more than the case of her name. So fuck off and leave my wife alone. And if you don’t get it in a civil way - this woman is taken. And this territory is mine.”

With that, the Forest Watcher effortlessly lifts you in his arms and, holding you as if a precious bride, turns around to leave. You haven’t looked back once.

“You can’t imagine how much I missed being called your wife,” you quietly confess, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Especially after he didn’t listen when I said that I am.”

Tighnari hums sympathetically, leaning close to rub his nose against yours.

“Will it be okay then if today I address you as my wife only? When we join the other rangers, I mean.”

”...if you think I will be embarrassed - make it a whole week.”

With a soft chuckle your husband plants a kiss on your lips, sealing the deal and promising you tranquil days at last.

“As you wish, wife.”

Zhongli

"...and so Rex Lapis takes the form of a dragon, a majestic creature he was born as - the one of whom the fair maiden would never be scared of. Lady Guizhong's robes flutter in the tender wind traveling among the mountain peaks and caressing the earthly scales of the God's enormous body. His eyes, shiny as gold, gaze at her with an unfamiliar softness as she holds a gentle flower - a delicate gift from her lover, the one that proves that under all that armor is a stone heart capable of love. Heart that is beating for her."

To loud applause the Iron Tongue Tian bows his head, drawing the legend of the gods in love to its end. You cannot bring yourself to clap even politely, both hands on your lap, hidden under the table, twitching when a man beside you lets his gloved palms meet each other a couple of times.

It’s the second time you had to sit and endure the baloney from the very beginning to the very end, not to count all those times you overheard it in passing. From the moment you settled in the Liyue Harbor together with your husband, to live the rest of your incredibly long lives together among the humans, you've been painfully aware of their interpretation of Rex Lapis and his relationship with other immortal beings. Before that you rarely accompanied him during the walks, busy with helping Yakshas and other adepti protect the said humans to grant them a peaceful life - as immortal guardians grew fewer, every single one counted.

Never have you ever imagined that knowing so little of the citizens’ folklore would backfire so hard. It seems that people got somewhat bored listening to the stories of Liyue and Rex Lapis, no matter how many interpretations existed. Literature became more diverse in genres and romantic novels were on top of the list, so street narrators started losing their audience little by little. Before it could grow into something more drastic the new side of history was presented to the public - stories about love among immortals appeared and its freshness and uniqueness caught people’s attention immediately.

In their searches for new material, speakers dug through hundreds of volumes. The main interest was the Lord of Geo, of course. If you have a story of a presumably stone-hearted creature ever having fallen in love with someone - that’s pure gold! But who could you present as a love interest of the Archon? It must be someone very close to him and, obviously, no one is more well-known for that than the deceased Archon of Dust.

You sigh, reaching for your cup and declining Madam Ping’s offer to pour you some more tea - for an unclear reason the fellow adeptus joined you two tonight. You have thousands of years of life behind your existence, a soul hardened by constant battles, and mannerism as polished as a jade statue, yet for a moment you feel concerned that the woman would notice a pang of hurt in the smallest of your features.

Zhongli definitely noticed the first time. It was meant to be a date night - simple, but sweet, with the evening lights, delightful aroma of the finest tea and the tales pouring from skilled tongues reflecting the atmosphere of what your nation really is. However, the luck of the land of trades wasn’t on your side, as someone requested the “Guili legend” as they called it. At first you were confused. Then in disbelief, almost turning to look at your mate, with whom you were bonded long before he became allies with the ash-haired woman. In the end you felt something you thought was beyond you - bitterness.

When you left the restaurant, slowly walking back to your house, Zhongli’s fingers gently touched your elbow, asking for your attention.

“Does it bother you that much, my love?”

Bother you? Well… It does feel insulting when someone speaks of your husband having been in love with someone else, but mortals can’t possibly know the truth for many reasons.

“I can’t say it doesn’t,” you admitted calmly, stopping and turning fully to him. He did the same, gazing at you with a hint of worry in those golden eyes you loved so much. The ones, you knew, always looked only at you. “But it can’t be helped, right? There was a reason and mutual agreement why you, as Rex Lapis, made our union unknown to your people, and now, since you are “dead”? There is no one to tell our story. Don’t worry though,” you put a hand on top of his and smiled, when his other one was laid on top of yours in a gesture of comfort. “I can deal with it. I know you love going to the storyteller’s performances. I’ll just try to ignore what they say about you and Lady Guizhong.”

Sometimes Zhongli thinks he does not deserve you. Ever so patient and understanding, you always had your husband's best interest at heart. Marriage, however, in its basis is a form of a contract, and a good contract is all about both sides being equal in everything. And if you must know one thing about Rex Lapis - he never makes bad contracts.

When the audience calms down, the man decides to make his presence and intentions clear by raising a hand. From the corner of his eye he notices you slightly turning your head to glance at him, and he catches a glimpse of puzzlement in your gaze. He can't help but think how adorable you are, even if you deny it again and again, claiming that nothing can be adorable about a several millennia-old warrior. Maybe not, but his wife definitely is, and he thinks with a primordial pride igniting in his chest, that mating with you was the best decision his past self had ever made.

Reaching under the table he rests his free hand on top of yours, gently squeezing it in reassurance, offering you the warmth of himself, seeping through his glove. Just as your shoulders relax to his delight, the raised hand adorned with rings is finally noticed.

"Ah, Mr Zhongli! Such an honor to see a regular, especially someone as wise as yourself!" Iron Tongue Tian beams with a wide smile, closing his fan and focusing his full attention on the history connoisseur. "I doubt you have questions, given your vast knowledge, and I can't wait to hear what else you can add to this already heart-felt story."

You force your lips not to twitch, hiding behind the tea cup again. Suddenly it tastes bitter. But another squeeze your husband gives your hand doesn't let you dwell on it too much.

"You are correct, I do have some knowledge to offer. However, it might disappoint you, as it will completely destroy the story of the Geo Archon and the Archon of Dust."

The whispers ran through the crowd like a powerful wave, and you can see confusion written over every single face. But also, there is intrigue.

"I took it upon myself,” Zhongli however continues, “to invite Madame Ping to back up my story, as she was the witness to it," the elder woman - a well-known Adeptus that doesn't hide her existence among mortals - nods with a soft smile.

"I read this in legends a long time ago, but remembered only when the 'Guili legend' became popular. Rex Lapis indeed had a lover, however it was not Lady Guizhong," the gasps are almost deafening. Just as your quickened heartbeat.

And for the next hour the man by your side and the elderly-looking woman that joined you tonight proceed to tell the story of the adeptus, who was the first and only to ever bring the Geo Archon to his knees, to be worshiped like a goddess by his eyes, by his words, by his very heart. Of a warrior, whose fierce eyes and valiant nature made a dragon in Rex Lapis roar in delight. Of the woman, who entranced him with her beauty, caring soul and motherly attention directed to other adepti - Madame Ping adds with a laugh of how the two created a parent-like dynamic even before they became official (at that you find it so hard not to turn bashful).

They tell the legend of the silk flowers - the ones you might see everywhere in the vast lands of Liyue. How the Geo Archon personally asked the Dendro Archon for guidance to cultivate the tenderest of flowers, how he taught his people to make the delicate fabric out of it, but even then it couldn’t compare to the skin of his immortal mate.

They tell stories of how annoyed she was when the god turned into a dragon to fall asleep somewhere in the depths of the earth for years without telling her prior, and how he returned with the purest stones and metals and with his own hands forged the pair of matrimonial rings (yes, the ones wrapped around your fingers to this day).

Madame Ping fondly speaks of all those thousands of years of protection the said adeptus spent to make sure that her godly spouse’s people were safe and maybe just a tiny sliver of pride rushes through your heart at the public acknowledgement.

“But she wished not to be known,” the woman sighs and you know she glances at you reproachfully. Well-deserved, given the circumstances you are in right now. “Thus it’s not much of a surprise people made a mistake like that. Besides, you won’t find much information in written sources about her either way.”

“But she must have a name at least!” Someone from the fairly grown crowd exclaims.

“That she does,” Zhongli nods, lacing his fingers with yours under the table, lips tugging in a calm smile, when you squeeze his hand in return. “Though I am afraid it would be pointless to try and find out now - we wouldn’t want to disturb her mourning the departure of her husband, would we? After all, they must’ve loved each other so much.”

“But how can you be so sure?”

“Because,” golden eyes are on you, catching yours, pulling you in, whispering for your soul and heart to get lost in them, “I can understand how this love was born and got to bloom. My wife showed me that.”

#genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #il capitano x reader #capitano x reader #capitano x fem!reader #kaveh x reader #kaveh x fem!reader #tighnari x reader #tighnari x fem!reader #zhongli x reader #zhongli x fem!reader #il capitano #capitano #kaveh #tighnari #zhongli #genshin impact fluff

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zhonglis-wifey · 2 years

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self harm comfort

zhongli, il dottore, yoimiya (romantic) + klee (platonic)

goin through it recently :,) !! here’s to another 6 month (or forever, whatever comes first) clean streak! starting over again is annoying but i’m ready to try again with a positive attitude <3 hugs for everyone else going through the same stuff!!! we’re in this together besties

TW: self harm (duh), implied suicide in zhongli’s, not graphic/descriptive

ZHONGLI

For the first time in his life, Zhongli doesn’t really know what to say. The god of a billion words is suddenly and uncharacteristically speechless as you reluctantly show him what you’ve done to yourself. The silence is only making it worse; You have no idea what Zhongli is thinking about you. The thought of Zhongli quietly judging you makes you want to hurt yourself all over again, maybe even a little more this time.

But Zhongli can sense that you’re overthinking, so they speak very carefully in hopes of bringing you back to reality. Sure enough, his honeyed baritone words stifle your overwhelming mind, giving you no choice but to focus on what he says rather than the horrible things running through your head. Zhongli reminds you of his unrelenting love for you, that he would do anything to help you get through this, that you can always talk to him, that you can tell him you need help.

You can tell from the abnormal panic and desperation in their tone that they’re scared. Zhongli has seen so many awful things beyond your comprehension. Because of that, he’s seen so much pain and loss. You can tell that Zhongli’s terrified that this is just the beginning of something far more sinister, that you might… disappear at your own hands like others have in the past. It’s his turn to overthink now. After everything they’ve been through, Zhongli doesn’t know if they can handle another loss.

That fear will only manifest into caring for you, though. Zhongli knows that if he wants to keep you here, alive with him, then he has to do everything in his power to help you recover.

IL DOTTORE

Dottore has a hard time understanding what you mean when you explain to him what happened. What do you mean you hurt yourself? Doesn’t that go against the innate human instinct of self preservation? And even if it did make sense for humans to self harm when they feel bad about themselves, which it absolutely didn’t, then what was so wrong with you that you had to do that to yourself?

Dottore genuinely could not wrap his head around what you couldn’t accept about yourself. To him, at least, there wasn’t a single thing worth hurting you over. He had spent his entire professional life looking to improve human beings by any means necessary, seeing them as inherently flawed, but you were always the exception. You were perfect to him, why couldn’t you see that too?

Not to worry, though. Dottore will never let you hurt yourself again. He’ll gently coax you into letting him take care of your self-inflicted wounds — he is a doctor, after all — and wait patiently for you to explain what’s going on in your mind. If you’re not ready to talk, he can wait. What authority does he have to push the only perfect being into doing something they don’t want to do? But he’ll always remind you that he’s here to listen and fix your problems, no matter what it takes.

NAGANOHARA YOIMIYA

As carefree and fun-loving as Yoimiya is, her demeanor completely shifts when she finds out that you’ve been hurting yourself. She’s heartbroken, to put it simply. Her little spark snuffed themself out. That’s not supposed to happen. She wanted you to be happy and safe, not like this.

Yoimiya decides that the best course of action is to do something to take your mind off of whatever’s troubling you. She’ll have you come play with the kids or design fireworks with her to remind you that you can always do something fun with others. She’ll venture into the most scenic parts of Narukami Island with you to remind you that there is beauty in this world. She’ll plan an elaborate firework display (with the help of her dad, who also loves you) just for you as a reminder of her love.

Yoimiya will make sure that you remember how loved you are. She won’t stop trying to cheer you up until she’s 100% certain that you love yourself as much as she does. Until then, enjoy endless affection from the most beautiful girl in Hanamizaka, the Queen of the Summer Festival. She’ll always be there for you.

KLEE (platonic/familial)

As kind and sympathetic as the little girl was, Klee was far too young to understand what you were going through. You didn’t want to ruin her adorably childish worldview with your grown-up issues. Problems like this made you want to shield Klee from the darkness of the world so she wouldn’t even have to experience them when she grew up.

But things don’t always go according to plan. While coloring with Klee in solitary confinement (as you often did; you couldn’t bear to let her suffer alone in there so you liked to sneak in), she ended up seeing the physical manifestations of your inner turmoil. You fumbled for an answer when she asked where they came from, eventually stating that you had “fought a big, scary monster.” It wasn’t technically a lie. It seemed fair enough to compare your feelings to a monster.

Even if she didn’t quite comprehend the full weight of the situation, Klee was very sweet about it all. She told you to turn away for a bit while she drew “something special for you.” You obliged, happy to let her enjoy her childlike joys while she still had them. You wished you could be as carefree as Klee.

By the end of the day, when you had to leave the solitary confinement room, Klee handed you the finished drawing as a parting gift. It was of you bravely fighting a lawachurl outside of Mondstadt’s front gate, keeping it from wreaking havoc on the city. Klee included your injuries in the drawing, labeling them as “proof that [Name]’s strong.” She’d never know how happy that made you feel. She’d never know that you looked at it every day, keeping it securely framed in your home as a reminder that you could get through this.

#genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #genshin #dottore x reader #il dottore x reader #zhongli #zhongli x reader #il dottore #yoimiya x reader #yoimiya #yae miko x reader #yae miko

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blueluneacy · 6 months

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its time for my yearly post, real

ive been thinkin about dottore genshin impact lately. hes so silly :) did more of a horror aspect bc i like horror??? idk if youve been around long enough youll notice my slow descent into more horror based writings. but its ok, i like it!

on one hand you might be able to consider this yandere. on the other i think this is just how il dottore is in my mind. just a little creep. i wonder if hes single

tw: manipulation, blackmail, implied human experimentation

You were nothing to him.

In some way or another, you knew that. You knew that you were lowly in comparison to him. You were a student, barely half way into a thesis while he was well… It’s hard to define what he was. An outcast, but a genius. Something out of your grasp, intangible and arcane. Maybe that’s what originally got you interested. You’re a student after all, driven by curiosity and a need for knowledge. Perhaps he liked that about you too.

It was also that which was forbidden that intrigued you. That which you had seen scholars go mad for, he held in the palm of his hand. Things that you knew that were forbidden were always so delicious, weren’t they? You indulged in them, in what he could give you. It’s not as thought you didn’t give what you could in return, but really, what could you give a man whose power rivaled the gods? You should’ve known better. Your tutors, your peers, everyone could’ve warned you, did warn you, but you chose not to listen.

After all, he did tell you that this version of himself was the most selfish.

Perhaps then it wasn’t strange that you never saw what happened next coming. When he told you that it was time to leave Sumeru, you were shocked, almost baffled at the proposal.

“I can’t just leave everything. I’m still working on my thesis, my friends are here, I still have things to do here.” You told him, as if your words would do you any good. He merely smiled at you, shaking his head as if your points were silly, meaningless.

“I think you’ll find your research coming to a halt very soon regardless of if you leave or not. It seems that some restructuring will begin to take place here very shortly. It would be best if you were to leave, while you still had your dignity intact.” He always made himself sound so… Reasonable. It was something you once admired about him, but now, it was grating on your nerves. How easily he tossed aside your concerns. Had he always done that, trivialized the words you were saying like this?

“I can’t just give it all up. I’d hate myself if I did that. You should already know, that’s not the type of person I am. This is my life’s work.” You told him, immediately turning your back to him. He only gave you a small chuckle, shaking his head.

“Oh please. It was an average thesis that’s frankly, derivative and uninteresting. Not to mention your advisor is about to lose his job. You don’t really think it’s worth it just to work 10 more years on something new once the dust settles, do you?” He made broad steps to close the distance between the two of you, leaning over your shoulder. You had always known that the man was much larger than you, but it was the first time you noticed that it made you nervous. Perhaps that was the first time you acknowledged him for what he really was. Not as a friend or a lover, but as the Doctor, a powerful, dangerous man.

“Even so, I’m a student here at the Akademiya. I can’t pick up and leave just because you told me to. The answer is no.” You had to firm with him. If you weren’t, if you just went with him, you had a feeling that you would end up as nothing but a puppet, a pretty doll to look at for the rest of your life. What a shame that you hadn’t realized such a fact before it was too late.

“Is that so?” He seemed more amused than he was angry. You winced as he leaned against you from behind, draping his arms over your shoulder in a way that he perhaps meant to be affectionate but felt more imprisoning with his inhuman strength. He leaned down to whisper in your ear. You shuddered as you felt his breath against you , a pit of fear forming in your stomach that threatened to come out as a scream.

“And what are your plans as to what happens next? I’m sure that everyone would love to know how interested you’ve been with the things I’ve taught you these past few months. How interested you’ve been in that which you knew to be forbidden.” You froze at his words. Was… That his plan all along? To lure you in, and then blackmail you into never leaving? “Do you really think you could just get away with a slap on the wrist for this? Something as horrid as this, well, I doubt there would be must hesitation to sign your expulsion papers.”

“You… Why? Why are you doing this? Why me?” You could’ve help but let your questions tumble out of your mouth. You felt betrayed, but why? Shouldn’t you have always known the nature of this man? How he takes and takes, giving nothing in return. How absolutely foolish.

“Ah, look at that expression! How fascinating. I wonder, what else could I do to induce these emotions in you? Such lovely features being distorted with such despair…” He cooed, running his hand over your cheek to wipe away a tear. When did you start crying? You reached up to feel your own tears, attempting to brush the Doctor’s hand away at the same time.

“We’ll have plenty of time to look at more of your reactions once we reach home. I look forward to our continued work together once we reach Snezhnaya.” As his words reached your ears, you finally broke out of your fog, pulling away from the Doctor. You backed up a bit, but he so easily seemed to just step forward once more, not giving you any space.

“I don’t care. Even if I become an outcast, I’ll bare with it. I… I can *redeem* myself, I won’t just let you take me away to some lab in a bunker somewhere to do who knows what to me!” You shuddered as thoughts raced through your mind of what might happen. Of how he might cut you open, the fluids he could pour into your body, the *agony* he could cause for you only to stitch you back together. You knew of the consequences though. Why are you so surprised when the chickens come home to roost?

For his part, the Doctor only laughed, leaning down and grabbing you by the chin. His grip was hard, and in the back of your mind you wondered if bruises would form later. He forced you to look up at him, examining your expression with a sort of cold clinical air that you should’ve been used to with him by now.

“Oh, my dear… You act as though you ever really had a choice.”

Despite your best attempts, the dam finally broke, and you let out a scream as the horror of the man in front of you finally set in. You thrashed, squirmed, cried, begged, pleaded, did anything you could think of to try and escape this, this agonizing situation that you only had yourself to blame for.

And for his part, all the Doctor did was laugh.

#mine #writing #genshin x reader #dottore x reader #my writing #yandere x reader

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sasdavvero · 5 months

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sasdavvero Blue Lock Masterlist

I checked the links and they should work, don't hesitate to contact me in case they don't!

Stories not in a series

Can I?: flashfic, Bachisagi, fluff, first kiss [eng-tumblr post/ita-efp]

How to win someone over in one afternoon: a Guide by Isagi Yoichi: Bachisagi, fluff, slice of life, dates, first kiss [tumblr post/eng/ita-ao3/ita-efp/ita-wattpad]

Wanting, Needing, Having: Completed (17/17) Bachisagi, Underage, Angst & Fluff & Smut [tumblr post/eng]

Shattered Glass Means It's Already Broken (It Doesn't Mean It Can't Be Fixed): Bachisagi, Soulmates AU, angst and fluff [tumblr post/eng/ita-efp/ita-wattpad]

Cheers: flashfic, Bachisagi, first kiss [tumblr post]

The Languages of Soccer: Gen, Crack, Languages mix [tumblr post/eng]

Control: Bachisagi implied, EDNOS, Food Issues [eng]

How To Kiss Someone: The Umpteenth Guide By Isagi Yoichi: Barosagi, Crack, Kissing [eng]

first meeting: Gen, EDNOS, Psych Ward, Isagi & OC (Mai) [eng]

My Liege: Gen, Crack, They/Them for Barou [tumblr post/eng]

Not Enough Hands: Isagi Harem (Implied), Crack, Underage Drinking [tumblr post/eng]

Right Where We Left: isagi/hiori/nanase, fluff, set before the BM-PXG match [tumblr post/eng]

you make me feel alive (every time I breathe): Kaisagi Hanahaki AU, implied IsagiHarem and Kaisess, angst, unrequited love [tumblr post/eng]

Cheering: isagi/hiori/nanase, maybe crack, fluff [tumblr post/eng]

Blue Lock Ship Week 2023

Trying: Day 1 - Bachisagi, Confession, happy ending [tumblr post/eng]

Impulse: Day 2 - Bachisagi, First Kiss, Fluff [tumblr post/eng]

How Not To Date: Another Guide By Isagi Yoichi: Day 4 - Bachisagi, fake dating [eng]

How To Help A Bee (And Get A Vampire In Return): Day 6 - Bachisagi Servamp AU [eng]

Ghost Bachira stories

Out of a Movie: Bachisagi, Ghost!AU, bittersweet ending, friendship [tumblr post/eng]

Mama's Boy: Meguru & Yuu, Suicide TW, pre-Out of a Movie [tumblr post/eng]

you with the dark curls (you with the watercolor eyes): Ongoing (11/?) Bachisagi, Angst and Crack and Fluff [tumblr post/eng]

Talk it Out: alternative take on ch10 of ^^ [eng]

Blue Lock/Servamp Crossover

for now, all the stories are Isagi Yoichi/Shirota Mahiru

Thank You: Pre-Last Time/A Familiar Voice, getting together, Implied psych ward, fluff [eng]

Last Time: set in ep1 of Blue Lock, idiots in love, fluff [eng]

A Familiar Voice: set in ch96 of Servamp, hurt/comfort [eng]

Kaisagi Smutty Fanfics

Downfall: PWP, First Time, Bottom!Isagi, Top!Kaiser [eng]

Keep Your Cool: PWP, Top!Isagi, Bottom!Kaiser [eng]

Quiet: PWP, Top!Kaiser, Bottom!Isagi, bathroom sex, mild praise and degradation kink [eng]

Duality: PWP, Top!Isagi, Bottom!Kaiser, chiller than the others [eng]

Rush: PWP, Top!Kaiser, Bottom!Isagi, Riding [eng]

Ruin: PWP, Top!Kaiser, Bottom!Isagi, Porn with Feelings (kinda), Unresolved Tension (also kinda) [eng]

Zero, Two, Sette, Hachi

series about the versions, two are Isagicest

I would want myself: Isagi/Fem Isagi, Slice of Life, Light Angst, Fluff, Eventual Smut [tumblr post/eng]

do you think we'll be in love forever?: after ^^, Genderbent Universe, light angst, conversations [tumblr post/eng]

cos'hai detto di me? (ma non sono così): Sette & Hachi, introspection, tw sh, underage drinking/smoking, absent parents [eng]

a volte muoio su un letto che non è il mio: after ^^, bachisagi smut feat Sette, slight introspection [eng]

the world is burning (I got worms in my brain): Isagicest (M/M) (Zero/Hachi), tw for self-harm, suicidal thoughts/murder, Eventual Smut [tumblr post/eng]

Awful: after ^^, Hachi's universe, underage smoking/drinking, self-harm, Flashbacks [eng]

dimmi che l'amore esiste anche per me: Seika and Sette bonding time, mention of child neglect and self harm, fem!bachisagi [eng]

#blue lock #bllk #isagi yoichi #bachira meguru #michael kaiser #bachisagi #isabachi #barosagi #kaisagi #blue lock fanfiction #fanfiction #tag per masterlist #tay scrive #team kindness

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vilithshaven · 2 years

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How the harbingers react to the 'Imposter' /// Il Dottore, La Signora

Warnings: Mild descriptions of gore, angst, implied death (of the Creator/Reader)

Synopsis: This is how I think those two harbingers would react to finding out that the 'Imposter' is in truth the Creator before anyone else.

A little A/N: Big thanks to @nicebonescomrade for being a big inspiration. Honestly, I may be looking at your blog way more than I should, haha.

- Lilith

Il Dottore

Dottore starts looking for the Imposter after hearing his fellow harbingers talk of them. Truth be told, he doesn't care about the Creator or the way all the Archons, including his own, crave their attention and light. He isn't even bothered by the fact that there is an Imposter walking around. All he wants to know is how someone managed to carve their face and body into that of the One. Was it Khemia? Alchemy? Or were they simply born that way, to make a mockery of the God? He would find out.

Finding the Imposter turns out to be a lot easier he expected. They had been fleeing from Liyue's adepti last, citizens talking about how they saw them run across the border into Sumerian territory. A death wish for those who have no knowledge about the local insects and animals surrounding the main city.

He finds the Imposter lying flat on the ground, sweat coating their skin and a sickly colour to their skin. They look just like the statues had depicted them. But to his surprise and utmost glee, their blood isn't red. No, it's a striking golden that pools below their dying body.

Dottore finds it amusing that noone apparently noticed it before. The golden ichor is a stark contrast to the dirty and ripped clothes. But perhaps they had been in too much of a hazey rage, all their focus being on their one wish: get rid of the person daring to impersonate their Creator. Childe had been just one of many prime examples of the acolytes' animalistic wrath.

Dottore runs a hand through their knotted hair, a crazed smile growing on his half-hidden face. "Guess I'll be the only one to ever know the truth, (Name). Just my luck, isn't it? I'll heal you right up and then we can start."

Dottore takes the Creator to the nearest hidden laboratory of his, chaining them down to the table. He doubts that they were strong enough to take him on, but he rather wants to stay on the safer side. Although they appear to be completely human, he doesn't want to take any risks. At least he doesn't have to worry about anyone looking for them.

And so the torture begins.

(Name) is barely lucid half of the time. Pain is all they start to know, they can't even remember how they got to be where they were now, chained and treated as nothing more than an experiment. They were lucky enough whenever the Doctor deemed it necessary to feed them and keep them tethered to this world just this longer.

The Doctor is the name he told them to call him. (Name) knows that it isn't his real name. Distant memories hid in the back of their mind, just out of reach. Bringing them forth is too painful. They eventually stop trying.

The experiment Dottore puts the Creator through are diverse. He starts simple: taking blood and finding out its components, checking their bond to the elements of the world.

Slowly they get worse. Does this organ function as it should? Is that an extra organ he sees? What does it do? What happens if he was to force cryo into her body, or any element at that. How do they react to a Delusion?

By the time he is satisfied, (Name) is broken. He would have discarded them if it hadn't been for a thought that struck him just as he was leaning above them, hand glowing with his element.

Why end the fun now? When instead he could make the Creator another toy of his.

He has more than enough time to play around more. After all...he is the only one who knows the truth, isn't he?

La Signora

La Signora, too, doesn't care too much about the Creator and their Imposter at first. In fact, she hates the Creator. If they were truly the loving, compassionate being everyone makes them out to be, why have they forsaken her so? What has she ever done to deserve her afte? All she had wanted was to love and be loved, while studying in Sumeru. Even as she forgot her painful past over time, the hatred never ceased.

She hadn't planned on looking for the Imposter despite the Tsaritsa's order to kill them on sight. Yet she still found herself wondering off just before her meeting with Inazuma's resident Archon, letting her feet carry her to one of this region's many crevices. Which is where she's standing now, looking down at what she assumes is the Imposter. Or should be.

Golden ichor flows out of their many wounds and pools on the ground below them. One hand bends to a weird angle. Their eyes slowly move up from the ground they'd been focused on until they meet Signora's visible one. And the Harbinger finds herself freezing to her spot.

Long-forgotten feelings bloom passed the pain, reminding her of what she used to be. An outsider, a monster, a traitor. Just like the human creator in front of her, she also had been called those words and worse. Perhaps the Creator hadn't forsaken her. Perhaps they had put her through that trial in preparation for their own descent to Teyvat, to have one person understand. For surely they must have known what would happen if they were to come into this world without warning and as a human no less.

Even as the Creator reaches out a tentative hand covered in golden blood, Signora continues to stand frozen in her spot. "Can I...ask for one thing before you end it all?", they choke through the coughs raking their body, more blood splattering onto their tattered clothes. "Can you...call me by my name? It's...it's (Name). Please...it's been so long...it's all I ask for."

This breaks the Harbinger out of her rigor. She squats down in front of the Creator, a smirk playing on her lips. She moves to caress their cheek, looking at them with fake sympathy. "Poor thing...it must have been awful to have each and every single person hate you."

"It's a shame, isn't it? That noone ever realized the truth", she mused, taking their chin in a tight grip. "You truly are the Creator."

A pitiful whine escaped their cracked lips. "I...am not. I'm only...(Name). Not...a god or...whatever you think me..."

Signora doesn't listen to their words, feeling the red hot spikes of anger engulfing her heart. In response to that, her hand's temperature increased until it becomes too much. The Creator tries to pull away, face scrunching up in pain.

"I hate you. I truly do. You put me through so much pain, and for what? To have someone sympathize for you in the future? Help you? Well, guess what. I'm not going to. I'm not even giving you the pleasure of saying your name. Oh no. You'll die here, by my hands, as the imposter you've been dubbed."

Signora laughs in pure, unbridled glee. "It's what you deserve! You're no god of mine. You're simply the reason for all my suffering."

#genshin impact #genshin impact sagau #sagau #genshin impact au #golden blood au #headcanon #genshin impact hc #il dottore #dottore x reader #signora x reader #la signora #fatui harbingers #tw implied death #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact headcanons #genshin x reader #self aware genshin #genshin impact imagines

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mrs-gucci · 3 years

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Wedding Bells [REPOST] {Maurizio Gucci x Reader}

author’s notes: hellooo! I originally wrote this story as an ‘x OC’ because that’s what I was writing at the time, but I decided to change it into an ‘x Reader’ story since that’s what more people like to read!

**I used a translation application for the Italian in this story. apologies if there are any typos and/or incorrect sentences/grammar. Italian sentences/words are in italics throughout the story with translations after the sentences in parenthesis.

**This is MY OWN INTERPRETATION of Maurizio Gucci’s character, as portrayed by Adam Driver in the upcoming film, House Of Gucci.

warnings: smut. fluff. maurizio calling reader “tesoro”™️. some wedding shit. light aftercare. grinding. creampie. implied consent. dirty talk, name-calling/degradation but in italian ;)

(possible) tw’s: infidelity/extramarital affair. brief mentions of tobacco use. implied age gap (reader is over 21, no more than 10 years difference).

SMUT under the CUT!

“Tesoro” means “Treasure” in Italian (an affectionate nickname)

You can’t believe this is really happening.

It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. You’re supposed to be the one in the white gown, the one set to marry Maurizio Gucci.

He insists that this overzealous ceremony is just for the press, that he’s not truly in love with her, but sometimes you see him looking at her and you lose faith.

You almost didn’t come today. You almost just stayed at the house and pretended that this never happened, but you know that even if this marriage is a sham, it’s still a big day for Maurizio.

And I can’t say no to him.

The crowd cheers as they kiss up at the altar, turning to face everyone in the church with big smiles on their faces. You clap softly, forcing a smile upon your face as they walk down the aisle together.

He looks so handsome in his suit, the striped pants and impeccably polished black leather loafers completing the look. Maurizio was always dressed to the nines, but today, he was dressed to the tens.

His eyes meet yours, and his face falls for a moment when he reads the underlying sadness etched in your outwardly happy expression.

Everyone starts piling out of the church and you go along with them, hopping into one of the cars to take everyone to the headquarters for the reception.

The car pulls up to the building a few minutes later, and you walk in, taking a deep breath.

You should just go home, Y/N. You went to the reception, and that’s enough.

You look around at the decorated walls, all the guests mingling happily, all here in support of Maurizio and Patrizia.

You’re here too, sure, but you feel oddly out of place standing amongst the other guests.

Perhaps it’s because you’re the only non-native guest here. Perhaps it’s because you’re not here in support of the couple.

You find my place at one of the front tables and of course, you’re sat facing Maurizio, practically head-on. Great.

The meal is served and the room goes essentially silent as everyone begins dining. You make some casual conversation with the people sitting around you, some of them your coworkers, but you can’t stop myself from looking over at the groom from time to time.

As night runs into early morning, you’ve found some solace in the champagne and the company of Giovanni, someone you’ve come to really like spending time with. You both have a lot in common and you get on great; you’re always joking around the office.

Each time you begin talking with Giovanni, however, you feel a particular set of eyes on you. And, when you look over, you’re met with the deep brown eyes of your lover.

You show him no reaction, simply smiling sweetly each time your eyes meet, as if you were simply boss and employee.

Soon, you feel utterly suffocated by the thick air of the room, so you decide to step outside for a short while. You hope to slip out unnoticed, and you do for a little bit, but then someone comes out behind you.

You don’t even need to turn around to see who it is, and the familiar sound of a lighter gives all the confirmation you needed.

Maurizio walks out and leans over the balcony, a thin cloud of smoke passing through his lips as he looks out onto the horizon.

“I…”

He begins, trailing off.

“Have you gotten a slice of cake yet? It’s quite good.”

You huff with a drop of humor.

“No, but maybe I’ll do that now, since this balcony is no longer exclusive to just me.”

As you turn around and begin to walk towards the door, his hand snatches your wrist and pulls you back. Your body collides with his, your back pressed against his front.

You can feel his smoky breath against your ear, and your skin erupts in goosebumps.

“Please, stay. I want to speak with you.”

There’s a brief moment where you truly believe that you’re going to say no this time, that you’re going to walk away.

But I can’t say no to him.

He feels you relax and lets go of your wrist, allowing you to return to the railing. He stands behind you, taking another drag.

“I guess I should begin by apologizing, for you having to sit through the ceremony.”

You take a sip of champagne.

“As far as anyone else is concerned, I’m simply your assistant.”

“Yes, but I know that you’re more, much more, than that. I can’t imagine that sitting there the whole time was easy. But, I want you to know that I appreciate you coming, it would’ve been weird not seeing you today.”

You look over your shoulder, up at him.

“You know I’ll always be here for you, Maurizio.”

He smiles down at you. “I promise that it won’t always be like this for us, tesoro. Things will change, and we will be able to show our love to the world.”

His hand runs down your arm gently, then falls to your hip, where he squeezes lightly.

“You look so beautiful tonight. I wish I could kiss you, touch you, worship you like you deserve.”

You blush, stepping back a bit, now fully pressed up against him. His breath catches in his throat as his hand comes forward and trails up, fingers teasing just below your breasts.

He leans forward, lips leaving a series of open-mouthed kisses on your neck.

“It’s been nearly impossible to stay away from you, mi tesoro. I just want to have you right here, right now…”

A whimper escapes your lips as his trail down to your shoulder.

“Potrei alzare il vestito e fotterti, climelo.” (I could just pull your dress up and fuck you, christ.)

He breathes, grinding his hips against you, growling lowly in your ear.

“Piegati sulla ringhiera, ti fa urlare il mio nome…” (Bend you over the railing, make you scream my name…)

You’re breathless as you try to resist the urge to let him take you right here.

But, you know you can’t, it’s way too risky. Someone’s bound to notice.

“Maurizio…”

You whisper.

“We can’t, not here.”

Something seems to switch in his brain and he freezes suddenly, almost as if he’s been snapped back into reality. He stands up straight again, breath shaky as he takes a final drag of his cigarette before putting it out in the ashtray.

“I’m sorry, I got carried away.”

He groans in frustration, running a hand through his hair.

You turn around, resting your hands on his chest, staring up into his eyes.

“It’s okay.”

“I need to have you tonight, tesoro, please.”

Maurizio says, resting his forehead on yours, lips mouthing at yours.

You sigh.

“How? There are people everywhere, it’s too risky.”

A smirk suddenly stretches across his face.

“No one will be in my office bathroom…”

You bite your lip, holding back a smile.

“Shall we meet in there?”

“I’ll have to sit with Patrizia for a little while, talk to some people, just to keep up appearances.”

He says, nodding.

“But, how about we meet there in...let’s say an hour?”

“Saro li l’accordo.” (I’ll be there.)

You say, smiling up at him.

He returns the expression.

“Allora ci vediamo.” (See you then.)

One Excruciatingly Long Hour Later

You quietly step into Maurizio’s office, gasping when a pair of arms wraps around your waist, pulling you into the office. You look up and see him, immediately jumping into his arms, crashing your lips together.

He carries you into the hidden bathroom, closing the door quickly behind him. His gaze is hungry as his darkened eyes rake up and down your dress-clad figure.

“Bend over.”

He growls, head nodding towards the marble vanity.

You bend yourself over, resting on your elbows. There isn’t much time before someone notices Maurizio’s missing, and you can tell he knows this as well, a sense of urgency in his fingers as he undoes his belt and pants.

You look at his reflection in the mirror, the sight of him in his wedding suit incredibly arousing, a certain sense of promiscuity surrounding us. Even more so than usual.

Maurizio quickly bends down and pulls the dress up over your hips, moving your panties to the side before rubbing his tip through your wetness.

“We’ll have to be quick.”

He says, looking at you through the mirror’s reflection.

You nod, and he lines himself up with your entrance, chin resting on your shoulder as he pushes in, sighing loudly.

Your eyes roll into the back of your head, his cock stretching you out deliciously. You whimper as he pulls back and thrusts back in, your body jolting with his forward motion.

“Tesoro.”

He moans into your ear, picking up the rhythm of his hips.

“You’re so pretty.”

“O-Oh, Maurizio.”

You whimper, walls clenching around him.

One of his hands comes up from your hip and wraps around your throat, fingers shaking your jaw slightly.

“Guardati, tesoro, guardati ti scopa allo specchio.” (Look at you, treasure, watch yourself get fucked in the mirror.)

Your eyes go wide when you look at the reflection, seeing Maurizio positioned behind you, hips jackhammering into you. His glasses are steaming up slightly and his brow is furrowed, a sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead.

Our eyes meet in the mirror and we moan together, the sight so erotic.

“Per favore, fottimi di piu!” (Please, fuck me harder!)

You say, pushing your hips back against him.

“Sono cosi vicino!” (I’m so close!)

A low growl rumbles through his chest and his back arches as he pounds you harder, turning his head so that his lips are right at your ear, breathing heavy.

“Si, tu sborra per me? Vuoi guardarti su tutto il mio uccello?” (Yeah, are you going to cum for me? Are you going to watch yourself cum all over my cock?)

You bite down hard on your lip, trying to hold back the loud noises threatening to spill from your lips.

“M-Muh...M-Maurizio!”

You cry out, hips jerking as you spill your release all over his cock.

“Ah, oh fuck!”

He’s close, too, now.

“Sto per sborra! Oh Dio, ti riempiro io!” (I’m going to cum! Oh God, I’m going to fill you up!)

“Fallo, ti prego! Lo voglio tantissimo!” (Do it, please! I want it so badly!)

His eyes go wide for a moment as his hips stop, pressed deeply inside of you. He cums with a long, low moan, hips rutting as he rides out his high.

“Prendila, prendila dentro di te...” (Take it, take it all inside of you…)

You fall forward onto the cool marble, body limp for a minute after your climax. Maurizio stays buried deep inside of you until he regains control of his breath, pulling his now-limp length from you, quickly tucking it back into his wedding pants.

He helps you pull your dress back down and straighten yourself out.

You gasp when he spins you around and crashes his lips onto yours, holding you against him. Your lips meld together perfectly, your hands gently tugging on his hair.

You two pull away moments later, panting softly.

Maurizio looks sad as he reaches down to hold your hands.

“You’re amazing, beautiful, you’re perfection.”

He kisses your knuckles, which makes you smile.

“Ci vediamo presto, tesoro mio.” (I will see you soon, my treasure)

You nod, lip quivering slightly when the reality hits. He’ll be gone for two weeks on his honeymoon.

You reach up and wrap your arms around his neck, hugging him close, allowing a single tear to fall down your cheek.

“I’ll miss you while you’re away.”

He buries his face into your neck.

“I will call you at some point, I promise.”

Suddenly, there’s a knock at the office door. It’s Giovanni.

“Maurizio, ci sei?” (Maurizio, are you in there?)

His eyes go wide as he pulls away.

“Si! Sarò fuori tra un attimo.” (Yes! I’ll be out in a moment.)

Maurizio looks down at you one last time, tears in his eyes.

“Addio, tesoro mio. Fino a quando ci incontriamo di nuovo.” (Farewell, my treasure. Until we meet again.)

#adamdriverwriter #adam driver #adam driver character #adam driver smut #adam driver fluff #maurizio gucci #maurizio gucci smut #maurizio gucci fluff #maurizio gucci x reader #maurizio gucci x reader smut #maurizio gucci x reader fluff #maurizio gucci x you #house of gucci #tw: extramarital affair #tw: tobacco use #tw: age gap #tw: age difference

264 notes · View notes

aftgficrec · 3 years

Note

Any finished or recently updated fics where Neil is a tattoo artist? Thank you tons. :))

Here’s everything we could find with Neil as a tattoo artist! This includes a couple of my all-time favorite fics, I hope you enjoy them as much as I do. -F

Tattoo artist AU series by @aceass1n [Tumblr, 2021]

Neil is the tattoo artist, Allison is his apprentice, and they work at a studio called “The Foxhole”

Ficlet Collection - or "Sam can't seem to stop writing and she wants to put it all on one place" by constellationqueen [Rated T, Collection, Updated 2017]

Chapter 1 prompt fill: "Could you do "you always this quiet?" for andreil? Thank you!"

“Do you guys do walk-ins?”

Neil looks up from where he’s filling out some paperwork to file on a client that just scheduled an appointment. The blond man standing in front of him has an arm braced on the glass countertop, peering through at the miscellaneous piercings inside.

(tw: scars, tw: implied/referenced abuse)

Foxglove Court series by moonix

Part 1: Foxglove Fridays [Rated T, 4207 words, Complete 2017]

Every Friday, Neil comes into Andrew's shop to buy flowers.

Part 2: Wishbone Wednesdays [Rated G, 8509 words, Complete 2018]

Attraction is a slow creature for Neil. It sneaks up on him over time and winds him tighter and tighter in its coils until he’s smothered in it.

In which Andrew is a florist with magic hands, Neil is a tattoo artist with a tragic past, and everyone else is busy wooing Renee at the coffee shop.

(tw: scars tw: anxiety)

NB: podfic for this fic: [podfic] Foxglove Court by growlery [Complete 2020]

NB: art for this fic by @lio-zehel here

A Splash of Color by gluupor [Rated G, 1548 words, Complete 2020, AFTG Bingo]

A tattoo parlor/flowershop AU featuring Oblivious Neil who Definitely Hates The Florist Next Door

Forever by jostenminyard (onceuponahundred) [Rated G, 807 words, Complete 2016]

okay but pls if you want elaborate on the coffeshop/florist/tattoo shop au again like i just want to know what kind of tattoos neil gives the boys and how the convo goes like do they ask him to make his doodles permanent does he ask to do smth on them ?? do they have tattoos before ?? does neil ever let andrew or kevin use his gun (w some practice) to do smth on him pls i am dying have a wonderful day

Guns and Roses by @stickballjost10 [Tumblr, 2018]

You may also like this recently updated fic where Neil designs tattoos:

Fine-Tuned Afflictions by jensen_57 [Not Rated, 4625 words, incomplete, last updated May 2021]

Neil designs tattoos but refuses to get one. Andrew gives them and exchanges Neil's designs for anything and everything he can find. They skyrocket Foxhole Inks' business and have left him in stunned silence more times than he's willing to admit. So, why is Neil so against getting one of those beautiful pieces decorating his skin?

(technically could be considered just another tattoo artist/bookstore au)

And possibly this one in French:

Il faut choisir, la vie est ailleurs by Dienael [Rated T, 6174 words, Complete 2018]

Le nouveau tatoueur du salon d’Hampton Street avait une tête qui ne lui revenait pas. Ce n’était pas que la tête de grand monde revenait à Andrew seulement, la plupart du temps, il savait pourquoi il prenait en grippe quelqu’un plus que le reste du monde entier.

Lorsque Kevin décide de se faire tatouer, Andrew comprend petit à petit pourquoi exactement, la tête du tatoueur ne lui revenait pas.

(tw: violence)

Art:

tattooed Andrew and tattooed Neil by @lio-zehel

Tattooed Andreil! art by @ravensvsfoxes

70 notes · View notes

laurelleghuleh · 2 years

Text

𝐜𝐚𝐩. 𝟒 | 𝐧𝐞𝐥 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐨 𝐠𝐢𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐨 | 𝐥𝐞𝐯𝐢 𝐱 𝐟𝐞𝐦!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

⤷ consultare la masterlist (tw, moodboard, tags)

𝐰𝐜: +3.9k

𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐞: mafia/gangster au, sfw

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: lemon, hurt/comfort, childhood friends to lovers, forbidden love, one-sided love, love triangle, implied one-sided eruri, minor eremika, minor mikenana

A/N:

In onore del compleanno di Mike (1/11), ho deciso di inserire anche lui nella storia!

Per Hange utilizzo pronomi femminili

Ovviamente non ritengo le Lamborghini auto da cafoni, è solo per la trama, ahahahah

Zeke e Eren potrebbero risultare OOC

Questo sarà l’ultimo capitolo sfw (a buon intenditor poche parole)

Ho aggiornato la masterlist con nuove moodboard e info, vi consiglio di dargli un'occhiata

Tieni sempre la schiena dritta, non curvarti. Fai contare ogni passo. Quando entri in una stanza la scena è tua, gli occhi della Metropoli sono sempre puntati su noi Smith. Sii dignitosa e fine nei movimenti, sii regale.

Non mangiarti le unghie davanti agli altri, sembrerai nervosa e un po’ infantile.

Vestiti sempre tenendo a mente il contesto in cui ti troverai. Persegui la sobrietà, non l’austerità, il buon gusto, non la moda. Non credere a quello che ti dicono: l’abito spesso fa il monaco.

Non poggiare i gomiti sul tavolo quando mangi e aspetta sempre che si siano seduti tutti i commensali prima di iniziare.

Preferisci auto eleganti, di lusso, ma soprattutto di qualità: il gestire attività illegali non ci obbliga ad andare in giro come dei cafoni. Non ostentare.

Guarda negli occhi il tuo interlocutore. Non farti intimidire.

Rispondi educatamente anche quando vorresti solo replicare a tono o alzare la voce. Non lasciarti persuadere nemmeno dal peggiore dei ceffi ad abbassarti al loro livello.

E infine, riponi fiducia in sole tre cose: la nostra famiglia, il tuo istinto e Levi. Il resto non conta, non vale nulla.

La voce di Erwin spesso ti riecheggia in testa senza che nemmeno tu te ne accorga. Che lui ci sia o meno, le sue parole continuano a seguirti ovunque tu vada. Da sempre e per sempre è e sarà l’ombra vigile alle tue spalle, il consiglio giusto sussurrato all’orecchio.

Adesso mentre procedi verso l’ingresso di casa ti sembra di sentirlo ancora.

Sorpassi le Lamborghini Sian dei fratelli Yeager e pensi “Che cafoni”. Nemmeno Erwin li aveva mai visti di buon occhio, eppure puntava fiduciosamente sul giovane Eren, sperava con tutto il suo cuore che non seguisse le orme del fratellastro Zeke.

Era vissuto abbastanza da vedere quella sua scommessa sgretolarglisi a poco a poco tra le dita: Eren assomiglia ogni giorno di più a Zeke nei modi, nei capi d’abbigliamento che sceglie, nel modo in cui articola i pensieri o anche solo nella posa che ha quando cammina. Si dà un sacco di arie.

“Ehi, signorinella, dove credi di andare vestita in quel modo?”, la voce squillante di Mike ti costringe a fermarti sul posto.

Fai un sospiro di sollievo: per fortuna stasera c’è anche il resto del clan. Ma soprattutto c’è anche Mike. Mike Zacharias, fidato e lealissimo uomo di Erwin, è sempre stato come una sorta di secondo fratello per te. Burbero, grezzo e spigoloso, ma immensamente generoso e affidabile. Ti si illumina il viso mentre lo guardi avvicinarsi a te.

Ti cinge le spalle con un braccio e all’orecchio ti fa: “Ti conviene passare per il garage, se tua madre ti vede con questa roba addosso ti fa secca.”

Annuisci e insieme deviate verso destra, sperando che nessuno ti o vi abbia già notati nel vialetto.

“A proposito, gran pezzo di macchina. A chi l’hai rubata?”

“Ti prego, Mike, dammi tregua almeno tu. E’ una lunga storia… ”, gli rispondi guardandolo dal basso con aria stanca. Gli cingi la vita, quasi appendendoti a peso morto a lui, e procedete in silenzio.

A questo punto siete quasi arrivati alla porta di camera tua, lungo il corridoio l’uomo lascia la presa su di te. Prima che le vostre strade si dividano ti afferra per il polso costringendoti a voltarti verso di lui.

Ha lo sguardo fisso a terra mentre ti dice: “Cass, riconoscerei quei vestiti e quell’odore ovunque, lo sai, sì?”

A quelle parole, le vertebre ti vibrano mentre cerchi di respirare. Dischiudi appena le labbra per parlare… Ma in fondo cosa hai intenzione di dirgli? Come puoi spiegargli una situazione del genere?

Lui alza finalmente gli occhi, la sua mano li segue a mezz’aria come volesse fermarti. “No, no. Non devi spiegarmi nulla. Mi fido del tuo buon senso… Però sta’ attenta. Non metterti nei guai proprio adesso. E’ veramente il momento peggiore-”

“Mike, Levi è-”, cerchi di interromperlo.

“So perfettamente com’è Levi. Anche meglio di te, signorinella.” L’uomo stringe la mascella e più in basso, lungo le cosce, i pugni. Freddamente aggiunge: “Non parlavo di lui.”

Il rintocco di un paio di tacchi a spillo riecheggiano in fondo al corridoio, tu e Mike vi scambiate uno sguardo d’allarme. Lui ti fa un gesto con la mano come a dirti di sbrigarti ad entrare in camera.

Ora al sicuro, dall’altra parte della porta, lo senti scambiarsi quattro chiacchiere con qualcuno. Intanto inizi a levarti di dosso gli abiti di Levi il più in fretta che puoi.

“E’ andata a prepararsi, signora”, annuncia lui con fare severo al suo interlocutore.

“Bene. Dille di darsi una mossa però. Ci sono gli Yeager”, gli risponde una voce femminile. Inconfondibile. E’ Yelena, la compagna di tua madre. “E di mettersi qualcosa di carino. E di truccarsi. E’ un’ora che la stiamo aspettando… Quella ragazzina deve imparare che il mondo non ruota intorno a lei.”

Zacharias probabilmente annuisce. Percepisci il suono dei tacchi sfumare. Poi un colpo alla porta.

“E io che pensavo che il mondo ruotasse intorno a te”, ti dice sorridendo Mike quando il suo volto fa capolino nella tua stanza.

Tu intanto sei ancora in mutande davanti all’armadio, indecisa su cosa indossare. Ti volti e con aria scocciata gli fai: “Non ho alcuna intenzione di mettermi in tiro, soprattutto per gli Yeager. Posso scendere in pigiama?”

Mike è sposato da anni con Nanaba, altro membro del clan e amica storica di Erwin. Lo era ancor prima che si decidesse a metterle un anello al dito. E comunque per lui avrai per sempre due anni e il pollice in bocca, vederti in intimo non gli fa nè caldo nè freddo.

Ti si para di fianco e fissa con te l’immensa distesa di abiti che hai. Vorrebbe fare una battuta a riguardo, ma Nanaba gli ha insegnato a comportarsi meglio di così. “Nessuno ti ha chiesto di metterti in tiro. La prima cosa che trovi andrà benissimo. Anche il pigiama, ma non farti più vedere in giro con quei vestiti, intesi?”

“Sì, Mike. Ho capito. Il concetto è chiaro. Vogliamo bruciarli in un falò così starai più tranquillo?”

L’uomo ti sorride e scuote il capo, poi ti scompiglia i capelli come fossi ancora una scolaretta. Prima di uscire dalla stanza ti fa: “Mettiti un dolcevita bianco come faceva sempre Erwin. Li farai uscire di testa.” Una volta sulla soglia aggiunge: “Dai, muoviti, ti aspetto fuori.”

Con quel maglioncino infilato in un elegantissimo e candido pantalone a vita alta, ti dirigi in sala da pranzo. Schiena dritta e mento all'insù. Alle tue spalle Mike ti accompagna fino al posto che ti è stato designato: alla sinistra di Eren, dirimpetto a Zeke. Poco più in là Evangeline e Yelena. Lungo l’immensa tavolata il resto del clan.

Tutta l’attenzione della stanza è ora catalizzata su di te: sei la portata di quel pasto che stavano tanto aspettando.

Mike si siede accanto a Nanaba e insieme cercano di rassicurarti con lo sguardo. Hai sentito il vuoto sotto i piedi da quando si è allontanato da te per raggiungerla. Hai la gamba che ti trema sotto al tavolo, senti la pelle quasi pruderti. Vorresti solo portarti le mani alla bocca e divorartele a piccoli morsi.

Non mangiarti le unghie davanti agli altri, sembrerai nervosa e un po’ infantile.

Cerchi di calmarti sistemandoti dietro l’orecchio una ciocca sfuggita allo stretto e quasi perfetto chignon.

Evangeline dall’altro capo del tavolo ti studia da testa a piedi: sei in ordine e ben vestita, hai le perle ai lobi e un trucco leggerissimo, quasi impercettibile. E’ soddisfatta per qualche secondo, poi però, osservandoti sommariamente, il sopracciglio le scatta sull’attenti.

Le ricordi Erwin, in questo momento sembri la sua copia sputata. E non solo per quel dolcevita bianco, quella linea morbida ed elegante dei pantaloni, o quel volto pulito, ma perchè è così palese, così lampante che tu non ti sia agghindata per quei due rampolli seduti accanto a te. Né per nessun altro in quella sala. Sei dignitosa e perfetta e lo sei solo per te stessa. Proprio come Erwin ti aveva sempre chiesto di essere. Mike aveva ragione, il suo consiglio è stato prezioso.

Evangeline non indugia oltre e invita il resto dei commensali ad iniziare. Eren non se lo fa ripetere due volte e si getta a capofitto sulla prima portata. Tra un boccone e l’altro di chiede che fine hai fatto. Di recente nessuno ti ha più vista in giro.

Tu gli rispondi sbrigativamente che hai avuto da fare, mentre con lo sguardo scorri la tavolata per cercare chi manca ancora all’appello. Con la coda dell'occhio hai notato una sedia vuota.

Nile. Nile Dok, altro elemento della cerchia ristretta di tuo fratello, da pochissimi anni rientrato nelle sue grazie e ormai membro imprescindibile del clan. Attendi ancora qualche minuto e quando lo vedi prendere posto, afferri finalmente le posate. Tovagliolo sulle gambe e spalle perfettamente allineate allo schienale.

Non poggiare i gomiti sul tavolo quando mangi e aspetta sempre che si siano seduti tutti i commensali prima di iniziare.

“Mikasa era super in pensiero”, bofonchia Eren a bocca piena.

“Come sta lei, piuttosto?”, gli chiedi senza pensarci troppo su.

“Bene, bene. Cose del genere fanno solo il solletico a una come lei. Se la caverà. Però, te lo dico eh, mi ha fatto crepare. Mi sono cagato in mano quando è tornata a casa con il labbro spaccato e tutto quel sangue addosso. Ti immagini la scena?! Erano tipo le tre, lei rientra così, grondante di rosso, che lasciava le orme per terra… Per poco non le sparo un colpo in testa-”

Ad un certo punto smetti di seguirlo, l’importante è che Mikasa stia bene, e in verità l’unica cosa a cui riesci a pensare, mentre fissi la sua bocca aprirsi e sbiascicare cercando di non sputacchiare troppo cibo fuori, è quanto sboccato e insensibile sia diventato. Lo preferivi da ragazzino, quando giocavate insieme ed eravate letteralmente inseparabili. Lo preferivi quando non assomigliava così tanto a quel pallone gonfiato di suo fratello.

“Ma scusa tu come fai a saperlo?”

“Cosa?”, gli fai. Ti eri distratta.

“Dico, come fai a sapere di Mikasa?! Mi ha detto che non ti sente da un pezzo. Chi te-”

Avevi già sentito un brivido freddo correrti giù per la schiena, ma quella piccola goccia si gela a metà strada quando venite interrotti dalla voce di Zeke dall’altro capo del tavolo.

“Di cosa parlottate voi due, eh? Le stai raccontando della Sian che ti ho regalato? Che ne pensi, Cass? Sono o non sono il fratello maggiore migliore della Metropoli?”, si pavoneggia il biondo agitando la forchetta al vento.

“Quella verde?”, chiedi pacatamente ad Eren. Lui di risposta annuisce energicamente, troppo impegnato a divorare quel pezzo di bistecca per aprire la bocca e formulare una frase di senso compiuto.

Preferisci auto eleganti, di lusso, ma soprattutto di qualità: il gestire attività illegali non ci obbliga ad andare in giro come dei cafoni. Non ostentare.

“La trovo un po’ troppo appariscente. Ma se il tuo obiettivo era dare nell’occhio sicuramente ci sei riuscito. Sì, più o meno un cazzotto nell’occhio”, rispondi freddamente tagliando con precisione chirurgica la carne nel tuo piatto.

Qualche metro più in là, Mike quasi si strozza al suono delle tue parole. Sta cercando di soffocare una risata di pancia. Nanaba gli tira un calcione sotto il tavolo.

Dall’altro capo invece la compagna di tua madre ti redarguisce subito: dovresti stare attenta a come ti rivolgi ad un capo clan. Di certo in fatto di macchine Zeke deve saperne molto più di una stupida ragazzina impertinente.

“Mi è stata chiesta la mia opinione. E io ho risposto.”, gli dici con fare di sfida mentre ti porti lentamente il calice di vino alle labbra.

Intanto continui a guardare Zeke dal bordo del bicchiere, non cedi di un millimetro. Lui ricambia l’intensità di quella occhiataccia, neanche lui ha intenzione di farsi intimidire. Una fitta scarica di elettricità si tende in quella breve distanza tra di voi. In cuor tuo speri che lo fulmini.

Guarda negli occhi il tuo interlocutore. Non farti intimidire.

“No, no, non c’è bisogno di scaldarsi tanto. Ha solo detto la sua”, dice rivolgendosi al resto dei commensali, come a voler placare gli animi. Nessuno gli ha chiesto di farlo. Gli altri membri della tua famiglia non si sono minimamente scomposti, fatta eccezione per Mike che sta ancora cercando disperatamente di non piangere dal ridere. E per Evangeline e Yelena, che stanno cercando di non farsi venire un attacco di cuore.

Poi Zeke dirige la sua attenzione di nuovo su di te: “Almeno sai su che razza di macchina poggi il culo, ragazza?”

Deve averti vista rientrare nel vialetto poco fa. Lo immagini scostare la tenda di pesante velluto e osservarti spegnere la Roma. Temi che oltre alla macchina abbia notato anche cosa portavi addosso, che abbia indugiato con lo sguardo su quegli abiti troppo maschili e troppo poco verosimili per il tuo armadio.

Incroci le dita sperando che le luci basse del crepuscolo ti abbiano nascosta a dovere.

Inali forte dalle narici e ti sistemi contro lo schienale. Con tutta calma gli rispondi: “Ferrari Roma grigio Silverstone. Gran turismo. Motore 3900 biturbo V8 da 620 cavalli e 760 newtonmetri di coppia massima. Cambio ad 8 rapporti. Velocità massima 320 km, i 0-100 si fanno in appena 3 secondi e 4. Trazione posteriore. Manettino a 5 posizioni. Quella che preferisco? La Sport, ma anche le altre si guidano che è una meraviglia. Soprattutto la Wet.”

Rispondi educatamente anche quando vorresti solo replicare a tono o alzare la voce. Non lasciarti persuadere nemmeno dal peggiore dei ceffi ad abbassarti al loro livello.

Non sai se il ghigno che ha appena tagliato la faccia di Zeke sia di rabbia o assoluta estasi. Immagini entrambe. In realtà è semplicemente colpito dal dettaglio con cui conosci quell’auto, allo stesso tempo però sa benissimo che quella non è una pura casualità. Gli hai appena fornito la prova che stava cercando.

Si scambia uno sguardo d’intesa con Evangeline, da lontano il suo calice si alza all’unisono con quello di Yeager senior. Hai l’impressione che un patto sia stato appena stipulato. Nella stanza inizia a tirare un’aria strana, ne senti quasi il gelo sulla pelle.

Di scatto ti volti verso Mike e Nanaba: stanno mangiando serenamente e parlottano a voce bassa, come due complici, sembrano non essersi accorti di nulla. Anche Nile, al suo ennesimo calice di Pinot, ha il volto disteso. Continui a guardarti intorno, stai cercando un paio di occhi che stasera sono lontani solo un paio di chilometri, eppure ti sembrano un’immensità.

E infine, riponi fiducia in sole tre cose: la nostra famiglia, il tuo istinto e Levi. Il resto non conta, non vale nulla.

Distrattamente lo sguardo ti cade a capotavola. Gli occhi di ghiaccio di Evangeline ti gelano. Poco prima hai pensato quanto taciturna sia stata per tutta la sera. Quando finalmente ti rivolge parola, sogni di poter tornare a qualche secondo fa e non averla mai sentita dirti: “Da oggi in poi gli Yeager saranno nostri partner, tesoro.”

“Abbiamo già dei partner.”, dici senza nemmeno accorgertene.

Yelena si fa scappare una risata di bocca. Tra i denti la senti sibilare qualcosa di vago contro di te.

“Gli Ackerman non sono partner di nessuno, Cassiopea. Al massimo possono fare i cani da guardia.”, ti fredda da capo tavola Evangeline. “Sono buoni amici, certo, ma sono solo un branco di mastini, randagi raccimolati da bordo strada da quello squilibrato di Kenny. E a noi conviene tenerli a cuccia, buoni in angolo non troppo lontano. Non al nostro fianco. Non al nostro pari.”

I pugni ti si stringono sopra le cosce, le unghie quasi tagliano la stoffa dei pantaloni mentre vi affondano. Vorresti gridare, ma non hai nemmeno il coraggio di alzare gli occhi da tavola. Ti sei lasciata intimidire.

Non hai nemmeno il coraggio di alzare gli occhi da tavola, ma da destra percepisci un’aura di malessere provenire da Mike e Nanaba. Non hai nemmeno il coraggio di alzare gli occhi da tavola, ma riesci già a figurarti la smorfia soddisfatta che deve aver arricciato il volto di Zeke.

Diversi secondi di amaro silenzio dopo, la voce di tuo fratello ti squilla di nuovo in testa. Non farti intimidire. “Erwin non la pensava così.”, riesci finalmente a dire. Le parole si sono timidamente trascinate fuori, ma ce l’hai fatta. “Non avrebbe mai-”

Vieni interrotta. “Pensava. Avrebbe. Hai detto bene, ragazzina”, ti corregge dall’altro lato del tavolo il maggiore degli Yeager. “Erwin è morto, o te lo sai già dimenticata?”

Mike sussulta sul suo posto, Nanaba lo tiene fermo con una mano sull'addome. Non riesci a vedere Nile dalla tua posizione ma sai che probabilmente anche lui ora sta cercando di fulminare Zeke con lo sguardo.

Non farti intimidire.

“Me lo ricorda ogni secondo che passa, stai tranquillo.” Fai una pausa. Hai bisogno di un bel respiro profondo prima dell’accusa che stai per lanciare. Non farti intimidire. “Piuttosto qualcun altro sembra essersene dimenticato, dato che a nessuno pare davvero importare che, mentre noi ce ne stiamo qui a rimpinzarci come porci, là fuoril’assassino di Erwin è ancora a piede libero.”

“Cassiopea.” Odi quando tua madre ti chiama per nome. “Ancora con questa storia? Ti ho già detto che ci stiamo lavorando. Stai veramente oltrepassando il limite. A chi mai potrebbe interessare più che alla sua famiglia di trovare-” Non farti intimidire.

“Agli Ackerman. A quei cani randagi che non fate altro che denigrare. Hanno fatto più progressi loro in queste ultime settimane che chiunque altro seduto a questa tavola. Chiunque di questa famiglia.” Sai di aver appena ferito i tuoi amici con queste parole, ma non ti importa. In fondo, se continuano a piegare la testa in questo modo, sono complici anche loro di tutto questo gran casino.

Il silenzio che segue sembra durare ore, forse anni. Tutti gli occhi della tavola sono ora puntati su di te. Di scatto ti alzi, ma questa volta non per scappare, stai andando da qualche parte.

Ti scusi con il resto dei commensali, hai perso l’appetito, “Con permesso”. Sei quasi sulla soglia del salone quando Zeke ti chiede di non scaldarti troppo, non si addice ad una bella e giovane ragazza come te. E prima che tu possa andartene ti ricorda una regola fondamentale di quel mondo: non importa chi o cosa ti fa fuori, come o perchè, una volta fuori dai giochi, sei fuori dai giochi.

Non hai intenzione di rimanere lì un solo secondo in più. I passi si rincorrono uno dietro l’altro mentre ti avvii verso l’ingresso. Un maggiordomo si affanna a rincorrerti con un cappotto, fuori ormai fa troppo freddo, tu lo prendi al volo e un attimo dopo sei già nel vialetto, di fronte alla tua Roma.

Ti sembra di non essere nemmeno nella tua pelle, le mani sul volante e i piedi sui pedali si muovono da soli mentre raggiungi la tua destinazione. Codici, scanner vocali, il marmo freddo e scuro di quell’appartamento, le luci soffuse e di ghiaccio. Cominci a chiamare il suo nome, ma a casa sua di Levi non c’è traccia.

Ti guardi attorno sperduta, poi ricordi. Villa Ackerman. Stasera Levi è a Villa Ackerman.

Qualche minuto dopo finalmente arrivi. Villa Ackerman non ha cancelli o sentinelle, è immensa, spaventosa e inaccessibile di suo. Non ha bisogno di altro. Allo stesso tempo però le sue porte sono sempre aperte, per chiunque. Chi ha davvero il coraggio di avvicinarvisi è degno di potervi entrare e nel caso chiedere aiuto.

All’interno è altrettanto complessa e labirintica, eppure tu conosci quel luogo a memoria, i suoi cunicoli e infiniti corridoi non hanno segreti per te. Corri a perdifiato tra gli androni mentre saluti sbrigativamente un paio di membri del clan.

Non devi nemmeno chiedere, sanno già tutti perchè - o meglio per chi - sei lì. Mentre procedi a passo svelto, tutti ti indicano i sotterranei.

L’umidità che ti accoglie lì sotto sembra trapassare la stoffa, oltre la pelle e fin dentro le ossa, la senti pungerti. Il silenzio è tombale, solo il rintocco dei tuoi passi e dei tuoi respiri pesanti. Hai le mani ghiacciate, ma la faccia ti va a fuoco.

Ci sei quasi, la porta del bunker è vicina.

All’improvviso una figura ti si para davanti. E’ un uomo sulla trentina, capelli castani e grandi occhi dolci. Moblit. Moblit Berner, taciturno braccio destro di Hange Zoe, tuttofare, mago dei computer, esperto scassinatore e ottimo cuoco.

Ti afferra per le spalle. “Non penso sia il caso, Cass. Non stasera.”

“Devo parlare con Levi, adesso.”

“Ti ho appena detto che non è il caso, ti prego, dammi retta.” Ha lo sguardo preoccupato, le mani gli tremano contro la stoffa del tuo cappotto.

Ti liberi bruscamente dalla sua presa e lo sorpassi senza dargli il tempo di opportisi di nuovo. Spalanchi la porta ignara di quello che troverai. Ignara dei due corpi appesi a testa in giù. Tra di loro, perfettamente allineata, c'è una sedia e un uomo con il capo chino seduto sopra. Mostrano tutti e tre evidenti e molteplici ferite da taglio, il sangue sgocciola ancora fresco dalle loro vesti. Sono vivi, ma non per molto.

Senza accorgertene continui a procedere verso di loro. Alcuni membri del clan Ackerman cercano di fermarti o anche solo rallentarti: Eld cerca di aggrappartisi al braccio, Oruo ti chiede cosa cazzo sei venuta a fare, Gunther ti dice che non è il caso di avvicinarti, Petra ti implora di uscire.

Più avanti, al centro della stanza, due persone ti stanno dando le spalle.

La prima si volta. E’ Hange, ha lo sguardo allarmato. C’è qualcosa che non vuole che tu veda e non si tratta nè di quei due ceffi appesi nè delle condizioni in cui verte l’altro seduto di fronte a lei. La vedi deglutire e quasi aprire la bocca, vorrebbe dirti anche lei di filartela e alla svelta.

Ma Levi, al suo fianco, è più veloce. Si volta anche lui. Ha le narici larghe, gli occhi spalancati e iniettati di sangue. I vestiti sono sporchi, rivoli rossi gli hanno tinto la pelle esposta.

Mentre procede lentamente verso di te, ti sembra di indossare finalmente gli occhi della Metropoli e di vederlo, ora, come fosse la prima volta. Quello è il vero Levi Ackerman.

E’ a meno di un metro da te. Ti sta fissando come fossi l’ultimo banchetto della tua vita. Tu sei lì, al di là della gabbia di quella belva feroce, candida da testa a piedi. Adesso, in quel freddo bunker, quel dolcevita bianco assomiglia tanto ad una stola rossa fatta ondeggiare pericolosamente di fronte alle corna di un toro. Sei nel bel mezzo di una corrida. Levi continua a squadrarti mentre il petto gli si gonfia e sgonfia erraticamente.

Erwin. Sembri Erwin. Sembri così tanto Erwin.

Hange scatta in avanti e quasi si para tra voi due. Ti bisbiglia che non è davvero il caso adesso, è meglio che tu vada. Cerca con lo sguardo Moblit sul fondo della sala, alza il braccio come per chiamarlo.

La mano insanguinata di Levi si alza a mezz’aria. Hange si gela sul posto.

“Fatela restare.” La sua voce non è mai stata così roca, così cupa. La punta del suo naso quasi sfiora la tua, quando ad un centimetro dalla tua faccia ti fa: “Voglio proprio vedere di che pasta sei fatta.”

11 notes · View notes

penrose-quinn · 3 years

Text

Sinnerman [Preview III] | Prosciutto/F!Reader

posted: 08.04.21 | full: [TBA] [Preview I] [Preview II] [From Eden]

word count: 537

content tags: can be read as a short drabble/excerpt. a companion piece to from eden. some references to from eden. pre-vento aureo.

tw: blood. implied violence. smoking. prosciutto being a mafioso.

a/n: i miss prosciutto :( this is the last preview i’m going to post because if i post another one, i can’t surprise ya’ll haha (but i’ve been careful to not choose the heavy-hitters so far, except perhaps the snippet about pros’s past hit). anyways, cheers to oblivious pining!

Prosciutto hasn’t intended to come back to Sorrento for a year after being stationed in Naples.

Though you find him in the promenade of Riviera di Chiaia this time.

The both of you settle this coincidental reunion in a baretti called Il Vetro Rosso; exuding a vintage kind of sophistication, but also a warmth that closes around an intimacy found in preserved memory, encapsulating the room in polished wood, brocade and leather chairs, scintillating wall mirrors, memorabilia, and the spiced scent of wax, tobacco, and orange cognac. The flavors of a summer passed, a daydream.

Perhaps, it brings out something in you with the way you look at him, admitting to him that you’re here to visit someone from your college. He learns that you’ve studied in the University of Naples, that an old acquaintance has invited you for a christening, that no one truly knows about your affiliation to the underground here. Aside from him.

The alcohol must have mellowed you down, and Prosciutto thinks you’re careless for talking about these small personal matters, though he recognizes your sincerity when you reach out to him, as if the two of you are no more but a friend to another, persons meeting.

“Tell me about your day,” you say, idly twirling the straw of your drink in contemplative circles. “Doesn’t have to be serious. Or anything about what we do . . .”

Then your lips purse together; the color on them flakes a little, but there’s a wet sheen from the low misty light.

“I want to know how you’ve been, Prosciutto.”

Prosciutto doesn’t see you often anymore. He wants to amend that.

He won’t tell you about it, but he does ask for your phone number instead.

The first time Prosciutto calls you, he draws in a breath from the welcoming sound of your voice.

He feels more afloat from it than the nicotine in his lungs, the warm blood-rich tang in the air; almost tasting faintly of salt, like that of Sorrento’s. Not from the sea spray, but of sweat and spit clinging on the dry wall. He smokes out the veranda because of it.

The traitor’s teeth are still scattered on the floor for not fessing up information. Formaggio’s messy work. Like most new recruits, he doesn’t know when to curb his cruelty, doesn’t know how to refine himself just yet. He’s razor-sharp like a dagger, lips clever and cut into a sickle smile, easily drunken with power, though as an assassin, he still lacks organization.

Proscuitto won’t tolerate that. He’ll beat him up for it later.

He sighs, staring at the antiquity of Piazza del Ponterosso gleam in the evening, made brighter from the afterglow of the post-rain.

Prosciutto doesn’t tell you he misses you on the phone, but he wishes you’re next to him, leaning on the balustrade with a wineglass at hand. A Cartier Panthère quartz watch brandished on your wrist.

He thinks of your lips again, moving to greet him from the other line, and he stalls a bit to smoke, savoring the familiar curl of your words, like how he lets your name linger on his mouth in a calm brooding drawl. “Trieste is beautiful at night.”

#prosciutto x reader #jjba x reader #prosciutto #jjba #jjba scenarios #vento aureo #from eden #pen writes #i like quiet moments like this with pros (minus the part he's prob torturing someone in the other room)#he's right tho - trieste is beautiful at night #can't believe he didn't ask for reader's number before lol #tw: blood and implied violence #tw: smoking

15 notes · View notes

paraclete0407 · 3 years

Text

That my favorite JLC novel was ‘Call for the Dead’ - a reference for the Black Death

Nora Roberts’ ‘Holding the Dream’ - ‘Project 521′

‘[Japanese word for bouquet] super-cruise

‘Afterburner’ - hands on shoulders

‘Disbelief in math’ - you [stole presence of breast]

‘Why am I so dumb’

Drinking boiling tea on empty stomach till fly, leap weightlessly

‘Mariposa 2016′ - why not be ‘wheeled out’

‘Speak while breathing in’

10.

Oxygen from outside not needed; breathing is crutch

11.

Do backflip; test of will

12.

‘Germantown Lake’

13.

Instant respect University School of Milwaukee

14.

‘UW-Milwaukee (once) respected me’

15.

‘The infliction

16.

‘H3B’ - ‘Mutt Riley’ drug-dealer w/ heart of gold (fake stock character) ‘Malaysian Camille,’ fingers intercostal, ‘Liesl,’ point to books w/ furry boot-toes, ‘I want to kick that cat.’ Some kind of gov’t agency. Girl w/ marmalade hair,

17.

‘Gangster Opera’ - ‘__-ya what _ _ _ _’ - ‘penalty life’

18.

‘Flamenco dance-hall poison gas massacre’ - ‘First Love’

19.

‘The Persian Girl’ - NYC container-ship nuclear terrorism

20.

‘Oxygen Girl and Lithium Boy’ - W. Allen ‘Jupiter Symphony’ - Green R-33 - ‘Yeppeo Harkke’ - ‘I’m not Allen; don’t want to know everything; I groom no one; I expect not to live forever; IDC abt ‘sexual awakening’ + doesn’t need to be taught. Unoriginal sinner, un-special sophistication, ‘nubile’ - well f--- you and praise God f---face

21.

Distributing the apple-baskets to the poor

22.

‘Epipen’ hostess-bar; [fake name spoken by munch-crumple-idiot].

23.

‘The Coalminer’s Wife.’ Rutgers is Pyongyang; Mason Gross School of the Arts is Pyongyang; spiral staircase, why am I so dumb. ‘Poetry-writing is like _ _ but novel-writing is like coal-mining.’ The small room, loom / weave. Sleep in uniform apron / visor. Blindness. Hairband. ‘If you wear this shirt on college 1st day will meet fut. husband.’

Sitting in subterranean culvert, bride, pink silver white, orange light. Kneeling in matte white in coal-hill. ‘The village headman’s daughter.’ Candle. Roman Catholicism implied.

24.

Legalistic, fat on health-foods. Friend is skinny always burning self down, love of pizza. ‘Sungjin.’

25.

‘Minister of the Right’ - ‘Scholar Jin and Lady Periwinkle’

26.

‘Eternal Protector YSS his face was white to blacks black to whites spoke breathing in, racist in immutable divine capacity, picking up valuables from ground even if stolen property =/- smashing store-window to steal. Terrible elephant-trumpet, sinking, PCH will burn me w/ cigarette-tip in Eternity.

27.

‘Sospira’ - mandatory euthanasia for piano-teacher after ‘genius student’ graduates

28.

‘Man is woman and woman is b _ _.’ ‘Women are floors.’

29.

The bird says ‘laoshi.’ The rabbit approaches me; my son. Little kids w/ armored lower legs will crush me.

30.

‘So tired from writing strip-club accounts by hand shoulder fatigue the RU Aryan Nation (inc. blonde Jewesses) easily bent her arm to make it look like suicide.’

31.

‘I caused WW3 due to collective hallucination and/or CCP deepfake; casus belli

32.

‘We’ll give you a five-course meal then f--- you up + also plant bomb in stomach

33.

‘I f---ig TOLD YOU

34.

Mom trusted me with absolute trust-ness as we walked; Jew ‘Take your family _____!’ ‘Carlos Park,’ ‘I HATE Jews; they think they’re the only humans.’ ‘At least we can all agree about Obergefell(?!).’

35.

Why Episcopalians sing about Socrates?

36.

Tell parents, ‘Don’t you know how easy it is to generate deepfakes and say anyone did anything?’ They drove away leaving me outside Best Buy.

37.

‘He’s like the Palestinians.’ ‘I really like you.’ Black boy in pom-pom-hat, tooth-smile, tinfoil.’ My Tibetan bracelet, Diamond Gym Maplewood

38.

‘Meta-wolf.’ Painterly resolution of cinema. Die at piano. Stab self in right thigh.

39.

Looking in to the PC screen 2003 I saw the future; at the very end of the _ _ vid the katana right through her mouth and head / brain / skull. Dads to plan Covid ultra-vengeance. YSS, ‘I killed my sons to _ _ _.’

40.

St. Peter in sky

41.

‘Delight of bread; it befits Man’s dignity... Xi Jinping likes _... delight stomach nursing school, orange sherbert, all ight getting beaten

42.

The Black PhD woman wants me to apply lip-gloss(?!), will not expand on educational philosophy of institution - ‘I blah blah blah Harvard, middle class can’t live within means - Shanghai novel ‘What We Were Not Promised’ - ‘

43.

Guidance counselor you f----- it up - incompetent reprobate self-hypermasculinizing crop-hair Jewess man up Derek Chauvin

43.

‘The neural math Yuki Katakura, mirror neurons, decoupling, cannot ride the vestibule, Matt Chai, “Correspondence and Correlation’ Berkeley CA, ‘Catherine Chai’ emerald dress, McDonalds in the days when seats were fixed outside. Michelle WAi funeral; she played guitar; commanded submarine, assassinated by RPG Arab terrorist. G-36. ‘Fantail.’

44.

‘What’s Myeong Hyeongeso up to?’ - I really love my friend Cunningham whose heartrate spikes probably b/c he knows there’s CCP Yakuza assassins somewhere al the time thinking of murdering him

45.

Daejin McDonald’s one night, I start singing ’Star Spangled Banner.’ Kim Jong Un launches missile arcing over cereal grain fields, I start singing ‘Star Spangled Banner.’

46.

Literally 2015, ‘Trinity of Happiness.’ Later ‘finally enter.’ Gold label lite cigarette, ‘I’m gonna have my day!’

47.

I gave the little kid money + he flipped out; he later tried to freeze himself to death as Texas Bill is manning up worried about magazine cliches, contributions to ROKA(?). Kid quit due to voice but he’s still better than me! Fire all these people, CDF, ‘Charles David Framingham,’ nuke Milwaukee, I don’t trust his data. ‘I had so much sex before marriage’ - just die I read your magazine 3,0000 years ago. I can’t believe anyone wants to be you; my grandfather was B-24 co-pilot, main pilot KIA, landed without landing-training, grapefruit morning, infinite wrist-strength. I smashed up his house but he didn’t get mad, just stutter. Dead-eyed f---face shooting every animal in Texas.

48.

Very much fear of P2 holiness but holiness-shyness even worse than love-shyness even more blasphemous, I sincerely hope he strangles me very soon

49.

The evillest thing I ever thought, the ‘death of deaths,’ Kim Jong Il, what was he thinking? I used to toy with TW-1, say word ‘zombie’ ‘How could you do that?!’ I didn’t liquefy girls’ skeletons or sth; it’s like Schindler’s List soundtrack; I just don’t know words for it. ‘Final Gesture’ - Jesus to Judas ‘friend?’

50.

Iraq War Day trail-running, later cognizance of Noam Chomsky Hiroshima Day. Wanted to say Op. Olympic noble but in retrospect ‘Bells of Nagasaki’ + ‘swamp of Japan.’ My grandfather’s funeral, dad is, ‘We have all drunk from wells we did not dig.’ Chinese chicken eat, nap, I can run all the way up of the hill w/ African chat. I like YooA ‘Bon Voyage,’ check CNS high reps, atrial fibrillation.

51.

SHINEE fangirl ‘Stella(?)’ - noli me tangerine I know that stuff is ‘little stars.’ Awed at my gait ‘If only they had stayed in hot pursuit.’ I wanna believe in all that stuff as well; I am also a dead-ender or last-chancer or last-caller; I admire Mari Iijima, ‘’Uncompromising Innocence.’ ‘Little Heaven’ but that’s Kim Jongilism or I’m worse than Kim Jong Il for thinking about ‘Agents Running in the Field.’ Timothy Keller, ‘I don’t like broccoli.’ I felt it was an innuendo and it made me think of HJ that gave me her number but I didn’t call b/c I’m against prostitution and I felt it’s fake number b/c everything is the Shadowplay. I made stupid lewd stuff for years despite ‘Anointment’ and ‘When To Care’ - ‘toucan, macaw, demi-bra.’ Everyone thinks I’m a rapist but I’m not pressing my case; I don’t mouth-breath; I don’t spit. I read ‘Sentimental Education’ and pre-targeted; I gave up; I wish Gen. McChrystal could be President or GWB 3rd term, conscience of Moon Jaein, ‘Weary Head.’ Thought I was ‘all hard’ for reading Natsume Soseki’s ‘Meian’ with ex-girlfriend’s smile at the end but he as dying then I started seeing kisses + wife-smiles and stuff; what’s Francis Chan up to?, does Mike Pompeo know I am real? I liked 2nd Inuyasha movie, that song was about Mochida Kaori’s unborn niece or nephew, Kinokuniya Edgewater Mitsuwa. The ‘Many Pieces’ live version ended with bass-note - ‘cantus firmus’ - instead of fadeout and wail. Stone Lake NK Mountain morning. Fav. Bible book 2 Timothy - ‘grievous wolves.’ & I used to listen to ‘Arirang’ and hear the Latin, ‘Respondemus’ - my favorite person said that Latin’s ‘quaint’ but it’s the lingua franca of the Roman Empire and that’s the final empire of this world that never went away; but this is a specific era, the great wave Delta and it’s not even the last iteration If I know anything about biological war or Satan. Unironically fall on your face; ten billion jewel-souls tonight and this terrible fire rolling over. I just simply pray for mercy on Milwaukee + somebody suspend their infinity-war-dueling over all the ills of yesterday back to Original Sin nd the Fall of Lucifer. I’m unhappy that I know all this pop-culture; ‘worlds are swaying / someone is praying / please let us come home to stay’ or Kahi’s ‘One Love’ where at the end it uses the word for ‘I’ in the subjective case which is ‘arm confirmed identity’

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cuorepietoso · 4 years

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Il primo amore non si scorda mai.

ft. Alessio Rossi & Rainer Gersten Trigger warnings: graphic violence and choking, injury, blood, alcohol use

I. 2010, [LOCATION REDACTED]

Gersten’s hands are pale, with veins so blue that they look like great stretches of river, sweeping through an icy landscape. The knuckles and tendons jut out, and his fingers are lean enough to look skeletal. They perfectly match the rest of him, pale and a little too long and sharp, right down to the near-white tuft of hair that sits atop his head. Those hands are sunburned, now, as are the high lines of his cheekbones, which Tahan only notices because his neck is so goddamn lily-white, where he’d kept his scarf tightly wound in the blistering sun.

He gets up out of his cot, and paces. Opens the chest at the foot of Rossi’s cot, where the man watches with knowing amusement, and gathers a bottle of aloe gel, which he slaps down in front of the older man with force. Gersten, the bastard, has the audacity to grin at him, his cadaverous hands stilled from their task-- sharpening a wicked-looking blackened steel knife. Without a word, he drops the knife and slathers a generous helping of the goo on his hands, rubbing it into the burn and the calluses on his palm alike, before sweeping them over his pinkend cheeks. Tahan turns back to his pacing, restless.

Rossi watches this scene pass with the air of a particularly pleased jungle cat, lithe and lean and dangerous, if he weren’t so lazy in the moment. The book in his lap lays open, ignored, no doubt some ancient novel in a language that Tahan doesn’t speak. The man insists they offer great insight into what he refers to as only, ‘the human condition,’ with his nose turned up like royalty. Gersten always laughs at that, and accuses him of reading racy trash in another language, just to hide the fact that he’s a pervert. It always turns him the prettiest shade of pink he thinks he’s ever seen stretching under the light array of freckles, and he can’t help but wonder if the German agrees, the way he ribs him.

His pacing is halted by one of those freshly-sticky, pale hands. Their gazes meet, warm cinnamon brown to the unidentifiable haze of blue-pale-red, and Gersten peels his lips from his teeth in a rictus grin, and the man’s dry rasp sounds like the scrape of a blade against sandstone when he murmurs, “thanks, flunky.”

Tahan makes to pull away with a heavy eye roll, but Gersten tightens his grip, gaze unwavering. The grin slips from his lips, leaving nothing but a vast, blank sea. All of the life drains from him for a moment, the air around them seems to cool until the hairs on Tahan’s arms start to prickle, and his heart skitters around in his chest strangely when he hears Rossi sit up a little behind him, shifting his legs under his blanket. Just one moment of suspense, as the wraith pauses, and then vigor pours back into him in disjointed bits and pieces as he murmurs, “no, really. I appreciate you.”

He does tug his arm away, a little more gently than he perhaps intended, and barely resists the urge to curl it close to his body and rub at the skin that seems to burn and tingle from the touch. It’s just the aloe vera gel. There’s a tense silence for a moment, before he remembers how to use his voice. “It’s just aloe, for the sunburn.”

Rossi scoffs behind him, setting aside his big book, and when he turns to see what the hell his problem is, the younger man is standing, stretching his arms above his head languidly. “That’s not what he’s talking about, darling.” His brows furrow at the casual response, but he remains perfectly still when Rossi leans against his back and settles his chin on his shoulder, draping himself like a particularly recalcitrant blanket.

Gersten watches them with a considerate look on his face, and then thoughtfully picks up the knife, testing the edge of the blade with his thumb. “Oh? And what did you think I meant, schatzi?”

Rossi’s arms tighten like a noose, a playful headlock that he lets himself fall into without a second thought. His voice is rich, warm and solid like rock heated by the late afternoon sun, and Tahan can feel the smile in the cheek pressed to his ear. “You know what I mean. He may not look it now, but he’s ferocious.” Heat floods his cheeks, and he splutters for a moment before Rossi shakes him once again into stillness, and continues. “And he’s sweet, like the loyal flea bitten stray you slip some meat to when your parents aren’t looki-- what are you laughing at?”

With a hand over his mouth, shoulders shaking a little, Gersten waves the question away while Tahan grumbles about the rather unflattering word picture being painted about his personage. “Nothing, nothing-- haha, you’re just talking about slipping the man some meat!” The joined pair groans as one at that, Rossi’s eye roll so exaggerated that he drags his willing captive closer when his whole body leans back with it.

“Kiss my shapely ass, and let me finish--” Manfully, he ignores the quiet ‘that’s what she said’ that Gersten murmurs under his breath, and continues: “That-- that fierce kindness. It’s what we respond to.”

Another long silence stretches, as each man in their cramped little tent ponders those words, before Tahan finally mutters, “Good God, he’s finally cracked. Like a little nut. I can’t believe I’m going to have to file a section eight report. The paperwork is going to be a nightma-- ghghgk--” He’s cut off when Rossi finally tires of the bit and tightens his grip until he’s choking, a little, and then releases him, coughing, and shoves him to take a seat when he laughs aloud. But Gersten … Gersten looks as if he’s seriously giving it thought, eyes narrowed and head tilted like a bird of prey.

“Is there more of that little speech planned?” He asks, and then laughs when Tahan groans and flops back onto his cot, trying to smother himself with his own hands.

Rossi puffs out his chest, smug. “I’m glad you asked. I have an entire metaphor for it. The head, the heart, the hands. For the three of us.” He kicks at Tahan’s knee when he groans dramatically. “I’m the head, obviously. Because I’m the only one with any brains around here.”

Gersten gamely agrees with a swift, “Oh, absolutely.” Tahan sits up, alert like a wary mutt.

“Rainer is the hand.”

Tahan makes an ‘eh--’ sound at that, lifting his own hands and waving them meaningfully.

“Quiet from the peanut gallery, please. I thought about it, but Gersten is far better with a knife, and he’s about as empathetic as a brick of cheese.” The man in question pauses in his renewed quest to sharpen the blade, considers that, and shrugs-- a silent ‘fair enough’. Tahan gives him a mortally wounded look that implies he’s a traitor, while Rossi takes a seat next to him on the rickety one-man cot and settles a warm hand over his diaphragm. “Which makes you the heart. Isn’t that cute?”

The bastard is smirking at him. Tahan wipes the smug little grin right off his face with a powerful swipe of a pillow, initiating what may be the rowdiest brawl the forgetful little firebase ever saw.

II. 2012, [LOCATION REDACTED] (TW graphic violence, choking, blood)

It’s some time around three in the afternoon, he thinks, the sun is high in the sky when he feels the noose tighten around his neck.

Unfortunately, that’s quite literal.

He’s five steps behind Rossi, half listening to Rana mutter to himself about how boring overwatch is over the radio. They’re on a routine patrol. A boy steps into the mouth of the alley. Rossi waves, and the kid waves back. Tahan snorts softly, and Rossi starts to turn around to give him a Look-- this is when time slows, he thinks, because he can swear in this memory, he can see the rough rope descend right before his eyes, hands clad in black leather holding either end. He can see the faint bemusement change into cold shock in Rossi’s hazel eyes, the only part of his face visible under his black mask, and he can feel the slightest tickle against his throat before the hot burn of it sinks into his skin, cutting off air and blood. Things go a little hazy from there.

Time continues to drag slowly along. He knows he struggles, because he can feel his own fingernails dig into the skin of his throat briefly, and he knows he pulls out his knife because he misses when he stabs for his assailant’s head, and carves a long line along his own forearm instead, before it drops from fingers swiftly going numb. It takes ten seconds to black out when you’re being choked like this. He isn’t fast enough.

There’s a lot of yelling that he can’t understand. The sharp report of gunfire. He isn’t fast enough. His knees weaken, he can’t breathe, and what little sight he had disappears as his eyes roll back into his head. Still thrashing weakly, even as he goes down. There’s no witty last thought, no valiant final move that allows him to free himself. One second he’s there, and the next he’s gone, limp in his captor’s grasp. He comes to again laid out flat on his back, Rossi looming above him, white as a sheet and haloed by the late afternoon sun as he curses him and begs him to wake in the same breath, trying to shake him back into consciousness.

One ragged gasp. Two.

Rossi’s own breath comes in swift gulps, before he visibly steels himself and puts a hand on Tahan’s cheek. His face feels strangely numb, tingly. He blinks up at the younger man and lifts a shaking hand to settle it against his forearm, but he’s too weak to hold it there for long. When he lets it fall, there’s a fresh trail of bright blood in the bared skin that they both eye for a moment in contemplative silence. Tahan realizes then that his arm hurts. And his throat. And his head.

For his part, Rossi mutters a quiet, “It’s always something with you, isn’t it,” as he drags him into a sitting position and runs a hand up and down his back to try and even out his ragged breathing. Tahan coughs hard, once, twice, tastes blood. Once he can get past the burning sensation of the rawed skin and the rapid bruising at his throat, he realizes he can breathe, albeit painfully. No collapsed trachea then. The thought makes him wheeze out a laugh. He’s probably going into shock. He laughs a little harder at that, choking on it when it gets caught in his chest somewhere. There’s blood on his lips, and Rossi makes a panicked noise and puts a steadying hand to his jaw once more. “Oh, quit that. You’re freaking me out. Can you talk?”

Licking his lips only reminds him that the only thing he can smell and taste is a whole lot of blood. He can’t tell if he bit his tongue, or if it’s pouring down into his throat from his nose, or if he’s hacking it up. He can’t tell if it’s his own blood. He spits out a mouthful of it, and it takes him a couple of false starts to manage a simple, weary, “water.”

The cap is twisted off and the canteen thrust into his shaking hands. He almost drops it, so Rossi helps him lift it to his face. He swishes the first mouthful, and then spits it off to the side. An embarrassing amount of it ends up soaking into his pant leg. He makes a disgusted noise, and then goes back for a few painful, tiny swallows of water, trying to get his wind back. Every moment brings him more clarity.

Between this and the next: pounding footsteps. A familiar dark uniform, and head of frosty hair. Rossi reaches for his sidearm and then relaxes when he recognizes the man, waving him over without a word. Tahan lazily reaches over to clamp his right hand over the oozing gash on his left forearm. It stings like a bitch, but he can’t make himself do much in the way of cleaning it just yet-- not when it’s still bleeding. Not when he can hardly string a sentence together in his own head. Gersten slinks forward, his footsteps echoing strangely in the cramped alley.

“Oh, Jesus wept,” he mutters under his breath as he approaches, the words as much a curse as they are an exclamation. Tahan has seen him slit a man from prick to throat without so much as flinching, so he can’t help but wonder what exactly about the scene makes him look so wild about the edges.

“Not for me, he didn’t.” Tahan grinds out in response, clutching the long gash on his forearm, his voice sounding as though it’s being ripped up by millstones and scouring pads and a little bit of gravel, just to top it off. The joke makes the normally unflappable German look like he’d just been slapped. Another high pitched giggle escapes him, cut to silence in some places by the limited capacity of his vocal chords. He feels lightheaded.

“Shut up,” Rossi snarls, tucking himself under Tahan’s uninjured arm and then dragging him to his feet. His vision swirls again, and they would fall to the ground if not for the pale arms, the familiar skeletal hands that reach out to settle on each of their shoulders, steadying them. His head lolls, and he can hardly breathe until Rossi drags him up a little higher and the weight of his head falls to rest on his shoulder instead of with his chin against his chest.

Gersten shifts his grip so he can hold his chin there for a moment, eyes serious. “I’ll run point.”

He feels Rossi nod, and the effort of lifting his head from his shoulder nearly leaves his knees buckling under him again, but the younger man’s grip remains firm. Holding his head up hurts so much that it makes his eyes water until he can hardly see, the involuntary reaction making him curse incoherently as they make their way to safety.

By the time their EVAC gets there, he’s managed to get himself together enough to give vague orders to Gersten on how to clean, stitch, and bandage the long cut on his arm. He does a surprisingly good job. Rossi can’t quite look at him, ostensibly keeping watch for anyone that might be searching for them still.

III. 2014 [LOCATION REDACTED] (TW alcohol)

They drink, late into the night. Rain pounds on the canvas of their little tent, and the others have long since gone to bed, but the three of them are still wired. Today marked Gersten’s last assignment with the KSK, he’s going back to Germany in the morning and getting discharged soon after. The goodbye party was a little bittersweet-- he’s relatively well liked by the men on base, and in their little mixed unit, and a lot of people showed up to drink contraband booze and clap him on the shoulder and wish him luck. A younger soldier had nervously asked him what he was planning on doing when he got out, and Gersten had laughed aloud and replied only, “Oh, probably be a hitman. I only have the one skill.” Everyone had laughed.

Tahan wishes he could believe the other man had been kidding. Rossi had just sighed.

They’re all more than half drunk, now. Laying on the cool plywood floor in their little temporary shelter. Tahan has been counting the sandbags lining the walls, but he kept forgetting where he’d been at and what number he stopped counting because Rossi’s nails would occasionally scrape his scalp, and it would make his vision go funny. He has his head resting in the younger man’s lap. No commentary is made on how he’s basically petting him. Gersten’s legs are draped over his shins, long and lean, and he has a hand resting on Tahan’s ankle. Occasionally he’ll make a broad gesture as he speaks, their little triangle ill-formed and sloppy drunk.

It’s lulling him to sleep. He must be getting old, if he can’t make it to 5am like the rest of the party animals. The livelier of the two are helpfully keeping their voices down, until-- Gersten’s hand clamps down on his hip, and he roughly shakes him awake.

“Fuck me--” Tahan starts into foggy awareness, jerking into a sitting position. Rossi lets him go with a displeased grunt, and he’s already turning to give him an apologetic look when he spots the bottle in Gersten’s hand. “What the fuck is that.”

The pale man bares all of his teeth at him in a grin. There’s a vague creeping sense of dread. “It’s all the rest of the alcohol.”

A long pause, in which Tahan can only look helplessly between a grinning Gersten, and a nonplussed Rossi. Neither of them make a move to elaborate. Finally, he manages to find the courage necessary to ask, “How do you mean--”

Rossi, unimpressed, cuts off both the rest of his question, and Gersten before he can start in on his bullshit. “He’s spent the last ten minutes meticulously pouring every last drop of the dregs of whiskey, tequila, vodka, vermouth, and absinthe into that bottle.”

Gersten, maturely, pouts for a moment, before brightening again. “And beer! I put beer--” A hiccup. “Beer in it, too.” He swirls it a little, as if to make a point. The concoction bubbles and fizzes menacingly within its confines.

“I--” unsure, he glances between the pair of them. Rossi’s eyebrows nearly meet his hairline, and Gersten continues to shake the bottle back and forth, as if to be enticing. He tries not to feel sick from just looking at the sloshing liquid, but he can’t help the dread tinging his voice. “For what purpose?”

The bottle of possibly toxic waste is thrust in his direction. Tahan takes it warily, and Gersten laughs out, “You and I are going to finish this off. Rossi says you’re a lightweight, and that it would kill you.”

“I’m not fucking doing that, because I am and it will.” Rossi lets out a relieved sigh behind him.

Gersten whines, “Aw, no it won’t, pussy. I dare you.”

The gauntlet has been thrown down. Tahan sits up straighter, suddenly set alight, and turns to him with narrowed eyes. “You dare me? Are you serious?” Despite his incredulous tone, he eyes the bottle and then starts twisting off the cap-- it smells like a sewer, and he coughs a little. Rossi makes a noise of abject terror.

“Don’t let him get to you-- he just doesn’t understand that daring each other to consume disgusting and possibly dangerous liquids is an important part of male bonding.” Gersten leans forward, practically vibrating with excitement as the words fall out of him in a rush.

Rossi, who was the eldest of four brothers, snorts, and puts his hand over the mouth of the bottle before it makes it all the way to Tahan’s mouth. “Oh? And what are the other parts?”

“Poetic yearning,” says Rainer.

“Gay chicken,” says Battista.

They glance at each other after their simultaneous answers and burst into wild laughter, collapsing against one another and nearly spilling the concoction. Rossi looks on, arms crossed, a smile poorly smothered on his lips. His voice is wracked with suppressed humor. “All of the literature and art and thought about male friendship and desire, and the two of you have pared it down to ‘drinking gross things’, ‘poetic yearning’, and ‘gay chicken’. Bravo, really. Whitman would be so proud.”

Tahan lifts the bottle as if to toast the observations, the advancements they have made in such heavy schools of thought, and Rossi throws himself against his side, nearly bowling him over, and drags the cursed thing from his hand. “You have had quite enough, I think,” he tuts at him, pressed warmly hip to hip and shoulder to shoulder. Tahan lets himself slump a little, blinking placidly at the line of his cheekbone. Rossi slams the handle back, and then chokes a little when it goes down, spluttering, “that is vile. You’re going to hell.”

The abrupt frankness with which he says it-- and the fact that such sentiments rarely come from him at all, staunch catholic boy that he is, forces a sharp, shocked bark of laughter out of his two companions. He spends the next ten minutes trying to force some of it down Gersten’s gullet, and Tahan…

Well, Tahan has little trouble letting their absolute racket lull him to sleep as well.

IV. 2019, VR Italy

It’s nearing daylight. Battista hasn’t yet slept, and the flakes of crystalline snow tumbling occasionally to the ground tend to tangle in his eyelashes, and fall from the leather of his jacket. They bite at the tips of his ears and his nose, and they melt into his shirt at the nape of his neck. He’s been wandering the city for hours.Very few signs of life have popped up. They rarely do, this time of year, this time of night. The snow comes down a little fast now, and he lifts his head to peer about, trying to get his bearings, figure out just how far he’s wandered while letting himself get lost in his own head. He lets out a long cloud of breath-- backlit against the streetlight, it glitters like he’d just exhaled a cloud of diamond dust. Memories roll around in his head so violently that his feet pause.

There, behind him, a single footstep, just the faintest scuffle on the uneven cobblestone of the street. Battista doesn’t turn to look, and forces himself not to tense, either. Instead he watches the cloud of his breath dissipate, and sets a meandering pace down the street. Now that he’s listening for them, he can hear the steps following along behind him. They’re menacingly quiet. Battista leads his shadow down the street, and then almost absentmindedly turns down an alley, stepping into the darkness of the nearest stoop. The figure, clad in black, steps into the mouth of the alley and curses under his breath when he finds it empty. The familiar voice makes Battista’s blood run cold.

He steps forward, probably intending to check down all of the side streets, and when he passes him Battista steps out of the shadows and pins him with the barrel of his m9, right between the shoulder blades, with a soft, “hands up. Turn around, slowly.”

Rainer Gersten looks as horrifically pale and skeletal as ever when he complies. In the dim light from the street behind Battista, he looks like a shade. He looks like someone that’s hunted him back to Verona, to drag him down to hell. Rainer’s lips peel back from his teeth in that familiar rictus grin, five years older and with a few more scars, but his voice holds the same rasp, the same vaguely wondering, good-natured affection, “well I’ll be damned.”

“You already are,” the response rolls out of him, almost pre-programmed from how many times they’ve done this little song and dance. The barrel of his gun doesn’t waver from where it’s pointed directly at where Rainer’s heart is. The humor doesn’t leave the madman’s face.

“Still sharp as ever, I see.” The smile on his face slips into something chagrined. “I’ve been looking for you, you know? But I didn’t think I’d actually find you here, of all places. And if I did, I didn’t think you’d be quite so… alert.” He gestures, vaguely, with his open palm, at the gun trained on him.

Battista lowers it incrementally, looking at him straight on instead of down the sights on the barrel. Dryly, he responds, “I have paranoia.”

The other man’s jaw works almost imperceptibly as he visibly forces himself not to tout another familiar line: it’s not paranoia if they’re out to get you. It would land a little too close to home, now, and both of them know it. Instead, he lets a long sigh roll from him, and without lowering his hands he murmurs, “I thought they had buried you, too.”

Something in his throat constricts. Rossi. How swiftly the light had gone out of his eyes. The gritty feeling of dust sticking to the tacky, drying blood on his face. The cold cuffs, how the world had swirled just out of his own control for months. The emptiness in the life he’d left since then. “Maybe they did,” murmured like an admission of guilt.

There’s a long stretch of silence. Rainer puts his arms down, slowly. Then he reaches out and puts his hand on top of the barrel of the gun, pushes it down and takes it from Battista’s loose grip. He puts the safety back on, shucks the bullet out of the chamber, and puts it neatly back into the shorter man’s shoulder holster, and then zips up his jacket. Pats him on the chest, and leaves his hand there for a couple breaths. The expression on his face is serious, brows furrowed, but his voice is light when he finally declares, “well, you don’t make the most convincing corpse I’ve ever seen. Say goodbye to your career in acting, handsome.”

It’s not really something to laugh about, now. So they don’t.

#/ / DRABBLES .#tw violence #tw choking #tw injury #tw blood #tw alcohol #[posts this at midnight]

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sayitaliano · 2 years

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I miss you! or better, "you are missing from me"

As you may know, in Italian we can leave implied the subject of a sentence, so you can say "I miss you" in two ways: mi manchi(1) or mi manchi tu(2). They mean the same, it's only a matter of stressing or not the subject. In English you could probably translate these two as "I miss you" and "I miss YOU", just to give a slightly different acception. It's a little more weird to hear the subject said loud to be honest but it can happen in songs (as seen in the last one I posted), or for really particular situations.

The construction of the sentence for "I miss you" is different form English: we say "(tu) manchi a me" -> "(tu) mi (=a me) manchi", which is like saying: you are missing from me. And even if we still write about us (=mi) in the beginning of the sentence, we put more importance on the person/thing/animal missing from us (which I found very beautiful tbh), so much that the verb is conjugated accoding on that person/thing/animal. Adding the pronoun or not, is of no big importance cause the verb yells who we are missing if we have already mentioned it in our speech (or, as with "tu" and also with "voi", if we are talking with the subject of our sentence).

Changing the agent and the verb's conjugation according on who/what is missing from who/what, can give you a wide variety of sentences you can create.

In particular situations, we can also leave implied the agent: for example during school tests, in which it's obvious you're gonna be told how much time left you have by the end of the test.

[TW d**th mention: we also use "mancare" when we give notification about the passing of someone from our family: È mancato/a all'affetto dei suoi cari = Has been missing from the love of his/her dear ones. = He/She's passed.] [/TW]

Some random examples (feel free to try some yourself):

Mi manca il mio cane = I miss my dog Mi manca il mare = I miss the sea Mi manca svegliarmi alle 9! = I miss waking up at 9 am! Mi mancate! = I miss you! (said to your group of friends, e.g.) Mi mancano i miei compagni di classe del liceo = I miss my high school classmates Ti manco? = Do you miss me? Ci mancate! = We miss you! (again friends, e.g) A questo libro manca un buon finale = This book is missing a good ending Mancano 10 minuti! = 10 minutes left!

#it #italian #italiano #langblr #italian language #italian langblr #language #languages #traduzioni #lingua italiana #italian grammar #italianblr #languageblr #miss #mancare #verbs #parole words #grammatica grammar

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italian-sides · 4 years

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“Ombre e Bastoni”, ch. 1

Hello everyone! Today I’m back with a fanfic written by the amazing and wonderful @misslilidelaney almost over a year and half ago?, which i tried to translate in English, while at the same time keeping some key Italian words in it. A huge thank you goes also to @watcher-from-the-heights for being my extraordinary beta all the freaking time. I also @ts-italian-gang because they’re all great people and i hope they’ll enjoy this too! There will be some translations at the end of the fic, but please lemme know if you don’t understand something, I’ll gladly answer your questions! Well, enjoy! Pairing: Deceit Sanders x Emile Picani; implied!Logicality

TW: the italian version of a swear word, mentions of alcohol, and non-consensual staring at body parts (?) Whenever Emilio Picani walked into the Dolce&Remi, all heads turned. Maybe it was his everlasting teenager vibe despite having been in his thirties for some time. Maybe it was the way his light brown hair brushed the frame of his glasses. Maybe it was the bright burst of joy that radiated with every step he took. Or maybe, simply, because he was excruciatingly hot. Everyone, in the clique of Remo Stella's friends, including himself, got a more or less significant crush on the psychologist. His brother Romolo was the first to flirt with him in a rather shameless way, getting knocked down with a feather when the handsome Picani delicately declined his offer. Luca looked at Emilio's eyes - and maybe also at his ass - for a long time in a dreamy way, before placing his own pair of eyes on those surrounded by ephelids belonging to Emilio's cousin, Patrizio, and realizing that those were the eyes he wanted to look at forever. Virgilio never said anything about it, but Remo was quite convinced that his choice to enroll in Psychology at university was not entirely accidental. On his hand, Remo limited himself to get over his crush when he learned that Emilio was looking for someone to share rent with, and decided to offer one of the rooms in his apartment to house the psychologist, at least until he found another arrangement - which didn't happen, not even three years later. While living with him, Remo understood that Emilio was as adorable as he was terribly distracted and messy, and he took him more as a clumsy older brother than a possible companion. And there was the closet situation, of course. Despite hanging out with the most queer souls of Bologna, Emilio never did a coming out of any kind, so in reality only Patrizio could probably know if he spent time with them only because they were interesting lost causes or because, in the end, he was also part of the closet too. Not that it mattered, anyway, because when Patrizio brought the psychologist, who had just moved from Verona, to the bar for the first time, the whole company "adopted" him almost automatically, either because of the Cool Cousin Effect™ or because, in the end, Emilio was a truly exquisite person, who managed to impress everyone. Well, almost everyone. If there was a person who couldn't stand the psychologist, it was undoubtedly Remo's dishwasher-handyman, Giuda Schiavon. After moving from what he called "la terra dei mussatti" [1], that is Venice and his mosquitoes, to study at the University of Bologna, he gave up on it during the second semester of his third year, finding various little jobs before landing at Dolce&Remì and being accepted by Remo and Tommaso. Remo doubted that he really had the chance to have all those work experiences, but Tommaso liked the commitment that Giuda put into doing things, so the owner of the bar agreed to keep him. Giuda appeared like a good person, even if everyone seemed to have noticed that he loved to exaggerate things, especially regarding his past in Venice, and Virgilio once sentenced, sipping his coffee: "He tells things as if they were true.", something everyone nodded to. But if Giuda was good at hiding his emotions behind layers and layers of nonsense, it was clear as the sun that he, unlike everyone else, couldn't suffer Emilio. As soon as the young man got into the bar, or showed up for the clique's nights out, Giuda had always, and invariably, something to do. When they were out, he would get a text that forced him to go elsewhere; when he was at work, suddenly he had to go and do something in the kitchen.Emilio tried several times to speak with him, but Giuda always cut him short in a bad way. Remo found it irritating, but Emilio didn't say much at home about it, and Giuda eventually continued to do his job well. Lately, he made up his mind that the bar's wine list was not interesting enough, and started suggesting typical wines from the Veneto region, which Tommaso decided to try, and that everyone seemed to like. Paradoxically, the happiest of them all was Emilio himself, whom Remo knew was a wine lover: "Really, I would have expected everything, except that here in Bologna I would have drunk such a good Millesimato di Conegliano [2]! Guys, really, I love Emilian wines but here you're really spoiling me. Last week's Garda Chardonnay [2] was divine!" Tommaso gloated and indicated the kitchen boy struggling with a tray full of glasses: "You must thank Giuda, Emi. He's the one who's coming up with Veneto wines." Emilio darkened for a moment, looking down at his feet. Remo didn't even have the time to comment that the veronese came out with a ringing: "Thanks for the wine, Giuda!", which followed up with a disaster that definitely opened the bartender's eyes. "GHESBORO!” [3], the Venetian shouted, while the tray flew out of his hand, shattering the six glasses on it. With his face flushed from... anger?, he turned to Emilio and hissed, mordant: "You're welcome." before leaving for the umpteenth time in search of the broom. The veronese darkened further, and Patrizio put a hand on his back, without saying anything, while the hamsters in Remo's brain slowly started to move. With an agile bounce, he passed the massacre of glasses and reached Giuda in the broom's closet, where he was about to say something before hearing him speak: "Ma ghesboro. [3] That's not possible! Right in front of him!" the young man was saying with bitterness, while putting on his yellow dishwashing gloves to be able to collect the glasses without hurting himself. And it was at that moment that the hamsters in Remo's head understood how to run on the wheel. All the distancings, all the tension, his always getting away but remaining within reach of conversation. Giuda asked the boys to bring more Veneto wines because Emilio often said that he would have wanted to be a sommelier, if he hadn't become a psychologist. Giuda knew it. Giuda always listened. And as they looked each other in the eyes, Remo visibly shocked and Giuda flushed with embarrassment, the roman finally understood. Giuda had a terrible crush on Emilio. [1] transl: "the land of mussatti", in which "mussatti" is the venetian dialect term for "mosquitos" [2]: they're two famous Veneto wines [3]: according to the Urban Dictonary, "Venetian slang meaning literally "I ejaculate on it", an expression of anger or surprise. Expression of very common use." So... did you like it?! I really hope you did, because there will be other chapters later on and I can’t wait to share them with you all! See ya around, ciao! <3

Ciao a tutti! Oggi torno con una fanfiction scritta dalla fantastica e meravigliosa @misslilidelaney, ormai un anno fa, circa?, che ho cercato di tradurre il più possibile in inglese, pur mantenendo qualche parola in italiano. Spero vi piaccia! Quando Emilio Picani entrava al Dolce&Remì, tutte le teste si giravano. Forse era la sua aria da perenne ragazzino nonostante avesse da un pezzo raggiunto i trent'anni. Forse era per come i capelli castano chiaro sfioravano la montatura degli occhiali. Forse era l'aria di gioia che irradiava luminosa ad ogni suo passo. O forse perché, semplicemente, era un figo atroce. Tutti, nella compagnia degli amici di Remo Stella, lui incluso, si erano presi una cotta più o meno pesante per lo psicologo. Suo fratello Romolo era stato il primo a provarci in maniera abbastanza spudorata, rimanendoci di sasso quando il bel Picani aveva declinato con tatto la sua offerta. Luca aveva guardato per un bel pezzo gli occhi - e un po' anche il culo - di Emilio con fare sognante, prima di posare i propri su quelli contornati di efelidi del cugino Patrizio, e rendersi conto che erano quelli, gli occhi che avrebbe voluto guardare per sempre. Virgilio non aveva mai detto nulla a riguardo, ma Remo era abbastanza convinto che la sua scelta di iscriversi a Psicologia non fosse del tutto casuale. Dal canto suo, Remo si era limitato a farsi passare la cotta quando aveva saputo che Emilio cercava qualcuno con cui dividere l'affitto, e aveva deciso di offrire una delle stanze del suo appartamento per ospitare lo psicologo, almeno fino a quando non avrebbe trovato un'altra sistemazione - cosa che, a distanza di tre anni, ancora non era successa. Vivendo assieme a lui aveva capito che era adorabile quanto incasinato e tremendamente distratto, e Remo lo aveva preso più come un maldestro fratello maggiore, che per un possibile compagno. E c'era la situazione Armadio, ovviamente. Nonostante girasse con le anime più gay della città, Emilio non aveva fatto nessun genere di coming out, quindi in realtà solo Patrizio poteva, probabilmente, sapere se girasse con loro solo perché erano degli interessanti casi umani o perché alla fine faceva anche lui parte della Parrocchia. Non che agli altri interessasse; infatti quando Patrizio aveva portato nel bar per la prima volta lo psicologo, appena trasferitosi da Verona, tutta la compagnia lo aveva "adottato" quasi in automatico, vuoi per l'effetto Cugino Figo™ o perché alla fine, Emilio era una persona davvero squisita, che faceva colpo su chiunque. O quasi. Se c'era una persona che invece non riusciva a sopportare lo psicologo, quello era indubbiamente il lavapiatti-tuttofare di Remo, Giuda Schiavon. Trasferitosi da quella che lui chiamava "La terra dei Mussatti", ovvero Venezia e le sue zanzare, per studiare all'università di Bologna ma si era arreso ed aveva mollato al secondo giro di terzo anno, trovandosi vari lavoretti prima di approdare al Dolce&Remì e venir accolto da Remo e Tommaso. Remo dubitava che avesse davvero avuto modo di avere tutte quelle esperienze lavorative, ma a Tommaso piaceva l'impegno che Giuda metteva nel fare le cose, quindi il titolare del bar aveva acconsentito a tenerlo. Giuda sembrava una brava persona, anche se un po' tutti sembravano aver notato che amava ingigantire le cose, specialmente per quanto riguardava il suo passato a Venezia, e Virgilio una volta aveva sentenziato, sorseggiando il suo caffè: "Le racconta che le par vere.", cosa a cui tutti avevano annuito. Ma se Giuda era bravo a nascondere le sue emozioni dietro strati e strati di baggianate, era chiaro come il sole che lui, al contrario di tutti, Emilio non lo poteva soffrire. Non appena il giovane uomo entrava nel bar, o si presentava alle loro serate fuori, Giuda aveva sempre, invariabilmente, qualcosa da fare. Quando erano fuori, gli arrivava un messaggio che lo costringeva ad andare altrove; quando era a lavoro, improvvisamente doveva andare a fare qualcosa in cucina. Emilio aveva più volte cercato di parlare con lui, ma Giuda tagliava sempre corto in malo modo. Remo trovava la cosa irritante, ma Emilio non diceva molto a casa a riguardo, e Giuda alla fine continuava a fare bene il suo lavoro. Ultimamente, si era messo in testa che la carta dei vini del bar non fosse abbastanza interessante, ed aveva iniziato a proporre vini tipici del Veneto, cosa che Tommaso aveva deciso di provare, e sembravano piacere a tutti. Paradossalmente, il più contento di tutti era proprio Emilio, che Remo sapeva essere un appassionato di vini. "Davvero, tutto mi sarei aspettato, tranne che qui a Bologna avrei bevuto un Millesimato di Conegliano così buono! Ragazzi, veramente, amo i vini emiliani ma qui mi state veramente viziando. La settimana scorsa avete messo il Garda Chardonnay che era divino!" Tommaso aveva gongolato ed indicato il lavapiatti, alle prese con un vassoio pieno di bicchieri.

"Devi ringraziare Giuda, Emi. È lui che sta proponendo vini veneti." Emilio si era rabbuiato per un attimo, abbassando lo sguardo. Remo non aveva nemmeno fatto in tempo a commentare che il veronese se n'era uscito con uno squillante: "Grazie per il vino, Giuda!" che aveva dato seguito ad un disastro che aveva aperto definitivamente gli occhi del barista. "GHESBORO!" Aveva gridato il veneziano, mentre il vassoio gli era volato di mano, facendo frantumare i sei bicchieri presenti. Rosso in viso per la... rabbia? si era girato verso Emilio ed aveva sibilato, caustico: "Prego." prima di andarsene per l'ennesima volta alla ricerca della scopa. Il veronese si era rabbuiato ulteriormente, e Patrizio gli aveva messo una mano sulla schiena, senza dire niente, mentre i criceti nel cervello di Remo avevano, lentamente, iniziato a muoversi. Con uno scatto agile, aveva superato la strage di bicchieri e raggiunto Giuda nello stanzino delle scope, dove stava per dirgli qualcosa prima di sentirlo parlare. "Ma ghesboro. Ma non è possibile. Davanti a lui." stava dicendo con amarezza il giovane mentre si metteva i guanti da piatti gialli per poter raccogliere i vetri senza farsi male. Ed era in quel momento che i criceti nella testa di Remo avevano capito come si correva sulla ruota. Tutti gli allontanamenti, tutta la tensione, il suo allontanarsi sempre però restando a portata di conversazione. Giuda aveva chiesto ai ragazzi di portare più vini veneti perché Emilio aveva detto spesso che avrebbe voluto fare il sommelier, se non fosse diventato psicologo. Giuda lo sapeva. Giuda ascoltava sempre. E mentre si guardavano negli occhi, Remo sconvolto e Giuda rosso di imbarazzo, il romano aveva finalmente capito. Giuda aveva una tremenda cotta per Emilio.

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mrs-gucci · 3 years

Text

Full Service {Maurizio Gucci x Reader}

author’s notes: hellooo! this idea was rolling around in my brain for a while, but it took a bit for me to get it just right. so, here’s the final finished product!

**I used a translation app for all of the Italian in this story, so I apologize for any mistakes or grammatical errors. all Italian will be in italics, with the translations following the dialogue in parenthesis.

**This is MY OWN INTERPRETATION of Maurizio Gucci’s character, as portrayed by Adam Driver in the upcoming film, House Of Gucci.

warnings: smut. maurizio calling reader “tesoro”™️. a tiny bit of fluff at the very end. maid/boss roleplay (lowkey?? except reader’s actually a maid lol). oral. no aftercare. dirty talk and name-calling/degradation, but in italian ;)

(possible) tw’s: indifelity/extramarital affair. implied age gap (reader is over 21, no more than 10 years difference).

word count: 2.7k

“Tesoro” means “Treasure” in Italian (an affectionate nickname).

You’d just begun cleaning the marbled kitchen when Mr. Gucci arrives home. You turn around and offer him a small smile, which he ignores, shrugging the briefcase off his shoulder.

He immediately walks into his office and shuts the door without a single word or glance, and you probably wouldn’t see him again for the rest of the evening. That’s usually how it went. Patrizia wasn’t home yet, a surprise considering she’s usually home all day when you come to clean.

You’ve developed quite the crush for Mr. Gucci as of late, although you’d never admit it aloud. He was a bit older than you, not to mention married. But, you couldn’t help it, he was unbelievably handsome, successful, and quick-witted when he wanted to be. Usually after a drink or two.

But, he was a man very dedicated to his work, which often left him with a stern demeanor and a harsh tone of voice. He barely paid you mind, especially not when work was waiting for him in his office.

You continued to clean for another hour or so; it was a mansion, after all, and the kitchen was at least three times the size of your bedroom. Plus, the extensive marble surfaces and stainless steel appliances require your full service. You were so immersed in your work that you didn’t even notice Mr. Gucci’s presence behind you.

Only when you turned around did you realize not only him, but the close proximity between your bodies. You gasp, backing up against the cabinetry.

“Oh! Signore Gucci, mi scuso. Non sapevo che ci fossi.” (Oh! Mr. Gucci, my apologies. I didn’t know you were there.)

His eyes look you up and down for a brief moment before returning to meet yours, a soft smile pulling at his lips.

“Va bene, piccoletto. Non volevo farti da parte.” (It’s alright, little one. I didn’t mean to startle you.)

He sighs, looking away.

“Volevo informarvi che Patrizia non tornera stasera. Ha deciso di restare la notte in una casa di amici.” (I wanted to inform you that Patrizia won’t be coming back this evening. She’s decided to stay the night at a friends house.)

You could sense that there was something else going on, but you didn’t prod further, deciding that it was none of your business. You nod up at him, a bit confused as to why he’s telling you this. And why he has to be standing so damn close to tell you.

“Grazie per avermi informato, signore. Ho quasi finito di pulire la giornata, quindi saro via tra un’ora circa.” (Thank you for letting me know, sir. I am almost done cleaning for the day, so I’ll be gone in an hour or so.)

Maurizio reaches his hand up to hold the side of your face, thumb swiping across your bottom lip. You freeze, tensing beneath his touch.

“Da quando hai iniziato a lavorare qui, ho trovato sempre piu difficile concentrarsi sul mio lavoro. Sai perche, piccoletto?” (You know, ever since you began working here, I’ve found it more and more difficult to focus on my work. Do you know why that is, little one?)

“No, signore, non lo so.” (No, sir, I don’t know.)

He runs a single finger down from my lips, tracing a straight line over my throat before it toys with the collar of my uniform.

“La tua uniforme...mi sta distrando.” (Your uniform is...distracting for me.)

The breath hitches in your throat as his fingers rub the material of the smoothed-down collar. His gaze flicks down to where his thumb and forefinger are.

“Quando ti vedo,” (Whenever I see you,)

He begins, leaning in a little closer.

“Trovo che i miei pantaloni cominciino a sentirsi stretti, il che e strano perche ho sistemato tutto il mio costume.” (I find that my pants begin to feel tight, which is strange because I have all of my suits custom fitted.)

You nearly choke on your breath as his hand travels down the curves of your body, traversing the scoop of your hip before resting just above the hem of your uniform dress.

“E strano, sig. Gucci.” (That is odd, Mr. Gucci.)

His hand begins massaging the side of your thigh gently, and he leans down just a bit further, mouth now right in front of your ear. His hot breath sends a chill down your spine.

“Sta succedendo adesso, in effetti. Pensi di potermi aiutare con questo problema, Y/N?” (It’s happening right now, in fact. Do you think you could help me with this problem, Y/N?)

He presses you up against the cabinets, bodies flush together. A small groan escapes his lips when his obvious erection slides on your lower stomach.

You’ve never been as perplexed and aroused as you are in this moment. The burn between your thighs is nearly unbearable, and as much as you hate to admit it, you wanted this.

“Sono al suo servizio, signore.” (I am at your service, sir.)

Maurizio smirks, hooking a finger under the hem and pulling the stretchable fabric of your uniform dress out, then releasing it, allowing it to snap back into place on your outer thigh.

“In ginocchio, piccoletto.” (On your knees then, little one.)

Without hesitation, you slide down onto your knees, mouth watering as you look up at him, awaiting his next command. He cups your cheek, gently swiping his thumb across your cheekbone.

“Bellissima e obbediente, capisco. Bene, bene.” (Beautiful and obedient, I see. Good, good.)

You bite your lip as he pats your cheek, then runs a hand over the bulge in his pants, sighing softly at the contact. His fingers curl up underneath, cupping and squeezing his balls while his thumb presses down on the head, rubbing it. He groans, letting out a shaky breath afterwards.

“Vedi cosa mi fai fare, Y/N? Devo scendere e massaggiarmi cosi, togliendo tempo di lavoro prezioso.” (Do you see what you make me do, Y/N? I have to reach down and rub myself like this, taking away precious work time.)

You’re soaked already, clit throbbing, begging for attention. You whine softly, chewing your lip as you resist the urge to lunge forward and run your face over his clothed length.

He smirks.

“Questo ti eccita, piccolo? Ti piace immaginarmi di toccarmi cosi nel mio ufficio?” (Does that thought excite you, little one? Do you like imagining me touching myself like this in my office?)

Your eager nod only spurs him on, hips pushing forward into his palm. He quickly takes his hand away, taking a small step closer so that the bulge is mere centimeters from your lips. Your jaw slacks and your breath becomes hot and heavy, mouth eager to worship him.

His large hand gently wraps around the back of your head, pushing your head forward, encouraging you to touch him. You don’t require any further invitation, mouthing at his length while your nose drags against it.

He widens his stance, spreading his legs apart as his hips start to grind against your mouth.

“Oh, e cosi entusiasta. Mi piace, merda.” (Oh, she’s so eager. I love it, shit.)

The back of your head begins to hurt as it’s pressed further and further against the cabinet handles, but you don’t care, reaching around to grab his ass to pull him further into you. Even he seems surprised by this, asscheeks clenching as he suddenly thrusts forward with a low grunt.

Maurizio wraps his hands in your hair, keeping you still as he pulls back, chest heaving slightly. His pupils are blown wide and he grabs your chin, thumb pressing down into the flesh.

“Apri bene.” (Open wide.)

He says, grinning down at you as he begins pulling his belt buckle loose.

Soon, he undoes his pants and pulls himself out from beneath the restrictive material, humming in satisfaction as his length bobs in front of you. His hands rest on either side of your head as he guides his weeping head towards your mouth. You open for him, and he leans forward, pushing into your mouth.

You immediately begin choking and gagging, but he just keeps going, pushing inch after inch inside. His abdomen tenses and his back curls when he’s shoved all of himself in your mouth, letting out a shaky exhale.

“Cosi, oh bella ragazza, e cosi bella la bocca.” (That’s it, oh good girl, such a good mouth.)

You’re forced to remain still as your throat constricts, head pinned against the cabinets with his hands on either side. Once you adjust to the new intrusion, Maurizio pulls back before thrusting forward again, growling under his breath.

“Cazzo, e una cosa buona per me.” (Fuck, that’s good, so good for me.)

All you can do is moan as your boss begins fucking your mouth, eyelids brimming with tears at the constant touch of his tip on your uvula. He bends over, supporting himself on the counter with an arm while his hand tightens in your hair, thrusts getting faster.

“Guarda questa bocca che mi allunga per il cazzo. Che brava ragazza, prendendo il cazzo dei capi come se fosse troia.” (Look at this little mouth stretching out for my cock. What a good girl, taking her bosses cock like the slut she is.)

You moan loudly, hand swiftly snaking down between your legs, fingertips pressing on the throbbing nub to provide relief. When he sees you do this, it only seems to encourage him further, one foot scooting forward so that he’s now almost completely bent over you.

His hips are becoming desperate, now, losing their rhythm as his inevitable release builds.

“Ah, sapevo che avresti avuto una bella bocca, Y/N. Ho sempre saputo che saresti ansioso di prendere il mio uccello, disposto a lasciarti usare cosi.” (Ah, I knew you’d have a good little mouth, Y/N. I always knew you’d be eager to take my cock, willing to let me use you like this.)

You’re sobbing around him now, tears streaming down your cheeks at the sheer intensity of the arousal you’re experiencing. He looked so good like this: hair a mess, glasses fogged, panting and grunting with each thrust, all while he slams his cock into your mouth without relent.

Suddenly, he pulls out and stumbles back, hands gripping the edge of the countertop as he catches his breath. He stares down at you with a look of pure hunger, of carnal lust, and it makes you shudder.

“Alzati e piegati al bancone. Subito.” (Stand up and bend yourself over the counter. Now.)

He strokes himself rapidly as you stand up on shaky legs and bend over, spreading your legs. He’s quick to come up behind you, grabbing your hips to pull you back a bit so that your hips were off the edge.

You gasp when he yanks the skirt up over your hips, revealing your creamy globes and the red lace thong nestled between them. He growls, making quick work of your panties, shoving them down off your hips before running his fingers along your folds delicately, just barely brushing them.

Maurizio smirks when your hips try to grind down on him, seeking the friction you so desperately needed. He smacks your ass promptly, causing a choked cry to leave your throat.

“Stai fermo, Y/N.” (Stay still, Y/N.)

Two of his digits suddenly breach your soaked entrance, pushing up into you. You gasp softly, hips jerking slightly as he begins fucking his thick fingers up into you. His hand spreads across your lower back, keeping you still as he curls his digits up to rub and tease that spongy spot on your walls.

“C-Cazzo, sig. Gucci, ti prego. Scopami, la voglio cosi male.” (F-Fuck, Mr. Gucci, please. Please fuck me, I want it so badly.)

He grins, giving your g-spot a few more rubs before pulling his fingers out, smearing the slick over your lips.

“Succhiali, piccoletto. Assaggiati sulle dita.” (Suck them, little one. Taste yourself on my fingers.)

You open your mouth and moan around his digits as you suck them clean, tongue swirling around them before he takes them out. His tip pokes at your entrance and he runs himself over your folds to collect some lubricant before positioning himself behind you.

“Pronta?” (Ready?)

You don’t even have time to respond before he shoves his hips forward, sheathing himself fully inside you. Your eyes almost bug out of your skull before squeezing shut, a loud gasp coming from your lips. He isn’t necessarily hung, but he’s certainly the biggest and thickest you’ve ever taken.

His fingers dig into your hips as he remains still, allowing you to adjust to his size. After a moment, he draws back before thrusting forward again, building a steady rhythm with his hips. Small noises come from his lips as he fucks you into the countertop.

“Si, cazzo. Cosi stretto e piccolo, sapevi di sentirti bene circondato dal mio uccello.” (Yes, fuck yes. So tight and little, knew you’d feel good wrapped around my cock.)

Your insides clench at his whispered words.

“Quante volte ci ha pensato, signore?” (How many times have you thought of this, sir?)

“Troppi per contare.” (Too many to count.)

He growls, hips suddenly bucking forward out-of-rhythm.

“Ogni volta che mi sono toccata, ho pensato a te, a questa stronzetta. Mi chiedevo se fossi stretto e ho pensato che sarebbe bello dividerla a meta con il mio cazzo.” (Every time I touched myself, I thought of you, of this little cunt. I wondered if you’d be tight, and I thought of how good it’d feel to split you in half with my cock.)

Maurizio puts his hand under your thigh and puts it up on the counter, bending down so his chin rests on your shoulder.

“Te lo sei immaginato anche questo, piccolo? Hai pensato a me quando ti sei toccata?” (Did you imagine this too, little one? Did you think about me when you touched yourself?)

You nod.

“Si, signore. Ti pensavo cosi, immaginavo che fossero le tue dita dentro di mi invece che le mie.” (I did, sir. I thought of you like this, imagined it was your fingers inside me instead of my own.)

“Ragazza sporca.” (Dirty girl.)

He snarls, pounding into you harder, hips spurred on by your words.

You’re close, now, walls beginning to pulse around him. He feels this, one hand wrapping around your throat while the other trails down around your front, fingers seeking your clit.

His hand tightens around your neck, fingers gripping your jaw.

“Lo sento, tu sei vicino, piccolo. Forze, sborra intorno al mio uccello. Copri il tuo capo nella sporca fiaca e mostragli che porchetta sei.” (I can feel it, you’re close, little one. Come on, cum around my cock. Cover your boss in your filthy slick, show him what a little slut you are.)

With only a few circles over your erect clit, coupled with his cock stroking your walls rapidly and the dirty manner in which he was speaking to you, your release comes within seconds. You moan hoarsely, lungs depleted of some oxygen as his hand tightens around your throat.

“Cazzo, arrivo!” (Fuck, I’m cumming!)

He ruts desperately into you, chasing his climax as he fucks you through yours. At the last minute, he pulls out, furiously jerking his cock before thick hot ropes of cum shoot from his tip, painting your bare ass. He grunts and groans through the whole thing, stroking himself through it before squeezing the head, letting the final drop land on your skin.

Both of you take a moment to catch your breaths and re-center yourselves in reality. Maurizio tucks himself back into his pants before walking over to grab a paper towel, wetting it slightly. He wipes all the drying seed off of your skin for you, bending down to pull your panties back up and your dress back down.

Your legs are shaky as you stand back up, smoothing out the front of your uniform. Much to your surprise, Mr. Gucci didn’t leave right away, instead turning you around and bending down for a kiss.

The kiss was gentle and tender, a stark contrast to everything that's happened up until this point. His large hand cupped your cheek and his thumb ran along your cheekbone before he pulled away, offering you a small smile.

“Grazie, piccolo.” (Thank you, little one.)

You return the smile.

“Certo, signore.” (Of course, sir.)

Turns out, the marble and stainless steel weren’t the only things that required your full service today.

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