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Medusa Risen || Vivere Camorra

“I watched her through glass. A slender white snake. Her eyes so green. Her scales so pure. And I thought to myself, ‘I want to pull her out of that world, hold her in my hands.’ She sank in her fangs... I should have cut her throat.”

He didn't let her finish.

He didn't want her to.

In that moment,  something inside him snapped free entirely. He had no means with which to rationalize his behavior and no desire to sympathize with anything other than the young woman's alluring invitation. He watched her for a moment, then another, then another after that. That look in her eyes. He remembered it. It was a look that he thought she'd likely never bestow upon him again. His mind was a whirlpool of hungers and unrequited desires that he could no longer internalize. Why was she doing this to him? Tormenting him like this? His heart hammered within the confines of his chest, cutting off his ability to breathe. He ached. Every inch of skin she'd touched against her lips or hands burned. His body responded on sheer instinct.

He attacked her.

Mindless, mad in the heat of pure, unbridled lust, he tore at her body, taking hold her hips and forcing her slender form to mount him anew as he sat upon his black leather office chair. When their lips met it was with sheer, carnal instinct. An explosion of force and fury set off sparks behind his eyes. He pulled at her lips, demanded her tongue in a way he ensured she was powerless to refuse. He needed her. He needed this. Her excuses and rebukes, her boundaries and her ignorance of his needs physical or otherwise were entirely inconsequential at that moment. Nothing overpowered him so much as the near galvanic urge to make her his.

He tore at her clothes, uncaring for the damage the garments suffered. He was a whir of motion, aggravated grunts and heavy Italian curses for every moment that her flesh was not revealed to him. He froze... she wore deep violet lace. That... That was something special.

"Hai pianificato questo." (You planned this.) It wasn't a question, it was a statement.  And the scent of her arousal drove him over.  He lifted her bodily atop his desk, a smattering of papers and notebooks coming heavily onto the floor. His slender fingers tore the underwear from her hips and thighs. She did not struggle, nor resist. He had consent. Consent he'd not seen in months since London. Weeks since touching down in Rome.

Mechanical muscle memory overtook his judgment. Before he grasped reason, he'd separated her thighs and plunged his length within the tender confines of her pulsing, heated womanhood, taking her in deep, almost aggressive strokes to the very hilt. The world faded away.  She encapsulated him entirely, commanded him with a depth and passion he could not resurface from. Her breathy cries at every pounding thrust came over him like music. In this moment, he needed her deeper than he'd ever needed a woman before. In that moment, Santino was lost to the primordial need that came from chasing sheer physical pleasure with a willing lover. And his willing lover, was obsessively, Lalienna.

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For two, painstaking weeks prior he'd done nothing more than fall victim to the isolating techniques his High Guard forced upon him. He raged, in fury. He'd argued with them bitterly for they forced him away, denied him access to her bedroom, guarded her relentlessly. Until it was all finally too much. He knew, deep in his heart that something was unequivocally, irreversibly wrong with his lover.  He'd heard her screams, her wailing, the piteous lies that she told or refused to tell for the sake of protecting herself. Except he began to reason she was protecting the truth from him. He'd no basis for making this accusation, but the way in which Ares cast him away, the way in which Christov and Hector backed him down, coiled a viper of doubt in his belly.

He'd demanded doctors attend her day and night, for those screams he heard were unnatural.  Hector overpowered him, shouted reasons and placations advising the young woman was likely having yet another of her episodes, similar to that which she had experienced those months prior after her first meeting with Airoldi. That he needed to remain patient with her. That they would personally ensure a doctor attended her but he was to wait outside and let Ares attend her alone. That between her and the maids, the women were best suited to this kind of trauma. Couldn't he see? None of the other males had access to her rooms. They were as shut out as he was. But to not worry for her. It was simply an extremely bad turn of illness, coupled with an exceptionally poor menstrual cycle. That if he was to leave her be but a few days, she would recover her wits about her fully and be more accepting of his company.

What choice did he have but to comply? He'd tried threatening them. They simply glared at him and his insults, entirely unmoved. He'd considered brawling with them, bare-fisted knuckles pounded directly into their faces, for they seemed to be less arrogant when he had them bleeding at his feet. But what would this achieve? Further distress and lack of harmony. Hector was right. None of the men were permitted entrance to her quarters, and that included him until whatever agony overtook her passed. When she returned willingly to his bed and he'd made to ask her sincere questions, she'd shut him down and shut him out.

That little puppy was her constant companion but the baby animal did not have the strength he'd prayed for in terms of pulling the Spaniard free of her depression. His concerns grew deeper. She would not come down to the dining room to eat. Most of her meals were brought up to her by maids and returned to the kitchen practically untouched. He'd demanded Panchelli maintain her plates exactly as they were returned to the kitchen so as he could personally inspect how much she had consumed. His heart dropped as the days passed. She was barely eating anything at all. So he requested Chef make blended fruit juices with protein powders mixed into them. He was heartened when the glasses came back empty. That was a start. If she would not consume solid foods then at least tempting her with pureed fruits was a good start.

He'd cornered Ares on the fifth day and demanded information. The mute young woman who was being remarkably responsible in Cerberus' toilet training, used her fast hands to explain at great length that Lalienna was recovering. That she was in fact suffering from a bout of homesickness and displaced depression. No, she didn't think the dancer would need hospitalization. No, the young woman was weak and tired and spent most of the days sleeping with her puppy and the reason for her sending back her plates untouched was due to what appeared to be a rather nasty stomach infection. No, another doctor would not need to attend, for whilst he was out, she was already seen by an in-house practitioner that prescribed her antibiotics and fluids. That he should make sure Chef kept the fruit juices coming, they were doing her well. She'd return to solid foods in time.

On the eleventh day he was met by Hector whilst he was smoking on the balcony.  The Guard Commander lit up his own cigarette and started with what he thought was amicable conversation.

"She's starting back on solid foods again, boss."

"Quanto sangue perde una donna durante un aborto?" (How much blood does a woman lose during a miscarriage?) Was Santino's pensive enquiry. The question was so profound it struck Hector like a blow to the chest.  What in God's name?! Impossible... Santino couldn't possibly have guessed?!

"Woah... uh... random, boss... Uh... I dunno. I've never known any ladies that have lost kids before. I-uh... Never really thought about it to be honest." He put his head down and sucked at his smoke, taking in the rich Turkish tobacco and praying he had a few shots of strong vodka to chase it with.  

"Why you ask?" He dared. Dreading the response. He turned to meet Santino's eyes and grew relieved when he saw the Prince of Rome was miles away. He didn't answer for a long time and when he did, it was with vacant eyes.

"Me lo diceva, no? Se avesse mai portato la mia bambina?" (She'd tell me, wouldn't she? If she was ever carrying my baby?)  

"Jesus Christ, Santino!" Hector exclaimed, a tremor in his hands. The clutch of nerves sending tendrils of ice water in his veins. He wasn't expecting this. But he wasn't about to let Lalienna down. So he hated himself and played the game.

"You were careful with her, weren't you? You're both young, healthy. Accidents can happen in a fraction of a second. That's what condoms are for, Signore, fuck... You'd be crazy to do this to her now. She's so young. "

"I agree." Santino replied. His eyes narrowed as he took in the stars. The nights were growing colder. He got up, crushing his cigarette butt into the mother of pearl ashtray on the patio table before blowing out the last plume of smoke and returning indoors, leaving his shell-shocked commander behind.

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The blinding walls of release struck him from all sides at once. He'd barely had time to process his lover's powerful contractions of silken heat before he came undone in a guttural cry of animalistic pleasure against her throat. He was vaguely aware of her whimpering pleas. A string of nearly unintelligible curses as she fell apart beneath him, clutching at his clothes and hating them for denying her his skin.  When they both had a moment to recover from their dizzying high, they merely took in one another's eyes. His breaths coming laboured and erratic. A bead of sweat gathering at his brow. The room was entirely too hot. And she felt glorious as she stroked him intimately. He laughed. A chuckle first. She reciprocated. And then it built, more and more as both lovers were in a peel of merriment. Panting, laughing. Tears stung at the corner of his eyes. He loved her entirely. He told her so. He kissed her plumped lips, murmuring against them.

" Nulla che io possa mai fare sarebbe nemmeno una frazione importante quanto amarti, tesoro." (Nothing I could ever do would be even a fraction as important as loving you, darling.)

"Papi... we'll draw atten-" Two sharp knocks at the office door cut her off.  Knocks that was characteristic code:  It's not important, but can I come in?

"Fuck, Ares." He cursed, smirking to himself before calling out. " Stiamo bene. Qualunque cosa pensassi di aver sentito, avevi ragione. Ora dacci un po 'di privacy o sei licenziato!" (We're fine. Whatever you thought you heard, you were right. Now give us some privacy or you're fired!)

He listened, the bark of the puppy and the sound of receding footfalls as the pair made to retreat until at last the lovers were alone again.

"Come on, amore. All your appointments have just been cancelled for today." With an unwilling groan, Santino separated himself from his Mistress and took a moment to tuck himself away to appear at least semi-decent.

"Pick those up, bring them here." He whispered hoarsely, gesturing to her discarded, lust-soaked violet lace. The young woman slid her bare-bottomed self from the desk on shaking legs, seeking to comply with the request almost wordlessly. Whatever protest she meant to make as she handed over her slightly moist underwear was promptly silenced by the heat in her lover's eyes.

"Papi?"

"Open your mouth."

"Wha?"

"Open. Your mouth. Right now." The dancer seemed to hesitate for a full heartbeat. However, the curve of his brow and the edge in his tone lead her compliance. Her lips fell apart and her eyes grew wide as she watched. Santino twisted her underwear tightly in his hands then pressed the lace into her mouth.

"Bite down." Was his command. Hot, clipped words. Perverse and filthy, perhaps. But he didn't care. And when her teeth finally took purchase of the lace, he purred in shimmering satisfaction. She was perfect. He wanted her to taste the evidence of her arousal. To acknowledge that she had willingly complied to baiting the dragon as she had.  Her eyes clouded over. Her breasts rose and fell heavily, but she did not let go of the underwear in her mouth.

So he lifted her, bodily into his arms and carried her as she was, nude from the waist down, from his office, up the stairs and into his bedroom, kicking the door shut behind him. A mercy. They did not meet with any domestic staff or other Camorra guards on their journey. Although he had no doubt in his mind that Ares would now go gossiping to anyone that would even remotely acknowledge her frantic sign language gestures.  This knowledge in and of its self sparked a glow of satisfaction within him. It was progress. Progress he thought he deserved to be rewarded for. He'd won her back. And he had every intention of giving the young woman in his arms reason to want a full course meal by the time he considered himself done with her.

Alone as they were, in the confines of his luxurious bedroom, he stripped his lover naked. Her clothes hit the floor and were followed by her eyes. He corrected her sharply, tsking her with his tongue. She meant to spit out the lace in her mouth but again she was met with his correction. For Santino shook his head silently no.

"When I say, bella mia. And not a moment before." The order seemed to have the effect he desired, for she quickly forgot about her top and bra, biting into the fabric harder, her thighs caressing each other as though she meant to suppress the building heat that had not yet been entirely quenched at her core.

She whimpered as he kissed her cheeks, her forehead, her shoulder. His fingers attending to buttons and zips as he stepped out of his boots and socks, shrugged out of his shirt and let it hit the plush Oriental rug underfoot. A deviant twinkle in his eyes. He took hold her hands and placed them against his belt with a quirk of his brow.

"Sai cosa fare." (You know what to do.) He teased, licking at his upper lip suggestively. Minx! Even in her arousal, she was unabashedly playful.  She freed him of his belt, buttons and fly but not before taking a moment to palm his heated arousal, stroking his length against the fabric and drawing a hungry purr.

His previous exhaustion and professional frustrations with his sister, entirely forgotten. He was alive once more. Pulsing, hot, wanton in his need to not just make love to the woman before him. But to fuck her. Properly. To somehow make up for months of deprivation that self-satisfaction did little to ease.

As he stood finally nude before her, he put out his upturned right palm.

"Rilascialo." (Drop it.) He demanded.  His lover complied, spitting the violet lace into his palm with a grimace that she smothered with a whimpering giggle.

"You'll play gently with me, won't you, Papi?" The question was phrased innocently enough, but the heat in his glare and the sharpness of his commands was enough to make her second guess. She'd tasted his passionate aggression in London and feared its resurgence. She'd confessed her fears to Hector a fortnight prior. While her primal hungers urged her to submit to his darkest carnal needs, a foray into a mistimed Scene was well above what she considered herself capable of.  Though he didn't appear to glower threateningly, her fears were banished when he murmured,

"Of course, amore mio. What am I to do with broken toys?"

She watched through heavy lashes as he laid her underwear like an offering upon the ottoman at the foot of the bed.  And when at last he returned his attention to her, it was with the heat of his lips. His hands, his skin.

He walked her back to the bed.  Guiding each footstep with one of his own until at last she sank against his black linen.

"Let's see if we can't do something about your appetite, amore."

The hours rolled by to the sound of Rome's many belfries chiming out in the distance. The warm Roman morning gave way to a glorious, pink and violet-hued afternoon. And twilight set in thereafter, with the glitter of the first star in the evening sky. The day cascaded into the deep velvet of night.

And all through those long hours, Santino loved her.

Deeply.

Repeatedly.

Over and over and over again.

From one dizzying high to another, he forced her body from extreme to extreme. At his fingers, his tongue, the power of his length. In her mouth, her maidenhood, her feet... he even dared to massage and oil her heated flesh and let her taste the first lash of deeply intimate anal pleasures. Fleeting at first, so as to not frighten nor intimidate her. But enough that in the heat of the moment, he assured her,

"If you want it... you'll beg for it."

Minute after minute, hour after hour he shackled her to the smouldering heat of his passion. Three, four, five times in a row he had her hit the sheer wall of screaming climax. When his own body could no longer meet her demands, he took her overheated flesh with hot oils and passionate embraces until at last she grew exhausted, over-sensitized, aching. She begged release of a different kind. He had conquered her completely. She could take no more. And at last... she begged.

"Papi...please.... Please Papi... I'm actually starving now."

He laughed in absolute triumph and collapsed beside her. His body drenched in perspiration expended by hours of heated passion. They both coiled together, awaiting the slowing of their heartbeats until at last, Santino rose from the bed and crossed the room to serve his lover a glass of water from the pitcher at his sideboard. Himself another.

"Two weeks you deny yourself solid foods, evade my company, suffer alone with a stomach virus, struggle with your cycle. Two weeks you drive your poor Santino almost to the brink of insanity so that I brawl with my men and women in your name as they fight like dogs to protect you and now... after a single afternoon... and evening, in my bed, you tell me you're actually hungry?" He shook his head at her knowingly.

"You mean to tell me all of this could have been averted if only you'd let me give you a good, hard, fuck...hmm? Amore?"

Laughter shook his chest.  She looked so innocent as she averted her eyes, pouting and making pretty excuses.

"Come on, bella... Let's get showered off. Get some clean clothes on and then we can go downstairs and see if Panchelli has kept a few plates warm for us in the oven. Can you bear to sit with us as a family like you did at breakfast? I'd recommend it. If you let me have you alone, I can't promise you I won't consider force-feeding you dessert, eh, tesoro?"  

He blew a kiss to the air, paired it with his most disarming wink. His emerald eyes shimmering. His russet curls a dishevelled mess. He made a show of swallowing down the last of his water before setting the glass aside and padding off to the ensuite bathroom.

You’re friends with f0rtis-fortuna-aduviat right? Where are they? And are them and that Lalienna DeMentriento blog a shipped HC? They charactarize as such.

Hi there Reader!

Thank you for your question. To the best of my understanding our fellow writer Fortis is currently on extended leave and will remain offline for an indefinite period of time.

Fortis and Lalienna are two individual authors who collaborate together frequently as John Wick and progressive lady assassin Lalienna DeMentriento. I'm not familiar with the term 'HC' ship, but if it stands for (and I'm guessing here) 'Hetro Couple', then yes, you're right. On occasion John and Lalienna have been written to engage in heated physical exchanges. ☺️

If you're currently looking for a writer to take on the role of Mr. Wick, Lalienna's author or myself may be available. Please feel free to send an Ask request for more info.

All the best,

L.G. Spider

😁✌️

"I think, if we work together we can make a great pair!" He exclaimed. Glitter in his eyes. That tension on the verge of breaking point so unique to his manipulative personality. And beneath that vaneer of false bravado and egomaniacal self superiority lay something deeper.

Insecurity.

His just shone that much brighter.

| Whoever decided the birds are free? |

By Yaroslav Lotsmanov #starwars #thedarkside #sith #darthmaul #maul #apprentice #fanmade #fanart #MoonsithIG https://www.instagram.com/p/BrI8_D2H4L-/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=2okdrpuqoqs8

My ten personal favorite artworks by JC Leyendecker. It is interesting that many of them happen to be Easter illustrations!

“He comes in shadows, moves in silence. The Baba Yaga they call him. Prince of the Underworld. He got out once. He completed an impossible task that served to pave the foundations for a generation. That built on blood and bodies the glory that we know today. We have wronged him. It was more than just the car. More than just the puppy. He came back for vengeance. He came back for love. He told me to tell the world no matter who comes, he’s going to kill them all. I believe him.” - Winston. The Continental. New York City. 

“And [director of photography] Dan Laustsen, with his… He loves that little key light in the eyes. [Keanu] you were always getting the half-face lighting, the one eye, and the other guy in most of the scenes was always getting the two eyes. That was another plan. One eye versus the two eyes.” —Chad Stahelski, taken from the John Wick: Chapter 2 director’s commentary.