#martone

Porter Martone, Carson Bjarnason, and Alex Ciernik warm up for the 3v3 tournament

Flyers Development Camp 7/5/25

Martone, Calabria, Italy

Video by @il_bello_di_reggio_calabria

che peso ha la nostalgia?

Ilya Repin, "Portrait of V.D. Ratov", 1910

Mi sembra un De Filippo, o uno Scarpetta. Ed era anche lui un attore, commediografo e regista. Russo, però, non napoletano.

praise k*nk, mature, established relationship, canonverse

He took her up to the roof. There were five tin cans lined up on the ledge. Martin handed her a gun and said, “Shoot.”

She handed it right back. “No.”

She’d already killed that woman. She never wanted to hold a gun again, never wanted to see the fading light behind someone’s eyes as the recoil ached up her arm. 

He pushed the gun into her palm and held it there between both of his. “Next time the target won’t be so close.”

“I don’t care,” she said, but she kept hold of it, let the cold metal warm in her hand. She wanted, bizarrely, to cry. Wanted to curl up in Martin’s arms and let him say sweet things to her and pretend none of this was happening. But Martin was only sweet sometimes.

When she was a child, before Rasmus was born, she pouted and stomped her foot whenever her father wouldn’t give her what she wanted. She was tempted to do that now. Whenever she was sad, Martin was generally committed to making her feel better. 

He stepped closer to her, an amused look on his face. She wasn’t pouting yet but she was sure he could feel her wanting to. He put his hands on her hips, slid them up the back of her shirt. “One round,” he said, close by her ear, “and I’ll give you a reward.” He gently bit her neck, right by her ear, a spot she never knew was sensitive until he discovered it only days ago. 

She lifted the gun and shot at one of the cans. It missed.

He laughed and settled behind her, placed his hand over hers and lifted the gun again. “Here,” he said, “tilt your head and look down the barrel, line up the shot.” 

She did, and this time only nicked the tin. 

“Better,” he murmured, and ran his hand over her belly, above the waistline of her jeans. His lips grazed the shell of her ear. “Again,” he said softly.

She shot again, and this time hit the target. Her breath was coming more shallowly now. She tilted her hips back to feel him press into her. 

“Very good,” he said, and rewarded her by grinding against her.

He unbuttoned her jeans and slid his hand into her underwear. She was trembling now. 

“Martin, please,” she said as he grazed over her with his fingertips.

“Three more.”

She popped off another shot. It hit the second can, but she couldn’t relish in the victory, because Martin sank his finger into her and whispered, “Good girl. Two left.”

She was ashamed of how wet she was. Shooting a gun shouldn’t be able to do this to her.

He circled around her clit, kissed and nipped at her neck. Her legs felt weak. It shocked her, how quickly he could make her come. In the bunker, when she’d had to teach herself everything about her own body, it took years of practice to achieve orgasm, and even then, she’d always had to be quiet because of Rasmus sleeping one bunk over. 

She shot the gun again, and missed the tin entirely. He laughed and pulled his hand away. She cried out in frustration.

“You can’t come until you hit the target,” he said, blessedly continuing working over her clit.

“Fuck.” She lifted the gun again and took a deep breath, willing herself to focus. It was nearly impossible, considering all her effort was spent holding herself up and trying not to come.

“One more, sweetheart,” he said. “You can do it.”

After one final, steadying breath, she pulled the trigger. The can blasted off the roof. She dropped the gun and came, her legs giving out and Martin holding her up at the hip. He was telling her what a good job she did, a natural, but it all blended together as waves of pleasure crested over her. 

When she finished, he politely buttoned her back up, and she regained her footing. She turned around and grabbed his shirt and dragged him down for a long, harsh kiss. He smiled against her mouth. 

Se volete proprio avere cognizione di come sia caduta in basso l’intellighenzia italiana nel suo senso più esteso, non c’è niente di meglio che sopportare stoicamente la visione di Capri Revolution, l’ultimo film di Martone: al momento vi sembrerà di aver sciupato due ore della vostra vita, ma poi piano piano capirete che questa operina pretenziosa, noiosa, servile e ignorante, è lo specchio di…