#Firenze University Press

[queerographies]

[Quanti generi di diversità?][Irene Biemmi]

"Quanti generi di diversità?" di Irene Biemmi affronta le discriminazioni legate all'orientamento sessuale e all'identità di genere. L'opera interdisciplinare offre nuovi approcci per contrastare l'omofobia e la transfobia.

Combattere l’omofobia e la transfobia: strumenti e strategie per una società più inclusiva Titolo: Quanti generi di diversità? Promuovere nuovi linguaggi, rappresentazioni e saperi per educare alle differenze e prevenire l’omofobia e la transfobiaScritto da: Irene BiemmiEdito da: Firenze University PressAnno: 2024Pagine: 140ISBN: 9791221503616 La sinossi di Quanti generi di diversità? di Irene…

[paoloferrario]

TartaRugosa ha letto e scritto di: Giampaolo Nuvolati (2013), L’interpretazione dei luoghi, Firenze, University Press

TartaRugosa ha letto e scritto di: Giampaolo Nuvolati (2013), L’interpretazione dei luoghi, Firenze, University Press

[gregor-samsung]

“ Le parole della politica – sostantivi e aggettivi – sono tutte ambigue, perché sono parole del potere e per il potere, sono cioè parole strumentali. Questa ambiguità si constata facilmente proprio con riguardo alla democrazia quando la si definisce non come governo del popolo, ma come governo per il popolo. Così, la ‘democrazia cristiana’, agli inizi del Novecento, era definita «l’impegno cattolico per il popolo, avente come scopo il conforto e l’elevamento delle classi inferiori» [U. Benigni, s.v. Christian Democracy, in Catholic Encyclopedia, Appleton, New York 1908], lo «studium solandae erigendaeque plebis» dell’Enciclica Graves de communi, del papa Leone XIII (1901). In questo senso della parola, di democrazia, anzi di ‘reale’, ‘vera’, ‘sostanziale’ democrazia, contrapposta alla democrazia ‘solo formale’ dei regimi liberali, si poterono fregiare anche il regime sovietico («democratico è tutto ciò che serve agli interessi del popolo»), il fascismo («democrazia organizzata, centralizzata, autoritaria» al servizio della nazione) e tutti i regimi più violenti e arbitrari del mondo che, dopo avere privato i cittadini dei loro diritti, si sono auto-proclamati e si auto-proclamano sinceri amici e difensori del popolo. In questo semplice scambio di preposizioni, dal governo del popolo al governo per il popolo, sta la capacità mimetica della parola democrazia. Paradossalmente, anche le autocrazie, perfino le teocrazie, cioè le autocrazie spinte al massimo livello, come è in certe repubbliche islamiche, possono presentarsi come democrazie, talora anzi come le ‘vere democrazie’ contrapposte a quelle occidentali ‘degenerate’ e, a questo punto – è ovvio – la confusione e l’inganno diventano totali e insuperabili. Ancora più temerario è lo stravolgimento del concetto quando la democrazia è definita governo per mezzo del popolo. A questo proposito, per comprendere la corruzione del concetto basta pensare ch’essa attrarrebbe nel campo della democrazia le jacqueries dei contadini in Francia, i sanfedisti del cardinale Ruffo di Calabria, i pogrom dei cristiani fanatizzati contro i villaggi ebraici dell’Europa centrale, i milioni di morti delle guerre ‘di popolo’. Basti così. Ci si può invece domandare perché oggi, in tutto il mondo, chi esercita funzioni politiche, tanto tenga a qualificarsi comunque democratico, a costo di simili violenze lessicali e concettuali. La democrazia, fin dall’inizio della riflessione sulle forme del vivere insieme, è stata associata all’idea della massificazione, della mediocrità, dell’edonismo, del materialismo, dell’arbitrio e della violenza del numero senza qualità, dunque a una costellazione di valori negativi. Per quali motivi, allora, è diventata oggi una parola magica, lo shibbolet, il passaporto senza il quale non si è ammessi al consesso dei popoli, dei governanti e degli Stati civili? Perché, in breve, è diventata un titolo di rispettabilità al quale nessun governante, oggi, vuole e può rinunciare? Proprio oggi, quando la riflessione scientifica sulla democrazia è particolarmente disincantata, perfino scettica sulle sue virtù e sempre più frequente è l’accusa d’essere il regime della simulazione e della dissimulazione, cioè il regime dell’ipocrisia del potere. “

Gustavo Zagrebelsky, La difficile democrazia, (Collana Lezioni e Letture della Facoltà di Scienze politiche “Cesare Alfieri” dell’Università di Firenze), Firenze University Press, 2010. [Corsivi dell’autore]

Nota: Lectio Magistralis inaugurale dell’anno accademico 2009-2010 dell'Università degli Studi di Firenze .

[nosanime]

Bibliography - “Evangelion: You Can (Not) Reference”

As I noted before, from here on, all of our panels from now on will include full bibliographies of the sources we used in the research and creation of the presentation.  

This is the bibliography for our newest venture, the remake of our panel on the religious references used in Neon Genesis Evangelion titled “Evangelion: You Can (Not) Reference”.

*Update* This bibliography is now complete!  I will make further updates if I find another source I missed.

Bibliography:

1731298478. Comment on “Is Rei still retrievable as a human?.” EvaGeeks.org Forums, 17 Jul 2011, 12:18 a.m., forum.evageeks.org/post/478968/Is-Rei-still-retrievable-as-a-human/#478968.

 1731298478. Comment on “Why does NGE have so many references to the Bible.” EvaGeeks.org Forums, 7 Sept 2011, 7:55 p.m., forum.evageeks.org/post/491215/Why-does-NGE-have-so-many-references-to-the-Bible/#491215.

 1731298478. Comment on “Why does NGE have so many references to the Bible.” EvaGeeks.org Forums, 9 Sept 2011, 3:57 p.m., forum.evageeks.org/post/491493/Why-does-NGE-have-so-many-references-to-the-Bible/#491493.

 1731298478. Comment on “Why does NGE have so many references to the Bible.” EvaGeeks.org Forums, 9 Sept 2011, 7:07 p.m., forum.evageeks.org/post/491550/Why-does-NGE-have-so-many-references-to-the-Bible/#491550.

 Abbott, H. Porter. The Cambridge Introduction to Narrative. 2nd ed., Cambridge University Press, 2008.

 Allan, Arlene. Hermes. Gods and Heroes of the Ancient World. New York, Routledge, 2018.

 Anno, Hideaki, creator. Neon Genesis Evangelion. GAINAX, 1995.

 Asbridge, Thomas. “The Holy Lance of Antioch: Power, Devotion and Memory on the First Crusade.” Reading Medieval Studies, 33, 2007, pp. 3-36.

 Bernabò, Massimo, editor. Il Tetravangelo di Rabbula. Firenze, Biblioteca Medicea Laurenziana, plut. 1.56: L'illustrazione del Nuovo Testamento nella Siria del VI secolo. Rome, Edizioni di Storia e Letteratura, 2008.

 Bristlebristle. “Evangelion and Religious Imagery.” Too Many Words, intoomanywords.com/2019/06/20/evangelion-and-religious-imagery/.

 Brokerick, Mick. “Anime's Apocalypse: Neon Genesis Evangelion as Millennarian Mecha.” Intersections: Gender, History and Culture in the Asian Context, no. 7, Mar. 2002, intersections.anu.edu.au/issue7/broderick_review.html#t13.

 Burkert, Walter. Greek Religion. Harvard University Press, 1985.

 Boyce, Mary. A History of Zoroastrianism: The Early Period. Brill, 1996.

 Clement of Alexandria. “Protrepticus.” Perseus Digital Library, Tufts University, http://www.perseus.tufts.edu/hopper/text?doc=urn:cts:greekLit:tlg0555.tlg001.perseus-grc1:1.

 Collins, John Joseph. Daniel: With an Introduction to Apocalyptic Literature. Eerdmans, 1984.

 Coogan, Michael D. A Brief Introduction to the Old Testament: The Hebrew Bible in Its Context. Oxford University Press, 2009.

 Davidson, Gustav. A Dictionary of Angels: Including the Fallen Angels. Free Press, 1994.

 Davies, Philip R., et al. The Complete World of the Dead Sea Scrolls. Thames and Hudson, 2011.

 DiTommaso, Lorenzo. “Apocalypticism and Popular Culture.” The Oxford Handbook of Apocalyptic Literature, edited by Collins, John J., Oxford University Press, 2014, pp. 473-510.

 Dzielska, Maria. Apollonius of Tyana in Legend and History. Translated by Piotr Pienkowski, Rome, L’ERMA di Bretschneider, 1986.

 Ehrman, Bart D. Forged: Writing in the Name of God – Why the Bible’s Authors Are Not Who We Think They Are. HarperOne, 2011.

 Ehrman, Bart D and Plese, Zlatko. The Apocryphal Gospels: Texts and Translations. Oxford University Press, 2011.

 “Excerpta Latina Barbari.” Eusebi Chronicorum Libri Duo 1: Eusebi Chronicorum Liber Prior. Edited by Alfred Schoene. Berlin, Apud Weidmannos, 1875, Appendix VI, pp. 177-239.

 Freedman, David Noel, et al., editors. The Anchor Yale Bible Dictionary. Doubleday, 1992.

 Frothingham, A.L. “Babylonian Origin of Hermes the Snake-God, and of the Caduceus.” American Journal of Archaeology, vol. 20, no. 2, 1916, pp. 175-211.

 Godwin, William. Lives of the Necromancers. London, 1834.

 Grunwald, Max. “Kleine Beiträge Zur Jüdischen Kulturgeschichte. (Fortsetzung): 10. Aus Hausapotheke Und Hexenküche. II.” Mitteilungen Zur Jüdischen Volkskunde, vol. 2, no. 3 (19), 1906, pp. 96–120. 

 Hendel, Ronald S. “Adam.” Eerdmans Dictionary of the Bible, edited by David Noel Freedman, Eerdmans, 2000, pp. 18-19.

 Herodotus. The Landmark Herodotus: The Histories. Edited by Robert B Strassler, translated by Andrea L Purvis, Anchor Books, 2007.

 Horn, Carl Gustav. “FLCL is the Formula.” Pulp: The Manga Magazine, Mar. 2002, vol. 6, no. 3.

 Hultgard, Anders. “The Magi and the Star: The Persian Background in Texts and Iconography.” “Being Religious and Living Through the Eyes”: Studies in Religious Iconography and Iconology, edited by Peter Schalk and Michael Stausberg, 1998, pp. 215-225.

 “Interview with Tsurumaki Kazuya (Studio GAINAX).” Anime no Tomodachi, www.gwern.net/docs/www/www.tomodachi.de/0e0191e1fa4fe4745561227758c44a3712407a68.html.

 Jastrow, Marcus.  A Dictionary of the Targumim, the Talmud Babli and Yerushalmi, and the Midrashic Literature. Hendrickson Pub, 2006.

 Johnson, Wendell, G. End of Days: An Encyclopedia of the Apocalypse in World Religions. ABC-CLIO, 2017.

 Klijn, A.F.J. “Syriac Apocalypse of Baruch. A New Translation and Introduction.” The Old Testament Pseudepigrapha. Volume I: Apocalyptic Literature and Testaments, edited by James H. Charlesworth, Yale University Press, 1983.

 Knibb, Michael A. The Ethiopic Book of Enoch: A New Edition in the Light of the Aramaic Dead Sea Fragments, Clarendon Press, 1978, 2 vols.

 Kodera, Takashi James. “Nichiren and his Nationalistic Eschatology” Religious Studies, vol. 15, no. 1, 1979, pp. 41-53. 

 Kraemer, Christine Hoff. “Self and (M)other: Apocalypse as Return to the Womb in Neon Genesis Evangelion.” Religion, Film, and Visual Culture Group, American Academy of Religion Annual Meeting, 22 Nov. 2004, San Antonio, TX.

 Lesses, Rebecca. “Exe(o)rcising Power: Women as Sorceresses, Exorcists, and Demonesses in

Babylonian Jewish Society of Late Antiquity.” Journal of the American Academy of Religion, vol. 69, no. 2, pp. 343-375.

 Livingston, Marjorie. The New Nuctemeron: The Twelve Hours of Apollonius of Tyana. Kessinger Publishing, 1995.

 Marguerite de Navarre. The Heptameron. Translated by Paul A. Chilton. Penguin Classics, 1984.

 Massey, Wyatt. “Religious questions: Was there a Dead Sea Scrolls conspiracy?.” Chattanooga Times Free Press [Chattanooga], 23 Aug. 2019, https://www.timesfreepress.com/news/life/entertainment/story/2019/aug/23/religious-questions‑dead-sea-scrolls/501940/.

 “May 1997 AnimeLand Interview with Hideaki Anno (English).” Gwern.net, www.gwern.net/docs/eva/1997-animeland-may-hideakianno-interview-english.

 McIntosh, Christopher. Eliphas Levi and the French Occult Revival. Rider, 1975.

 Metzger, Bruce M. New Testament Studies (Philological, Versional, and Patristic). Brill, 1980.

 Midrash Rabbah. Translated by H. Freedman, vol. 1-2, London, Soncino Press, 1983.

 Montgomery, James A. Aramaic Incantation Texts from Nippur. Philadelphia, The University Museum, 1913.

 “Motif.” LitCharts, www.litcharts.com/literary-devices-and-terms/motif.

 Neon Genesis Evangelion: The End of Evangelion. Directed by Hideaki Anno and Kazuya Tsurumaki. GAINAX, 1997.

 Neon Genesis Evangelion: Death and Rebirth. Directed by Hideaki Anno and Kazuya Tsurumaki. GAINAX, 1997.

 Odeberg, Hugo. 3 Enoch or The Hebrew Book of Enoch. Cambridge University Press, 1928.

 Overmyer, Daniel, L. “Folk-Buddhist Religion: Creation and Eschatology in Medieval China.” History of Religions, vol. 12, no. 1, 1972, pp. 42-70. 

 Poe, Edgar Allen. “Israfel.” Poetry Foundation, www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/48628/israfel.

 Reiterer, Friedrich V., et al., editors. Angels: The Concept of Celestial Beings. de Gruyter, 2007.

 "Resources:Neon Genesis Evangelion Proposal (Translation)." EvaWiki, wiki.evageeks.org/Resources:Neon_Genesis_Evangelion_Proposal_(Translation).

 Schier, Volker and Schleif, Corine. "Seeing and Singing, Touching and Tasting the Holy Lance. The Power and Politics of Embodied Religious Experiences in Nuremberg, 1424–1524." Signs of Change. Transformations of Christian Traditions and their Representation in the Arts, 1000–2000, edited by Nils Holger Petersen, Claus Cluver, and Nicolas Bell, Rodopi, 2004, pp. 401-426.

 Schier, Volker and Schleif, Corine. “The Holy Lance as Late Twentieth-century Subcultural Icon.” Subcultural Icons, edited by Keyan Tomaselli and David Scott, Left Coast Press, 2009, pp. 103-134.

 Schiller, Gertrud, and Seligman, Janet. Iconography of Christian Art. Vol. 1: Christ’s Incarnation, Childhood, Baptism, Temptation, Transfiguration, Works and Miracles. Lund Humphries, 1971.

 Schmidt, Carl, editor. Pistis Sophia. Translated by Violet Macdermot, E.J. Brill, 1978.

 Schwartz, Howard. Tree of Souls: The Mythology of Judaism. Oxford University Press, 2007.

 Sepharial. The Science of Foreknowledge. 1902. Cosimo Classics, 2006.

 Sevakis, Justin. “Buried Treasure: Hideaki Anno Talks to Kids.” AnimeNewsNetwork, www.animenewsnetwork.com/buried-treasure/2007-05-03.

 Shaked, Shaul, et al. Aramaic Spell Bowls: Jewish Babylonian Aramaic Bowls. Volume One. Brill, 2013.

 Suggs, M. Jack, et al., editors. The Oxford Study Bible. Oxford University Press, 1992.

 “Theme.” LitCharts, www.litcharts.com/literary-devices-and-terms/theme.

 Tolman, Herbert Cushing. Ancient Persian Lexicon and Texts. New York, American Book Company, 1908.

 “Towards a Cartography of Japanese Anime: Anno Hideaki’s Evangelion. Interview with Azuma Hiroki.” Gwern.net, www.gwern.net/docs/www/www.nettime.org/5f2f5fe3c528751cd05ba02cb55f4f6f3d7f29ae.html.

 Tyson, Stuart L. “The Caduceus.” The Scientific Monthly, vol. 34, no. 6, 1932, pp. 492-498.

 Untitled. Gwern.net, www.gwern.net/docs/www/www.evaotaku.com/ddcf7fc884af1589b35b782e5336bae554bd518c.html.

 VanderKam, James C. The Book of Jubilees. Translation. Leuven, Peeters, 1989.

 Vermes, Geza. The Complete Dead Sea Scrolls in English. 7th ed., Penguin Classics, 2012.

 Wallraff, Martin, et al., editors. Iulius Africanus Chronographiae: The Extant Fragments. Translated by Adler William, Walter de Gruyter, 2007.

 Webb, Gisela. “Angel.” Encyclopedia of the Qurʾān, edited by Jane Dammen McAuliffe, vol. 1, Brill, 2001.

 “What is “Tabris.”” EvaGeeks.org Forums, forum.evageeks.org/threads/19389/What-is-Tabris/.

 Wilford, John Noble. “Open, Dead Sea Scrolls Stir Up New Disputes.” The New York Times, national ed., 19 April 1992, sec. 1, p. 22.

 Wojciech, Kosior. “A Tale of Two Sisters: The Image of Eve in Early Rabbinic Literature and Its

Influence on the Portrayal of Lilith in the Alphabet of Ben Sira.” A Journal of Jewish Women’s Studies & Gender Issues, no. 32, pp. 112-130.

 Wood, Alice. Of Wings and Wheels: A Synthetic Study of the Biblical Cherubim. de Gruyter, 2008.

 Zürcher, E. “Prince Moonlight” T’oung Pao, vol. 68, no. 1, 1982, pp. 1–75. 

[chilling-seavey]

based on ur post about the songs from the album and when they would have been written in ABM- ABM Daniel writing a song for Flora and she hears it for the first time?

By the time Daniel graduated with his bachelor’s degree in music production; he had an album of ten original songs under his belt. His first year was learning the basics but by the time the novel of ABM began, his classes started assigning projects in writing and producing their own songs. We all know that Daniel is incredibly creative and especially so when it comes to his music and this universe is no different, but he was also incredibly protective about his work. He showed Florence snippets of what he had been working on but never full songs because he didn’t want to admit that all his songs were about her.

His inspiration was directly stemmed from her; for every single one of his projects.

Even when Florence and Daniel started dating, he kept his previous songs locked away on his computer in near embarrassment with how lovesick and emotional they all were. They were pieces of his fragile soul from the past two or three years and he was simply a little nervous of opening that back up again.

By his final week of university, Daniel received a CD that was burned with all of his projects in order on it to hear his progression and his professor congratulated him on being one of the top students he had ever seen or taught. Daniel thanked him, went home, and hid the album in the very back of his sock drawer.

Here is the link to ABM Daniel’s University Album.

Thursday, June 16, 2022

It had been in there barely two months when Florence found it. She was doing laundry and putting the clean folded clothes in the drawers when her hand grazed something at the bottom of Daniel’s sock drawer. Curiosity got the better of her and she pushed the folded socks out of the way to reveal a CD case, the cover staring back up at her with one of Daniel’s first year headshots and the title in white across the black and white image; Firenze. ‘Florence’ in Italian.

She set the laundry basket on the floor and picked up the CD from the bottom of the drawer. She flipped it over and skimmed the track list printed on the back. Ten short titled tracks in a row down the middle. Florence figured she shouldn’t go snooping through her fiancé’s things but it wasn’t a gift since her birthday already passed and they never gave each other Christmas gifts so she carried it back out to the bedroom.

Daniel was watching the girls in the living room while Florence was doing laundry so she had a moment of privacy to close the bedroom door and bring out her laptop. She slid the CD into the disk drive and put in her earbuds to listen to the mysterious album that had been hidden from her for nearly four years. The front cover slid out like a real professional album and she flipped it open as the songs loaded into iTunes.

The first song was titled Just to See You Smile. Written and Produced by Daniel Seavey, 1st year Music Production student, March 2019.

Florence smiled at the gentle piano that led the introduction to the song and then Daniel’s youthful voice that came in next. She couldn’t believe he never showed her this song; probably too nervous since it was his first, but it was sweet and it made her smile.

The second song was titled Hard. Written and Produced by Daniel Seavey, 2nd year Music Production student, Summer 2019.

She followed along to the lyrics in the small cover booklet, her smile faltering a moment at the lyrics come the pre-chorus. It was obvious as to what it was about, especially being written in Summer of 2019 when Matt was still around and it was often that Florence truly ran crying to Daniel when he hurt her.

The third song was titled Falling. Written and Produced by Daniel Seavey, 2nd year Music Production student, September 2019.

Florence’s expression was flat, the words of the song resonating deep in her mind and the emotion behind Daniel’s voice nearly sent chills down her spine as she read along with the lyrics.

That one was followed by Perfect from November 2019, Made For from January 2020, For You from February 2020, What Am I from Summer 2020, all of which just added another weight to Florence’s heart. The angsty heartbroken songs that she was smart enough to know just who they were about, each lyric speaking right to her soul from a part of Daniel’s she hardly knew existed.

She tried not to feel heartbroken herself over the deep lyrics and soft melodies as a vision into Daniel’s own mind through their friendship. She had hurt him so much and never knew. She now sat on their shared bed in their new apartment and fought back her own tears over these songs that he tried to hide from her.

Daniel had finished making lunch for the girls and set them at their small white wooden table to eat, waiting impatiently for Florence to finish putting away the laundry so they could eat together. The minutes passed as he cleaned up the kitchen but there was no sign of her.

“Stay right here, okay?” Daniel said to his two daughters before heading down the hallway to find his fiancé. Their bedroom door was closed which was strange and he opened it and headed inside, only to find Florence sitting on their bed with her laptop open and her headphones on and tears in her eyes.

Daniel was startled by her seemingly sudden emotion but then his gaze landed on the open CD cover and the booklet in her hands and his heart literally stopped.

“Flora.” he breathed as she looked up at him.

She paused What Am I within the last minute and pulled out her earbuds with a shaky inhale, “Why didn’t you show me this?”

“I…” Daniel walked slowly over to her and glanced at her laptop to see what track she was on. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, “I didn’t…I…I didn’t want you to be upset. There’s some…heavy and personal shit in these songs.”

“Yeah.” Florence laughed humourlessly, looking back to the simple black booklet in her hands.

“Are you mad at me?” Daniel asked softly.

“Mad at you? You should be mad at me for listening to something you didn’t want me to listen to.” Florence sighed, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand before her tears could fall.

“They’re all for you anyway.” Daniel shrugged. “Plus it had your name on the cover.”

“You really meant all of this?” Florence asked, holding up the lyric booklet haphazardly.

“Every single word.” Daniel nodded and shuffled to sit beside her on the bed. “I wasn’t kidding when I said I’ve been in love with you from the first moment we met.”

“I didn’t know…that I hurt you this bad all the time.”

“Not all the time.” Daniel tisked. “The hard stuff just makes for the best songs.”

Florence chuckled lightly and Daniel smiled softly and pressed a sweet kiss to her cheek before leaning his head against hers.

“I wrote What Am I the week before Penelope was born.” Daniel said quietly, staring at the song paused on the laptop screen. “And you were the only thing on my mind the whole time…you and our baby that I didn’t know was ours yet.”

“I heard you singing it to her once.”

“Yeah.” Daniel cracked a small smile at the memory.

They sat in silence together, in their own minds and memories, staring at the paused CD.

“Are you gonna listen to the last three?” Daniel asked.

“Are they gonna make me cry?” Florence mumbled.

“No. Next one was the first song I wrote after we started dating.” he flipped the booklet to Taking You, “And then one from when I knew I wanted to marry you,” he flipped to Big Plans, “And finally, my thesis project. Spent all this last year working on it from recordings to lyrics to instrumentals to production and everything in between.” he flipped to the last page to Love Song finished just that last April. “Got a shining 100%.”

Florence smiled at him and stuck her earbud back in but Daniel got up from the bed again. “Are you not going to listen with me?” she frowned.

“Gotta watch our babies so they don’t destroy the house. Come find me after, okay?”

“Okay.” Florence smiled lightly and welcomed his lingering kiss to her lips. She watched him leave before turning back to her laptop and pressed ‘play’.

The upbeat guitar of Taking You instantly made her smile and the sweet lyrics had it sticking; thinking back to the first few weeks of their romantic relationship and how fresh and new everything was. And Big Plans definitely made her cry – especially because it was made in April and he said it was when he knew he wanted to marry her, so far in advance to when he actually proposed. And Love Song. Her favourite on the whole track list, an upbeat and catch incredible song that sounded like it could be professionally made by a famous band. But it was just her Daniel and his deepest, sweetest, honest feelings for her and it only made her more excited to spend the rest of their lives together.

When the album concluded, she took it out of her laptop and put the CD safely away in its case and on Daniel’s desk across the room before heading back down the hallway. She lingered in the doorway a moment to watch Daniel set two plastic cups of apple juice down for the girls and they thanked him sweetly. He stood back up and caught glimpse of Florence in the hallway and they shared small smiles. She headed over to him and he swallowed her up into a warm embrace and peppered a few kisses to her cheek and down her neck.

“I love you so much.” Florence whispered.

“I love you more.” Daniel smiled against her neck.

“Our whole love story on one CD, huh?” she said.

Daniel pulled back from her to look at her face and their noses brushed lightly. He kissed hers before resting their foreheads together, “It is.”

“I’m proud of you. It was all truly beautiful. Can’t believe you didn’t share all that with me before.”

“I’ve shown you bits and pieces.” Daniel shrugged, his eyes falling closed as they stood together in their kitchen, arms wrapped around each other and just breathing together. “But I was too shy.”

“I know.” Florence giggled, giving his hips a small squeeze. She pulled back to look him in the eye. “But now I expect to hear all your beautiful art.”

“Okay.” Daniel leaned in to kiss her lips and they smiled into it before he pulled back just long enough to whisper, “I’ll put it in my vows.”

[lorenzodonatibologna]

Chi sono

40 anni, nato in Romagna, sposato. Sono operatore culturale, giornalista e dottorando in discipline teatrali al Dipartimento delle Arti dell’Università di Bologna, ho collaborato con enti pubblici e privati in processi di partecipazione e di progettazione e curatela artistica. Sono strenuamente convinto del valore politico dell'educazione e del potenziale di emancipazione della cultura, per questo conduco numerosi laboratori di alfabetizzazione, educazione alle arti, racconto e scrittura in scuole secondarie, università, festival e teatri. Studio i meccanismi artistici di “scrittura con la realtà”, raccontando le poetiche di gruppi e artisti emergenti. 

Da sempre cerco di praticare e costruire spazi d’azione per visioni collettive, per immaginare una politica di sinistra. Ho preso e prenderò innumerevoli autobus, treni e biciclette per manifestare per la scuola pubblica, contro la guerra, per i diritti, contro lo sfruttamento del lavoro, della terra, degli spazi di autonomia nelle città, per l’autodeterminazione di comunità e gruppi di giovani, contro i razzismi. 

Cucino per gli amici e quando posso vado in cerca del mare e di funghi.

Mi sono laureato al Dams di Bologna, dove figuro fra i docenti del Master in imprenditoria dello spettacolo, con una tesi sul teatro argentino di Buenos Aires nella post-dittatura. Sono tra i fondatori del gruppo Altre Velocità e faccio parte di giuria e Comitato di gestione dei Premi Ubu. Ho lavorato per il Comune di Ravenna per la candidatura a Capitale Europea della Cultura, sono stato consulente alla direzione artistica del festival di land art Terrena (2019). Conduco il laboratorio universitario "Bologna Teatri" con M. Marino presso La Soffitta / DAMSLab. Dal 2020 co-dirigo “La Falena”, rivista prodotta dal Teatro Metastasio di Prato e nel 2021 entro a far parte del “Gruppo di ricerca sul campo” del Festival Cantieri Culturali Firenze, della Compagnia Virgilio Sieni. Nel 2018 ho curato, con R. Mazzaglia, "Crescere nell'assurdo. Uno sguardo dallo stretto" (Accademia University Press). Sono candidato a consigliere comunale con la lista civica Matteo Lepore Sindaco. Il 3 e 4 ottobre potete esprimere la vostra preferenza nella scheda azzurra (consiglio comunale) mettendo una croce su “Lista civica Matteo Lepore Sindaco” e scrivere “Donati”

[coffeestainsandcashmere]

hi hi hi, please can i prompt something a lil bit angsty (because i do adore my angst). the first serious fight that theo x draco x hermione have, and maybe how they make up after? thank you.

I loved loved LOVED this prompt, and I’m sorry it took me so long to get round to it. If it’s any consolation, it’s nearly 4k words long...?

Featuring: Draco being the grandiose nobleman he was brought up to be, Theo unthinkingly going along with it, one EXTREMELY tired Hermione who is absolutely not up for surprises or grand, showy, romantic gestures, Hagrid, Fang, Firenze the centaur, and a dollop of fluff to wash the fleeting angst and misunderstandings down.

Hope you enjoy it!

___

After the longest week, with barely a moment to catch her breath, burning the candle at both ends, all Hermione wanted to do on Saturday was sleep, read up on a few more things for an upcoming Ancient Studies test, perhaps lounge in the boys’ room down in the Dungeons, and perhaps convince one of them to give her a massage. Simple, humble plans, every last one of them.  

But the universe, apparently, had other ideas, given that it had seen fit to make the busiest week of term so far culminate not in an ordinary weekend, but in Valentine’s Day.  

Wizarding and Muggle alike the world was awash with pink hearts and red roses, and Hermione wanted nothing to do with it. She never had, and she knew that both boys were unfortunately prone to grand displays of affection, and that made her anxious and snappy. She’d spent most of the previous week - in the cumulative half hour that she’d actually spent in their company - trying to hint and suggest heavily that she had no interest in grand surprises and romantic endeavours. The most romantic thing someone could do for her was respect her wishes, after all.  

Quite deliberately, she’d not made any concrete plans to see the boys that Saturday, helped by the fact that Draco had an extensive Quidditch training session scheduled and Theo had some work to catch up, but after she’d woken at her usual time anyway, and had lain there for an hour, praying for sleep that wasn’t going to return, she got up. Her mother had always said that if you can’t rest, do something productive.  

The Great Hall teemed with excitable younger years, one or two unfortunate howlers, and a plethora of Exploding Envelopes filled with glittering confetti hearts from Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, and she turned around and left before even bothering to step inside. It wasn’t that she hated the sentiments behind Valentine’s at all, but honestly, it just felt rather cheap and the thought of it all simply… exhausted her further.  

Without pausing or returning to the Tower, she made the split-second decision just to bolt out into the grounds and found herself eventually at Hagrid’s hut. He was outside chopping wood and Fang was busy sneakily lapping tea out of the bucket-sized mug that Hagrid had set on a spare stump. The enormous hound looked up suddenly as she caught him in the act, but then gave a low, baying woof of welcome.  

“‘Allo, ‘Ermione,” Hagrid said with a grunt and a little puzzled frown as he straightened from his work. “Good te see yeh. What brings yeh down ‘ere at this time o’ day?”

She shrugged. “Got any jobs I can help with?” she asked instead and he raised an eyebrow and chuckled.  

“Don’t see yeh swinging this around…” the half-giant laughed, hefting the axe that looked like it weighed five times what she did.  

“Preferably not,” she said. “Though I’m not opposed to using magic to get it done.”

“I think I’ve got a few jobs we can do together,” he said. “Fang? Let’s go see Uncle Firenze, eh?” 

They spent the day in the Forbidden Forest with the centaurs, a rare opportunity that Hermione relished, gathering wild mushrooms that only grew in the very depths of the forest and bringing them back carefully in a covered basket for the potions storeroom, among other rare ingredients. She also spent a long time walking with Firenze, the pale centaur quizzing her about the state of the wider wizarding world now, and she in turn asking him questions about the more rigorous sides of the art of divination. The three of them, four if you counted Fang snuffling about in the undergrowth, ate a packed lunch of cheese sandwiches which Hagrid drew out of his top pocket, only slightly misshapen and squashed, and afterwards Firenze showed them some rare, early-spring berries that tasted like pomegranate but had the texture of blueberries.  

At last, her physical exhaustion matched her mental tiredness, and by the time they returned to Hagrid’s hut an hour from sunset, grubby and a little sweaty, she felt fit to fall over.  

“Thank you, Hagrid,” she said, pushing a strand of her ‘witch of the wilds’ hair out of her face, only for it to spring back again. It was so big at that point that a hippogriff chick could probably have nested atop it in perfect comfort. “I needed the distraction.”

He bowed in quiet understanding. “Any time, ‘Ermione. Yeh know that.”

She blessed him silently for not asking any more, and with a nod and a final pat on Fang’s head, she turned her steps towards the castle with no more thoughts in her head than for a long soak in a bath and an early night.  

Again, the universe apparently had other ideas.  

Pacing the entrance hall like his caged namesake, she found Draco looking breathtakingly smart in a set of charcoal grey dress robes and shiny black Oxfords. When he looked up and spotted her, his face did something complicated, the final expression settling on relief, and he came over to her in two quick strides.  

“Where the hell have you been?” he barked, scowling. “Look at the state of you!”

“Out and about in the forest,” she said tersely, hackles rising at his tone. “I didn’t know I needed to report my whereabouts to you, Draco…”

“You —” he began but he broke off and took a breath. “You don’t. Of course you don’t. But I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Theo too. He’s gone to Gryffindor Tower to ask for you again. You weren’t in the library and no one has seen you all day.”

“Why?” she asked. “It’s not like we made plans…”

Draco went still at that, his cheeks first paling and then flushing.  

“Did we?” she pressed, hand on hip, now quite certain that they had not. “Oh god, Draco, don’t tell me you’ve got something dramatic planned for Valentine’s, and you haven’t told me because you wanted to surprise me?” She pinched the brow of her nose. “Please… I told you how I feel about that kind of thing…”

When he spoke again, his voice was cold, defensive, even haughty. “Actually, yes, I do. I wanted to do something nice for you today, and I’d appreciate it if you went and washed the thestral shit off your skin and the twigs from your hair, and changed into something nice. I know you know how to dress up, Granger.”

The frayed end of her metaphorical tether slithered into sight and vanished utterly, and she gasped, “You’d ‘appreciate it’, Draco? Well, you know what I’d have appreciated? Being asked!”

“I’m asking you now,” he said petulantly.  

“No you’re not!” she shrilled back at him. “You’re demanding. This is the classic, old Draco - ‘Go and change, Granger’, ‘dress up nicely, Granger’.”

Draco balked visibly but ground his jaw. “I’m sorry,” he snarled, sounding more frustrated that contrite. “But we’re going to miss our booking, and I’d really like to make it. Please… will you go and change?”

She nearly said yes. Damn her, but she nearly said yes.  

Even after the week from hell, with tutoring sessions and tests and homework and prefect’s patrols, she nearly said yes.

But this time, Hermione Granger was going to stand up for herself.  

“No, Draco, I won’t. I’m exhausted, and all I wanted from today was to relax, have a bit of time to myself, and spend the evening in the bath and then in bed. If you’d told me instead of just assuming I’d go along with whatever grand gesture you’re pulling out of your arse, then maybe I’d think differently. But you don’t just get to order me around like I’m some pureblood debutante to decorate your arm for the evening, Draco. Goodnight.”

And with that, she stormed up the stairs, leaving an astonished and fuming Draco at the bottom, his face revolving through a series of expressions and colours.  

She passed Theo on his way back down and he almost didn’t spot her as he scuttled down the staircase looking equally and devastatingly handsome as Draco had. “Hermione?” he asked, skidding to an ungainly stop and having to grab the banister to support himself as she charged past him.  

“Ask Draco,” she said over her shoulder. “But whatever it is, I’m not going. You two should go and indulge your penchant for lavish evenings on each other.”

“Fuck. I knew it,” she heard him hiss, but to his credit, he didn’t follow her either.

Hermione fumed all evening, and even the bath did nothing to calm her down. Despite her agitation, however, she did sleep soundly, the exertions of the day robbing her brain of the ability to over think itself into ever tighter and tighter circles. Sometimes she could see how far Draco had changed in what would be a year this May, but other times he defaulted to his pureblood upbringing; to the son of a nobleman, used to having people do his bidding without question. She tried to be patient, but at times like this, it irked her more than she would have thought possible.  

The fact that this was their first major falling out - sure, they’d had little misunderstandings and had snapped at each other before now - was also a major contributing factor to the free-floating stress and anxiety coursing through her. What if he never learned to ask instead of demand? Was that the kind of person she wanted to spend her life with? And Theo had been Draco’s boyfriend before he’d been hers. Would he always just go along with what Malfoy wanted? Doubts chased each other like kneazles and bats in her brain when she woke in the early dawn, until she thought she might go mad.  

Malfoy really had been a wonderful boyfriend so far, but he was undeniably prone to bouts of showy, melodramatic romanticism. Her mind conjured images of the diamond necklace he’d gifted her for Yule, and the staggeringly expensive watch he’d gifted Theo, and she struggled to brush them away. He’d come a long way, and he’d changed a lot, but some things took their time, and she doubted whether other things would ever change.

When she stepped out of the Fat Lady’s portrait the next morning, she ground to a halt and almost walked straight back into the tower before the portrait could swing shut. She didn’t, however. She held her ground and stared at Draco who was sitting on the floor with his back against the wall, looking like he’d been there all night. The charcoal grey robes were the same, if dishevelled, the shirt open at the collar. Merlin, he really had been camped out there all night.  

He levered himself to his feet and stared at her sheepishly. “I’m sorry,” he blurted before she could open her mouth. “Hermione, I’m so sorry. I wasn’t listening to you at all, and I should have asked, and I never should have just… presumed like that. I’m so sorry, Hermione.”

She stared at him. “So you know why I’m angry.”

“I didn’t ask,” he said immediately. “And I didn’t respect you. I knew that what I was doing wasn’t the right way to treat you, to show you… but I wilfully ignored that and went ahead with it anyway. I was a giant ass and I’m sorry I hurt you.”

His handsome face looked ashen and wan, his eyes pink behind the silver of his irises. He also carried the sleepless smudges of a night spent in a draughty corridor beneath his eyes.  

Looking around, she asked, “Where’s Theo?”

“Hiding,” Draco said bashfully. “And brooding. It’s awful. Sitting here on the floor all night was actually preferable to being around him.”

Fighting a smirk at his humour, she asked, “Did the two of you go last night?” Wherever it was they’d planned to take her.  

Draco’s brows dipped into a deep scowl. “Without you? Of course not.”

At that, she did twitch her lips. “Go and change out of last night’s robes, Draco,” she said gently, well aware that that was one of the things Draco had said to her, sparking the argument off in the first place. “And take a shower while you’re at it.”  

“Hermione —” he began, taking an aborted step towards her, but he swallowed thickly and nodded. “I’ve said what I wanted to say,” he added dejectedly, and turned away to walk down the corridor with his head held in a distinctly un-Malfoy bow.  

Before he’d gone two steps, she reached out and latched her fingers around his wrist. “I’ll see you in the Great Hall in a bit for some breakfast, ok?”

With eyes wide and achingly vulnerable, Draco tried out a little smile on his worried lips. It didn’t stick, but at least it had been there. “Ok. Thank you.”

She rolled her eyes as he walked off, hands in his pockets. “Such drama,” she said as she turned to find the Fat Lady watching their exchange with avid interest.  

The Fat Lady popped another chocolate into her mouth as if it were cinema popcorn, and giggled. “Young love,” she crooned. “I’ll enjoy telling Violet all about this later on! You mark my words. You know,” the portrait added thoughtfully as Hermione started to walk away too, and the witch halted immediately.  

“Know what?” she asked, warily.  

After another chocolate and a quick giggle, the Fat Lady said, “He tried every trick he could think of to get me to let him in. I know very well who he is to you, but I very nearly had to leave my painting in frustration. He kept it up until at least two in the morning.”

“When Draco sets his sights on something, he’s very difficult to dissuade,” Hermione agreed. “Thank you for not letting him in. I wouldn’t have welcomed his presence last night. I was still too angry with him.”

The Fat Lady looked horrified and said, “As if I’d let someone in that wasn’t supposed to be here!”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Hermione said. “But thank you all the same.”

With a soft ‘harrumph’ around another praline, the Fat Lady nodded.  

Theo was already in the hall when she entered, and she spotted him almost immediately. He was stirring his ceramic tankard of coffee listlessly with his spoon and staring into it like it held the secrets of the universe.  

“Drama queens, the both of you,” she muttered fondly to herself under her breath. Ignoring the Gryffindor table, she turned her steps towards the Slytherin one.  

Her presence there was now not such a surprise that most people ignored her approach without comment, effectively giving her the chance to sneak up on the lone Slytherin, sliding into the space on his right before he’d even realised she was there.  

“Morning,” she said in a low voice, and he nearly jumped out of his skin. The spoon clattered against the mug and coffee slopped over the sides as his fingers released it unbidden.  

“Hermione,” he breathed.  

His whole face was a question, and she laughed. “Yes, I’ve spoken to Draco, and yes, he’s still got his pretty face and both his bollocks.”

“What about his cock?” Theo joked reflexively, nervously.  

“You’ll have to find out later, won’t you?” she deadpanned without looking at him, reaching out to pour herself a mug of tea from a nearby pot.  

After a pause, in which Theo vanished the spilled coffee that had pooled around the base of his own mug, he asked, “So… how badly did we fuck up yesterday?”

She took a sip of her tea and added a splash more milk before responding. “Not going to lie, I was really annoyed with both of you for just assuming I’d be ok with being whisked off to wherever without a moment’s warning. I hate surprises, and you both know it.”

“Yeah…” Theo admitted.  

“So what were you thinking?” she almost shrilled. “That it’d be different if it came from you? That I’ll magically stop hating surprises just because they’re from you two?”

Theo half-shrugged, half-twitched, and said, “Kind of… Look, Hermione, I’m not trying to excuse us - we didn’t listen to you, and that’s the bottom line - but…” he broke off and ground his jaw for a moment.

“Just spit it out, Theo,” she said, turning and resting her elbow on the table to regard him properly.  

“We were raised in a different world from you, ok? From most witches and wizards actually. Purebloods like us are expected to behave in certain… coded ways with the women we’re… courting.”

“‘Courting’?” she snorted, unable to help herself.  

Adopting a sycophantic, over the top manner, he gestured and said, “Wooing, of whom we are seeking the favour, ingratiating ourselves… making our intentions known…”

“Shut up, you pompous prick,” she laughed and his face cracked into a tentative smile.  

He was clearly relieved to find laughter in her reaction, not anger. “So…” he continued in a more normal tone, returning his hands to the table and running his thumbnail along the grain in the wood, eyes downcast. “So… there are certain behaviours we kind of default to, and… honestly, there are certain behaviours that the women in our circles also expect of us. Big, showy, romantic gestures being one of them. You should consider yourself lucky you didn’t wake up to a room full of messenger owls all hooting imperiously and bearing enormous bunches of the rarest roses on earth or something…”

“I suppose I should,” she said, beginning to see it now from their point of view.  

“A pureblood wizard is expected to show that he can take care of the witch he intends to —” he cut off and swallowed, freckles briefly disappearing behind a rising flush. “—to court. That there’s nothing on earth he couldn't provide for her at the drop of a hat. I think we just… we just wanted to show you that we’re serious, but… we may have underestimated the calibre of the witch we’re dealing with here…”

“Maybe just a little bit,” she said dryly, and then sighed. “Did Draco really spend all night outside Gryffindor Tower?”

“Yup.”

“Big, showy, romantic gestures, huh?” she said, plucking a croissant off a nearby platter and tearing one end off. “I’m half expecting him to come in here with a single white rose in his hand,” she scoffed, looking up to find that Theo eyes were now fixed on a point just behind her. Draco had apparently arrived then.  

She saw his pale hand reaching down to the table out of the corner of her eye and when he picked up a silver spoon, she closed her eyes and laughed softly to herself. A tingle of magic nearby told her what he was doing, and sure enough, when she turned around to look up at him from her seat, Draco stood there with a single, transfigured white rose in his right hand.  

“Unbelievable,” she said, rolling her eyes again.  

Silently, Draco held it out to her and she took it. It smelled like summer evenings and she exhaled.  

“Apology accepted, Draco,” she said, glancing around. “Now sit down. You’re causing a scene.”

He slid onto the bench on her right and stared at the empty plate in front of him for a moment, hands resting elegantly on either side of it.  

She reached out and placed her palm over his, feeling the slight twitch beneath as their skin made contact. Hermione squeezed his long fingers until he looked up at her, his eyes shining and his face wracked with a complex mixture of emotions that she had no hope of deciphering.  

“Theo and I talked,” she said. “And he may have pointed out to me a certain ‘difference in upbringing’ that went some way towards explaining why you went to the lengths you did yesterday.”

“I still —” Draco began but she cut him off.  

“We’ve established already that you could have opened your lugholes a little sooner, but I feel like we’ve also moved on from that. It came from a place of love and good intention, and as such, I’d like to propose a compromise.”

At that, Theo and Draco both gave her their absolute and undivided attention and curiosity.  

Stifling a smirk, she said, “I don’t know what it is you had planned for yesterday, and frankly at this point, I don’t ever want to know. But how about we go into Hogsmeade next weekend and have dinner together. I’ll know it’s coming and what to expect, and you two can argue over who foots the bill if you want to make it a romantic gesture. Or we can split it three ways.”

“Absolutely not,” Draco said instantly and something hot flared inside her at that. “I meant splitting the payment three ways,” he added bashfully, seeing where her mind had gone instead.  

At that, the tension shattered and she tipped her head back and laughed, gripping his hand for support as she leaned almost perilously far back. Theo put his hand between her shoulder blades just in case, and half the Slytherin table began to stare at them.  

Theo leaned in close and said in her ear, “You’re causing a scene, dear Hermione.”

She squeezed Draco’s hand and let out a long, slow sigh as the laughter faded. “What am I going to do with you two?” she said, shaking her head.  

“Be patient…?” Draco all but begged, mumbling into his coffee. Where Theo took his black, Draco piled cream and sugar into his until it was barely recognisable as coffee in the first place. She smirked fondly to herself as she contemplated his ridiculously sweet tooth, and wondered if, with his penchant for apples, he also liked sour sweets. Perhaps she’d get Harry to owl her some Haribo to try out on him.  

“Hermione?” he asked, looking up at her. His skin was so pale it was like marble in the soft light of the Great Hall, and he looked eerily like the statue of a saint at a shrine in that moment, all hope and tentative expectation.  

For her answer, Hermione slid her left hand into Theo’s, and then reached up and took Draco’s chin in her right hand, turning him by his sharp and now-just-perfectly-pointed chin. His eyes were wide, gleaming, silver mirrors, fixed unyieldingly on her own.  

Hermione held him there between thumb and forefinger, and as she pressed a searing kiss against his pale lips, she felt Theo’s grip tighten on her left hand.

___

If you enjoyed, please reblog and share! I’m new to the fandom on here and appreciate all the help I can get!

___

writing masterlist | Ao3

[italianartsociety]

By Jennifer D. Webb

Architect of the “nuovo stile” Luigi Bellincioni died in Florence on March 24, 1929. Born in Pontedera on January 1, 1842, Bellincioni trained in Florence and left his greatest architectural legacy in the Valdera.

The commercial success of his family as well as his political connections provided patronage opportunities according to Enrico Agonigi. The scholar also notes that Bellincioni’s interests lay in exploring design history, considering infrastructure, and studying new technologies, making him both an architect and engineer. He even served for a time as an engineer for the Italian rail system before dedicating his time fully to his architectural career.

In March of 1937, Bellincioni’s son donated his drawings to the Accademia delle arti e dei disegno in Florence. This collection includes 50 files with 196 designs that begin with his earliest studies of classical architectural types which follow those of the architect, Vignola.

Included in the collection are general drawings similar in design to his built structures like the campaniles executed in the Valdera.

References: De Gubernatis, Angelo and Ugo Matini. Dizionario degli artisti italiani viventi, pittori, scultori e architetti. Firenze: Le Monnier, 1889; Agonigi, Enrico. Luigi Bellincioni (1842-1929). Firenze: Edizioni L’Ancora, 2001.

Image credits:

Campanile, Pieve di Marti, (Sailko, Wikimedia Commons)

Cemetery, Capannoli (Sailko, Wikimedia Commons)

Church of the Misericordia, 1883-1892 (Mongolo1984, Wikimedia Commons)

Further reading: Jack Basehart, Italian Splendor: Castles, Palaces, and Villas. New York: Rizzoli, 2015; Carroll L.V. Meeks, Italian Architecture: 1750-1914. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1966.

[hannigramfanfic]

The Pearls in the Sand Collection ( Second Story) We Are Now Conjoined by Events That Have Shaped Us Both. Only Our by Unknownmusing and Vintagefloof

Summary:

After the events of “Kiss Me, Hold Me, Taste Me, Fuck Me,” Hannibal has taken Abigail with him to Florence, Italy, leaving behind Will who has just woken up from a coma. And yet, he is not himself.

Pearl-Lace, his alter ego, has taken over.

Meanwhile in Florence, Hannibal finds himself attracting the attention of the mysterious Mr. Coquille who owns “The Firenze Masquerade Club” and whose true identity is unknown.

Notes:

For Hannibalsimago, purplesocrates, DaringD, TheSeaVoices, Krey9J, slashyrogue, JGogoboots, ThatRedBean, Willsblackstag, Hanni Bunny Lecter (carrionofmywaywardson), GhostGurlGamer, Damonfreak89, erodingthebluff, TreacleA, KatherineKrawl, TigerPrawn., tentaclees.

Chapter Management

Edit Chapter

Chapter 1: Waking Up a New Person

Chapter Text

THREE DAYS AFTER WILL HAS WOKEN FROM HIS COMA

Pearl-Lace/Will’s P.O.V.

They say my name is “Will Graham” when a nurse and a doctor come into the hospital room to check up on me. They notice me frowning at them at the mention of the name.

“Who’s Will Graham?” I ask, voice coming out slightly feminine, but still masculine underneath. The nurse and doctor talk quietly among themselves, then the nurse approaches me, hesitant but gentle.

“Um…Honey, do you remember anything of what happened? Of the accident you were in?” she says, only to see another frown appear on my features at the words “…accident you were in.”  She moves away to allow the doctor to check me over.

I turn my gaze to him, noting he has light hazel eyes. He reminds of someone – a face that appears in my mind’s eye, only to dissolve like ink in water before I can fully grasp its identity. The doctor walks away, whispering something to the nurse. She comes back over to me and with a gentle smile tells me that they’re going to give me something.

Something that will help calm me for now.

What happens next - I am not sure how it happens, only that it does. I forget everything afterwards.

I look down and see blood dripping from my hands. 

Chapter Management

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Chapter 2: Mr. Coquille Makes His Move

Summary:

In Florence, the mysterious Mr. Coquille enters Hannibal’s new life. Hannibal and Abigail are living as Dr. Roman Fell and his daughter; Abigail is attending the University of Florence.

Notes:

We are imagining Lars Mikkelsen as Mr. Coquille. We know this is wrong on so many levels, but just remember: He only looks and sounds like Lars.

Chapter Text

 Hannibal’s P.O.V.

Sitting on the outdoor balcony balustrade, unable to sleep, I calmly sketch the view of the sun rising over the tall, beautiful, red and dusty yellow bricked houses of Florentine architecture. I had found sleep eluding me in my large, luxurious but mostly empty bed without someone else beside me to hold and with whom to greet the morning.

I missed Will deeply, and yet felt somewhat betrayed by him for keeping his identity as Pearl-Lace a secret from me. I recalled my last sight of him, flung backwards by Jack’s bullet hitting him the shoulder, forcing him to drop the knife he had intended for Alana.

I finish sketching and lower the pencil, pursing my lime-green lipstick-covered lips as I think about the other problem that had arisen shortly after my arrival in Florence with Abigail.

Mr. Coquille – a tall man with slicked back ash blonde hair and pince-nez glasses - had rescued me when I had nearly been pushed off the platform by some transphobic young men who had spied me in my “Nimue” persona.

He caught me just in time, amid screams of shock and horror from passing travelers. I found myself gripping his suit sleeve tightly, my heart furiously pounding against my rib cage as if it sought escape. I faintly heard him introduce himself, mentioning that he owned a club on the other side of town.

“Hannibal?” I hear Abigail’s voice. I turn to look at the somber young girl who has become like a daughter to me. She is wearing a simple flowery dress with a black woolly jumper over it. She looks delightful, but her face is shaded with sadness. I smile softly at her.

“Yes? Is something wrong?” I ask her. She walks over to me and looks down at the sketching I’ve just done. I reach up to cup her cheek lightly and stroke the delicate cheekbone with my thumb, wiping away the remnants of a tear trail.

“Umm…there is a letter for you. I left it on your writing desk,” she replies, slipping away from me and keeping her head lowered to avoid my gaze.

“Did it say who it is from?” I ask. She shakes her head and turns to go back inside. I sit for another moment, wishing I could ease whatever is troubling her fragile mind.

  The letter is just where she had said. Picking it up, I see on the back of the envelope the initials of what translates to “The Firenze Masquerade Club”. Slitting it open with a penknife, I slip out the enclosed card.

It is an invitation to the club (from its gracious and charming owner, Mr. Coquille) to attend a celebration there this coming Saturday. I bring the card up to my lips, tapping it against them lightly, and begin to ponder.

Who was this man – Mr. Coquille?

Why was he interested in me? What had attracted him to me?

Did he know who I really was?

Did he somehow know about the tableaux I had presented here in my youth?

I slip the invitation card back into the envelope, placing it in the writing desk drawer to examine in greater detail later. At this particular moment, I need to prepare for work at the Palazzo Capponi – where I am now the curator. Securing this dream job was a simple matter. All it required was deposing the former curator, Mr. Erico Bergucci, via a few seconds’ work and a modest outlay of two bags of cement.

I recalled fondly the Bella Arti Committee ballroom soirée, where, under the scrutiny of Professor Sogliato, I recited the poem “La Vita Nuova” by Dante. Reluctantly impressed, he then informed me that he wished me to be tested by the Studiolo , to determine whether or not I was qualified to lecture on Dante. Named for the ornate private study in the Ducal Palace in Gubbio, the Studiolo is a small but fierce group of scholars who have unashamedly (and with great pleasure, I understand) ruined a number of academic reputations. They met often in the Palazzo Vecchio.

  Sunlight streams through the large windows of the Palazzo Capponi and fills my work space as I step through the tall double doors. I approach the sixteenth century refectory table I use to examine the many documents the Capponi Library needs to be updated, revised and/or translated.

Nimue – my alter-ego – has taken over again. Deep down, however, I couldn’t deny that I enjoyed embracing this new side of me. I circle the large table and place my satchel down, unclasping it and sliding out the documents I had been working on. I had finally finished them late at night at the Florentine apartment I shared with Abigail.

For today Nimue has chosen black lipstick embedded with flakes of gold, curved golden claw earrings, and a simple crème suit. I am busy going through the documents once more, catching any possible mistakes, when footsteps echoing off the polished floor make me raise my head to see Mr. Coquille.

He stops before me and stands there with his coat over his arm, looking at me calmly.

“Mr. Coquille. This is…unexpected. What brings you to the Palazzo Capponi?”

“You.”

  “ You.”

 Satisfied the documents I had been perusing are free of errors, I place them down with a faint look of surprise at Mr. Coquille. He comes round the large table to stand next to me, while I reach for the documents that need to be translated.

I feel him move some strands of hair that have gotten into my eyes, gently tucking them behind my ear. Slightly flustered, I turn my head to look at him and say “I need to get on with my work” when his lips suddenly cover mine in a chaste kiss. As he pulls away, I can see gold flakes attached to his top lip and I cannot help but smile.

Perhaps he mistakes that smile as some kind of approval, for he leans forwards again, kissing me more boldly. I move my hands up to his chest to push him away, only to rest them there. He gently pulls me up and out of my chair and presses me up against the long edge of the table, changing position each time to deepen the kiss.

I don’t know what to do. All the thoughts in my head, even those concerning my dear Will, are being overwritten. He grips both my cheeks in his hands, kissing me more heavily, devouring my lips. A weak whimper escapes me as I shakily attempt to turn my face away, only for him to pull me back into the kiss.

His mouth is hot and wet. I feel him flick his tongue over my lips, begging admittance. Trembling heavily, I manage to pull away when I hear voices coming from the hallway. One I recognise as Prof. Sogliato.

“You need to leave,” I tell Mr. Coquille, quite firmly. When I attempt to pull away, he grabs my hand and bends down, slowly licking my wrist. I tremble with the heat of it.

He raises his eyes, observing me trying to control myself and failing. A faint smile ghosts across his lips as he turns and walks toward the bookshelf on the other side of the room. He spares a mild glance at Prof. Sogliato, who spears him with an irritated glare in return. The professor then approaches me, hands behind his back.

“I do hope you won’t be making a habit of becoming so… distracted during your working hours, Signor Fell,” Prof. Sogliato says to me. I turn around and attempt to sort the documents on my desk while quelling the urge to stab the ornate feather pen into the side of his temporal lobe. “Who is he?”

“Mr. Coquille was just passing through. He…helped me during an accident,” I reply. He looks over at the man behind him, now hovering near the large bookshelf as though waiting for me.

“See that his time here is limited,” snaps the professor. He turns and stalks out of the room, shooting another glare at Mr. Coquille. After several more seconds of smirking knowingly in my direction, Mr. Coquille breezes out of the room himself. I am left standing there gazing at the empty air, frustrated and worried. 

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Chapter 3: Fragments of Memories, Dangerous Acquaintances

Summary:

Pearl-Lace begins to remember fragments of their previous life. Hannibal renews an old acquaintance and gets in too deep with a new one. The chapter starts with Hannibal’s P.O.V., continued from the previous chapter.

CW: Homophobic language, graphic violence, and Mr. Coquille not knowing the meaning of the word “consent.”

Chapter Text

After finishing my work on the documents, I head down the flight of polished marble stairs. I desire nothing more than to return to my own apartment and avoid the sinister Mr. Coquille.

I don’t trust him. There is something about his aura that sends shivers down my spine.

Reaching the bottom of the flight of stairs, I walk into the large courtyard. I pass beneath the stone arches spreading above me, and the Corinthian pillars with frond-like filigrees carved at the top.

The sunlight is streaming down into the open courtyard, filling it with soft-toned golden light. I can hear voices as I round a corner, and see Anthony Dimmond speaking to a companion.

He gives a sigh, ruffling a hand through his hair. He bids farewell to his friend and moves to head off. He stops when he notices me standing near the pyrus salicifolia (also known as the weeping pear tree) that line the walk. He comes over to me.

My heart rate speeds up slightly and a light blush rises on my cheeks as I find myself tucking a strand of hair behind my ear in a coquettish way.

  Pearl-Lace/Will’s P.O.V.

Crimson petals.

The blood of my victims stains my hands completely. I am unaware of what happened, only that it felt strange and euphoric experiencing the deaths of the fake nurse and doctor - who were actually aspiring killers who considered themselves superior to the people “below them.”

They had no idea. The Predator in me had laughed at their demise as they begged me - the supposed innocent Prey , they naively believed - with tearful eyes and pleading down on their knees to let them go.

The barking of dogs makes me lift my head up to see, close to an old hunting cabin, a woman with long hair which hangs down her back.

There is something about her that reminds me of… Whatever it is is snatched away before I can latch onto it.

Do I know her?

Who is this woman?

These thoughts swirl around my mind without answers. I want answers.

“WINSTON!!”

The strange woman shouting the name of a golden retriever startles me out of my reverie. The dog approaches me, snuffling and whining heavily as he paws at me, trying to make me recognise him.

“Winston, what are you doi….Will!?”

Her voice. As soon as I hear the shock, horror and surprise in the strange woman’s voice, a faint memory, blurred like an old film on a reel, appears before my eyes.

A shot ringing out.

Pain shooting through one’s shoulder, followed by crimson spurting upwards to cover the face of a man with maroon eyes.

A knife falling to the floor with a dull clink on a polished kitchen floor.

Blood dripping on a carpet. Labored breathing and one’s heart thudding against one’s rib cage.

I come out of the fractured memory trembling greatly. I begin to look around the snowy landscape, feeling nothing more than the desire to get out of here, now.

Then I remember….. the Chesapeake Ripper, his voice telling me to search for him.

I want him here.

Holding me to anchor me. Without him, everything seems lifeless and empty.

Shivering slightly, I wrap my arms around myself and feel Winston - the golden retriever - nudge against me, as if to reassure me everything is all right. The strange woman steps hesitantly towards me.

I step backwards. There is something about her that makes one of the stitched wounds on my lower torso twinge with a faint remainder of a knife stabbing into my body.

But had she been holding it? Or had it been the man with the maroon eyes?

I can’t tell, the memories are too hazy and fractured. I have yet to understand what the fake nurse had meant by “ the accident" , as they had called it.

But had it been an accident?

What had triggered it?

What had set the chain of events in motion?

  Hannibal’s P.O.V.

"Nimue!!? I didn’t expect to see you here of all places.”

Anthony Dimmond - wearing a fine but threadbare suit and a knitted scarf around his neck - steps close to me with a smile as I take his arm and walk him away from the complex of the Palazzo Capponi.

“Yes. Well…I was looking for Mr. Fell. It seems he is not around at the moment,” I say. He turns me suddenly into a dead end, where there is a bench with two sakura blossoms trees curving over it to make a small enclosed canopy.

He accompanies me to the bench, brushing away the soft, delicate petals before we sit down.

I open my mouth to say something, but the gentle brush of his lips against mine stops me. He slips an arm around me to draw me closer to him.

His kisses are light and gentle. His head tilts slightly this way and that as the kisses deepen. He leans back slightly to look at me, a curious but fond gaze. I am quickly pulled back into another kiss. Pressing myself against him, I caress the nape of his neck. I can feel his tongue as it seeks admittance between my lips.

I open my mouth, and it feels like wicked tongues of flames are licking at me, heating me up from the inside out. I suddenly and shamelessly find myself straddling his lap. If anyone can see us, I do not care.

Our tongues entwine, dancing in erotic harmony as electric sensation courses through our veins.

I am grinding my hips down into the now very evident bulge in his suit trousers. I moan and gasp softly when he grinds upwards in answer.

I am so close. I know that anything else he does will bring it closer.

I am so close. The tingling pressure is building to a climax within my body, and I am helpless to stop it.

I am so close.

  Afterwards, I exchange phone numbers with Anthony and with a kiss, I take my leave of him. I walk back to my apartment, slightly dazed but happy, and up the winding flight of stairs to the top landing and our front door. Retrieving my key, I slip it into the lock and push the door open, revealing the darkened hallway.

I remove the key, step into the hallway and move to close the door behind me when something or someone slams into me. I quickly twist in their grip, but not quick enough. I am slammed down to the floor, knocking the breath out of my lungs with such force it winds me.

They lean over me, covering me with their shadow while checking my pulse with two fingers. Satisfied, I am hauled off the floor and dragged down the hallway by the collar of my suit into the sitting room. I am harshly thrown onto the ornate sofa, where after nearly sailing over the back, I land on the pillows with a thud. While acting more disoriented than I actually am, I surreptitiously slip one hand down behind one of the pillows and reach for the scalpel hidden there.

Momentarily I hear footsteps approaching. Continuing to feign exhaustion, I keep my head down and wait for the right moment. When it comes, my head snaps up with a snarl and my arm flashes out, slashing across their throat with the scalpel. I watching a thin line appear on the skin, followed by crimson slightly spurting outwards.

I had missed the main artery because they had managed to step backwards just in the nick of time. I get up and stalk towards them, watching them stumble and collapse on the floor next to a round table with a vase on it, filled with flowers. One can never predict what will catch one’s attention in times like these. They are holding their throat with one hand to staunch the bleeding, gasping for breath and regarding me with hate-filled eyes.

“Who… sent… you?” I hiss at them, gripping the scalpel tightly. They dare to spit at my feet, getting a goodly amount of their disgusting saliva on one of my Italian patent leather shoes. I ignore it - for now.

“Filthy….faggot…..all high and mighty with that look you wear. You….just can’t help it, can you? Disgusting faggot bitch,” they sneer at me. I grab them, haul them up and fling them onto the sofa. They manage to pull a handkerchief from their trouser pocket and hold it to the wound, glaring at me all the while.

“Do you speak to your wife with that tongue?” I ask. For the second time today I straddle a man’s lap, but this time is much less pleasant than the last. They clench their right fist, resting on the armrest, and make an aborted attempt to punch me. I click my tongue at them, placing the scalpel against the hollow of their throat as a warning.

“You..fucking….psychopath…GET THE HELL OFF ME!!” they shout, but I place my finger to their lips to shush them.

“Shh, now. We don’t want to wake the neighbors, do we?” I whisper. I slip one hand down, feeling Nimue within me rise to the surface, and cup the very evident bulge in their suit trousers. “And, in addition….you are aroused by me.”

“You’re lying!! Don’t be…stupid, I’m not attracted to….disgusting filthy people like you,” they protest, pushing me forcefully off their lap. I land softly on the carpet and look pointedly at their groin area with a smirk.

They look down as well, only to look back up, shocked and horrified at the tent that has formed in their suit trousers. Getting onto my hands and knees, I crawl toward them on all fours until I reach their thighs. I place my elegant, manicured hands on them and gently push them apart, still smirking. I arch up slightly between their thighs until our faces are so close I can see a bead of sweat begin its slow trickle down their forehead.

“Hmm, well….have you heard of….Il Mostro di Firenze , perhaps?” I ask coquettishly, watching their eyes widen in fear. I lunge forwards, grabbing the thick offending muscle in their mouth with my teeth, ripping it out hard. I hear a choked, guttural scream of shock, horror and pain.

I rise and step away, panting slightly. I watch them start to choke on the blood filling their mouth and gushing down the sides of their face, their hands twitching uncontrollably. White froth from their mouth mixes with the blood, the whole mess starting to drip down the front of their suit. Their eyes begin to roll up to the back of their head. Their body gives a final jerk and goes still.

Taking a handkerchief out of my breast pocket, I place the tongue into it and fold the fabric around it. I lean against the round table momentarily for support. Placing the wrapped tongue onto the table, I take off my suit jacket, roll up my shirt sleeves and approach the body.

It has been a while since I have had…such good meat appear at my doorstep.

  Abigail is not yet back from her classes at the university. I pause while preparing dinner for the both of us - Crisp Lemon Calf Liver and Parmesan Crumbled Lamb Brains. As I look out the kitchen window, I see the sun setting over the buildings of Florence, turning the sky above brilliant shades of soft lilac, gentle-toned yellow and fiery orange.

I walk around the small kitchen island and approach the half-moon-shaped window. I lift one hand up into the moonlight that streams down into the dimly lit kitchen. I step close to the window and rest my forehead against the cool pane of glass with a sigh.

“Pearl-Lace…where are you…mano meilė?” I whisper in the silence of the kitchen.

I close my eyes and see Will lying in his hospital bed, still sleeping, looking so small and lost and alone. My eyes had been wet when I turned at last and silently left him behind.

Why hadn’t I taken him with me?

There had been nothing to stop me. I could have easily brought him here to be with Abigail and I, if she had wanted him here.

She has been acting oddly ever since we arrived in Florence. Something is eating away at her. She refuses to tell me what it is; any attempt to coax it out of her always ends with her turning from me with downcast eyes and fleeing to another room.

The sounds of a key turning in the lock and the front door opening drag me out of the memory. I do my best to pull myself together. I walk out of the kitchen, through the sitting room, and into the hallway. Abigail is standing there, but she is not alone. My hackles rise as I see who is with her. The one person who makes my Inner Predator come awake on high alert.

Mr. Coquille.

He is saying something to her. His gaze soon turns straight toward me, however, and it is enough to send me quickly back to the kitchen. I have to lean against the island for support, feeling myself grip the stone edges tightly as my chest heaves in anger.

How dare he?

How dare this….unknown man attempt to influence the young orphan I had taken in after the death of her parents? Will had shot her father, Garret Jacob Hobbs - “The Minnesota Shrike” - sending him flying against the cupboards in that tiny kitchen, his blood splattering onto Will’s face. Abigail lay on the floor, her throat slit by her father. She was nearly drowning in her own blood, Will begging me with his eyes to save her. It was at that moment that I knew Will Graham had to be mine.

I wanted him. Wanted Will to be my equal, and… my lover.

  Asking Mr. Agustuv-Magnus Coquille to stay for dinner is most certainly not my intention. But dear Abigail insists, telling me he is one of her college lecturers, teaching Historical Art and Latin. And hearing that she has enthusiastically praised my cooking skills (“My dad is such an amazing chef! You will love it!”) is a definite stroke to my ego. I allow him to stay.

After a very satisfying meal, Abigail excuses herself to bed (“Big exam tomorrow!”), leaving me alone with Agustuv-Magnus. I clear away the dishes from the dining room table and head to the kitchen to place them in the soapy water of the wash basin. I start washing the fine china plates quietly as he comes in to stand next to me.

He brings his nearly finished glass of ruby red wine to his lips to inhale its scent, a gesture I can’t help but feel is slightly affected. He knocks back the remainder of the wine and places the glass on the polished counter. He wanders slowly out of my field of vision, then I suddenly feel the back of a knuckle stroking down my spine. My back arches slightly at the unexpected touch.

I try to ignore my growing unease as I continue to wash and dry the dishes. I come to the cutlery at the same time his hands touch my sides. I stiffen heavily, gripping a knife under the soapy water. He slides them further down to take hold of my hips, pulling me suddenly back against him. The knife is jolted out of my hand.

If he ever noticed that I was holding a knife in my hand, the fool shows no sign of it. He starts to grind his hips into me from behind in a way that feels like he is… actually penetrating me. My hands shoot out of the water and grip the sink edge for support. I would have collapsed if he were not holding me up.

Gasping in anger, I manage to wrench free. I walk away unsteadily to catch my breath, putting as much distance between us as I can manage. It is as if he is taking up all the oxygen in the room and snuffing it out so there isn’t any left to breathe.

“Get…away from me. Don’t ever….come near me again. Or my daughter,” I snarl at him, panting. He marches up to me and slaps me hard across the cheek, splitting my bottom lip and drawing blood.

He grabs my chin. Fine, manicured nails dig harshly into my cheek, drawing beads of blood. He places his free hand on my hip and yanks me flush against his chest. I glare at him, but I see no emotion in those dead eyes. Only harsh, unforgiving coldness.

A smirk plays across his thin lips. Turning my face by my chin, he leans close and licks the drops of blood from my cheek, then places his lips against my ear. His voice is like the hiss of a snake. Where is my Mongoose?

“With one snap of my fingers, I can easily get rid of your … daughter…by arranging some kind of…accident. Or, you could agree to my terms right now.” Twisting out of his grip, I reach quickly for a sharp knife from the knife block.

“Not happening!” I growl. I bend low to sweep his legs out from under him when a knee slams into my jaw with a force that leaves my teeth rattling. I fall backwards, weakly coughing up blood that splatters onto the polished kitchen floor.

He nearly shattered my jaw by doing what had just did. He will regret that. I bring up a hand and wipe my mouth, smearing the gold-flaked black lipstick with the blood, creating a manic, macabre grimace.

“Harm her and I’ll tear you apart. I don’t care if I’m caught doing it,” I hear myself snarling in Nimue's voice.

Without warning, a bottle of expensive wine slams into the side of my head.

I stumble to one side, falling against the wall and sliding down to the floor. I can feel blood lightly trickling down the side of my temple. He lowers the half-smashed wine bottle, placing it on the kitchen island.

“Such a sad waste of fine vintage wine,” Agustuv-Magnus Coquille muses. He ignores me lying against the wall, still tightly gripping the knife. Using the wall for support, I manage to get to my feet.

This man, who I know nothing about, is decidedly mad, bad, and dangerous to know. I lunge at him, still in a bit of a daze, only for him to grab my wrist and twist my arm behind my back. I cry out harshly at the wrenching pain as he tightens his grip, forcing me to release the knife. It clatters to the floor.

He presses himself against me and grabs me tight around the throat with his free hand, effectively cutting off my oxygen supply. My vision begins to dim, going in and out of focus. He squeezes tighter against the pressure points in my neck.

My eyes flutter rapidly, darkness sweeping in like raven’s wings. I go limp in his grasp, sinking down as my eyes finally slip shut. My last thoughts before losing consciousness are of Abigail… and Will. I remember nothing thereafter.

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Chapter 4: Meeting the Past, Bound in the Present

Summary:

Pearl-Lace receives care and kindness from someone in their previous life. Hannibal navigates dangerous territory with Mr. Coquille.

Translation of the nursery rhyme according to Google Translate: “A man stands quite still and silent in the forest, he has a mantle of pure purple….”

Chapter Text

Pearl-Lace/Will Graham’s P.O.V.

“Here… drink this.”

I’m handed a warm mug of something sweet and hot by the strange woman called…Alana Bloom….while I sit in the living room of her apartment, wearing some fresh new clothes she had bought for me.

She had been reluctant at first to buy me feminine clothes. Yet here I am sitting in her armchair wearing a black off-the-shoulder top, white jeans with a rose pattern stenciled onto them, and feathery earrings with little white teardrops attached to them in my ears .

Bringing the mug to my lips, I take a sip of the warm tea with honey, feeling it soothe me for now. And yet, every cell in my body yearns to leave to find the Chesapeake Ripper.

“I need a favor. Can you….explain to me what is this accident I had, that the nurse at the hospital mentioned to me?” I ask Alana. She nearly drops her own teacup at those words. She takes a deep breath and walks over to the armchair across from me.

“What do you remember? Anything?” she asks as she sits, curious about my answer. Holding the warm mug with both hands, she crosses one leg over the other, her eyes keen yet apprehensive.

“Just fragments, which are like…shards of glass tinkling all around me and I can’t put them back together again,” I reply, circling the rim of the mug with a lacquered blue and lime green nail. I can’t help but notice how she seems to be edgy and nervous in my presence.

What is frightening her?

“Oh….I see. Is there anything else you need?” she asks, avoiding my question. I place the mug down on the little table next to the armchair. I see there a vase filled with flowers - sweet smelling buddleia, honeysuckle and heather. I reach out and gently brush some of the blossoms with my fingertips.

The delicate umbels of the tiny flowers bunched together look so fragile, easily broken. I softly pick one of the flowers from the vase, then stand and walk to the window to sit on the window ledge. I can feel Alana’s eyes follow me.

A gentle breeze is blowing through the open window, making the light yellow and orange curtains billow back and forth like sails in the wind. I slowly pick the little flowers from the stem and allow them to be wafted out of my hand into the soft breeze.

  Hannibal’s P.O.V.

“Ein Mannlein steht im Walde ganz still und stumm, Es hat von lauter Purpur ein Mantlein um….”

A whisper of a nursery rhyme I had once sung to Mischa when she had been alive makes me snap my eyes open, revealing Augustuv-Magnus Coquille sitting in a high-backed dark green leather armchair with oak arm rests. His gaze behind the pince-nez is cold and calculating, and focused entirely on me. He is idly tapping a long light sabre-style device that glows a faint neon purple against the side of the chair.

I try to move, only to gasp and wince at the agony that shoots through my entire body, radiating from my shoulders, neck and spine.  

As I become more fully conscious, I realize that my arms are stretched above my head, and I am chained to the ceiling of an unknown room by leather cuffs attached to my wrists. My feet barely touch the floor, and save for my black silk lace knickers, I am naked. My neck, torso and groin are encircled and bound in rope, in the style of Japanese rope bondage or shibari.

“Where is Abigail?" I manage to croak, my breath ragged and my glare murderous. "I will skin you alive if you have harmed her.”

Coquille rises languidly from his chair and strolls over to me, tapping the long glass tube against his thigh. “Ah, you’re awake,” he drawls. “Have no fear, she is still sound asleep in her bed in your apartment, just as we left her. This little matter is between you and I.” A switch is flipped somewhere on his person, and the device glows a deeper purple. He waves it before my face. “Are you familiar with the violet wand?”

I have heard of it, and I know what it does. I remain silent, merely nodding once. The murderous glare, however, remains.

“Ah. Well, this little beauty is going to accompany and enhance our conversation this evening. Also, you may be be interested to learn that this,” he swirls the wand slowly around me, “all of it, is specially constructed, electrically conductive rope.” He brings the wand closer to a portion of rope around my chest, looking at me as if daring me to stop him. My heart is beginning to race, but whether from fear or anticipation is difficult to tell. I hold his gaze as he very gently strokes the wand against the rope. A shock pulses through my chest and travels up my arms, making them jerk as I cry out. Coquille turns away with a chuckle. “Oh yes, this is going to be a very interesting conversation!”

“What do you want, Coquille?” My breath is steadying and my voice is becoming stronger, now that I know what I am up against. “What is all this nonsense about? Who are you?”

I cannot see him now for he has walked behind me, and it is too painful for me to turn my neck. I can hear a hum as if he is considering a thought. “Do you recall a man from your youth? A man by the name of… Vladimir Grutas?” I hear the crackle of the wand as it travels the rope down my back. I am not sure what makes me jerk and writhe more - the shock, or the mention of that man’s name.

“Yes. Yes, I do,” I pant. Another hum from Coquille as he slowly walks around in front of me again. “How do you… what is this?” I am sweating now as the wand hovers close to the ropes down and across my abdomen. He brings his eyes to mine, and I am starting to see an ember of anger in them.

“And do you recall what took place between Grutas and yourself? And why?” The wand meets the ropes at last, Coquille pressing in harder this time. The pain is almost unbearable, causing my body to sag against the restraints. My arms feel as though they may separate from my shoulders. Sweating, grimacing and twitching, I meet Coquille’s gaze once more. The hardness of it is infuriating and…fascinating. My voice rough, I tell him exactly what he wants to hear. I mince no words.

“I seduced him, I killed him and I ate him. He was one of the men who killed my… my sister Mischa. He forced… he forced me to eat her flesh. I figured… it was the least he deserved.” In spite of the pain, or perhaps encouraged by it, my mouth cannot help but turn up in a crooked teeth-baring smile. It was, indeed, the very least the pig had coming to him.

Coquille is silent as a stone. His gaze is still nothing but cold anger. After a moment he seems to remember himself, shaking his head as if to clear it. He begins to tap the wand here and there on the ropes in a seemingly casual manner, looking down his nose as I twitch and jerk. The taps send shocks of varying degrees all over that, I confess, I am beginning to enjoy. While doing this he asks, “Do you perhaps also recall a young boy on the premises, about your age? Thin, blonde hair, glasses? He saw you leading Grutas off to that empty field, promising him - well, God knows what. Do you remember seeing him?”

The combination of the memory of killing Grutas, the shocks from the wand, and Coquille’s silky voice are proving to be too much for my overloaded nervous system. I hang my head down and close my eyes in an attempt to lessen the sensations. When I open my eyes again, I see my cock erect and hard, straining against the black lace panties. I raise my head and meet Coquille’s glare with no shame. “I vaguely remember, yes. I didn’t get a good look at the boy, my mind was elsewhere. Who… who was he?” My voice catches as I begin to realize where this was going. Is it true? Can it be true?

With a grimace, Coquille increases the power on the wand, kneels down and stares at the hard outline of my cock inside the panties. “The boy was I, Dr. Lecter.” The wand hits the rope over my cock and I convulse with a roar. When I raise my head again, I catch a glimpse of Coquille rolling the wand with both hands up and down over my aching, twitching cock, pressing in hard. My addled mind imagines him rolling out pastry dough with a rolling pin.

My entire body is bathed in sweat. There are more convulsions, more exclamations of pain and rage (and yes, I admit, a tiny bit of pleasure). Black spots begin to dance before my eyes. Just before I lose consciousness, Coquille looks up at me.

“You see, Dr. Lecter, Vladimir Grutas was my father.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I am beginning to regain consciousness, my vision dark, my limbs sluggish. My entire body aches, but I realize I am no longer chained to the ceiling. As the fog clears from my brain, I find I am lying on my back in a large, luxurious bed. I still cannot see anything, even though my eyes are open. I move my head around slightly, wincing with the pain, and feel some kind of cloth tied over my eyes and behind my head. My arms are at my side, but when I try to lift them, I find they are tied by my wrists on both sides to something that is holding them down. The mattress dips as someone lies down, close to my side. A hand softly strokes my hair and my cheek, and I hear a silky, snaky voice that makes my stomach drop in disgust and dread.

“Ahh, there you are, my dear. You have returned to me. You are so lovely, my darling Nimue. So very lovely. I am the luckiest man in the world, do you know that? You are soon to be mine, precious one. All mine.”

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Chapter 5: A Trip to Florence, Paths Converging

Summary:

Pearl-Lace accompanies the Vergers and Alana Bloom on a business trip to Florence.

More memory fragments present themselves during a sexual encounter. Pearl-Lace meets Anthony Dimmond and they discuss Nimue.

Meanwhile, Mr. Coquille has forced Hannibal/Nimue into an unfortunate situation.

Chapter Text

Pearl-Lace/Will’s P.O.V.

Watching the runway of the Baltimore airport slowly recede as the large private charter jet leaves it behind, I turn my gaze away from the window to look at Alana’s friend Margot Verger sitting across from me. Her brother Mason sits across from her, plotting his next move as they play Battleship. We are on our way to Florence, Italy. Alana is napping nearby in her seat; Margot throws an occasional affectionate glance her way.

Mason Verger is a vile sticky-up little man. It is obvious to me just from the way he acts around people, and especially from the hateful way he treats Margot. Winston, sadly, is in a crate in the hold below, as animals are not allowed in the main cabin. Deciding I need a drink, I rise from my seat.

I walk over to the bar and pour a couple fingers of whisky into a tumbler, followed by the clink of ice-cubes into the amber liquid. I stop to wonder what had made me pour this particular type of drink. Sighing softly, I take it with me back to my seat. Mason flicks his gaze up to me and, before I can protest, grabs hold of me by my hips and pulls me down onto his lap, causing me to nearly spill the drink. I place it down carefully next to the Battleship board with a playful huff.

“Mr. Verger, would you mind letting me up, please?” I ask, forcing myself to flirt. He chuckles lightly and grins, placing a hand on my thigh and slipping it upwards beneath my long black skirt.

Placing my hand over his, I manage to stop him from going any further. Yet he is so insistent that I decide to use it to my advantage. I slide off his lap and saunter down the aisle to the sleeping area, glancing coquettishly over my shoulder at him. He stares for a moment, then says something to Margot, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. He rises from his seat and smooths down his suit.

“You know, in your get-up, Pearl, sweetheart? You look delightful wearing what you do.”

Mason purrs in my ear as soon as we are in his sleeping cabin, wrapping his arms around me and pulling me back flush against his chest. His hand is back on my thigh, sliding up under the skirt to cup me through my lace knickers. He turns me around, pushing me back towards the bed, stripping off his suit jacket and tie.

I fall onto it and he follows me, crawling over me with an eager grin. Never breaking his gaze, I reach one hand into the chest of drawers near the bed and retrieve a condom packet. I playfully dangle it in front of his face, and he pouts and sighs. Reluctantly he sits up to tear the packet open, grumbling non-stop. I unbuckle his belt, looking up at him coyly from beneath my lashes. He eagerly takes care of the rest and is soon nude from the waist down. He rolls the condom onto his stiff cock as I roll up my skirt to expose the Sinful Delight lace thongs attached to tights with black ribbons. Pulling the lace to one side, I allow him to push his hips forwards into mine.

Mason flips onto his back and takes me with him. He grabs hold of the lace thongs, ripping them to shreds and tossing them unceremoniously to the far side of the room like so much garbage. I stare at him incredulously, ready to start a fight. He merely places his hands behind his head with a smug look, thrusting his hips up and down, indicating I ride him.

I fetch the lube from the same drawer and apply it generously to his sheathed cock, kneeling between his thighs and smiling seductively. I must be a very good actor, for on the inside I am feeling close to murder. I straddle him and reach behind to slick some lube between my cheeks. Smirking, I place my hands on his chest, nails painted crimson with silver ferns. I lift my hips up, reaching back to grasp his condom-covered cock and guide it to where it needs to go. Slowly I slide myself down onto him, closing my eyes and lolling my head back with a feigned sigh of ecstasy (play it up good, he will love it). His hands squeeze my hips and ass and he stares at me with a lusty grin as we get a good rhythm going. Again I close my eyes and toss my head back as he meets each of my downward thrusts with an upward thrust of his own. Soon I’m not faking a thing. It’s starting to feel very, very good, but it is not Mason beneath me…

My body gradually stills and Mason frowns up at me. My head snaps back up and I stare down at him. Fragments of memory are flashing before my eyes, starting up like an old film reel. Without a word I slip his cock out of me, scramble off the bed and make my way to the bathroom. Mason watches me indignantly, shouting something I don’t hear. I close the door, sit on the toilet seat and let the memories overtake me.

Sunlight filtering through a curtain.

Dogs lolling in a garden.

Maroon eyes and a soft whisper of “I want to make love to you. May I?” A voice purrs in reply, “Come here, H…i…bal.”

Walking seven dogs in dappled sunlight, a kiss shared and arms wrapped around each other.

I slowly come out of this second fractured memory. In a daze I rise, open the door, and rejoin Mason on the bed. He is, to put it mildly, not happy, grumbling something I can’t hear. He grabs me roughly, pulling me back onto his lap. I manage to mutter an apology. Then comes the tedious business of sorting the condom for a new one, lubing ourselves up again, lowering myself onto his cock again. I go through the motions, my body present but my mind elsewhere. He grunts slightly and rolls me over onto my back. He starts thrusting hard, jolting my body up and down and burying his face in the crook of my neck. Yet I’m not even thinking about what he is doing to me with his pig-like rutting.

I’m thinking of something else. Turning my face to one side on the stark white pillow, I wonder if my imagination is beginning to blur with my reality. A creature of black ochre and unseeing eyes of white is watching me being taken as it crouches in the shadows, waiting. My body tenses beneath Mason, eyelids rapidly fluttering as I gasp breathlessly.

I can hear him groan heavily as I drag my nails down the man’s back and clench my thighs tightly around his waist. The creature is still watching.

“Ripper…" I whisper as I come.

After landing in Florence and deplaning the private jet, we go straight to the hotel - The Courting Muse . Mason had insisted I share a room with him. We are in the large bedroom, jet-lagged and attempting to unpack.

"So… who's Ripper?”

“Just….someone I met a long time ago.”

Mason gives a small "Hmm" upon hearing my answer, stabbing out his cigarette into an ashtray on the bedside table as he sits up against the mound of pillows on the hotel bed. He watches me as I calmly change into some new feminine clothes Margot had given me - ones she didn’t wear anymore or had never worn before. I check to ensure the corset is not too tight and smooth the tights so they don’t crinkle, then turn to see he has gotten off the bed.

He heads over to the wardrobe, reaching in to bring out three dresses - a long ruffled black one, with a group of silver fish swimming around and around up to the v-neck, where they split apart to flow over the shoulders of the dress; another one which laces at the back and flares out slightly like a ballgown; and finally, an emerald ribbed dress with stenciled black ivy.

I walk over to him, reaching out for one dress, only to change my mind. I choose the v-necked one with the fish, taking it off the hanger and slipping it on. Mason places the others back into the wardrobe and turns to me with an appreciative eye.

Smoothing the dress down over my chest and hips, I look at myself in the mirror and am pleased with what I see. My hair is neatly shaved on one side, while the rest is slicked to hang down the other side of my face; light sea blue-green feathered earrings sway from my ears; and lilac lipstick outlining my lips completes the transformation. I can hear the faint strains of Bizet - Habanera - starting to play in my mind.

Hannibal’s P.O.V.

My back arches off the silk sheets of the large king size bed as my orgasm subsides and my breath slows. Augustuv-Magnus Coquille rolls off of me, panting, sweating, and satisfied. I can feel him turn onto his side and caress my lips with his thumb. I am still blindfolded and bound. To my immense shame I begin to whimper pitifully, tilting my head back on the pillows as tears run down my cheeks and onto the sheets.

“Ahhh…sweetheart….don’t cry. Don’t cry,” I hear him whisper soothingly in my ear. He reaches behind my head to untie the blindfold. I see him looking down at me with possessiveness in his eyes.

I turn my face away from his gaze, wishing my beloved Mongoose, my sweet Pearl-Lace, mano mylimasis, was here to rid me of this snake who traps me by wrapping its body around me and constricting me in its embrace.

“There is something I want to show you. Will you behave, Nimue, my sweet?” he asks me, gently grasping my chin and turning my face toward him. Knowing what will happen if I disobey, I nod silently, and he smiles.

————————————-

The black long-sleeved dress with a ruffled lace collar that rises to my neck, adorned with a large fiery opal, accentuates my figure, while two splits near the hem allow me to move my thighs. Underneath it, I am wearing crimson and black rose-patterned thongs and clip-on tights that rise above the knee. They are embellished with lace ruffles in the shape of ornate roses of crimson and black.

I lift up my head to look at myself in the large mirror, revealing the red wedding veil he has placed over my face. His hands touch my shoulders, and he places his lips against my ear.

“It suits you.”

At those words I feel the formation of a solitary teardrop. It runs down my cheek to drip onto the wooden floor, forming a small sad puddle.

  14 DAYS LATER

Location - Florence, Italy - The Courting Muse Hotel

Pearl-Lace’s P.O.V.

Mr. Anthony Dimmond - a poet at heart and a kind-hearted soul - had been introduced to me by Margot and Alana when we had both come downstairs to the large dining hall of the hotel - The Courting Muse . I now sit with him at a round table in the hall, talking about a person he had met called Nimue, who I suspect has some connection to the Ripper.

They had fallen in love, but he soon discovered that Nimue had since been married to the prominent club owner Mr. Agustuv-Magnus Coquille. He had only been able to see them from afar, sadly watching them stand unhappily next to that snake of a man. A part of me wants to find this person and try to get some answers from them.

Sighing softly, I bring the glass of wine up to my lips. I stop suddenly when I hear Anthony give a broken whisper of  “Nimue!?” Following Anthony’s startled gaze, I turn my head and see them descending the staircase in a black lace dress adorned with golden swirls, with matching gloves. Around their throat is an ornate choker with fiery gems shaped like snake’s eyes. I look also at the man who accompanies them.

Anthony starts to get up, but I place my hand on his arm, shaking my head with a warning glance. He reluctantly sits back down. The man is no doubt Mr. Augustuv-Magnus Coquille. He has slicked back ash blonde hair and wears gold-rimmed pince-nez glasses. There is a ring on his left ring finger, as there is on Nimue’s. Nimue does not look in our direction, and in fact keeps their eyes downcast, looking at nothing and no one.

Anthony is bristling next to me, obviously longing to get up and confront the man who has stolen his beloved. I place a hand gently over his. He turns his face to look at me, and calmly I lean forward to nuzzle affectionately against his cheek. I am fully aware that Mr. Coquille is watching us out of the corner of his eye. I am wagering that my little performance fools him into thinking I am Anthony’s new beau or lover.

“Darling, I’m starving. Shall we order?” I ask Anthony, who summons a waiter. At the same time, another waiter arrives at Mr. Coquille’s table. We allow Margot to place the orders. She is slightly more relaxed lately as her brother Mason is away on business, acquiring new stock for Verger Farms.

Alana, it seems, has gone rather pale and is starting to tremble. She politely excuses herself, saying "I feel a headache coming on. I think I’ll return to our room and rest for a while.“ With a quick reassurance to Margot, who grasps her hand with concern, Alana heads up the staircase and disappears from sight.

"You know, I don’t think it is coincidence that he is here with Nimue. He just wants to show me I can’t go near them at all," Anthony whispers, making it look to our fellow diners - especially Mr. Coquille - like he might be whispering something sultry into my ear.

"Darling, I thought we agreed to wait until after we have something to eat. God, you are incorrigible!” I say with a grin, loud enough for the prying ears of Mr. Coquille to hear. I lean close and whisper back: "If he has harmed Nimue, I won’t regret gutting him or even finding a way to get rid of him by using Mason’s pigs.“ I kiss his cheek lightly, enjoying our performance, as our dinner finally arrives.

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Chapter 6: A Life Ruined, a Life Saved, a Life Lost?

Summary:

Hannibal dreams of Will while being taken by Coquille. He sees Anthony and Will in the hotel dining hall, and runs away in shock. Anthony pursues him.

Chapter Text

Hannibal’s P.O.V:

"Ahh, there you are, my dear. You have returned to me. You are so lovely, my darling Nimue. So very lovely. I am the luckiest man in the world, do you know that? You are soon to be mine, precious one. All mine.”

There is a blindfold over my eyes, and my hands are tied by my wrists to the sides of the bed. I am naked. My body aches from the torture it has endured from Coquille’s violet wand. I am weary, but I crave some kind of relief, some kind of rest. I feel his lips and tongue greedily travel over my skin - lips, neck, throat. Down my chest, encircling and biting my nipples, down to my abdomen. His hands caress and stroke me, his touch surprisingly gentle.

I find myself grateful for the blindfold. It provides me with a means of surviving this ordeal. It allows me to imagine that it is not Coquille doing these things to my body, but… Will. My beloved Pearl-Lace. He has become my salvation and my refuge.

My cock is still embarrassingly erect, and I feel his tongue glide up its length as if he were licking an ice cream cone, while a hand caresses my balls. His soft moans of pleasure vibrate through my groin as he slowly slides his mouth over my hard length, taking it all down until I can feel the head bump against the back of his throat. He swallows several times, throat muscles contracting around my cock and causing a deep moan to escape my lips. Oh, Will. Will, you are amazing, my darling. That feels so nice.

Several minutes pass as I revel in Will’s skillful mouth and tongue. My arms strain against their bonds; I wish I could run my hands through his beautiful curls. I thrust gently into his mouth as my lips soundlessly form him name.

Without warning his mouth slides off me with a final swirl of his tongue. I am bereft, but not for long. His hands spread my thighs wide, and I hear the snick of a bottle of lube being opened. A hand slips between my ass cheeks and I flinch at the sudden coolness of the liquid as it is swirled around the rim of my anus. I gasp as a finger slips inside teasingly for a moment. His other hand, also wet with lube, strokes my aching cock several times as I begin to whimper in anticipation. A low voice murmurs endearments all the while. It is Will’s voice.

At last, both strong hands slide up the backs of my thighs, under my knees, and wrap one leg around his waist and the other onto his shoulder. “Are you ready for me, my angel?” a voice purrs. Will’s voice. Oh God, Will. Yes, my love. Take me. Make me yours forever.

“Yes” is all I can say. With a sigh he pushes his pelvis forward, and I can feel his slicked-up cock slowly breach my rim and slide into my body. I feel his hands all over my torso as he begins to thrust. I want to sing. Will. Will! I love you so much, my pearl. I am in heaven.

It does not take long for the passion to build. The sounds of flesh slapping upon flesh, grunts, moans, groans and gasps fill the air. I can picture Will above me, his head thrown back, eyes closed in ecstasy, sweat in his lovely hair and on his beautiful body, my name on his lips. It is enough to push me over that glorious edge, and I come like a tidal wave, roaring my ecstasy into the void. My cock is trapped between our bodies, white pearls - pearls! - shooting out onto my sweating skin. I don’t quite remember why I shouldn’t, but it takes every ounce of willpower I possess to refrain from shouting his name.

Will! Will!! Oh God, WILL!!!!

Moments later, my mind beginning to clear, I am flung most rudely back to earth. The man above me is gripping my shoulders, hard enough to bruise. He is ramming himself into me with brutal force. I feel his foul breath on my face, his sticky, clammy body against me. He is cumming, filling me with the sickly warmth of his seed, at the same time moaning lustily.

“NIMUE….SWEET NIMUE!!!!”

The spell is broken. The illusion is gone, snuffed out like a candle flame. Will is not here. He never was here. There is only him. My heart shatters into countless jagged pieces, and I am alone.

  “Sweetheart, is something wrong? You look pale.”

I lift my head to look at Augustuv-Magnus Coquille - my husband. He had forced me to marry him the night he had claimed my body so thoroughly, so that I knew I belonged to him and no one else. Taking a napkin folded into the shape of a swan, I unfold it and smooth it over my lap.

“I’m fine,” I reply, knowing my answer has not convinced him. I continue to smooth out the napkin as the waiter arrives, another waiter approaching the table across from us at the same time.

Something about the group of people there makes me turn my head to look at them.

Time seems to stand still. Every sound in the crowded dining hall fades away except the pounding of my heart in my ears.

Is it… can it possibly be…..Will!!!?….in his Pearl-Lace persona? My love, my darling, my fallen angel?

Anthony Dimmond is seated next to him; they appear to be engaged in flirtatious conversation. Apparently I rise from my chair - I have no memory of doing so - for dimly I can hear Agustuv- Magnus inquire “Nimue, darling? What’s wrong?"  I make an attempt to answer, but no words are forthcoming.

I cannot speak. Trembling with the shock of seeing him here in Florence with Margot Verger, I turn to run out of the large hotel dining hall, passing people coming in from the tennis courts down below the large veranda. I knock over a waiter carrying a tray of drinks to a family enjoying the sun streaming down upon the veranda, amid exclamations of "Good gracious!” or “Signora, are you all right?"  I continue to run, barely registering the chaos.

I stumble down the flight of stone steps, nearly knocking over a couple coming up.

Blindly I run toward the cliff-face path. I am not in control of myself. My world seems to be shattering like a fine china teacup that has been dropped from a great height, dashing itself to a million tiny fragments.

Anthony Dimmond’s P.O.V.

"NIMUE!?”

I leap to my feet and pursue them as they race heedlessly from the dining hall. I barely register Will standing and calling after me in concern. I follow Nimue outside, momentarily losing sight of them, shouting their name desperately. At last I see their figure in the far distance, wearing the beautiful black lace dress with golden swirls upon it that I remember so well from that first night back in Baltimore, seemingly a lifetime ago.

They are standing at the very edge of one of the tall sea cliffs close to the hotel, the wind whipping the dress about in its grasp. I almost stumble in my running towards them and yet, my heart is furiously pounding in my ears and my mind is screaming  Reach them!!! Reach them!!!

Hannibal’s P.O.V:

“NIMUE!?”

A voice shouting my name from afar makes me slowly turn my head to see a figure running towards me. Stepping back from the sea cliff edge, I wait until they reach me. I see it is Anthony, panting heavily from running down the path to the sea cliffs. He bends over, hands on his knees to catch his breath, then wiping his mouth he stands up straight.

“Nimue….don’t be a fool. Your life is worth so much more than to be thrown away like this,” he implores, stepping closer to me. I step backward, sending some pebbles skittering off the cliff edge to fall down into the crashing waves.

“You…..think I don’t know that?” I ask, only mouthing the words because I can’t say them out loud. He steps even closer as I shake my head from side to side, trying to stop him.

Suddenly I slip on the moist ground and find myself falling backward into empty air. I feel a jolt, then a slight pained grunt coming from Anthony. Lifting my head slightly, I see he has managed to get us halfway back onto the cliff, gripping me tightly with one hand digging into the bare earth.

He manages to fling me up onto the cliff, my body rolling slightly onto the path. I watch him lift his head to look at me - gentle, soft eyes filled with love for me. He weakly smiles, letting go of the earth he has dug his hand into. With a gasp and a cry, I scramble upward and reach out for him. But it is too late. I watch him falling in slow motion down into the roaring white waves.

Just before he falls, our fingertips brush against each other. His beautiful patterned scarf flies up in the strong wind and lands beside me on the ground. I pull myself away from the edge, picking up the scarf with trembling fingers. I sit on the ground hunched over, trying to curl in on myself and disappear. I can feel thick, heavy tears squeeze from my eyes and run down my cheeks, glittering in the light of the setting sun.

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Chapter 7: Reunions, Interrupted

Summary:

“Where sorrowing they weep in the stream forever. Each tear as it falls shines in the water. A glistening drop of amber.” from Ovid's Metamorphoses

Chapter Text

 14 DAYS LATER

The still body of a man floats slowly down a shaded river until it comes to rest in the long, large roots of entwined poplar trees, their leaves murmuring over the bank of an unknown river. The cool light of dawn streaming through the canopy of the poplar trees reveals it is Anthony Dimmond.

Blood trickles lightly into the water from a wound on his forehead, causing little amber swirls to spread outward in the clear light blue water. A soft pained moan escapes from his lips, hands twitching weakly. Suddenly a shadow covers him. Strong hands slip under his body, lifting him out of the water.

Cradling him in their arms.

His head lolls into a warm chest as he sinks into unconsciousness. He remembers nothing thereafter.

———————————————————————–

Hannibal’s P.O.V.

The English Cemetery, Florence.

Black stone-carved statues in paroxysms of death-like ecstasy line the long pathway as I walk down to the temple, wearing a long black funeral dress and veil. Coming to a stop, I see in the distance Anthony’s remaining relatives gathered around an open grave as a coffin is lowered into the ground.

Detective Pazzi of La Poliza had discovered a body near a river named for the river mentioned in the story of Phaethon and the tears of the Heliades. I remember Pazzi well from my youth when I had killed here in Florence, becoming Il Mostro di Firenze and seducing my prey through my Nimue persona. I had gone under a different name at the time - Mariska Undine Dvaras.

In my lace-gloved hands I hold a bouquet of the flowers Geranium phaeum ,or Mourning Widow flowers. Although I am not Anthony’s widow, I am grieving as though I were. Next to me in the round temple in which I stand, close to the archway, is a black marble statue of a woman with a skeleton ripping itself out of her body, holding its bony hands out to a shrouded angel with spreading wings.

Sunlight filters down from the ocular window above, adorned with rose patterns. Shadows in jewel-like tones of crimson, soft yellow, warm orange and lime green are thrown onto the floor of the temple area attached to the long pathway.

Anthony’s relatives have left, but I remain standing quietly in the temple. After a time I hear footsteps behind me. I turn to see….Will. He is standing there wearing a suit, looking like his regular self. I can see, though, that he is still wearing earrings, and this time his lips are covered in Apple-Kiss Bon lipstick. I turn to fully face him and we just stare into one another’s eyes for - well, who knows how long. He is still the most beautiful human being I have ever seen. I wait for him to speak.

“I…..remember…..I remember,” he starts to say, causing my heart rate to speed up. I step closer to him until he suddenly grabs hold of my arms and pulls me flush against him.

The funeral veil around my face is ripped off and flung to one side.

Discarded.

Outside I hear thunder suddenly cracking, booming overhead. A deluge of rain soon begins to fall as he takes my lace-gloved hand in his.

“Come with me.”

“Where else would I go?”

“Haan…I love you.”

“I… I love you as well, mylimasis.”

Pearl-Lace/Will’s P.O.V.

I hold one of Nimue’s - Hannibal’s - lace-gloved hands in mine as we run through the graveyard, passing the many tombstones that line the path. We head toward the river, where there is an old boat house hidden by the hedera helix that grows upon it, and four large weeping willows with branches entwined in and out of the ground.

Everything had come back - the fractured memories of the accident, as it had been called by Alana, who had been the one leading Hannibal into a snare, stabbing me out of jealousy when she had seen me as Pearl-Lace ;and of Abigail, who had pushed me out of the window.

I worry that if I tell Hannibal what Abigail had done, our reunion will undoubtedly be spoiled. I put it out of my mind for now and take him to the door of the boat house. Smiling back at Hannibal, I push it open and lead him into the warm, welcoming interior. Sitting on a chaise lounge with a bandage wrapped around his head, nursing a tumbler of brandy, is Anthony, who smiles softly at the sight of us.

“An….Anthony!!? You’re alive!!?” Hannibal gasps, voice breaking with emotion. He rushes to make sure that what he sees before him isn’t an illusion. Anthony takes hold of his black lace-gloved hands, kissing the palms of them gently while inhaling the sweet perfume he wears - Nightshade Bloom, which I recognise as one of the perfumes I had seen in the luxurious bathroom in his house back in Baltimore.

Hannibal turns his face to gaze lovingly at me over his shoulder and holds out one of his hands to me, indicating I should join them. I lock the door first and pull the window curtains closed. Smiling, I walk over and sit next to him. Hannibal takes my hand as he sits between Anthony and myself on the chaise lounge. He leans in close to kiss me - or he would have, if it hadn’t been for the window suddenly shattering into pieces with a loud bang.

I look down in shock and see a smoke-gas canister has landed on the floor. Before I can gather my wits it explodes, completely filling the room with white smoke.

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Chapter 8: Love and Memories in Thassos

Summary:

VintageFloof sez: I’m sure there will be an explanation forthcoming regarding what happened at the end of the last chapter. But let’s forget that now and join our threesome in a hidden cove in the blue, blue waters of the Aegean Sea near the Greek island of Thassos! (in other words: I have no clue what’s going on! :D)

Chapter Text

Location - Hidden Cove near the Island of Thassos - Late afternoon

The sailboat bearing red sails lies anchored near a hidden cove in the clear blue ocean. A golden retriever lopes up the stairs from below decks and heads over to a person lying on a towel on their stomach, as another person sits next to them reading through Ovid's Metamorphoses. The dog flops down between them both, nudging the person lying on the towel.

 Anthony Dimmond’s P.O.V.

I hear Will, lying next to me on the large towel, give a small, pleased “Hmm, hey Winston, old boy," scratching said dog between the ears. A splashing sound makes me turn my head to watch Hannibal coming up the rung ladder on the side of the boat, covered in droplets of sea water which run down to the narrowing of his hips and naked body.

"The water is fine if you both wish to join me,” he says, coming over to lay down on his back next to me on the towel. Bookmarking the page I was reading, I place the book to one side as I lay down, looking up at the light blue sky spread with wispy smoke-like clouds.

“Any excuse to get us to go skinny dipping, hey Anthony?” Will chuckles. I don’t really hear him as I’m thinking about something else.

“Hmm, what? Sorry, yeah….I wouldn’t mind taking a swim. Maybe later, I need to sort some things out at the moment,” I reply, sighing heavily. Hannibal rolls onto his side, propping himself up on his elbow to look down at me. He places a hand on my chest, stopping me from sitting up.

“Anthony, what’s wrong? Tell us,” Hannibal insists in his Nimue voice. I go to open my mouth, and yet the bloody words won’t come out.

Cursing in my own native language - Greek - I get up, leaving them both to watch me go and try to figure out what is bothering me. I head down the stairs into the lower levels of the sailboat.

  Inside the shared sleeping cabin’s shower, I lower my head and feel the lukewarm water pounding on my back, washing away the sweat, grime and filth that has accumulated on my body. I am remembering another time, another place.

A little boy runs through a meadow of tall swaying grass, holding in his arms a small injured orphaned fawn. He continues on into the shrouded woodland where he follows a secret path to a tall towering giant sequoia, or Giant Redwood.

There is a large hollow in the tree. Going inside with the fawn, the little boy gently lays it down among a bed of leaves. He looks around and finds the battered tin filled with bandages, antiseptic wipes and plasters.

Slowly and gently, he starts to tend to the little fawn’s injuries. The fawn stays patient and still because they feel no threat from the child. Smiling softly, the little boy sits back to admire his good deed for the day.

“ANTHONY!!!”

The smile turns to panic. He makes sure the little fawn is well hidden, then clambers out of the hollow. He places branches over it to cover it from prying eyes, then runs back down the secret path and through the meadow of swaying grass, just as thunder booms overhead.

  Something is wrong.

Anthony sees the lightning flashing in the distance and trembles. He is worrying about the little fawn. He gets out of bed, throwing on some clothes and fetching a blanket from the linen cupboard.

  Running down the secret path, he comes to the hollow of the giant sequoia. He anxiously pulls the branches back to reveal the little fawn, who lifts their head up to look at him. Smiling, he wraps the blanket around them.

  After lighting a fire in the hearth of the fireplace in his bedroom, Anthony watches Pepilo - his little chow puppy - sniff curiously at the little fawn and lick softly at its nose. The fawn wrinkles their nose and sneezes, then nuzzles up against the puppy, who accepts his newfound friend.

  Days pass by. The little fawn is recovering and playing with the chow as Anthony writes poems inspired by the sight of them playing together. Sunlight filters down through the canopy of the large oak tree, where new leaves are starting their flush of growth. A heron wades into the stream looking for fish, while the little boy enjoys the company of his only friends.

  Coming out of the memory, I reach up with one hand to switch the shower off. It is silent except for the water running off my back to drip into the remaining water now swirling down the drain in a small whirlpool. The shower door opening causes me to remain still. I soon feel hands wrap around my waist to pull me back against a warm, muscular chest.

I turn around in Will’s arms and place my arms around his neck. I bury my face into the crook of his neck, feeling him switch the shower back on again so the water rains down on us both. Pulling back slightly, I look into sea blue-green eyes, and they look lovingly into mine.

My heart rate speeds up slightly. I rest my forehead against his. Licking my lips to wet them, I place them against his to test his reaction, only for him to smash his lips into mine with a moan. Will lifts me up against the tiled wall, and I wrap my thighs around his waist.

He deepens our kiss, turning his face this way and that, as our tongues entwine inside and outside our mouths. I release his lips to give a hitched, breathless gasp when he suddenly pushes his hips upward, sliding his cock into my somehow….well-lubricated….puckered entrance. It feels like something very close to heaven. I soon feel him fully sheathed within me.

My head tilts backward, one hand grasping Will’s shoulder and the other taking hold of the back of his head, sifting through his wet, curly locks. I feel him penetrating me so deeply, and I gasp with the pleasure of it. But the sly devil leaves me no time to adjust, starting to thrust his hips forward and back as he lifts me up and down at the same time.

Breathless moans, soft cries of pleasure and ecstasy fill the steamed-up shower cubicle. Will bends his head down to the crook of my neck, trailing his warm, moist lips up and down - licking, biting and sucking marks into my pale skin - then grabs one of my thighs to hold in the crook of his elbow, spreading me wider apart.

Everything soon dissolves into something I cannot yet explain. 

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Chapter 9: The Long Arms of the Law

Summary:

Jack Crawford arrives in Florence at the behest of Mr. Coquille, who asks him to take on an important task. Detective Pazzi makes a startling discovery and suspects the return of an old rival. Meanwhile, Abigail betrays the whereabouts of Will, Hannibal and Anthony to Mr. Coquille.

Chapter Text

Mr. Agustuv-Magnus Coquille sits at a small table in the outdoor cafe of his exclusive establishment, the Firenze Masquerade Club, as the sun shines down upon him and the other patrons enjoying a midday break. He, however, does not have the look of a man enjoying anything much at all at the moment. He holds a thin black clove cigarette in one hand, a cup of espresso in the other. Alternating between drags on the cigarette and sips of the coffee, he appears worried and more than a little incensed. After a few minutes he checks his watch, sighs, and seems about to rise from his chair and depart when an imposing shadow falls over the table.

“Mr. Coquille, I presume,” says a strong, no-nonsense voice. “I’m Agent Jack Crawford. My apologizes for being a bit late; taxis are almost impossible to find at this hour.”

Coquille rises and shakes Jack’s extended hand gratefully. “Not a problem, Agent Crawford. Thank you so much for coming; I realize this is quite an imposition on your time. Please, sit down. Can I get you something, coffee, tea?”

Jack, a bit jet-lagged, eyes Coquille’s tiny espresso cup and grins. “A very large mug of your most caffeinated black coffee would be most welcome.”

Coquille signals to a passing waiter. “Una grande tazza di caffè nero per Signore Crawford, per favore.”

As the waiter hurries off, Jack and Coquille settle into their chairs. Coquille folds his hands on the table and fixes Jack with a serious gaze.

“Again, I am truly grateful for your flying here on such short notice. But I would not have contacted you if your agent and your colleague were not involved.”

Jack nods in acknowledgement. “I appreciate that, Mr. Coquille. Can you tell me just what this is all about?”

Coquille closes his eyes, inhales deeply, slowly releases his breath, and opens his eyes again. “I believe that your agent, Will Graham, and your colleague, Dr. Hannibal Lecter, have been kidnapped. Kidnapped by a man who is supposedly dead.”

Jack barely registers the waiter returning with his coffee. His eyebrows shoot up almost into his hairline. “Kidnapped? By a dead man? I - please, explain.”

Coquille sighs and takes another drag from his clove. “Mr. Anthony Dimmond, a man with ties to both Lecter and Graham, was reportedly killed when he fell from a cliff at the Courting Muse Hotel here in Florence about a month ago. His funeral was held at the English Cemetery. The same day as the funeral, both Agent Graham and Dr. Lecter disappeared, and a man answering Dimmond’s description was seen procuring supplies in San Niccolò several days later. I have reason to believe that Dimmond is still alive and has kidnapped Dr. Lecter and Agent Graham, for what reason I do not purport to know. I am asking you to find them and return them to Florence, and to see that Dimmond is prosecuted for his crime.”

Even after several gulps of coffee, Jack still looks startled. He stares at the table for a moment, watching the elegant gray smoke curl up from Coquille’s cigarette. Finally he says with a sigh, “Well, I suppose I and the FBI do have a vested interest in finding them safe. Have you contacted Interpol about this?”

Coquille flicks cigarette ash into the ashtray and takes another sip of espresso. “I would prefer to keep Interpol out of this matter, if at all possible,” he replies smoothly, his steady gaze still on Jack. “And myself.” He cocks an eyebrow. “Do you understand?”

“Absolutely,” acknowledges Jack with a nod. “Can you tell me who found Dimmond’s body - I mean, alleged body? Who took charge of the case?”

“Yes, Detective Rinaldo Pazzi of the Polizia di Firenze,” replies Coquille with slight distaste.

“Good, I’ll start with him. Mr. Coquille,” Jack rises and extends his hand, “it was a pleasure to meet you; I wish it had been under more pleasant circumstances.” Coquille rises, shake’s Jack hand and nods. “We have each other’s numbers; I will call or text as soon as I hear something. I trust you will do the same.”

“You have my word, Agent Crawford. Buona fortuna a te - best of luck to you. I pray that this unfortunate matter is drawn to a swift and satisfactory conclusion for all parties involved,” replies Coquille.

Jack nods, and with a wave he departs. Coquille takes his seat once again and lights another clove, drawing on it slowly and exhaling a cloud of gray smoke. Staring off at some unknown point in the distance, he mutters under his breath:

“Nimue, my sweet - you will return to me. Dimmond will pay dearly for what he has done. And Graham? He may provide a few moments’ - amusement….”

“Alive?! Surely you cannot be serious, Agent Crawford. Anthony Dimmond may be alive? Then just who is buried in that grave?” Detective Pazzi sputters, unable to believe what Jack has just told him.

“Settle down, Detective. The key word here is may,” replies Jack, raising a reassuring hand and settling back in his chair in Pazzi’s office. “A man fitting his description was seen alive in San Niccolò several weeks ago. We don’t know for sure that it’s him, and that’s why I’m here. I have reason to believe this man has kidnapped one of my special agents and a psychiatrist I sometimes bring in as a consultant. They both disappeared from Baltimore quite some time ago, but I have been informed that both of them have recently been seen here in Florence.”

“I see,” Pazzi replies warily. “And just who is your - informant?”

“I am not at liberty to say. I promised to keep their name out of it.” Jack’s firm tone implies that he will brook no discussion on this matter. Pazzi does not look appeased, and begins to stroke his chin thoughtfully, his gaze unfocused. Jack interrupts his reverie.

“Could I perhaps see some photographs of the body you found? And any you might have of Dimmond himself?”

“Of course,” mutters Pazzi, his mind still elsewhere. He shuffles through a stack of files and papers on his desk, eventually retrieving a file and handing it to Jack. “The body was discovered with Dimmond’s wallet in the inside pocket of his suit jacket. The face, along with the entire body in fact, was so badly mangled and bruised from its journey through the water that it was difficult to make a positive identification. But the relatives who had arrived for the funeral assured us that it was him, even though it had been quite some time since they had seen him.”

Jack nods and grimaces as he looks through the photographs, which are indeed rather gruesome. The man is wearing the suit that employees at the hotel identified as the one Dimmond had been wearing that day. It is torn and stained with blood. There are several compound fractures of the arms and legs. Jack compares these photos to one of Dimmond taken several years previously in Baltimore, according to a note on the back. The face is truly unrecognizable as Dimmond’s, or anyone else’s for that matter. But the hair and body are similar enough that a fairly positive ID could be made (but “fairly positive” doesn’t quite cut it, thinks Jack). The body must have been tossed against large sharp rocks and may have been partially devoured by fish. Jack sighs and tosses the file back onto Pazzi’s desk.

“Dimmond was originally from Baltimore? That is something I was not aware of,” he muses, wheels turning in his brain. “He may have met Lecter and Graham there. That’s something to go on, at least.”

“Indeed. Now, if may I ask you if you have any photos of Dr. Lecter and Agent Graham? For our files, of course,” says Pazzi.

“I do,” replies Jack, digging into his briefcase and withdrawing two photographs. He hands them across the desk to Pazzi. “Feel free to keep those; we have plenty more.”

Pazzi frowns as he looks at Will’s photo; the man does not look familiar to him. But he freezes as he sees the photo of Hannibal. He can swear he has seen this man before. Something in the cold eyes, the high cheekbones, the angular jaw…

Jack intrudes upon Pazzi’s thoughts once again. “So, Detective, I think we will need to exhume the body. Can you get ahold of Dimmond’s dental records?”

After a moment, Pazzi’s eyes snap up to Jack’s. “Uh, yes. Yes, of course. And yes, I believe exhumation is the next step. Would you like to be present? I will contact you as soon as it is arranged, in the next day or two.”

“That would be perfect,” says Jack, rising from his chair and closing his briefcase. “Yes, I would very much prefer to be present. Please let me know the details as soon as you can.” He shakes Pazzi’s hand and heads out of the office, pulling his phone from his pocket to inform Coquille of his findings.

Pazzi remains seated at his desk, unable to take his eyes away from Hannibal’s photograph. A small bundle of cold dread begins to form in his body, slowly enlarging until it threatens to burst.

“Il Mostro…” he whispers.

“That is all for today. Please have the assigned chapters read for tomorrow,” Mr. Coquille announces to the class as the bell rings.

Abigail gathers up her Historical Art textbook and notebook, tucks them into her backpack and heads down the steps of the lecture hall, the air filled with the chatter and bustle of the other students as they make their way out of the hall, anticipating lunchtime.

“Ah, Miss Fell - may I see you for a moment, please?” Coquille calls out to her, standing at his desk but looking down, not at her.

“Um, sure,” says Abigail hesitantly. She has been anticipating this moment and is now overcome with dread. She approaches his desk, doing her best to appear unruffled. 

Coquille waits until the last student has departed, then raises his eyes to Abigail with a smile that can only be described as serpentine.

“How is your father doing these days?” he asks smoothly. He notes Abigail’s slight intake of breath and her nervous smile.

“Oh, didn’t he tell you? He’s taking a little vacation right now. He’s been working so hard, and he-”

“A vacation? How pleasant for him,” Coquille interrupts, hands behind his back and his gaze never wavering from Abigail’s face. She feels vaguely like the proverbial deer in the headlights. “No, he did not deign to inform me. Did he happen to mention to you where he was going on this little vacation?”

“Um, you know, he didn’t. It was very spur-of-the-moment, he just wanted to get away for a while. Can’t say as I blame him,” she adds with a nervous laugh. “But he’s fine, he texts me every day.”

“I see,” purrs Coquille. He reaches into his suit jacket pocket and takes out his smartphone. He taps a few buttons, returns his gaze to Abigail and holds the screen up so she can easily see it. “I wonder if his sudden decision to 'take a vacation'  had anything to do with this?” He taps another button, and a video begins to play. A video obviously taken from a surveillance camera.

Hannibal, slashing the throat of a dark burly man who falls to the floor.

“Who… sent… you?”

“Filthy….faggot…..all high and mighty with that look you wear. You….just can’t help it, can you? Disgusting faggot bitch!”

“You..fucking….psychopath…GET THE HELL OFF ME!!”

“Hmm, well….have you heard of….Il Mostro di Firenze, perhaps?”

Hannibal, biting off the man’s tongue and watching as he bleeds to death.

 Abigail gasps, her eyes wide, and covers her mouth in horror. Coquille calmly stops the video, never taking his eyes from Abigail’s stunned face. “This is not the only video evidence I have of your 'father’s’, shall we say, extra-curricular activities? Would you like to see more?” he adds with an infuriating smirk.

“NO!” Abigail shouts, backing away from Coquille. Her eyes have become bright with tears and her voice is shaky and hoarse. “My God… What… what do you want?”

“Hannibal’s location.” Coquille’s voice suddenly becomes hard and cold. “As you can see, I can make life very, very difficult for both of you - and for Mr. Graham and Mr. Dimmond as well - if you do not comply.” He holds up the phone almost triumphantly, with a grin full of wicked glee. “He has all but confessed that he is Il Mostro di Firenze! I am sure the police would be thrilled to see this!” He takes a step closer to Abigail, who continues to back away. The tears are now coursing down her cheeks, and she is shaking her head in horrified denial. “Did you know the FBI itself is here, searching for him? I have no doubt they would absolutely love to see this as well.”

In spite of her wracked condition, Abigail knows when she is beaten. She stops, pulls a handkerchief from her pocket and dries her eyes. She swallows, still trembling and fearful, breathing hard. Not daring to meet Coquille’s gaze, she stares at the floor as she speaks in a dull, defeated monotone.

“They’re on a sailboat. I don’t know the name. I think they might have stolen it. The last I heard they were in Greece, near Thassos.”

“Ahhhh,” Coquille purrs, reaching out a hand to stroke Abigail’s hair. She flinches from his touch but is otherwise still. “There, you see? That was not so difficult, was it? Thank you, my dear girl. Now, do I have to tell you that you will not be informing Hannibal of this conversation? No? Oh, well I just have, haven’t I? How silly of me! Well, in any case, please do not force me to repeat it. That is all.” He tucks the phone back into his jacket as Abigail runs from the room, wrenching the door open and slamming it behind her. He gazes wistfully up into the empty seats of the lecture hall.

 "Have no fear, dearest Abigail. You will be seeing your ‘father’ and his companions again. Very soon.“

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Chapter 10: Violated

Chapter by UnknownMusing

Summary:

"There is an ocean inside of me. Put your ear against my chest and listen, it rages for you.” Quote - Johnny Nguyen

CW: Nimue is essentially raped on their wedding night.

Chapter Text

Hannibal’s P.O.V.

Pausing by the door of the sleeping cabin, I look inside and see Will and Anthony - my sweet gentle angels - lying curled up on top of the duvet cover of the circular bed, blissfully asleep. I smile softly at the sight of them together.

Stepping into the room, I approach the bed and pull the blanket up around them. Anthony shifts in his sleep, snuggling closer to Will with a small “Hmm."  I lightly kiss their cheeks, feeling myself tremble heavily as I whisper to them.

"I love you both…so much. Forgive me.”

Reluctantly moving away from the warmth of their sleeping bodies, I allow Winston inside. After seeing him get comfortable at the end of the bed by their feet, I leave the sleeping cabin, closing the door silently behind me.

Standing in the hallway, I find myself rubbing the spot where Agustuv-Magnus Coquille’s ring still rests on the ring finger of my left hand. No matter how much I desire it, I cannot deny that that vile man is still legally my husband.

I remember the day of the wedding and how I lost control of myself during the consummation of the wedding night.

  “Do you, Augustuv-Magnus Coquille, take Nimue-Lurisa Venomis to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

“I do.”

“Do you…..”

Even though the veil covers my face, I tremble in the long-sleeved black dress with the ruffled lace collar coming up to my neck, upon which lies a large fiery opal in the shape of snake eyes. I reply to the question asked of me.

“I……I…..do.”

“Thank you. You may kiss your bride, Mr. Coquille-Venomis.”

The crimson lace veil is lifted up and placed behind my head as he gently pulls me close to him; all a show for the high-class people who had been invited to the wedding. He kisses me in such a loving way that I find myself, to my shame and horror, kissing him back.

Before I can say another word, as he pulls back from me he sweeps me off my feet, eliciting squeals of delight from the bridesmaids. He carries me down the flight of steps and outside, where news reporters, camera crews and photographers are waiting.

“Smile, darling. It’s our wedding, remember?” he whispers in my ear, hot breath against my cheek. I remember our violent encounter in my kitchen, and his vile threat of what would happen if I didn’t acquiesce to his demands.

I force myself to smile coquettishly, acting somewhat shy like any bride would on their wedding day, and he cups my cheek lightly as I wrap my arms around his neck. After tossing the bouquet of  orchids - Snake’s head (Fritillaria meleagris), Mama’s Pearl (Ceologyne cristata), and Lady Slipper(Paphiopedilum x maudiae) - to some of the bridesmaids, I notice out of the corner of my eye that it is my darling Abigail - forced to be a bridesmaid - who catches it.

  “Look at me, Nimue.”

Lifting my head up, I look at Augustuv-Magnus - my husband - as I stand close to the edge of the king size bed in his apartment bedchamber. I feel him cup both my cheeks in his hands, then he leans in close, nuzzling his nose affectionately against mine. Inhaling my scent.

His hands move down to slip around my waist, then up to slowly and methodically untie the laces of the dress. I find myself bringing up my hands to undo his tie, dropping it onto the armchair next to the window. His hands slip the wedding dress off as I step out of it, then he heads over to the large, ornate, polished oak wardrobe.

Walking to the window, I unthinkingly lift one hand up into the shaft of moonlight streaming down into the bedchamber’s large windows. Even though the room is lit by snake-shaped lamps in wall-mounted sconces, the moonlight is still the brightest light in the bedchamber. I soon feel his hands wrapping around my waist from behind, reminding me where I am and why.

His head bends down into the crook of my neck. At the feel of his mouth trailing up and down - licking, sucking and biting - I cannot stop a wanton moan from escaping my lips. He whirls me around, pressing me up against the glass of the window, at the same time hitching my thighs around his waist as he lays me down on the window seat.

I remember a time when my sweet Will and I were in a similar situation. I start to feel hot, as if my skin is being burned by wicked little tongues of flame, as his hand unlaces the corset slightly to expose my nipples. He flicks his moist, heated tongue over the tip of one of them, causing me to give a hitched gasp as he does so.

His mouth engulfs my nipple, and I cradle the back of his head with both hands. Hitched gasping and breathless panting begin to fill the silence of the room. I tilt my head back to stare up at the ceiling, where a faded painting of Leda and the Swan meets my eyes. Only it seems the swan has transformed into a wolf - or is it a snake? I cannot tell.

He begins to strip me of my corset, lace thongs and tights until I am bared for him. He lifts me up from the window seat to carry me over to the bed, where I am laid down on soft satin sheets.

“Get onto your hands and knees, Nimue,” he commands, giving me a look that indicates beyond any doubt that if I don’t do what he says, he will carry out his threat to harm Abigail. I will my heart to stop thudding against my rib cage and roll onto my front.

Rising up onto my hands and knees as he demands, I suddenly arch my back with a cry of shock as something strikes down upon my back, stinging my skin. I fist my hands into the satin sheets for support. It happens again, sending lancing pain rippling up my spine as I cry out once more.

And again it strikes, causing me to collapse onto the sheets, a whimper escaping me before I can quell it. His hand soon grabs the back of my head by my hair, pulling me back up so I now see the mirror above the headboard. To my horror, it reveals him holding a cat-o-nine-tails whip in his other hand.

He brings it down hard, and I nearly scream from the pain. I manage to wrench free and reach for the ornate penknife on the bedside table. I lunge at him, holding the knife in both hands, but he manages to grab my wrists, effectively stopping me from plunging the knife into his eyeball. My hands begin to shake with the effort to release myself from his strong grip.

I struggle and strain to press the knife further down, only for him to flip the tables on me once again. I find myself being pinned heavily to the bed as he suddenly shoves his hips forward with a grunt, penetrating me in one single thrust that makes me cry out in shock and agony.

Back arching heavily and thighs trembling around his waist, I whimper at the feel of something slightly tearing within me. He pulls out with another grunt, reaching for the lube and pouring some into the palm of his hand. Then he reaches downward, making me twist the sheets in my hands for support once again, keeping my face turned to one side with eyes closed tight.

It hurts.

Everything inside me feels as if it is shattering into a thousand pieces of fragile china.

It hurts so much.

  Coming out of the harsh, painful memory that I wish I could erase from my mind, I head into the kitchen area of the sailboat. I walk to the windowsill, where in a vase are some cuttings of Prunus lusitanica (Portugal laurel), Parahebe catarractae (Porlock purple) and Passiflora (passion flower). I bend and inhale their lovely scent, calming my nerves and easing the pain. I straighten to look at the light of the setting sun on the liquid silver waves of the Aegean Sea, spreading out like a path towards the boat. It seems to turn the water a warm-hued orange.

I take the burner phone out of my trouser pocket and dial in the number, hearing it ring in the silence of the kitchen. The call is answered, and I bring the phone up to my ear.

“Yes. Who may I ask is calling? Hello? Who is this?!”

“Hello, Abigail.”

“……Hannibal!!!?”

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Chapter 11: There’s an East Wind Coming

Chapter by UnknownMusing

Summary:

“There’s an east wind coming all the same, such a wind as never blew on England yet. It will be cold and bitter, Watson, and a good many of us may wither before its blast.” - Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, His Last Bow, 1914

Chapter Text

Anthony Dimmond’s P.O.V.

The delicious smell of fresh food being cooked makes me flutter my eyes open softly, seeing Will still calmly sleeping next to me under the soft, warm duvet covers of the large bed in the sleeping cabin. Feeling my bladder protesting, I slip out from under the covers and head into the bathroom. After relieving myself, I look at my reflection in the bathroom mirror as I wash my hands.

There are hand-shaped bruises from when Will had gripped my hips tightly while I rode him, my hands resting on his chest, both of us still covered in droplets of water from the shower. I remember how I had cried out his name in the stillness of the sleeping cabin, clenching my thighs tightly around his waist and feeling his warm release spill into me.

Drying my hands on a towel from the rack, I walk back through to the bed area. I retrieve a nightgown from the wardrobe and wrap it loosely around me, seeing a case-file box behind some leather bags. I frown as I see the box has my name on it.

Why would Hannibal have it here?

How had he acquired it?

I kneel down, pulling the bags away from it. Licking my lips to wet them, I gaze at the box for a moment, then turn my head to look at Will. He is still sleeping contentedly beneath the covers, with Winston still snoozing at his feet. I push the bags back into place, get up and decide I need some coffee and something to eat.

  I find Hannibal busy preparing a protein scramble in the kitchen area of the large sailboat named “Erienades”. He smiles softly at me, raising one eyebrow at the nightgown, or more accurately, a kimono silk chemise. He then plates our breakfast as Will, yawning and ruffling a hand through his hair, wanders in wearing a blue nightgown.

“I trust you both had a good sleep,” Hannibal says, as Will and I sit down on stools at the kitchen island counter, Will smiling a bleary smile at both of us over the rim of his coffee cup. I reach for the newspaper on the counter, but go still at the sight of the person on the front page - Kronos Dimmond, my uncle. I fold the newspaper, grateful not to look at it, and put it to one side as Hannibal places our plates down in front of us.

“Of a sort. Winston kept trying to get between us,” I say, digging into the protein scramble - fluffy scrambled eggs, sweet, juicy sausages and tomatoes - and trying not to think that he intentionally placed that paper there to see what my reaction would be.

He comes around the kitchen island, placing his hands on my shoulders. I bring one hand up to take hold of the one on my right shoulder, turn my face and kiss his knuckles gently.

“I’m afraid we will need to go into town to procure more food and supplies for the boat. You know the island, Anthony, so would you mind showing Will and I around?” Hannibal asks. I give him a fake smile and, willing my heart to stop pounding against my rib cage, nod silently in reply.

  The small town of Crietos, on the island of Thassos, is just as I remember it from my youth, when I arrived here to live with my uncle - my sexually-abusive, dominating uncle. I cannot help but remember all the hurt, pain and anguish he had caused me when I was just a child.

He had controlled every aspect of my life until I finally broke free of the metaphorical shackles he had wrapped around me. I ran away to Florence, Italy to start a new life. Now I was back in the place where the ghosts and demons of my past threatened to come rushing out of the oubliettes in which I had entrapped them.

Today is a festival day, celebrating Death - Thanatos - with many revellers wearing costumes and masks, while market stalls sell merchandise and children run about holding windmills or ribbons. Hannibal, in his Nimue guise, comes through the crowd, stepping out of the way to allow a group of children to run past him. He is breathtakingly lovely in a light blue off-the-shoulder top, earrings with goldish-brown feathers attached to them, and white jeans that accentuate his hips.

Will is nowhere in sight.

“Is something the matter?” Hannibal asks me with concern, seeing how I’ve wrapped my arms around myself, digging my nails into them. He places one hand on my arm as I keep my face turned to one side.

“It…This place brings back bad memories for me. You knew that, though, didn’t you?” I ask, turning my gaze to him and feeling anger rising slightly in my voice. He moves his hand to cup my cheek gently.

“I can whisper through the chrysalis you have wrapped around yourself. But what you have beneath it, I cannot yet predict,"  he whispers, smiling with those lovely, dangerous, seductive crimson lips.

The same lips I find myself pressing my own lips against now, trying desperately to just enjoy this precious time we have together, as noise and clarity echoes around us.

Little did I know that soon everything would shatter apart, like mirrors being smashed. 

Will’s P.O.V.

Anthony’s case file on his past is something I can see he would not want coming to light. I flick the lighter and place the wavering flame under the files, watching as they soon catch fire. The edges of the paper begin to turn black and crisp, some of the fragments breaking away. They dance and whirl in the wind that is starting up, causing the red sails of the ”Erienades"  towhip back and forth.

It seems a storm is beginning to brew out there in the Aegean Sea, making its way toward the small island of Thassos and bringing the demons of Hannibal’s, Anthony’s, and my past with it. It recalls to my mind the old saying:

“Eurus is coming. Beware what is brought in by it. Because it may ruin you.”

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Chapter 12: The Church of Bones

Summary:

Anthony has a disturbing dream, some hours of bliss with Hannibal and Will, and a long-awaited reckoning with his abusive uncle.

05/28/2019: EDITED to correct a confusing plot point! Sorry about that!

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Anthony Dimmond’s P.O.V.

My breathing is labored as Hannibal approaches me from behind, placing one hand over my eyes so I can no longer see the Prey in front of me: Kronos Dimmond, my hated uncle, who I have just ripped apart with the curved Devil’s Fang hunting knives I hold in both my hands.

Droplets of crimson petals are dripping onto the stone floor of his study, where every pain, agony and anguish this man had caused me had transpired. I feel Hannibal place his lips against my ear. One large, strong hand slips around to rest on my chest, feeling it rise and fall under his palm. He whispers in my ear.

“How beautiful you look right now. Covered in droplets of crimson.”

The hunting knives slip out of my hands, fall to the floor and tumble into the large scarlet pool that spreads out from my uncle’s dead body. Wrenching myself free, I stumble backward and fall into that sickening pool, causing it to splash up into the air.

Hannibal steps out of the shadows of the now changed scene.

A strange chapel-like area.

Above are the many Prey he has hunted in skeletal form, reminding me of the Church of Bones, with all manner of roses, orchids, foxglove and deadly nightshade placed within the rib cages. On the walls grow Hedera helix - fiery orange and crimson.

Hannibal brings his hands up to his naked chest, digging his sharp black glinting claws into his skin.

He rips the flesh backward to expose what lies beneath, as when a snake sheds its skin. From all over his body he peels back the layers of skin until finally he reveals Nimue - her eyes sparkling like jewels - and allows the discarded, empty skin - his “person suit” - to fall onto the floor. She steps out, naked and covered in blood, her feet more like the clawed feet of some otherworldly creature. She collapses onto her hands and knees, arching her back with a wanton moan of ecstasy as something bursts out of her back - large crimson wings with curved talons.

They spread slowly outward until finally they are spread out wide and full, revealing their true size. They are terrible in their beauty.

She rises gracefully and approaches me, pulling me up onto my knees. She kneels before me. Her face and the right side of her body begin to crumble like sandstone, revealing Hannibal underneath. Lips smash into mine, and claws wrap themselves around me and drag down my back.

Blood trickles down my back at the same time Nimue/Hannibal - conjoined in some way - bend their head to my chest and bite down into the flesh. My back arches in an intense spasm of movement.

I emit a breathless gasp and my head tilts backward. I feel a strange sensation of euphoria at being eaten alive by them both in this way. Cradling the back of their head, I sift my hand through their hair.

The cracking of bones echoes sharply, the claws digging ever deeper into my back. And yet I feel no pain, only mind-numbing, unexplained pleasure. I remember the poem by Dante, and his strange dream of Beatrice Portinari. 

Part of that poem is happening to me right now as I lower my head to see Nimue/Hannibal begin to bite into the flesh of my still pulsating heart that lies in their cupped hands, as another voice whispers into my ear the poem in Italian.

“ Allegro mi sembrava Amor tenendo

Meo core in mano, e ne le braccia avea

Madonna involta in un drappo dormendo

Poi la svegliava, d'esto core ardendo

Lei paventosa umilmente pascea

Appreso gir lo ne vedea piangendo.”

————————————–

My eyes shoot open wide, my chest rising and falling heavily with the pounding of my heart. Hannibal, sleeping against me from behind, shifts slightly to lean over me, covering me with his shadow. 

Will is watching us both, suggesting he has been awake all this time, observing me in the throes of my unsettling dream.

A hand softly touches my hip, causing me to tense slightly and look up into Hannibal’s maroon eyes, seeing myself reflected in them. I feel as though he is staring deep into my soul. He slips downward, spreading my thighs wide apart to expose the wetness of my cum from the orgasm I had while having that strange…..Erotic Dream……of him and his Nimue persona.

“You’re wet, my death’s-head hawkmoth. Was it such a good dream you were having, Anthony?” he purrs. He bends his head down between my thighs. I shoot both hands downward to cradle it with a soft, breathless whimper as I feel him licking the trail of my released cum from the inside of my left thigh, and then my right - alternating between them.

My toes curl into the mattress and I feel my body completely flush with burning heat from within. When he bites into the flesh of my thigh to mark me, I moan loudly in masochistic pleasure. I feel another pair of soft lips on my face. I open my eyes to see my beautiful Will, smiling and kissing my cheek. He kisses his way to my ear, breathing hotly into it as he kisses, licks and sucks at the shell. The overwhelming sound and feel of this, combined with the feel of Hannibal’s slick tongue on my thighs and his soft grunts of pleasure, send the blood rushing to my groin as my cock stiffens. Dimly I can see Hannibal’s hand on Will’s lower back, stroking and caressing it. Then he suddenly flips me onto my front, raising my hips up as he gently pushes my top half down by my head onto the soft eggshell blue pillows decorated with golden, reddish-blue irises.

Lips touch the nape of my neck, kissing downwards to my tailbone, where fingers already slicked with lube feel around the rim of my puckered entrance to coat it. Tingles run up my spine at the same time that pearls of pre-cum have formed on the tip of my cock.

“Please….. I want this,” I gasp out, feeling the fingers spear me straight away. I arch my back slightly, mouth agape in ecstasy. The fingers slowly slip in and out of me, prepping me for what is going to happen next.

Those fingers reach so deep within me, I nearly cum from that alone. But the fingers are soon removed and replaced with hips slamming into mine from behind, as Hannibal pulls me back onto his slicked-up cock with a lusty grunt.

“Oh, god!!!…..Nimue, your……Oh, oh…….I can feel your heat.”

He starts to move, jolting my body back and forth with his hips undulating into mine from behind. He keeps me in a certain position on my hands and knees, making sure each stroke of his cock hits my prostate dead-centre, sending tingles shooting up my spine. He drapes himself across my back, reaching down to grasp my aching cock in his hand, tugging and squeezing until I think I might go mad with pleasure. His other hand grabs the back of my head by my hair to wrench it upwards.

There is a large mirror above the headboard. I can see Will on his knees, pounding into him from behind, making Hannibal gasp and moan with each thrust, which in turn causes him to thrust back into me. It is so erotic, hot and desirable to see it all happening between the three of us. I start to undulate my hips back and forth into his thrusts, not bothering to quell my cries, sighs and moans of pleasure and bliss.

—————————————————-

Hannibal’s P.O.V.

The beautifully pleasured sounds coming from Anthony’s sweet lips are like a symphony of the Lovemaking  between us. On his knees behind me, Will thrusts his throbbing cock in and out of my well-lubricated entrance at such a pace, it shoves my hips back into our third lover’s tight, beautiful ass. I continue to manipulate Anthony’s cock in my hand, spurred on by his symphony of passion.

Droplets of sweat are running down and between our bodies, coating us in a gentle sheen which glows in the soft dawn light spreading through the curtains of the sleeping cabin. At last, hungry for release but not wanting this moment to end, my muscles tense as the pressure building within me comes to a peaceful, satisfying climax. I can hear my two darling sweet angels succumb to their orgasms at the same time.

A rush of sweet warmth - Will’s cum fills me completely - at the same time I fill Anthony with my own release, coating his tight insides to mark them as my own. I feel his hot seed spill onto my hand, the muscles of his lovely ass clenching around my cock, which has not yet returned to softness. Incredibly, I can feel another orgasm rising, causing me in turn to clench around Will’s cock.

And so I experience another earth-shattering orgasm, my vision whiting out almost completely.

———————-

Collapsing with a muffled thump on top of the bunched-up duvet cover, I weakly pull Anthony over to lie between Will and I. I can see that he is still breathing laboriously from the most intense orgasms he has ever had - six of them - after the three of us had made love so many times to each other it had become much too intense to continue.

Reaching up with one hand, I stroke some strands of his slightly damp hair away from his eyes and gently tuck them behind his ear, kissing his forehead lovingly. He lies on his back, allowing me to rest my hand on his chest as Will does the same. His heart rate slowly returns to normal.

“I….I’m scared,” Anthony breathes, gulping down saliva to get the next words out. “I’m….scared….of losing you both. When I first met you both, on separate occasions, I was conflicted regarding my feelings for the both of you. And then further on, when I fell off…that cliff, I knew that I…I loved you both so much, I wanted to be with you for the rest of my life! And yet, I fear…” His voice begins to break. “I fear that we’re going to be separated from each other at some point - some point soon - and I’ll never see either of you again.”

Tears brim in his lovely eyes. He brings both hands up to cover his eyes as he starts to tremble, his body wracked by pitiful sobs. I rest my forehead against his, and Will does the same. Taking hold of his left hand, I pull it gently away from his eye and entwine my fingers with his, as Will does with his right hand.

“We won’t let that happen, I promise you… and I always keep my promises, Anthony.”

“Then help me…help me do something.”

“Tell us.”

“Help me… get rid of my uncle. Help me…kill him.”

——————————————————————————————–

Will’s P.O.V.

Hearing Anthony say these words about his uncle makes me want to ask him what he had dreamed about. From what I had read in his file before destroying it, the man had sexually abused him for years, ever since he had come to Thassos at a very young age and right up until his sixteenth birthday. As I remembered it, everything had been detailed - the court case; the evidence dismissed because there was no proof a very prominent man - Kronos Dimmond - had done the things Anthony had told the police he had done; and the hospital records, irrefutable proof of how many times he had been taken to Accident and Emergency bruised and battered.

The excuse his uncle had given each time, when questioned by hospital staff, was simply that Anthony was “clumsy and accident-prone.”

 "Tell us what you dreamt of,“ Hannibal asks him. Anthony licks his lips and begins to tell us about his dream - the conjoined creature of Hannibal’s persona Nimue and Hannibal; how he ripped apart his uncle; the way he watched his own heart being devoured as someone whispered Dante into his ear.

"I’d never felt so…aroused before,” Anthony confesses to us. His hand slips down between his thighs to grasp his now hard cock, and he begins to slowly move his hand up and down while allowing Hannibal to kiss him passionately.

Feeling myself becoming excited again, I slip down between his thighs, moving his hand gently out of the way and taking hold of his cock myself. My tongue sneaks out and I flick it over the tip, hearing him give a breathless hitched gasp. With a sly smile I bend my head and swallow him down into my hot, moist mouth, wringing an ecstatic moan from his lips, Hannibal’s fingers in my hair and his mouth on Anthony’s neck.

“Haaa……..oh, oh……Pearl-Lace!!!……..Nimue…..ahhh, I love you both…..Ohhhh!!!”

——————————————————–

Location - Night-time - Kronos Dimmond’s Mansion Residence

Anthony Dimmond’s P.O.V.

A large, extravagant party is being held at my uncle’s mansion to celebrate his election - or, more likely, his bought-and-paid-for appointment - as the Mayor of Crietos. I sit beside Hannibal in the back seat of our Uber as we wend our way to the soirée. Hannibal, in his Nimue persona, is wearing a long black one-shouldered evening dress with white and lapis lazuli roses on the neckline, curving down to embrace his hips, while lapis lazuli dewdrop earrings dangle from his ears. Around his throat is a choker bedecked with pearls - gifts from Will, which he had had made into jewelry, and to my mind make him look so achingly and hauntingly beautiful.

Underneath he is wearing a creme-white corset, thongs and tights embellished with ruffles and ribbons. I notice that for some strange, unknown reason, he is still wearing the wedding ring given to him by Coquille. Reaching for his hand, I squeeze it lightly to reassure myself and him that everything will be all right.

This makes him look down, as it is the hand with the ring I am holding, and then back up as the Uber soon enters into the large parking area, where other vehicles of the rich and even famous are parked. The Uber driver glides into the last remaining space.

Letting go of Hannibal’s hand, I get out first and go around to the other side, opening the door to allow him to step out onto the gravel.

He smiles softly at me, lips outlined by golden lipstick. Slipping his hand, with its laquered-to-match gold fingernails, into the crook of my arm, we head up the flight of steps leading to the large double doors. The doors swing open to reveal my uncle, standing there in all his vileness. He grabs hold of both of my cheeks and kisses them, making it look to his guests as if he is enthusiastic about seeing his nephew again. It is all I can do to keep the bile from rising in my throat.

“Anthony, my darling, sweet nephew. Welcome,” he croons. He turns to Hannibal, who gives him a coy, seductive smile. Before I can make proper introductions, my uncle takes his hand and kisses it with his lying lips.

If any of his guests knew what this man was actually like beneath his own “person suit,” and how he had destroyed my childhood, his reputation would be ruined and he would be run out of town by everyone who knew him.

——————————-

I dance a waltz with Hannibal in the large ballroom, while the other guests do the same or wander about sipping champagne or cocktails, chattering about nothing. I feel him rest his cheek against mine as everything seems to dissolve around us, leaving only us in the ballroom, alone. So, I muster my courage and decide to say it.

“Nimue, there is something…I want to say to you. Even though…you still wear his wedding ring, I…. I want…to marry both you and Pearl-Lace, so I’ll never lose either of you," I whisper in his ear, quietly enough for him to hear. Everything comes back to normal as I whirl him about, smiling madly, then dip him low, making him gasp delightedly, and bring him back up. He places a hand on my chest with a trembling smile.

It is at this pristine moment that I hear a champagne glass suddenly shattering. We both turn our heads at the same time to see…..Erisa Ereshkigal…..who is staring at us, pale white and trembling, crimson lips slightly agape. My uncle quickly approaches them, leading them away and out of the ballroom. I can’t help but notice that their dress and hairstyle are remarkably similar to Nimue’s, but this is all forgotten as Hannibal and I gaze at one another, realizing that our hour is upon us.

The music changes and all returns to as it once was, while Hannibal and I slip out unnoticed.

Talk of marriage and wedding plans must wait for a happier time.

Now it is time to hunt, as Hannibal calls it, our Prey.

—————————-

The large study where my uncle works is still the same from my childhood, with the desk in front of a large, ornately curved window with a mural of a figure holding a long spear, stabbing down into a writhing serpent woman; a bookshelf with a ladder leading up to the mezzanine library above on the left-hand side of the study; and on the right, a fireplace flanked by figures of debauchery and carnage.

"Do you remember what you did to me, uncle? You took me…..right here in this very room, when I….I was only….a young child. A child!!!” I hiss and spit at him in the dim light, while my uncle, mouth covered with duct tape, struggles weakly in the electrical cable that keeps him tightly bound to the chair behind his desk, which I lean against before him.

I hold in one hand a curved devil’s claw hunting knife, gleaming in the faint desk lamp light. Behind my uncle stands Hannibal, nails painted crimson, dark eyes glowing, waiting for me to make my move. Walking slowly around the desk, I lean over Kronos Dimmond, looking down into those cold, unforgiving eyes.

“Because you took my childhood from me, I’m taking the thing that caused me pain, anguish and emotional hurt,” I hear myself say in a strange, disembodied voice that doesn’t even sound like mine.

The time has come. The moment is now.

I stab straight down into his groin area, dragging the knife upwards to rip his flesh apart. His eyes close but he doesn’t make a sound. He seems prepared, even content, to die. I would have preferred a bit of groveling, but honestly? I just want him dead. His blood spurts outwards, covering me so thoroughly it soaks through the suit I wear. His stomach contents fall to the carpet with a sickening, muffled, squelching thump. Hannibal, breathing hard, unnecessarily pushes the desk out of the way, steps behind me and wraps his arms around me, pulling me flush against his warm chest.

“Tell me… how do you feel right now?"  he whispers urgently in my ear, slipping one hand down between my thighs to cup the bulging erection he finds there. I whimper helplessly.

"Haaa….you already know how it makes me feel…." I reply, heady with blood lust, feeling him start to rub the palm of his hand up and down over the cloth-covered bulge, rubbing the head of my cock through layers of fabric. I can feel pre-cum starting to form at the tip, dribbling downward.

"Tell me,"  I hear him pant.

He rests his forehead between my shoulder blades, and I soon hear a ragged sigh and wet sounds coming from behind. I manage to turn around and face him. I can see his hand moving under the now bunched-up dress as he rubs himself through the already soaked lace thongs, leaning against the desk for support.

Some of his blonde fringe mixed with silvery highlights falls in front of his eyes. Feeling more aroused than ever, I find myself peeling off the suit jacket that is completely covered in my uncle’s blood, throwing it over the disgusting pig’s corpse. I take hold of Hannibal, lift him up onto the desk and clamber over him as he pulls me down into a breathless kiss.

His hands grasp my back under my shoulder blades, and a guttural groan escapes me when he drags his crimson nails down it. A delicious zing of pleasurable pain shoots through my body. I hungrily bend my head, trailing my lips up and down his neck - licking, biting and sucking into the pale flesh, relishing his amber scent and his deep moans.

"When… when we get back to the boat, I want you and Will to ravage me until I forget my own native language and everything else except the pleasure you will both give me.” His voice is rough and strange. His scent… Amber? I don’t recall Hannibal ever wearing amber.

The fog that had settled over my brain, the result of my adrenaline-fueled “killer’s high,” is beginning to lift. At their mention of returning to the boat, I flash on Hannibal and I on the boat that afternoon, getting dressed and ready for the party. Will and I had tended to Nimue like the queen they are. I had zipped up their dress and adjusted the pearl choker - the choker isn’t there!! where is it?? - while Will applied lacquer to their nails. Gold lacquer, to match their lipstick.

Gold lacquer. This person’s nails are crimson. Deep, blood red.

  I suddenly wrench free from them, this “Not-Nimue." Who is this??

I grab the knife at the same time they try to reach for an ornate letter opener with an orange snake-eye stone on the handle. A crimson haze covers my vision, filling it completely.

What transpires next, I cannot explain how it happens.

It just does.

Notes:

English translation of the section of Dante’s poem La Vita Nuova (The New Life) that Anthony hears in his dream:

Joyous Love seemed to me, the while he held My heart within his hands, and in his arms My lady lay asleep wrapped in a veil. He woke her then and trembling and obedient She ate that burning heart out of his hand; Weeping I saw him then depart from me.

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Chapter 13: Breaking the Chains

Chapter by VintageFloof

Summary:

Hannibal and Will are returned to their respective captors, while Anthony languishes in the hold of Coquille’s yacht.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Hannibal’s P.O.V.

I am standing on the secluded beach of a nearby cove, holding some fresh clean clothes and a new pair of sneakers in a bag, with Will standing beside me. Both of us watch quietly as Anthony gingerly peels off the completely blood-soaked suit he had worn to his uncle’s spectacular party to celebrate his becoming the Mayor of Crietos. Only now the man is dead, along with the manipulative Erisa Ereshkigal, who turned out to be Matthew Brown, of all people. He had desired Anthony and Will for himself, and that desire cost him his life and the life of the hit man he had sent after me in Florence.   

Doing our best to follow Kronos Dimmond after he had unceremoniously ejected Erisa from the house, I had become separated from Anthony and found myself waylaid and surrounded by a small mob of rude, irritating guests. They demanded to know who I was and why I had accompanied Anthony to the party. All of them gained immediate places of honor in my Rolodex as I fielded their intrusive inquiries with, I must admit, admirable aplomb, all things considered. It was during this time that Erisa must have managed to sneak back into the building. Anthony had gone on ahead of me, and I imagine Erisa had just followed the shouting, found him in his uncle’s study, and assisted him in subduing Kronos and tying him up. Anthony, addled and upset, no doubt had little trouble believing Erisa was me in the room’s very dim lighting. Indeed, it seemed likely they had planned it that way, what with their attempt to look as much like me as possible.

The ruse was going well until my dear boy began to notice subtle differences between Erisa and myself, the differing nail lacquer colors being the final nail in the coffin, so to speak. I had at last managed to escape the guests from hell and ran down the hallway, stopping at a closed door with faint light from within showing through the bottom gap. I tested the doorknob, found it locked, backed away several paces, gathered my strength, then ran and threw my shoulder against the door with all my might. The door burst open with a crash. I immediately saw Kronos Dimmond, tied to a chair and disemboweled, rivers of thick red blood and several internal organs soaking through the expensive carpet. A mere second passed before I saw Matthew Brown attacking Anthony on the desk, nearly stabbing an ornate letter opener into his chest. Without thinking I bounded to the desk, grabbed the letter opener from his hand, seized the young man’s head by his hair, wrenched it backwards to expose his throat, then sliced across it with the letter opener. A hot torrent of crimson came gushing out, covering Anthony completely, while some of it soaked permanently into the odious carpet.

Will had followed us to the mansion in another car, hiding on the grounds and sneaking in at the same time Erisa did, unseen by them. I now recall the Tableau  I had made of Kronos Dimmond and Matthew Brown, with both Will’s and Anthony’s help.

"The Lovers Tearing Each Other Apart in Jealousy and Envy,"  based on a painting by the renowned Baltimore artist Mrs. Arianna Dragnas, a native of Crietos. I had known her also to be a retired serial killer who lived in Wolf Trap - almost Will’s neighbor, in fact - as Mrs. Miggins, settling there after dispatching her last victim, a loathsome man who had violated and abused seventeen young girls under the orders of none other than Kronos Dimmond. I think the dear lady would have been utterly delighted with the irony of the situation.

All three of us would be long gone by the time the Greek police had worked out that it was Il Mostro di Firenze who had done the Tableau, with two new killers they had yet to identify.

"Nimue?” Anthony shouts, naked as the day he was born, arms wrapped around himself, shivering in the chilled morning air. Drawn thusly from my thoughts, I walk up to him, holding out the bag containing the clean clothes and sneakers Will had brought for him. Having already flung the knife into the ocean, Will is standing over a nearby burn barrel, incinerating Anthony’s bloodied clothing. He pokes at them occasionally with a long piece of driftwood as black smoke rises into the air.

Anthony turns to face me, still keeping his arms crossed over his fine muscular chest covered in crimson petals, and steps closer to me. He smiles and takes the garments, dressing quickly. When he is clothed and shod, he turns to me again, reaching up with one hand to stroke a strand of hair from my forehead. He gently tucks it behind my ear, exposing the glittering lapis lazuli earring in the light of the rising sun that peeks over the edge of the horizon. We gaze at one another rather wistfully.

I begin to say something when excited barking makes us turn to see Winston - Will’s mongrel retriever - bounding towards us across the length of the beach. I walk towards him, intent on catching him, but he seizes the hem of my dress in his teeth and begins to tug and drag me in the direction he had come from. He is clearly attempting to lead me somewhere.

 It all ends without warning when he gives a pained yelp as something strikes his hip.

I quickly reach out and pull what appears to be a tranquilizer dart from his side. All at once I hear Will and Anthony shouting “NIMUE!!!"  I turn toward them when suddenly the sand explodes behind me, revealing a person who tries to lunge at me.

I manage to throw sand in their eyes, causing them to cry out in shock and anger. Grabbing the knife hidden within my tights, I slash their throat hard, severing the arteries neatly. Blood gushes out as their body falls backward onto the sand with a muffled thud.

I fall to my knees beside Winston, checking to see if he is all right. Thankfully, he is only unconscious from the effects of the tranquilizer dart. Feeling my inner Predator rising, I get to my feet and stalk toward the group of men attacking Will and Anthony, bloodied knife in hand.

—————————————–

Anthony Dimmond’s P.O.V:

I can’t remember what had happened next.

When I finally come around, my entire body aches as if I’ve been repeatedly kicked, punched and battered by the group of hired thugs who attacked us. An attempt to move my wrists reveals handcuffs locked around them. A chain is attached to one of them, and that chain in turn is attached to two handcuffs around my ankles. The entire arrangement leads to a large chain attached to a yacht’s hold wall. There is also a collar around my neck, connected to the same large chain.

Weakly, I manage to sit up and lean against some sacks for ballast, feeling every inch of my body screaming at me not to move. Yet I must move, for something is telling me that the Snake  is here. The hold door bolt is pulled back and the iron door slides open, as I warily turn my head to look at who is coming in. I am dismayed to discover that my instinct was correct.

Augustuv-Magnus Coquille, his rich dark blue shirt sleeves rolled up, wearing a black cravat with a fiery opal tie pin and white trousers, steps in and slides the door closed behind him. He walks over and picks up a plain wooden chair. Placing it down in front of me, he sits and crosses one leg over the other, clasping his hands together on top of his knee. He gazes down at me through his ever-present pince-nez. His smile is sardonic.

"You are probably wondering how I discovered where you were hiding, Anthony. Do you want me to tell you?” he smirks. I spit heavily in his face, seeing it land on his cheek to my great satisfaction. He brings a handkerchief out of his breast pocket and calmly wipes the spittle away. He gets up, tucking the handkerchief back in place.

Suddenly he grabs hold of me by the chains, a harsh metallic clinking sound echoing in the hold. He pulls my face close to his, and I stare into his cold, dark serpentine eyes. Without warning he punches straight into my stomach with a clenched fist, knocking the breath from my lungs. I hunch over his arm, feeling blood drip from my mouth and spatter onto the hold floor.

He moves his clenched fist away, grasping my chin and forcing it upward. I spit a mouthful of blood at his face and glare at him, watching his eyes narrow as he manages to jerk his head aside just in time to avoid it. Breathing heavily, I wait for the next blow. It comes hard, followed by many more. My vision nearly blacks out with each punch and kick he rains down upon my body.

—————————————–

Collapsing to the hold floor, I weakly cough blood onto the floor in spreading crimson petals, my body completely wrecked. Coquille looks down at me, breathing heavily, the skin of his fists and knuckles split, covered with my blood and his own. He wrenches my head up by my hair and I let out a pained, labored gasp.

“The Florence police and the FBI had the body buried in your grave exhumed! Did you know that?” he hisses, panting and breathless. “What a shocking surprise - it wasn’t you!” He shakes my head roughly, pulling on my hair and rattling the bones in my neck. “You…will never see Nimue ever again. Do you understand, Anthony? I….will not be so lenient the next time you try to get back the one you allegedly 'love’. Nimue belongs to me and only me,” he spits out. I glare balefully at him as I bare my teeth. If not for these chains, I would rip his throat out and sever his life.

“Nimue is not yours. They will never be yours, Coquille. Nimue will make sure you know it,” I snarl. I brace myself for the blow. His clenched, bloody fist punches me in the face, and blackness sweeps in to cover my vision.

———————————————————————

Hannibal’s P.O.V.

The sound of a tap running, followed by a slight hiss of pain coming from someone unknown, makes me flutter my eyes open to reveal a blurred vision of a sleeping cabin. I slowly sit up, wincing with the woozy pain of whatever had been used to knock me out during the attack of the hired thugs.

My vision begins to return to normal, and the pain eases slightly. I slip off the bed and walk unsteadily forward, still holding my head with both hands. Augustuv-Magnus comes out of the bathroom, wiping the blood - his or someone else’s? - from his knuckles with a cloth.

I lower my hands and approach him warily. I look straight down at his split, bloodied knuckles and feel the rage rising. So much rage. I roughly grab the collar of his unbuttoned shirt. He flicks his gaze down and back up to me, pretending to be affronted at my audacity in daring to touch him.

“What…have you done… with them!!!? " I roar, shaking him to emphasize my words.”TELL ME WHAT YOU’VE DONE WITH ANTHONY AND…“  I somehow manage to stop myself from saying Will’s name aloud, which he notices when I abruptly stop shouting and press my lips tightly together, not wishing to reveal my third lover’s name.

I turn swiftly and run for the door, but I do not get far. He grabs me around the waist and I thrash weakly in his grip, the tranquilizer still in my system.

Slumping in his arms, I cannot help but allow him to pull me away from the sleeping cabin door and over to the bed. He pushes me down and I turn my face to one side, staring blankly at the wallpaper adorned with faint patterns of Sweet Williams. He takes hold of my arm, injecting a sedative into the crook of my elbow. I am unable to silence a piteous whimper.

"Shhhh….it’s all right….this is only to help you relax, sweet Nimue, my darling,” Coquille croons. “And as for your third lover…Will Graham, or Pearl-Lace ,should I say? Well, Mr. Mason Verger is verypleased to have him back in his - care.”

“You…bastard!! …Neršia velnio!! ”

I hear myself beginning to speak in my native language as I attempt to sit up, only to feel the effects of the sedative kicking in fast. Swaying back and forth, I try to keep my eyes open, but the sedative is more powerful than my own body. I emit a soft, weak moan as I fall into his chest.

His hands take hold of me, pushing me back down onto the bed. Peering upward through a drugged haze, my swimming vision sees his face turn into that of a large snake’s - eyes glinting with evil malice. My eyes slide shut, allowing the blackness to descend.

I remember nothing thereafter.

Nothing at all.

Only my desperate, aching worry for my loves - Anthony and Will.

——————————————–

Will’s P.O.V.

Mason Verger - the vile, loathsome pig of a brother to sweet Margot Verger - is like a giddy schoolboy who just got their favourite treat as he flings me down onto the king-size bed. I land with a muffled thump, my hands cuffed before me, a leather choker with attached leash around my neck. The final insult? A clear plastic restraint mask covers my nose and mouth.

The same mask I had been forced to wear by Frederick Chilton during my imprisonment at the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. I had been convicted of the murder of Abigail Hobbs (who I discovered later was still very much alive) as well as three previously unsolved murders - those of Cassie Boyle, Marissa Schur and Nicholas Boyle. Hannibal had assisted me in proving my innocence and securing my release. All I will say about that is that it was very complicated.

“You know, my darling Pearl-Lace, sometimes you have to muzzle a bitch if they get out of hand. And you…have been such a bad bitch,” he hisses, yanking the leash to pull me up onto my knees. Snarling, I lunge my cuffed hands at his eyes, digging my nails down into them. Hard.

He curses in shock, horror and agony, wrenching free from me and covering his eyes with his hands. Crimson begins to trickle down his cheeks in thick rivulets. Turning my wrist just right and slipping one hand out of the handcuffs, I slide off the bed and saunter over to the squealing pig of a man who is writhing on the carpet

Grabbing the back of his head by his hair, I wrench it backward. Placing my lips against his ear and smirking a manic joker’s grin, I whisper the words into it in my Pearl-Lace voice.

“Then maybe, because…I’m such a bitch…..I should teach you what happens when….you muzzle the bitch, dear Mason.”

———————————————–

Anthony Dimmond’s P.O.V.

The tinkling sound of something landing on the hold floor has me weakly fluttering my eyes open. I have finally come around from being knocked out by Coquille. I can see a skeleton key lying just a few feet in front of me.

A key that most definitely is for the cuffs around my wrists and ankles, and the collar around my neck. I pray that this isn’t some kind of test by that horrid snake of a man to see if I would go looking for Nimue. I take a deep breath and, willing my heart to cease its frantic pounding, shift myself to reach for it.

My battered body screams in protest, but I grit my teeth and slowly reach for the key, straining and sweating with the pain. Somehow I manage to grasp it. Gripping it as tightly as I can, I drag it towards me and set about releasing myself from my prison of chains.

I will not be trapped this way, while Coquille has the person I love in his vile clutches.

I will not.

Notes:

Neršia velnio - Lithuanian for “spawn of the devil”

—————————————————————————–

[londranotizie24]

Talks on Giordano Bruno: conferenza sul filosofo italiano all'Iic

Talks on Giordano Bruno: conferenza sul filosofo italiano all'Iic Di Simone Platania Talks on Giordano Bruno, questo il nome della conferenza sul filosofo italiano presso l’Iic di Londra il 19 settembre. Talks on Giordano Bruno, una serata alla scoperta del filosofo italiano Organizzata dall’Istituto Italiano di Cultura a Londra e dalla Biblioteca Lorenzo Da Ponte, Talks on Giordano Bruno si propone come serata di discussione alla scoperta del filosofo italiano. La conferenza infatti tratta, discute e indaga la vita, le opere e la filosofia di Giordano Bruno. Particolare focus viene posto sulla sua importanza odierna, l’analisi della traduzione della “Cena de le ceneri” ( The ash wednesday supper) e il rapporto tra Bruno e Shakespeare. Partecipano all’evento numerosi ospiti, tra cui il dottor Lorenzo Mannelli, il professor Dilwyn Knox, il dottor Massimiliano Traversino Di Cristo. Presenti anche la dottoressa Elisabetta Tarantino e il professor Hilary Gatti. L’evento, che avrà luogo presso l’Iic a Belgrave Square il 19 settembre, è gratuito e aperto a tutti, previa prenotazione. Gli ospiti presenti alla conferenza Ecco i profili degli ospiti presenti alla conferenza Talks on Giordano Bruno e che portano i loro contributi alla discussione sul filosofo italiano: Hilary Gatti, la quale è stata Professore Associato di Letteratura Inglese nella Facoltà di Filosofia dell'Università degli Studi di Roma "La Sapienza" fino al 2007. La sua pubblicazione più recente è una nuova edizione e traduzione della Cena del Mercoledì delle Ceneri di Giordano Bruno (Toronto University Press per la Lorenzo da Ponte Library). Elisabetta Tarantino, ricercatrice onoraria presso la Facoltà di Lingue Medievali e Moderne dell'Università di Oxford. Ha contribuito al libro Giordano Bruno: Philosopher of the Renaissance (Routledge, 2002). Dilwyn Knox è professore emerito presso la School of European Languages, University College London. Attualmente sta lavorando ad un volume che delinea le caratteristiche essenziali della filosofia di Bruno. Massimiliano Traversino Di Cristo, Università di Trento, ha conseguito tre dottorati di ricerca, in Giurisprudenza, Teologia e Scienze umane, rispettivamente presso le Università di Londra (Birkbeck College), Ginevra e Trento. Attualmente coordina il 'Festival Bruniano', una serie di eventi culturali incentrati sul contributo di Bruno alle idee della prima modernità. Lorenzo Mannelli è un medico che ha conseguito la laurea in medicina presso l'Università di Firenze, Facoltà di Medicina e Chirurgia, ed esercita la professione da quasi 20 anni. È il fondatore e proprietario di LMVP Telemedicine (con sede nel Regno Unito) e il fondatore e proprietario di Diatheia telemedicine (con sede in Italia). Lorenzo Mannelli è anche Amministratore fiduciario della Biblioteca Lorenzo Da Ponte. ... @ItalyinLDN Continua a leggere su Read the full article

[paoloferrario]

TartaRugosa ha letto e scritto di: Giampaolo Nuvolati (2013), L’interpretazione dei luoghi, Firenze, University Press

TartaRugosa ha letto e scritto di: Giampaolo Nuvolati (2013), L’interpretazione dei luoghi, Firenze, University Press

[childoftheempire]

a sense of adventure 4/4 (DJxOC)

Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3

I take a peek in the main street. “It looks like they’ve abandoned,” I say victoriously. 

Now that the streets are clear and that the thrill of the chase has abandoned my veins, I am left wondering what to do next. It is clear to me that DJ wants us to leave on his Nubian ship. However, I am not sure about the decision to take. I have a reputation here and it would do it no good to slip unnoticed into the night, leaving behind  Mr Rosario’s corpse. But I can hardly come back, sweaty and wearing stolen shoes, claiming my innocence in the man’s unfortunate death. I consider going back to my flat in downtown Canto Bight and calling the pink office to announce my resignation, pick up a few belongings and take the next flight to Coruscant to my family. I could still sell the necklace there... But as the plan takes shape in my mind, I find myself not truly believing in it. 

“Right, I guess I should be going home,” I say, but my voice is weak to my ears. 

“You’re not going anywhere,” he says briskly. 

I scoff at this. “We’re not bound in any way. You can’t order me around.” 

He shrugs. “You’d be right if you were any girl, but you’re the Pearl. Can’t pass the occasion, it’s against my p-p-principles.” 

What? I thought he was only after my money. But there is now a definitive possessive edge to his gaze and I don’t like the way he is nonchalantly leaning against the stone wall. 

“So what if I’m the Pearl? What’s the difference?” 

“You’ve got something precious that a lot of people would kill for.” 

A tingling sensation settles in my navel. Without thinking, I unclasp the gems around my neck, and stammer “Well… uh, then take that, and leave me.” 

He pockets the necklace without looking away from my face. “I wasn’t talking about the diamonds.” 

I suddenly become very aware that I am alone in a poor lighted backstreet with an undoubtedly dangerous man I have only met less than a hour ago. I inadvertently stumble backward and he lunges to right me. His hands are hot against my bare shoulders. He nods, as if he were agreeing with something he earlier thought to himself.  

And I know I should be afraid. I know I should shout for help, though I know he has a gun in his coat and maybe many more weapons that I am not aware of. But I don’t cry out. I don’t lash out. There is something about his rugged appearance that beckons me to stay, the fleeting feeling that there is much more about him that I don’t know yet, and I cannot repress the growing, magnetic attraction he exerts upon me. 

“Come with me,” he says simply. This time, it is not an order. But I will follow him, as I have during this evening, without questioning his decisions, and surely he has to know it because his smile is too knowing to be entirely innocent. To hell with caution! I have spent a year easily resisting the longing looks of many men and women, all alike in their adoration of my body, and this time, all this man needs to do is to share a little adrenaline for me to fall prey to his actions. I am used to pretty faces asking me out but this man oozes both a sense of adventure and of danger, a lust for trouble that I have rarely, if ever, seen; and I cannot deny that the thrilling glimpse of life that he has shown me makes me want to beg for more. 

Coruscant has not seen me for a long while, it can wait a little more. 

“I can’t believe I am doing this,” I admit quietly. “I’ve never done anything like this before.” 

“You better get used to it, sweetheart,” he grins, dropping his arms. “Now come on.” 

The road to the space port is easy, our pace lighter as we leave the darker corners of the city to bigger avenues, and find ourselves navigating again the never-ending flow of those of who live during the night, whether by choice or by biological need. Now that the flamboyant necklace has left my throat, I am again a girl among a sea of others, my little black dress and high heels a common sight in the colourful, boisterous frenzy of the almost warm evening, and though DJ still has that palpable aura of danger around him, and the less drunken party-goers unconsciously avoid his immediate proximity, his presence does not feel incongruous in the crowd as he fits in the standardized role of the man who brings a pretty girl to his ship for the night. 

The streetlamps dot the way to the station, revealing sparse clusters of young night workers raucously attempting to drum up business before the oldest, dirtiest commercial spaceships. But we do not go in that direction, and instead turn left to the private hangars hiding out of sight the most luxurious cruisers when their owners are in town. 

I feel sorry for the sleeping security guard as we step over the low gate, and we continue our way without coming across anyone except a few late workers and pilots heading with hurry to the core of the city. 

After a series of twists and turns among the buildings, DJ stops in front of a golden gate, frowning. 

“Okay,” he says, his voice unsure, “I think it’s this one, but I’m really not sure.” “You don’t even know where you parked your ship?” I ask in disbelief. 

“It’s not exactly my ship,” he mutters. He ducks his head as I shoot him an angry glare. 

“What do you mean, it’s not yours?” I distinctly recall the conversation over the Nubian ship. 

“It’s gonna be mine a few seconds, just you wait,” he answers evasively. I shrug. I guess I will have to learn patience if I am going to travel with this man. 

He produces the white device and waves it uncertainly before the identification panel. The little thing is seriously beginning to intrigue me. 

“What is it?” 

“This is the secret of my success,” he announces casually as he swiftly puts in back in a hidden pocket. I elbow him in the ribs. “Don’t boast, or I’ll steal it from you next time it’s out in the open.” 

“What was that for?” he asks. 

“I still haven’t seen any success,” I retort playfully. 

At that very moment, the door slides open, revealing an old-fashion Nubian ship. The sleek, elegant design is unlike everything I am used to see. This is the stuff of legends, the kind of ship you only see in forbidden engineer books or on the darkest parts of the holo-net. Nowadays, ships are designed to be efficient, not beautiful. 

“And here’s my beauty,” DJ announces. “The canons on each side were added a few years ago. It used to be a transport ship, and I think every c-c-component inside have been upgraded too. She’s about sixty years old, you know.” 

DJ waves again his bypass device before the ship, which opens slowly. “Get in!”

The interior is very lavish. Whoever decorated it obviously felt some sort of nostalgia for the artistic period preceding the rise of the Empire. It feels like a Jedi master could burst out at every corner, brandishing his lightsaber like in the days of old. Or maybe the décor has never been redone, and everything is still as it was intended to be so many years ago. 

We advance to the flight deck. DJ unceremoniously sits down in one of the pilot seats while I take the other. 

“Well, I trust you to fly that thing, because I’m not really familiar with that type of starship,” I announce. “Don’t worry,” he grins as he takes control of the ship.  

“So, this isn’t your ship, right?” 

“Now she is, but she used to be Firenze’s. Man is so rich he doesn’t even think about locking her when he’s not using it. He thinks he’s above theft or something.”

“He doesn’t fly her himself, does he?” 

DJ laughs. “Kriff no! I’d be damned if he even knew how to manage a speeder.” 

The engines roar to life, and the rooftop opens. I hear DJ shouting to me “Buckle up, this is going to be rough!”

I only have the time to reach for the belt when DJ removes the brake and the ship takes off at an astouding speed. A minute later, we make the jump to hyperspace, leaving behind the decadent city and its corrupted inhabitants. 

DJ then turns to face me, a smug grin on his face that spends shivers down on my spine. 

“So, about that deal we made…” 

The tingling in my stomach returns. I raise an eyebrow. “I’m not being paid in stolen ships.” 

“Yeah, I figured that out. I take it you don’t want d-d-diamonds either.” 

“That’s right.” 

“You said you wanted credits, no?” 

I usually take credits. I believe that if someone wanted to really unite the galaxy, they would have to do it using credits, the only universal thing that everybody wants. They have a value everywhere, and the First Order struggles to control them. DJ produces a considerable amount of credit chips and hands them over to me. “How much do you take?” 

But I have a better idea. 

“You know,” I begin slowly, and I know there is a wicked smile dancing on my lips, “I’ve spent the past months satisfying halfsleeping old men and too quick younger ones.  It’s been a while since someone has properly pleased me…” 

“That’s your price? I make you come and then you’re mine?” He shakes his head. “Too easy.” 

“Oh, but I haven’t mentioned the duration. You only have the length of the trip, which is – I check the flight data screen – six minutes and thirty-four seconds.” I half expect him to strip me of my clothes immediately, but to my great astonishment, he pushes some buttons on the control panel and pulls another two levers. The ship suddenly jumps out of hyperspace, the white trails of stellar light turning into the black emptiness of outer space. DJ leans towards me and gives me a knowing smirk. “You have no idea how to fly that thing, have you.” I had not thought about that at all. 

Lust darkens his eyes and he playfully adds: “Little Pearl, what is it that makes you so famous?” 

And I know he reads on my flushed face and the way I press my thighs together, trying to contain the burning fire he instils in me, that I am not wholly opposed to his idea of spending the next few hours. 

Cheeky bastard.  

And that was the end! I hope you enjoyed my story, and thanks to everyone who liked it!

[storiedellarte]

NEL COMPLESSO monumentale del duomo di Siena, si definisce impropriamente “cripta” una serie di ambienti riscoperti a partire dal 1999, posti al di sotto del livello del coro e pertinenti alla cattedrale romanica che precedette quella attuale, dove si trovano delle pitture murali duecentesche in eccezionale stato di conservazione. Dal 23 marzo si trovano qui esposte, a cura del collaudato tandem formato da Alessandro Bagnoli e Roberto Bartalini, anche otto teste di marmo provenienti dalla facciata del battistero, restaurate da Giuseppe Donnaloia. Il catalogo, pubblicato dall’editore Sillabe di Livorno, contiene un saggio di Roberto Bartalini.

Il titolo Maestri “a rischio” è completato dal sottotitolo Il cantiere del duomo di Siena e le “teste grandi” per la facciata del battistero. Il visitatore potrebbe pensare che si parli di “rischio” riferendosi al degrado che minacciava la conservazione di queste opere. Anche se non è escluso che i curatori abbiano voluto giocare sull’equivoco per incuriosire il pubblico, il vero significato del termine viene subito svelato. L’impiego, da parte dell’Opera del duomo senese, di maestri addetti alla lavorazione della pietra era infatti regolato da differenti rapporti di lavoro: oltre ai “maestri a giornata”, che potevano contare su una certa continuità lavorativa, erano previsti – e spesso numericamente prevalenti – i “maestri a rischio” o “a misura”, la cui retribuzione era stabilita in base al lavoro prodotto. A questo proposito, è difficile non pensare all’attuale diffusione dei contratti di lavoro a tempo determinato.

Furono ingaggiati “a rischio”, tra il luglio e l’ottobre del 1356, cinque maestri, poi pagati per l’esecuzione di ventitré “teste grandi” con “archetti scorniciati con dentelli” : Niccolò di Cecco del Mercia (undici teste), Giovannino di Cecco (sette), Paolo di Matteo (una), Michele di Nello (due), Domenico di Vanni (due). Restano soltanto le otto che sono state ricoverate nella “cripta” e che erano collocate in precedenza nella parte superiore della sezione centrale del battistero, alle quali non si può oggi attribuire un particolare significato iconografico, mentre se ne percepiscono il valore decorativo e la caratterizzazione fisiognomica, talvolta molto pungente, come nel volto maschile della testa A, segnato da rughe di espressione (fig. 1).

Fig. 1 – Lapicida senese del 1356, Testa virile (A), Siena, Museo dell’Opera.

A Siena il battistero non è, come altrove, una costruzione autonoma a pianta centrale, ma un corpo di fabbrica rettangolare prospiciente la piana di Vallepiatta, a una quota inferiore rispetto alla piazza del duomo, sopra il quale avrebbe dovuto svilupparsi il prolungamento di due campate del coro della cattedrale, previsto a partire dal secondo decennio del Trecento, nel periodo di grande espansione economica e demografica della città sotto il governo dei Nove, che sfociò circa vent’anni dopo nella decisione di costruire una nuova cattedrale che avesse per transetto l’attuale duomo. L’ambizioso progetto non giunse in porto, ma gli studi storici e documentari più accurati[1. si veda in particolare A. Giorgi, S. Moscadelli, Costruire una cattedrale. L’Opera di Santa Maria di Siena tra XII e XIV secolo, München, Deutscher Kunstverlag 2005] hanno chiarito che l’interruzione dei lavori non coincise con la peste del 1348: nella tragica epidemia morì molto probabilmente, con altri artisti come i fratelli Pietro e Ambrogio Lorenzetti e circa metà della popolazione cittadina, il capomaestro del duomo, Giovanni d’Agostino, ma la direzione passò al fratello Domenico, che seguì i lavori del duomo fino al 1358 e ne riprese la direzione nel 1362. L’abbandono dei lavori per il “duomo nuovo” avvenne nel giugno 1357, poco dopo l’insediamento del governo dei Dodici, per motivi essenzialmente strutturali (lesioni e crolli); dopo questo momento l’impegno si concentrò sul lato del battistero.

La peste era individuata come fattore determinante della crisi di metà secolo e spartiacque definitivo nella storia dell’arte del Trecento da studiosi come Millard Meiss[2. Painting in Florence and Siena after the Black Death: The Arts, Religion and Society in the Mid-fourteenth Century, Princeton, Princeton University Press 1951, trad. it. Pittura a Firenze e a Siena dopo la Morte Nera. Arte, religione e società alla metà del Trecento, Torino, Einaudi 1982] e Frederick Antal[3. Florentine Painting and its Social Background. The Bourgeois Republic before Cosimo de’ Medici’s Advent to Power: XIV and early XV Centuries, London, Kegan Paul 1948; trad.it. La pittura fiorentina e il suo ambiente sociale nel Trecento e nel primo Quattrocento, Torino, Einaudi 1960] ma il loro assunto è stato spesso confutato in seguito.[4. Si veda in particolare Luciano Bellosi, Buffalmacco e il Trionfo della Morte, Torino, Einaudi 1974] Anche il proseguimento dei lavori al duomo di Siena e l’attività dei cinque “maestri a rischio” contribuiscono a rendere meno netta la cesura.

Fig. 2 – Lapicida senese del 1356, Testa femminile (G), Siena, Museo dell’Opera.

Le otto teste, ancora collocate sulla facciata del battistero, erano state oggetto dell’attenzione di Bartalini in un suo studio di alcuni anni fa, nel quale ricostruiva la personalità di Domenico d’Agostino, scultore meno noto del padre Agostino di Giovanni e del fratello Giovanni d’Agostino. Il riferimento a “lapicida senese, su modello di Domenico d’Agostino” era allora accompagnato da un punto interrogativo.[5. Domenico d’Agostino, in Scultura gotica senese (1260-1350), a cura di Roberto Bartalini, Torino, Allemandi 2011, pp. 369-382] Nell’attuale catalogo lo studioso è in grado di proporre un’attribuzione per due delle otto teste. Quella indicata dalla lettera G, che raffigura una donna velata (fig. 2), è infatti paragonabile alla Madonna col Bambino di Giovanni di Cecco inserita nell’altare Piccolomini del duomo, databile al 1371.[6. La ricostruzione di Giovanni o Giovannino di Cecco è un risultato di Alessandro Bagnoli, La ‘Madonna Piccolomini’ e Giovanni di Cecco, in Scritti in ricordo di Giovanni Previtali, I (“Prospettiva”, nn. 53-56), 1988-1989, pp. 177-183] Per un’altra testa femminile, quella denominata H, Bartalini fa invece il nome di Niccolò di Cecco del Mercia, la cui opera più nota è il pergamo interno del duomo di Prato, al quale riferisce anche una testa nello sguancio di una finestra del cleristorio orientale della cattedrale senese.

La presentazione dei frammenti scultorei, corredati da dettagliati pannelli illustrativi, ha l’aspetto di una mostra, ma la mancata indicazione di una data di chiusura e la sostituzione in loco degli originali con i relativi calchi autorizzano a immaginare un’operazione museografica di più vasto respiro, con apprezzabili finalità di tutela.

Fig. 3 – Lapicida senese del 1356, Testa maschile (D), Siena, Museo dell’Opera.

Fig. 4 – Lapicida senese del 1356, Testa maschile (E), Siena, Museo dell’Opera.

Scultura a Siena dopo la peste nera: “maestri a rischio”, di G. Ragionieri NEL COMPLESSO monumentale del duomo di Siena, si definisce impropriamente “cripta” una serie di ambienti riscoperti a partire dal 1999, posti al di sotto del livello del coro e pertinenti alla cattedrale romanica che precedette quella attuale, dove si trovano delle pitture murali duecentesche in eccezionale stato di conservazione.

[italianartsociety]

By Jennifer D. Webb

On November 4, 1966, after receiving 25% of the region’s annual rainfall in just 24 hours, the Arno flooded the city of Florence. By 9am the Santa Croce and Gavinana neighborhoods were submerged; just an hour later, flood waters reached the Piazza del Duomo. The water, carrying with it sludge, fuel oil, and debris, flowed through the city at a rate of 45 miles per hour. Estimates suggest that more than 66,000 gallons of water reached the city before the inundation began to recede at 6pm that evening.

70,000 homes and 6,000 commercial properties were destroyed but it was the damage to the city’s art that drew people from around the world. 850 works of art including 221 panel painting, 413 works on canvas, 11 fresco cycles and 39 individuals frescoes, as well as 22 wooden sculptures, and 23 illuminated manuscripts were damaged. In addition, the Science museum and the collection of musical instruments in the Museo Bardini were completely destroyed. 1,300,000 items in the BIblioteca Nazionale and 14,000 volumes in the Synagogue were affected. (Sandro Pintus in Spande, 14)

In the immediate aftermath of the Flood, Franco Zeffirelli made a film, featuring Richard Burton, that publicized the disaster and raised much needed funds to support rebuilding and conservation efforts.

In 2006, a number of the individuals who traveled to Florence or were living in the city at the time of the Flood and during its aftermath were interviewed by students at the Winterthur/University of Delaware. One interviewee noted that the disaster brought conservators from around the world to Florence and this resulted in an exchange of approaches and practices that benefited the discipline. Sandro Pintus said:  “working side by side with the army and emergency services, who laboured for months digging out the mud in terrible conditions, they managed to save thousands of works. This was a real global village in operation, the first real case of globalisation.” (13)

Ahead of the 50th anniversary of the Flood in 2016, Kim Jacobs filmed a documentary for PBS, “When the World Answered,” that looked both at the response to the inundation and at the 21st-century project to recognize the often-overlooked contributions made by women artists (known as the “Flood Ladies”) in the conservation efforts.

References: Spande, Helen, Ed. Conservation Legacies of the Florence Flood of 1966: Proceedings of the Symposium Commemorating the 40th Anniversary (2009); Pianigiani, Gaia. “50 Years After a Devastating Flood.” NY Times (Nov 7, 2016).

Ricci. Mood in Carmine square after the flood in Florence 1966. Photo Credit: Wikipedia Commons.

Sailko. Alluvione di firenze, flooding plates in Piazza Santa Croce (1557 and 1966), Florence, Italy. Photo credit: Wikipedia Commons.

Elisa Marianini. Foresto Marianini bottega alluvionata nel 1966 in via dei Canacci a Firenze. Photo credit: Wikipedia Commons.

Further reading: Linda Falcone & Jane Fortune. When the World Answered. Florence, Women Artists and the 1966 Flood. Florence: The Florentine Press, 2014; Marth O’Hara Conway & Paul Conway. Flood in Florence, 1966: A Fifty Year Retrospective. Ann Arbor: Michigan Publishing Services, 2018.

[padfootagain]

Sunlight And Flashes

Part 1 : Surprises

This was requested a few days ago : 'I was wondering if you could do one where Ben and reader went on vacation together in Italy or France or somewhere romantic like that? Perhaps where they at some point are spotted by paparazzi's. I wouldn't mind it being a little series, but whatever you have time for is completely fine!'

So here we go! I hope you like it, dear anon. I can turn this into a series but a short one (probably two parts, that's all), not because I don't have time to write (I'm not back at University yet, so it's fine) but because it is what my ideas will probably require. And if I often get carried away, I'm not the kind of writer who just writes over nothing, and I like getting to the point, so it should be quite short.

Hope you don't mind and that you will not be disappointed, dear anon. Thank you so much for your request.

The first part is mainly fluff and romantic things and troubles are coming in the second part. Because you asked that they would go somewhere romantic, so I had to write cute things. You'll be warned, lots of fluff here ;)

Pairing: Ben Barnes x Reader

Word Count: 3025

When you entered your flat and smelled the scent of pastas, you knew Ben had prepared something special for tonight. You breathed deeply the scent of tomato and basil, throwing your bag away.

You were on holiday, and it felt like heaven.

Ben had insisted on you taking two weeks of holiday before he would have to fly to Toronto where he would be filming for several months. And as your anniversary was right in the middle of these two weeks, you couldn't refuse. You smiled at the thought that it had been almost two years now since this night when he had finally stopped acting like you were just friends and had finally told you he loved you. You had been through so many things together in just two years...

Anyway, you were on holiday. And so now you were ready to sleep non-stop for two weeks... or well, enjoy sleeping whenever Ben would let you rest...

You walked into the living room, humming to the jazzy music Ben had turned on. You grinned at the sight of candles set all over the room. You walked to your side of the table, and you picked up the bouquet of roses that rested before your plate. You lifted the red flowers up to you face, breathing deeply their scent.

You felt a pair of strong arms wrap around your waist, and you grinned as Ben was dropping a sweet kiss on your neck.

"Hey, love," he breathed against your skin. "Surprise!"

"Thank you."

You turned around, flinging your arms around his neck and kissing his lips, making him chuckle.

"Sit down, the pastas are almost ready," he said.

"You cooked pastas?" you asked, brushing your nose against his.

"Hmmm," he nodded.

"I love your pastas," you smiled.

"I know you do. Come on sit down, I'll be right back."

You smiled, and sat down as instructed.

"Thank you for the flowers," you said, turning on your chair to look at him as he cooked.

He merely smiled in response.

"How was your day?" he asked, before plunging a spoon into the food he was preparing, tasting the sauce.

He frowned slightly, and added more pepper.

"We don't talk about work for the next couple of weeks!" you decided. "It's holidays."

He smiled, nodding, and soon he was by your side, taking away the flowers and bringing a bottle of wine.

"Prepare the wine, would you," he said, walking back to the kitchen.

"Don't tell me you're planning on getting drunk," you teased him as you opened the bottle and poured you and Ben some red wine.

When he came back from the kitchen with the pastas and he filled up your plate with his marvelous food, you immediately picked up your fork and ate a mouthful.

You couldn't refrain a moan.

"I love you, Ben," you breathed, swallowing the pastas.

He merely laughed, sitting across from you.

"So the mystery is finally solved. All I have to do to please you is cook pastas more often."

You nodded, eating again, and Ben laughed, starting to eat as well.

But you could see that there was something that he was holding back. Something he wasn't telling you. So you reached for his hand across the table.

"Sweetheart?" you said softly. "Is everything okay?"

"Of course," he smiled.

"You seem... like you want to talk to me about something but you don't dare to."

"Actually you're right," he nodded, putting down his fork.

He stroked softly the back of your hand with his thumb, and you felt shivers run up your spine.

"In just one week it's our second anniversary," he said softly.

You nodded.

"Two years that we are together," you said, a dreamy smile on your face.

He nodded as well.

"So... I've prepared a little something. Actually a huge something."

"Really?" you asked, your smile widening.

But as he opened his mouth to speak again, your phone rang.

"No battery, sorry," you winced sheepishly, before rising from your seat and heading for the bedroom.

And as Ben finally realized that you were heading there, he hurried towards you.

"No!"

But he was too late. You had already opened the door...

To discover bags and suitcases, all packed up...

"Ben?" you asked, and your voice was shaking as you recognised his suitcase, and his bag. "What's going on?"

He took your face in his hands.

"That was the surprise, but it looks like you've discovered it too soon."

"What...?"

But suddenly you spotted your suitcase as well.

You looked up at him, a smile slowly curling up your lips.

"Are we going somewhere?" you asked softly.

He nodded.

"We are," he grinned.

"Where are we going?"

He took an envelope out of his pocket, and handed it to you.

"Happy Anniversary... a bit in advance, but I'm pretty sure you'll forgive me."

You opened your gift, and your eyes widened as you read the destination written on the plane tickets.

"We... we're going to Roma?" you breathed, grinning, looking up at him again.

He nodded.

"Actually, we're going to Roma for six days," he said, picking up a little map of the country where you would spend your next two weeks. "Then we're heading for Firenze for three days. And then two days in Napoli and finally, two more in Venice."

You grinned, feeling tears blurring your vision.

You had always dreamt to travel to these cities...

"So?" he asked with a proud smirk. "What do you think? Good surprise?"

"You're crazy," you answered, laughing.

You wrapped your arms around him, pressing your face against his shoulder.

"Thank you," you whispered. "I love you, Ben. I love you so much."

He smiled, kissing the top of your head.

"I love you too, Y/N."

You looked at the suitcases again, still safely trapped into Ben's arms.

And you felt so lucky to have him by your side...

Ben was very good at many things. He was very talented in his work, he cooked very well, he could sing like sin... And he was an absolute angel to you, always kind, always caring, always loving. He was a real teddy bear, and you loved him with all your heart.

But give him a map and you could be sure that he would get you lost.

And of course you knew it. After two years of relationship you knew he struggled to find his way through a map, especially when it was in a city.

But he had seemed so enthusiastic when you had walked out of the Colosseum... he was like a little child. Excited, happy, a grin crossing his face. So you hadn't protested when he had picked up the map of Roma, trying to find his way through the city.  

But you were back before the Colosseum for the third time and you were starting to get annoyed.

"Love, I can find my way around..." he protested when you tore the map from his hands.

"No, sweetheart, you can't," you replied.

He pouted, making you smile, and you dropped a sweet kiss on his lips.

"But I love you anyway," you reassured him.

"I hope so!"

"So... we went to the Roman Forum."

"Yep."

"And the Colosseum, obviously," you added, pointing at the monument next to you." And we have seen the Arch of Constantine... three times thanks to you and your sense of directions."

He playfully stuck his tongue out, a smile on his face.

"And where do you want to go now?" you asked him.

"I reckon we should try to walk up to the Capitoline Hill and continue to the Piazza de... something."

"Piazza de Campidoglio," you said, chuckling, pointing at the map to show him the name.

"Yeah... that's it."

"Then we need to go back towards the Roman Forum."

"Which is in...?"

"This direction," you answered, laughing, pointing towards the main street.

"Right."

You exchanged a smile, and he wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you closer to him, dropping a peck upon your head.

"So... what do you think of these holidays so far?" he asked, a smirk on his face.

Because after all he knew you were enjoying yourself a big time.

"Not bad," you teased him.

"'Not bad'? All this work for a 'not bad'?" he asked faking shock.

You laughed.

"Okay... I have to admit that this trip is awesome," you admitted, and his face lightened up with one of his shining grins that made your heart skip a beat every time.

He chuckled, kissing your forehead.

"Is that enough to make you sign up for two more years?" he asked.

"Sign up for two more years with you as my boyfriend you mean?" you teased him. "I don't know. It means a lot... I think you'll have some more convincing to do. After all, it's only our fourth day here."

"Yes... but in four days we've visited most of Roma, and I know it was one of your big dreams."

You nodded slowly.

"And we have eaten the best pastas and pizzas in the world. Far more better than mine, by the way," Ben went on, counting on his fingers. "And I'm a bit upset with that because maybe now you'll stop loving my pastas."

You laughed.

"I'll always love your pastas, sweetheart," you replied, kissing his neck.

"And I reckon we did lots of romantic things at night and in the morning and..."

You covered his mouth, laughing.

"No need to remind me of this kind of activities," you laughed.

"So... I have to admit that it makes lots of good reasons to sign up for two more years with me, don't you think?"

You rested your head against his shoulder.

"What if I want more than two years?" you said softly.

He stopped walking, looking down at you, a grin on his face.

"I guess we could make another contract, without limited duration," he proposed.

"That would be much better," you nodded.

"I agree," he smiled, before leaning down to drop a loving kiss on your lips that let you both breathless...

The day was warm and the sun was shining bright above you. So Ben bought you both ice creams, and you resumed your walk towards the Capitoline Hill. You walked the flat stairs that led to the main square and you took lots of pictures of Ben doing silly faces as you both marveled at the old buildings and the patterns on the ground.

"It says here that it was designed by Michelangelo," Ben said, reading his guide of Roma.

"It's beautiful," you nodded.

He took your hand in his, and he pulled you closer to him.

"Not as much as you," he smiled, before pressing his ice cream against your nose, making you shriek in surprise.

He laughed while you cleaned up your face.

"You'll pay for that, you know you will," you laughed.

"I'm ready to face your wrath, it was worth it," he replied, laughing as well.

"I'll save my vengeance for later. A moment when you don't expect it."

He merely gave you a peck on the lips in response.

"So..." Ben said, taking a look at his watch. "We've been much faster than I thought we would be, it's only 3 pm. We still have time to go somewhere else. Where do you want to go?"

"We should try to walk back to the Pantheon," you said, looking at the map. "And then we can even maybe go back to the Trevi Fountain."

He nodded.

"Sounds good to me."

And so you walked through the streets of Roma again, holding hands, and laughing at his silly jokes, and not getting lost as this time you insisted on taking care of the map.

You had already been to the Pantheon the day before, but you loved it so much... You insisted on entering inside the building again. As you walked under the ancient roof to enter the church, it felt almost like it would fall upon your head. You touched the old columns partially consumed by time, before finally entering the building itself. And of course it was full of people, but you didn't care. You merely marveled at the round ceiling, and the many sculpted columns. You longed to trail your fingers upon the stone of the walls and pillars, that was of a strange shade, somewhere between orange and pink and you wondered with which material they were made of. But you couldn't touch them, so you merely stared at them for a while. You looked at your feet as you crossed the room, walking upon the marble floor.

And all the while, Ben was holding your hand, a dreamy smile on his face. But you knew his smile was for you, not for the ancient stones...

Eventually, you accepted to walk back to the fountain, and saying that there was a crowd there would be a euphemism. But you didn't mind. For all the years you had imagined walking there, you had never thought it could be that large. It was gigantic. It was absolutely beautiful, and beyond all your expectations. And even if you had seen it the day before, you still marveled before the richly carved white statues. It was a whole wall decorated with incredible symbols.

And again, you were left speechless.

You let Ben guide you closer to the fountain, and you managed to get just on the edge of the fountain, which you hadn't been able to do the previous day.

"We couldn't leave Roma without doing this," Ben smiled, giving you a coin.

He turned his back to the fountain, and you imitated him.

"Make a wish," you smiled.

He kissed your cheek.

"You already know my wish," he answered, a dreamy smile on his face.

"I think we have the same then," you smiled.

You both closed your eyes, and threw the coin over your shoulder and into the clear water, laughing.

You seized the occasion of being closer to take a better look at the statues. You nodded towards the statues of horses at the center, noticing what looked like wings... or fins...

"Do you think they're supposed to be horses?" you asked Ben.

"No, I think they are seahorses," he said, searching in his guide of Roma.

"Can you read what's written up there?" you asked, pointing at the writing under the papal coats of arms.

He looked up, narrowing his eyes.

"It's latin I think," he said. "I have no idea what it means."

"'Anno Domini MDCCXXXV', that's the date of the creation of the fountain, right?" you asked.

"I have no idea," Ben shrugged.

"You should..."

He looked intensely at you.

"Because I may let you decide where to go next if you find out what it means."

"You want to challenge me?" he asked, a mischievous smile on his face.

You nodded, and Ben picked up his phone.

"Okay so..." he said. "'M' means 1000, 'D' means 500, 'C' means 100, 'X' is for 10, 'V' stands for 5 and finally 'I' for 1. And apparently there are some more complicated rules, but we'll just go with that."

"So it means 1735," you said.

"Most definitely a date."

You smiled, giving him the map.

"So what now?"

He grinned, taking the map and searching for a new destination.

But he felt a strange sensation as if... as if someone was looking at him. As if someone was staring.

He hoped no one had recognized him. Not that he didn't like talking with his fans, but he had hoped to spend two weeks with you, just you.

He searched throughout the crowd for the person who was staring at him.

And he froze as he spotted the right man.

Because he wasn't just staring at him, he was taking pictures, with a very expensive camera, clearly.

Ben clenched his jaw. He hadn't planned on having to deal with a paparazzi.

"You know what... I'm a bit tired, why don't we go back to the hotel?" he proposed, looking down at you again.

"Oh... okay," you nodded.

But he could see how disappointed you were.

"We can walk to the Piazza Navona if you want," he said, and your face immediately brightened. "And then we go back to the hotel. Would that be alright?"

You nodded enthusiastically, and you both walked away from the fountain, taking a narrow street nearby.

You were surprised by how fast he was walking...

"Ben? Why are you hurrying so much?" you called, and you took his hand to force him to slow down.

"Nothing," he replied.

But you knew he was lying.

"Love..." you replied, your voice full of warnings.

"I'll tell you later, let's go now," he answered elusively.

You followed him through the street, before taking the lead, making sure not to get lost. You finally reached the piazza, and you walked closer to the Egyptian obelisk. You sat down on a bench nearby and looked at the white church right behind the obelisk, your eyes lingering upon the dark lines that surrounded the higher pillars. You took Ben's hand again.

He was looking over his shoulder, as if he was afraid to be followed.

"What's wrong?" you asked.

He heaved a relieved sigh.

"I thought I saw a paparazzi at the fountain, but he didn't follow us. Must be my imagination playing tricks on me..."

He immediately relaxed, and looked around the piazza, watching the orange and yellow and white old buildings.

"It feels like being in an old movie," he said, smiling. "It's hard to think it's all real."

You nodded, resting your head on his shoulder.

"Maybe we should come and live here," you said.

He laughed.

"A constant roman holiday?" he asked.

"Why not? You could get better at cooking pastas."

He rolled his eyes.

"Here, I've lost my major argument to conquer your heart," he joked.

You kissed his shoulder through the fabric of his black T-shirt.

"You don't need to conquer it anymore," you whispered.

And as he tightened his hold on your hand, you knew he was grinning.

[desm11amycarman]

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