#mm: venice

[macbooth]

I miss talking to straight men who know things about Shakespeare. just cause I think it’s healthy for me to hear someone say that they don’t get how I could see one of the faggiest characters ever written as gay. shout out to orlando asyoulikeit, cassius juliuscaesar, aufidius coriolanus, hamlet hamlet, and every antonio to exist. I’m sorry straight men think y’all are one of them

[lesbians4armand]

motifs that keep appearing in my writing, for one reason or another:

sunlight, honey, perfume, sunsets or sunrises, lily-of-the-valley, Venice, peacock feathers, BDSM, death, dreams, eyes, blood, water.

[nothwell]

FIORENZO is a queer fantasy-of-manners romance featuring hurt/comfort, swordplay, and a happily-ever-after. And it’s finally out in paperback! Shown here with some of the books that inspired it.

The World of the Castrati by Patrick Barbier Not just a thorough examination of individual castrati lives but also the operatic world that created them. Highly recommended, even (or especially) if you know nothing of opera.

Nicoletto Giganti’s The School of the Sword A swordfighting guide by a fencing master of Renaissance Venice. This book, combined with As You Wish (see below) and Vico Ortiz’s Fencing 101 class proved absolutely essential to making the fight scenes in Fiorenzo possible.

M: The Man Who Became Caravaggio by Peter Robb Come for the art history lesson about a queer Renaissance painter, stay for the tennis court castration duel.

Art and Life in Renaissance Venice and Private Lives in Renaissance Venice by Patricia Fortini Brown While the general history of Venice was necessary (see below), the more specific focus of Brown’s books provided absolutely invaluable insight into the the day-to-day habits of Venice’s historical citizens.

John Singer Sargent: Venetian Figures and Landscapes, 1898-1913 Sargent’s mind-blowing skill with oil portraits is well known, but his watercolour sketches of cityscapes and Venice architecture are truly astounding in their mastery of light and form. Seeing the city through his eyes over a hundred years ago was wildly inspiring.

Sargent, Whistler & Venetian Glass This was an incredible traveling exhibit of Venetian glassware, lace, and other amazing examples of skilled craft alongside paintings by American artists who drew inspiration from Venice in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. I had the good fortune to catch it as it came through Mystic Seaport in Connecticut. It also included an actual Venetian gondola (dry-docked, no felze) which gave me an invaluable sense of just how absolutely huge those things are.

As You Wish: Inconceivable Tales from the Making of The Princess Bride by Cary Elwes and Joe Layden Invaluable insight into the training, choreography, and filming process for one of the greatest swordfighting scenes in cinematic history.

The Princess Bride by William Goldman It’s a swordfighting romance. Enough said.

Swordspoint by Ellen Kushner It’s a queer swordfighting romance. Enough said. (Although I have said far more.)

Ruskin’s Venice: The Stones Revisited by Sarah Quill Venice through the eyes of a Victorian.

Venice: A New History by Thomas F. Madden A general history of Venice was essential in creating Halcyon.

~

FIORENZO is a queer fantasy-of-manners romance featuring hurt/comfort, swordplay, and a happily-ever-after. Available now wherever fine books are found!

Amazon • Apple Books • Barnes & Noble • Bookshop.org • Kobo • Smashwords

[randomphotos01km]

Venice Beach Day with Fuji xt4 35mm

[bitchyycapricorn]

Draw Me Like One of Your Italian Girls

Peter Parker x Artist!Reader

Masterlist

Wordcount: 2k

Synopsis: During a school trip to Venice Italy, Peter finds himself in his classmates room.

Warnings:Smut!, unprotected sex, consumption of alcohol (reader and Peter are 18+ legal age), intoxicated sex, nude artwork, could be considered dubcon

AN: not edited. This has been in my drafts for over a month.

Your eyes flicker from the reference on your laptop, then back down to your paper. Your pencil sketches smooth charcoal lines across the off white paper. Furrowing your brows, you shift the image slightly to get a better look at the image displayed on your screen. 

“Hey Y/N, what are you up to?” Peter asks, popping his head into your room. 

Stopping your movement, your eyes drift up to where he’s leaning against the doorway. “Drawing,” you reply with a small smile before going back to your sketch. 

Peter shifts awkwardly at the door, “Like a picture?” The words come out before he can fully think about what he was saying. And as soon as they came out, he wanted to drown himself in the canal. 

Another smile appears across your face, this time it stays for a moment. “No, I’m drawing up a plan to murder the rest of the class before fleeing the city to live as a fugitive in Rome.”

He gives a small laugh before nodding. “O-oh yeah, that makes sense.” 

You catch the nervous twitch in his voice, the way his body appears to be more tense than usual. “You can come in and shut the door.” You say after a moment of silence. 

He nods quickly, stepping into your hotel room before closing the door. “So uh, where’s your roommate?” Peter asks after fully shuffling into your room. 

“Brads room.” You shrug. 

Another “oh,” escapes his lips knowing that your roommate wouldn’t be back anytime soon. You give a small nod before patting the spot next to you on the bed. “So um, what are you drawing?” Peter asks finally. 

A blush spreads across your cheeks as you tilt the picture for him to see. His eyes scan the drawing and he immediately recognizes him and Ned near the docks. 

“You were actually in the way when I was taking my picture, but I decided you both were cute enough to make the cut.” You tease. 

Peter could feel his face starting to flush again, “cute enough?” He laughs. 

Giving a simple nod, you continue your work. “So what brings you to my room Parker?”

Peter debates whether he wants to be honest or not. On one hand, he could say he had a question about tomorrows tour. On the other, he could ask you to go on a walk with him along the canals. Mainly so that he can confess his feelings for you, which he’s been bottling up since as long as he can remember. “Would you like to walk with me?” He asks quickly, deciding it was worth a shot. 

“Mm, but that would mean I’d have to step out of my artistic zone.” You hum, finishing the last of the sketch and setting it on your nightstand. 

“Y-yeah of course, I’ll just-“ Peter replies as he moves towards the door, assuming you were politely turning down his advances. 

Panic quickly floods your brain as you watch him begin to leave. “Wait!” 

Peter pauses, turning to face you. “Yeah?”

“Stay, let me draw you.” The words tumble from your mouth in a hurry, as you pray the brunette boy won’t exit your room, at least not yet. 

Peter’s body seems to stiffen even more before slowly relaxing ad he looks around the room for a moment. “You want to draw me?” 

A hum leaves your lips as you gaze hopefully at Peter. “I enjoyed drawing you in this one,” you nod to the picture on your nightstand, “you have a nice figure.”

Another blush spreads across Peters face as he takes a seat on the small bench in your room. 

“Is this good?” He asks, trying to sit up straight for you. 

“Yes, just stay still…”

+++

You had been drawing and posing Peter for the last four hours. Somewhere around 11 you had both found the ‘complimentary’ drink assortment stored away in the little cabinet. 

You weren’t really sure which glass of wine/alcohol you and Peter were on now, just that you were stumbling slightly and giggling like crazy. 

Peter’s shirt had been discarded to the floor some time ago and you were still busy ogling over his toned chest. His defined muscles and hard abs that were otherwise hidden by his clothes made the butterflies in your stomach twist and turn. 

“Take your pants off now,” you slur, running your hands down Peters chest as you both stumble around the room. 

“My pants?” Peter quips, equally as drunk. 

“Mhm, I wanna draw you neeked,” a giggle escapes your lips as your fingers fumble around with the zipper of Peter’s jeans. 

It takes a moment for Peter to understand exactly what you want, but once it hits his jeans and boxers are discarded on the floor in a small pile. “Like this?” He coos, throwing his arms in the air to show off his now very naked figure. 

You clap your hands together and squeal, “Good good, now pose for me.” Peter stands there with his hands on his hips, puffing out his chest. Your eyes scan his body up and down, taking in the sight of not only his hard chest, but his hard dick as well. “God you’re built like a Greek god,” you breathe, quickly beginning to sketch. 

Peter hums before giving you a smirk. “Or Roman god since we’re in Venice.” 

“Modeled after the Greek gods sweetheart,” you snicker, making the outline of his abs with your pencil. 

“Are you as turned on as I am right now?” He asks after a few minutes. 

“Yes.” You say without hesitation, moving your pencil downwards to sketch his throbbing cock. “After I finish this I’ll suck your dick.” You giggle again.  

“Oh god,” Peter moans, feeling his cock twitch at the thought. “Are you done yet?”

“No silly. I’m still drawing your penis.” Another snicker leaves your lips as you delicately sketch out Peter’s lower regions. 

Peter lets out a groan, shaking his hips slightly. “Look it moves!” 

You look up to see Peter swishing his dick back and forth causing you to let out a loud shriek. “You have to stay still so I can finish!” A wheezey laugh leaves your chest as you move down to draw his legs. “I’m almost done I promise,” you grin. 

“Well hurry,” Peter whines, staying as still as his drunk little body could. 

“Shhh you can’t rush perfection.” You hush, moving as quickly as you could through your sketch. It took a few more minutes before you turned the drawing around to show Peter. “Look. You’re like the statue David.” You beam proudly. 

He gives you a lopsided grin before quickly scampering over to your bed. “Take your cloths off too and I’ll draw you!” He ushers as you add the sketch to the many others from that night. 

“Okay okay,” quickly getting up you strip completely, kicking your cloths off to the pile of Peter’s clothes. A low hum escapes his lips as he takes your sketch pad and pencil. 

“Pose!” He grins, watching you get into the same pose as him. You place your hands on your hips and stick your chest out proudly.

“Boobs…” Peter mumbles, sketching out a big circle for your head, followed by a stick body, stick legs, and stick arms. He then adds your hair, eyes, and a smile. Looking at the photo for a minute he realizes what he’s missing. “Boobs,” he says again as he draws two boobs onto your stick body. “Perfect!” He cries as he turns it around to show you. 

“Oh! Oh! You’re an artist! A sexy sexy artist,” you cry, wobbling over to Peter so you can throw yourself into his arms. Your legs straddle his hips, hands going into his soft curly hair. His lips press sloppily to yours as he tosses the notebook to the ground. His hands move up to your hips, squeezing the plush skin. 

“Fuck you’re so hot.” He moans against your lips. “The reason I asked you to walk with me earlier was because I wanted to tell you how I feel. I wanted to kiss you in front of the bridge.” His lips press against yours again before continuing. “But this is so much better.” 

“Is it because we’re naked?” You moan, grinding your hips into his. You’re slick gliding over his hard cock as you rock your hips. 

“Fuck, yes.” He groans, eager to be in you.

You let your another moan as you continue to move your hips against his. “Can I put it in me?” You beg, as if you could read Peter’s mind.

He nods as he kisses you again “please,” he groans as he helps lift your hips up. You quickly reach between the two of you so you could line him up at your entrance. Peter helps you ease down onto his throbbing cock. His tip barley enters you before his hips involuntarily buck upwards. You let out a small cry as he bottoms out into your sensitive cunt, eyes fluttering shut as his hips drop back down onto the bed. 

Another gasp leaves your lips as Peter begins to bounce you up and down his shaft. “Fuck you feel so good Y/N,” he growls in your ear. His fingers digging into your skin as he helps guide your sloppy, drunken movements as you grind on his dick. 

He’s so deep in you that you can practically feel him bulging in your stomach. “Peter fuck, you’re filling me so well,” you gasp as his hips thrust up into yours now. A feeling in your stomach begins to grow as Peter continues his brutal attack, his cock going deeper into you with every thrust. 

Stars begin to form in your vision as you press your chest into Peter’s face, his hands keeping your hips still so he can thrust up into you. His hips snap up to yours again as the feeling in the pit of your stomach grows, slowly spreading all over your body. You let out a strangled cry, feeling yourself come undone, cunt clenching around Peters dick making him moan. Your orgasm spreads all over your body like a hot fire, Peter helping to grow the flame as he keeps thrusting into you. 

His hips falter for only a moment before he gives one last deep thrust into you, filling your cunt with his cum. Your body goes slack as you fall forward into Peter. His brain and body going completely blank as well as he falls backwards, bringing you with him.

+++

Your eyes flutter open to the sight of Peter’s face only inches from yours, his hot breath fanning your cheek. You can feel his hot skin on yours as you go to unstick yourself from his sweaty grasp. Your head is pounding and your whole body feels weak. As you sit up it becomes evident that Peter had stayed in you the entire night. As your hips shifted slightly you could feel his dick hardening in you again, filling you up like he had the night before. 

A small groan escapes Peter’s lips as he shifts on the bed. His eyes peel open, looking around the unfamiliar room. A small shriek escapes from his mouth when he notices you sitting naked on his lap, his dick buried inside your cum filled cunt. 

“Sh sh, what the fuck happened?” You groan, holding your head as you look around your now destroyed room. 

“Shit, I think we had sex!” Peter groans, memories slowly coming back to him. 

“Oh fuck,” you mumble, noticing the the abundance of empty bottles discarded around the room. Your eyes travel over to the nightstand where an assortment of drawings lay spread out. All of them are Peter, some with his clothes on, some with his shirt off, then the one of him completely nude… Oh, and the one Peter drew of you. 

“I’m so so sorry, this is all my fault,” Peter sputters, guilt building up in his stomach as he realizes what truly happened last night. 

You let out a long sigh before laughing. “Why are you apologizing? I had a blast, even if some things are a bit fuzzy.”

Peter stops his profuse apologizes, eyeing you carefully. “You aren’t mad?” 

You shake your head, letting out a small hum as you eye the pictures again. “No, I’m glad you came into my room last night.”

+++

Taglist

@nataliewalker93 @sarapaprikas-blog @justkeepitblanc @sickomodesmell @etaerealboy @purplerose291 @witheringawayagain @arij3lly @dandelionqueen @brightlilith @laurens2002 @siriusly1 @shugrcrush @hazzarules @cl0v3r-s0up @jibiwoni @maria-pqrker @just-henny @little-jana @ellie-emb @valslittleheart @reeseisinapiece @happilyneverafter69 @gram-cracker24 @kisstheskin @whenmypartysover @nightiresss @wowitsem @chinaza444 @sherlockstrangewolf @daisydark @shine101 @moniffazictress11 @cryptidcreaturewrites @severenpcenergy

[blue-and-gilt]

Early 18th Century Venetian 'Schiavona' Sword

The Schiavona is an iconic basket-hilted sword that was closely associated with the Italian city state of Venice. The earliest examples are believed to have come from an elite body of Slavic soldiers hired by the Venetian council, and date back as far as the late 16th Century.

Schiavona are identified by their unique basket hilts and 'cats head' pommels. The renowned sword historian and author, Ewart Oakeshott grouped the schiavona basket hilts into two broad categories, the simplified Type 1 with it's broad flat bars, and the Type 2 of lattice work design.

They Type 1 hilt began to appear around the early 1600's and the first Type 2 between 1620 and 1630. Type 1's remained in use for most of the 17th Century after which Type 2 hilts became dominant.

Over the life of schiavona swords, (1600 - 1797) their hilts became increasingly complex and ornate as they became associated with the character of Venice, with the upper levels of society also carrying their own schiavonas.

Based on the features of the hilt, this sword most likely dates to 1710 - 1740. The iron pommel and 93 cm blade suggest that it is of munitions grade and was likely carried by a regular cavalry man.

Stats: Overall Length - 1,075 mm Blade Length - 930 mm Point of Balance - 165 mm Grip Length - 135 mm Inside Grip Length - 94 mm Weight - 1,090 grams

[cuverale]

we belong together - t.c.

Timothée Chalamet x OC

a/n: so this is my first time posting x OC AU and I’m kinda nervous but yeah, enjoy!

miramelbourne

liked by tchalamet, zayn, henrycavill and 17,284,174 others

miramelbourne what a night

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tchalamet what a night indeed.

miramelbourne 🤠🫦

miramybaby what do you mean miss?????

timirastan ok mr. and mrs. we-talk-so-secretly.

miralotheefan we need to know what happened that night 😩

user_28438 are they dating?

timmyxmimi well, there is nothing confirmed but we hope they are because they’re so good together 🫠

randomuser she’s dating with Ben Barnes

timotheefan15 bro what 💀 they’re besties

mirasbabygirl You SLAYED as always 💅🏻

kissmemira My lady looks so sexy as always 🫦

msmelbourne 🛐🛐🛐

tchalafann she’s so fine 😮‍💨

zendaya i missed you like crazyyyy

miramelbourne me too baby me too 🥲

timmytimmy hey sexy 🥵

pauline.chalamet what a woman

miramelbourne making me blush I see miss chalamet

pauline.chalamet 😏💋

tchalamet 🤠

miramelbourne no need to be jealous t

tchalamet oh I’m gonna show you who’s jealous

timmyfann AAAAAAAAAAAAA

timmyxmimi SHOW US TOO TIM

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tchalamet

liked by miramelbourne,stephanebak, zendaya and 13,395,285 others

tchalamet TC x MM for chaneloffical

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miramelbourne 😋

tchalamet 🫠

chanelofficial 🖤

tchalafann parents!!!

timmytimmy oh, look at my husband with his girl

benbarnes the second picture tho mhmmm

tchalamet challenge accepted mhmmm

benbarnes fight me boy mhmmm

chalafann LMAO MHMMM

miralotheefan we see ur jealousy boy mhmmm

miramybaby ATE AND LEFT NO CRUMBS

kissmemira ok but can you guys admit that ur dating already so i can live in peace 🙄

stephanebak i love this

timmyfan04 our guy pretty like a girl 😭

mirasbabygirl the iconic chanel couple 🙌🏻

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miramelbourne

liked by tchalamet, chanelofficial, benbarnes and 19,285,976 others

miramelbourne MM x CC chanelofficial

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tchalamet Ladies and Gentlemen… Miranda Janelle Melbourne.

miramelbourne 🥰

chalametfann we love the man who always supports his girl 🥹

zendaya marry me😡

miramelbourne when? 💋

tchalamet such a fangirl

zendaya yeah, what about it?

chanelofficial love this look 🖤

miramybaby MIRANDA MELBOURNE WORLD DOMINATION

timchalfan Hopefully we'll see her again at the Venice Film Festival! She’d slay as always.

msmelbourne we will girl it’s confirmed!!! 🥹

mimirayray ICON!!!

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mirandaupdates

8,395,174 likes

mirandaupdates my babies 🥹🥹🥹

via tchalametnews on Twitter.

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msmelbourne she’s also wearing his cap and sunglasses 😭

randomuser i wonder how she’s allowed to wear the stuff she wears, i mean not in this one obviously but she always wears revealing clothes and Timothée is a jealous man.

chalafann bruh he always supports her and he has no right to speak about what she wears, which is the fact that he’s aware, hell he probably wears even more revealing clothes than her lol. And Timothée is jealous yes, but not toxic.

timotheefan15 GUYS, GO LOOK FOR TIMOTHÈE’S LAST POST OMFG

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tchalamet

liked by miramelbourne, tomholland2013, florencepugh and 19,285,592 others

tchalamet It’s been a crazy journey, but you can't imagine how grateful I am to have you by my side. You’ve made me a better man since the day I met you. I’m so happy that you’re mine. I can never get enough of you. I want to spend the rest of my life with you.

I promise you that I’ll make you the happiest woman in the world like you made me the happiest man on earth. And I want to raise a toast to that.

To us.

Happy 2nd anniversary my love, you’re my whole world.

p.s. i know i said i won’t post the first pic but i can’t help it you’re so cute :3

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miramelbourne WHATKDDJSKDJELFJFKK 😭😭😭😭😭

miramelbourne I THINK YOU JUST BROKE ME

tchalamet then come here and cuddle me

miramelbourne THAT’S SO CHEESY LIKE WHATTT

tchalamet hey!!

miramelbourne GOD I LOVE YOU SO FUCKING MUCH

tchalamet I love you more

miramelbourne YOU’RE FORGIVEN BTW

tchalamet 🥳

zendaya FINALLY

miralotheefan GIRL YOU KNEW?

florencepugh happy anniversary my babies 🥺

miramelbourne thank you love 💗

tomholland2013 we should celebrate!!

zendaya yesyesyes

tchalamet yep

benbarnes guess you won the challenge huh?

tchalamet as always 😏

henrycavill 🖤

*liked by tchalamet

chanelofficial Happy anniversary 🖤

*liked by tchalamet

timmyxmimi WHAT WHAT WHATTTTT

msmelbourne SO YOU’VE BEEN DATING THIS WHOLE TIME????? FOR TWO YEARS??????

timmytimmy BOYFRIEND TIMOTHEE CONTENT BOYFRIEND TIMOTHEE CONTENT 😩

mirandafann TWO YEARS EXCUSE ME??!!

chalafann I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU TWO DATED FOR TWO YEARS AND WE DIDN’T KNOW ABOUT THAT

miramybaby I MEAN HOW CAN YOU HIDE IT SO GOOD

timotheefan15 AAAAAAAH 💖💖💖

mirasbabygirl Mira you got him whipped for you girllll 🥹

kissmemira now we’ll see boyfriend Timmy?? 🥹💗

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miramelbourne’s story

[captain-price-unofficially]

Italian armed pontoon Valente near Venice, 1916. It was a primitive kind of monitor with a 305 mm/46 Model 1909 naval gun installed on an old captured Austro-Hungarian self-propelled iron barge.

[apoptoses]

Venice in winter is nothing compared to his homeland, but it’s still damp, oppressive. Outside the sky is a pale shade of grey and the wind must be blowing something fierce, as the little roundels of glass rattle in their iron panes.

But Bianca’s chambers are a hot house. Heat crackles in the fireplace, from the candelabras that dot the walls and tables. Steam curls from the surface of her bath and Amadeo watches the way the wisps of blond hair that surround her face curl with it. She tips her head back against the rim of the tub to look at him. Her cheeks are flushed as rose petals when she smiles, gone pink from the steam.

“You’ve made a terrible mess of my bed,” she says.

And so he has. Having no spare clothing here he’s had no choice but to yank the velvet covers free and wrap himself in them. He’s lying the wrong way, his feet peeking out near the head of the bed. He pushes them into a pillow and grins behind the auburn curtain of his hair.

“And what of it?” he asks.

“Does your master let you get away with such things?”

“No. He beats me terribly. I’m a victim of his punishments almost nightly.”

Bianca rolls her pretty blue eyes. “And you enjoy it, don’t you?”

He does. But she needn’t know that.

This room with all of its delicate things- perfume bottles, silk ribbons draped across her vanity table, Bianca’s little shoes and her combs for her hair and her vases of flowers- it’s not the place for that sort of talk. It’s like being inside a jewelry box. Like being beneath the sea, with the way the steam has collected on the windows and left them shimmering and wet.

Bianca toys with the golden end of her braid, searching it for split hairs. The pearl strands woven into it click softly as she twists and turns her hair.

Amadeo lives in a beautiful palazzo of unruly boys. He sleeps in his master’s strong, imposing bed. He’s been to brothels of all sorts, enjoyed their lurid sort of appeal but this place, this woman’s chamber- it holds such fascination. He watches her in awe as she lifts her feet from beneath the water, rests them on the opposite end of the tub, and he feels as though he’s under a spell.

“You look like a mermaid,” he mumbles.

Water runs down her legs. They’re pale, slender, and Amadeo wonders if he grasped her by the ankle if his fingers would touch where they encircle it. Pressed together as they are, water and soap bubbles clinging to her skin, they look like the appendage of a sea creature. If he blurs his vision the fine golden hair on her legs becomes scales.

“Oh?” Bianca flicks a bit of water at him. It lands on the tip of his nose. “And were I a mermaid what would you be? Some fisherman come to capture me? A prince lost at sea, desperate for saving like Odysseus? Come, wash my back and tell me.”

Amadeo rises from the bed. He leaves the safety of the blankets behind and drags her carved wooden stool over to the side of the tub.

Funny how they’re both naked and yet he feels all the more vulnerable for it. Bianca is otherworldly with her hair swept aside, her head tilted to expose the line of her throat, her shoulder. He takes the wet cloth, rubs the perfumed water into her skin, and wonders what a crude being he must be in comparison.

“Perhaps I would capture you and travel about with you, keeping you on display. I could charge a gold coin just to look upon your beauty,” he says. “You’d make me a rich man.”

He drags the cloth over the delicate ball of her shoulder. It’s white as a porcelain doll, soft in a way none of the other boy’s flesh is. Amadeo massages at her skin and takes in the musicality of her little groan.

“Mm, and would you keep me in a cage? Would you be a very strict master, one who never lets his little captive out?” she teases.

Amadeo nods. “A golden one, so that I might hand feed you through the bars. I could charge another coin for that, I think. Plenty of men would pay for the pleasure of passing you a little bite of fish.”

He washes her scapula when she leans forward, the ball joint at the base of her neck. Her breasts bob in the water, slick with soap, flushed pink with the heat,  and Amadeo can’t resist running the cloth over her clavicle. Down and down until his finger slides into the valley between them where her sternum rests. Her laugh vibrates beneath the bone as she slaps at his wrist.

It’s a half-hearted protest. Splashing just for the sake of getting him wet, and as Amadeo dodges her hand he pretends to accidentally grope her. The entirety of her breast nestles perfectly into his hand.

“You’re such a predictable boy. Would you have them pay to do this as well?” Bianca asks. Her voice rises into a gasp when he catches her nipple between his finger and thumb. “How many gold coins to molest your captive mermaid?”

She’s soft. Not like his master, who’s like caressing one of the marble statues that lines their courtyard. Bianca has warm breasts to squeeze, a roll of flesh that appears above her stomach when she sits hunched and naked like this. Amadeo rubs his palm over the swell of her stomach, his fingertips brushing the gold curls that cover her mound, and curls his other arm around her shoulders to clasp her wet back to his chest.

“None,” he says. “I wouldn’t charge them any, because this I would keep all for my own.”

The wind rattles the shutters of the palazzo. Rain lashes at the windows. It’s freezing outside but in here Amadeo is sweating. It trickles down his back as he grazes her thighs with his fingers. He’s damp under the arms, too warm from the fireplace, from his desire. Just like with his master, he feels monstrous from it. Lesser for the needy thing between his legs. An animal driven by lust.

Bianca struggles in his grasp. Not to get free, to rise up toward his wandering hand. But the position is awkward. Her ankles, perched as they are on the edge of the tub, they don’t give her enough leverage to lift her hips and so she’s trapped there; wiggling like a fish. Amadeo teases at the crease where her thighs meet. He traces it from knee to pubis and back again and listens to the quickening of her breath.

The cleft of her must be slick. She’s probably flushed pink down there as well but he can’t see it through the water, the way her thighs are clenched together.  But that’s alright. He’s submitted to his master, to the workers of the brothels. Amadeo’s not had anyone squirm for him and he’s finding he likes this game. Her shiver when he rakes his nails through her curls sets his blood alight.

He works his finger into the tight crevice where her thighs meet. He seeks out the sensitive nub between her legs and he knows he’s found it by the way Bianca tips her head back and inhales a sharp breath.

Amadeo tries to picture her as a sea creature. What folds she might have here, in this secret part of her. Whether she’d be warm inside or cold, slimy like the belly of a fish. He forces his finger further down through the squeeze of her thighs and teases at her entrance.

It’s torment, being outside of this bath, unable to plunge into her. In the excitement of the previous night he’d finished all too quickly, and it’s embarrassing, really. He’s dying inside to repeat his performance, to do better this time. But he owes her. Pleasure is the only way he can pay her.

Bianca’s hands grip his forearm like a vice. They’re slender, like a doll’s, and he likes to feel small but she’s the first to make him feel powerful. He rubs tiny circles at her and her nails dig into his skin. Glides his finger up and down and watches through the distortion of the water the needy thrust of her hips.

“Amadeo-“ she gasps.

Her knees fall apart. He clucks his tongue at her, stills his hand.

“You’re a mermaid, remember? Your legs should stay together, yes, like that.”

She lets out a whine, clenches her legs back into place. Amadeo touches her again, slow, teasing, and bites back a hiss when she claws at his wrist.

This is new, having someone fall apart in his arms. Taking her apart little by little with his fingertip alone is a rush that goes straight to his head. Like being drunk only better, because instead of a headache there’s a reward at the end. Falling upon her in her great golden bed. Or perhaps just the satisfaction of seeing her shake with pleasure. That alone might be enough.

The pearls in Bianca’s braid click when she tosses her head. Amadeo strokes her, up and down, again and again. Runs his finger along her folds and watches her toes curl at the edge of the bath. He presses at her entrance. Makes as if he’ll let his fingertip in and her toes point with anticipation. Then go lax again when he takes his fingertip away and seeks out the sensitive nub of her again.

“You’re a horrible tease,” she complains.

Amadeo laughs. “I’m your captor, aren’t I? It’s my right to tease. I trapped you for my own pleasure, after all.”

He traces a little circle over her clit. Bianca presses his cheek into the crook of his elbow, as though she means to hide her face.

“Most men would take their pleasure in other ways.”

There’s no hiding herself, though. Amadeo tilts his head, ignores the pain that comes with straining into such an awkward position, and takes in the way she’s panting. The rush of color to her cheeks, how she bites her lip when he touches just the right way. He keeps on that spot, repeats the motion, and he can tell by the way she squeezes her thighs that she’s squeezing tight on the inside too.

“I’m unlike most men,” he says, and kisses at her throat.

Her skin tastes like the perfumed water. Like salt because she too has begun to sweat. He rubs over and over, feels the rush of her pulse, and wonders if this is what his master feels with him. Whether making him squirm, helpless in his arms, makes him feel indomitable as well, and for a second he wishes he could rend her throat with his teeth. Amadeo wants to feel the stitch of her heart the way his master feels his whenever he bites into his flesh and takes his blood.

Slow circles. Over and over he spirals his fingertip. No change in the motion, no teasing now. There’s only one end to this and he means to achieve it as he drops kisses along her neck. Amadeo picks up his speed bit by bit until she gasps. There, there- the words are muttered out over the slosh of the bath, and he listens. Takes her advice even though his forearm is screaming at him, and-

Bianca kicks at the edge of the tub. Her cry sounds surprised, like she didn’t expect to be wracked with this much sensation, and she shakes with it. Her thighs squeeze so tight around Amadeo’s finger he couldn’t slip it inside her even if he wanted to.

And that’s fine. Good, in fact. This pleasure is for her sake and even if his cock is throbbing its need between his legs it can wait. Must wait, he decides. His master would scold him for taking her like a street ruffian not once but twice.

She’s lovely when she goes slack. Bianca’s hair is mussed from rubbing her face against his arm, a gold curl come free near her temple. Amadeo goes to tuck it back for her but she shakes her head.

“My hair will have to be redone entirely.” She plunges her wet fingers into his auburn hair and drags him down for a kiss. Her body is uncomfortably hot, sticky against his. “You’re right, you know.”

“About what?”

She nips at his lip, hard enough to leave it smarting. While Amadeo is busy rubbing at his mouth she rises from the tub like Venus from her shell. Arm covering her breasts, she reaches with the other hand and gestures for him to hand her a dry sheet.

“You’re like your master,” she says.

Amadeo cocks his head. He hands her the sheet without getting up from the stool, suddenly embarrassed of the thing throbbing between his own legs. He aches to throw her to the floor and take her.

“How so?” he asks.

Bianca enshrouds herself in white fabric. One neat movement, so well practiced that she hardly drips water onto the floor, and she’s perched on the edge of the bath rubbing herself dry. Arms first, then legs. She brings her ankle up to rest upon her knee and Amadeo can’t help but stare at the bone white jut of it. She’s pale as his master there. Her ankles never see the sunlight and so he can see the blue veins through her skin, and he wonders how they’d taste.

“Both of you are entirely unlike other men,” Bianca murmurs. Her foot with its pale sole, white as the belly of a fish, lands suddenly in Amadeo’s lap. She grinds her heel down and draws a gasp from him. “Now come to bed, Amadeo. I believe it’s time your captive takes her revenge. You’ll allow me some fun, won’t you? Before I release you back into the waters to swim home to your master?”

The pearls in her braid are loose. He ruts up against her foot and hears them rattle when she tosses her head back and smirks.

Amadeo is hooked. How easily he swings between such extremes. Misery and ecstasy. Dominance and submission. Shame and desire. He’s a being made of contradictions, and as he follows her to her golden bed he thinks he’ll do anything she wants so long as it keeps him here a moment longer. Safe from reality in her jewelry box room.

Safe from his sadness so long as he remains trapped in the net of want.

[hannahssimblr]

“Clóda,” one stone. 

“Clóda,” another. 

“Fuck sake,” I murmur to myself, then throw a third, bigger one, which smacks off her window so loudly that I’m briefly paralysed with fear that it has broken the glass. Thankfully it hasn’t. She comes out onto the balcony.

“There you are,” she says quietly, peering down at me in her garden as I drop my handful of stones and wipe the dirt on my thighs. 

“Yeah, here I am. This is a bit Shakespearean isn’t it?” 

“Huh?”

“Like, you know, 'but soft, what light through yonder window breaks…. Defy thy father, refuse thy name', et cetera,” I pause before clarifying, “Romeo and Juliet, no?”

“Oh, I did The Merchant of Venice for my Junior Cert.”

“I thought you’d have still gotten the reference.”

She leans over the balcony to point to a precarious looking trellis against the wall, “If you climb up that thing you’ll be able to reach me.”

“Right,” I say, and press my foot against the flimsy timber to test my weight, “You know I’m like, nearly thirteen stone?” 

“You can try.”

“And if I break it?”

“Hmm, try not to,” she suggests. 

“Right,” I brace myself by slotting my fingers into a gap between some brick facade on the side of the house and I haul myself onto the trellis, and it groans but doesn’t give. “I’m good, I think I’m good.”

From there it’s not so bad. I nimbly move up the wall, grab hold of the sun room gutters and grab a hold of the balcony railings, where I find myself thrilled in the way a child is, having climbed somewhere he is not supposed to climb, the king of the castle overlooking his vast land, though I can’t really see much in the dark countryside, save a few car headlights in the distance, the lighthouse flashing over the bay. 

“Um, here,” Clóda hisses, and I realise I have briefly forgotten my objective, but the rest is easy, I just swing myself over the railing and I’m up. 

“Nice that you’ve a balcony,” I comment, “I don't know many other people who have one of these.”

“We built this house a few years ago, and for some reason I wanted a balcony in my room, I don’t know, I was like, ten, and it was a stupid idea because it’s mostly too cold out here to even make use of.” 

“Useful now though, huh?” 

She tucks her hair behind her ears and bats her eyelashes at me, “yeah I suppose it is.”

She pushes the door open and we creep into her room where the only light is from the glow of the television screen in the corner. It’s clean, very clean with no clutter or clothes lying around, which always freaks me out for reasons that I cannot explain. The idea that a person would have the interest or discipline to keep their bedroom clean is odd. If a person's bedroom is a mirror to the inside of their mind, then the lack of chaos in hers is foreign and unrelatable. 

While she switches on a pink fringed bedside light I throw myself down on the neatly tucked duvet just so that I can mess it up a little bit, to mark my territory like some kind of wild dog let loose in a palace. I peer at her CD collection and mess that up too by pulling one out and showing it to her, “Jesse McCartney, huh? You a fan?”

She goes pink and grabs it out of my hand, “Yeah I used to be, I dunno, not so much anymore, I don’t know why I still have that.”

I grab another, “Who are the Jonas Brothers?” 

“Oh, they’re-”

“That guy in the middle has a pretty wild haircut, would you fancy me with that?”

“No,” she giggles and takes that CD off me too, then slots them carefully back where they were, “I have some silly stuff, I probably shouldn’t have it all out.”

“Nah, well, look, you have some great stuff here, how ‘bout this? Black Holes and Revelations? I love this album, you know I saw Muse live last year.”

The mattress sinks as she sits next to me, “Really? Was it when they came to Ireland?”

“Nah it was in the states.”

Her eyes flash with intrigue, “like, America?”

“Mm, yeah.”

“That’s so cool.”

“Is it?”

“Yeah, that you just, like, go to America and stuff. I don’t know anybody who’s gone to America yet, and I want to go so badly.”

I shrug, “well you should, then.”

“How often do you go?”

“Not often, I was there last year and then before that…” I try to remember, “I think I was maybe twelve. It takes a long time to get to where I’m going, you know, from here you can only get to New York and then you have to get a connecting flight and all of that,” thinking about the ordeal of it exhausts me, but Clóda is leaning forward in fascination, as hearing the words ‘New York’ come out of my mouth has sent a thrill through her. 

“What do you go for?”

“Just to visit family and stuff.”

“You’ve family there?”

“Of course, did you not know that my dad is American?”

She frowns, “Well you sound a little bit American but I thought… I don’t know, really, I thought you were putting it on or something.”

“What, like, for attention?”

“I don’t know,” she shakes her head, impatient, “where do you go?”

“Well… I’ve some family in California and some in New Mexico, which is like, a state in the southwest, kinda wedged between Texas and California, if you can imagine that on a map,” I leave out poor Arizona just to make it easier on her, because nobody here knows what the hell a New Mexico, (‘no, no not Mexico, New Mexico’) is so it’s best to keep it concise. 

Clóda is nodding vigorously, “California, like, LA.”

“Kind of. Like, my dad comes from a place called San Bernardino, which is-” I take her wrist and trace a line on the soft skin of her inner arm, “-to the east of LA, say, an hour or two away, depending on the traffic, yeah? And then his family, like his aunts and uncles and their parents, who we used to visit sometimes, they’re living in a place way up north,” I run a gentle trail all the way up to the sleeve of her t-shirt, “to the very tip top of the Sacramento valley in this rugged, gold rush town…” I lift my eyes to her and she’s staring at my hand, following the motion of my finger as I skim the tip of it over her shoulder and across the taut skin of her collarbone. I prepare myself to say more sexy things about the Sacramento river and the rolling hills and the central valley and whatever else I usually bang on about whenever someone asks, but she looks into my eyes and says: “Is there an Abercrombie where you go?”

“Huh?”

“Abercrombie and Fitch.”

I frown, “Yeah?”

“Oh, wow.” She pushes me onto my back and lays on top of me, gazing down at me with fervid glitter in her eyes, “If you go back to America this year, could you buy me something from there?”

I search in her eyes for some sign that she’s joking and determine that she isn’t. She really wants me to do that. “Yep, sure,” I say.

“Ah, that’d be amazing. You know the way they have those bags too? The ones with the black and white pictures of the guys' bodies on them? Well there was a girl in my class who…”

And I zone out and I stop listening to her as she talks about laminating the bags and carrying school books in them, and I wonder if she will even notice the glazed over look in my eyes as I let my eyes unfocus and stare into the middle distance between her and her pastel pink walls and ask myself some serious questions. 

Do I like her?

She’s pretty though.

Sure, she’s pretty but is she fun? 

She likes Muse.

She’s not even very nice though, is she? She’s said a few weird things in the past.

Yeah but I’ve had sex with her now.

I can’t really stop talking to her or anything, can I? That’d mean I’m a dickhead. 

But would I rather be a dickhead or be miserable?

Maybe both outcomes will make me miserable. Maybe I’m just pre-programmed to be a miserable person. Or am I just cursed?

I zone back in for a moment, “...and then Mr. Brennan confiscated all of them, and there was this whole thing where the parents council…” What is happening? 

“Uh huh,” I say, “Uh huh… uh huh, what? That’s crazy,” God she is really pretty though, the kind of pretty that’s hard to find, and it’s not like there’s anyone else around, is there? It’d be awkward to stop seeing each other now with two whole weeks left of the summer. 

Beginning // Prev // Next

[nothwell]

hello my name is Sebastian Nothwell and i have written queer romance books. learn all about them under the readmore.

you can find more info on my author site.

and my drawerfic on my patreon.

there is also a podcast.

thank you for your time.

~

Mr Warren’s Profession - mm Victorian romance; a wealthy baronet falls for a clerk in a textile mill; aristocrat x commoner, hurt/comfort, angst, lavender marriage, engineering.

Throw His Heart Over - equestrian sequel to Mr Warren’s Profession; hurt/comfort and horses.

Hold Fast - mm Victorian whaling romance; a harpooner inherits a baronetcy and falls for the estate agent tasked with turning him into a gentleman; hunting, angst, dance lessons, Pygmalion, hurt/comfort.

The Haunting of Heatherhurst Hall - ff Gothic romance; sapphic yearning, lavender marriage, haunted house, ghosts or gaslighting?

Oak King Holly King - mm Victorian fae romance; fae warrior fated to die x mortal clerk destined to save him; hurt/comfort, fae x mortal, antlers, homoerotic duels.

Tales from Blackthorn Briar - sequel to Oak King Holly King; polyamory, creative anatomy, fae x mortal, hurt/comfort.

Fiorenzo - mm fantasy-of-manners romance; hurt/comfort, royal x commoner, masquerade, homoerotic duels, dance lessons, creative anatomy, fantasy!Venice.

[myhauntedsalem]

Mirrors are Portals

From fairy tales to real life, mirrors, reflective surfaces and still water all have something in common. They can be used for divination, magic, stealing souls and repelling evil. The first reflective surface used for divination was a body of still water. Mirrors are a basic tool for magical work. The Egyptians, Romans and Greeks made their mirrors from bronze or silver. The Chinese and Hindu also used metals. It wasn’t until the 13th century in Venice that glass mirrors were introduced.

In tribal societies it is the belief that ones reflection is actually ones soul. And by exposing ones soul it is made vulnerable to evil influences and even death. It is believed that mirrors are tools in which souls may be stolen for evil purposes. Mirrors have been used as tools to increase clairvoyance and/or to gain knowledge of past lives. All class levels have used mirrors to tell their futures. From the middles ages to the 19th century, mirrors have been used by everyone including Catherine de Medici and Henry IV.

It’s not only mirrors that have created concern for people’s souls. The Motumotu of New Guinea believed their reflections were their souls the first time they saw their likenesses in a looking glass. The Basutos believe that the crocodiles have the power of killing a man by dragging his reflection under the water. Saddle Island residents in Melanesia believe there is a pool in which a malignant spirit lives. When someone’s reflection is seen in the water, it is feared that they will die and the spirit will do evil with his soul. The Greeks regarded seeing ones reflection in the water as a death omen for they feared the water spirits would capture the person’s reflection (soul) and drag it into the depths of the water thus leaving the person soulless.

Mirrors are often associated with evil, either as a means to repel evil or as a way to further evil growth in the world. Mirrors are thought to be portals into another dimension or world allowing evil, spirits, etc. to wreak havoc on the world. Superstitions about mirrors are many.

If it is true that one sees their soul in the reflection of a mirror, then that must be why vampires can not be seen in them. Vampires have no soul. We also have it on good authority that vampires do not have reflections. After all, it was Bram Stoker’s Renfield who noticed the lack of mirrors in castle Dracula. Taking Stoker’s lead in vampires, Hollywood has reinforced this belief.

It has been a belief that mirrors can be used to protect one from vampires and witches. In Europe it became fashionable for one to wear small looking glasses on ones hat. This was done to repel the evil eye and protect the wearer from evil.

For paranormal investigators mirrors or other reflective surfaces wreak havoc. When taking photographs (35 mm or digital) especially whenever there is a flash involved, the reflection of light can create images that are not really present. One example of this occurred when taking a photo of some clothes hanging from a metal rod located in front of a mirror. The clothing and the reflection gave an illusion of a nose within the clothes as if someone was peaking out. Mirrors draped with lace or near hanging lace can also present the illusion that someone is present within the folds and design on the lace. The same can be said of still bodies of water. Water in a pond or the bottom of a bowl will also create illusions.

[thewollium]

Boats and People of Venice. April 2024. Shot on a Fujifilm X-S20 with 23 mm and 50 mm f/2 lenses

[stellagibs0ns]

Bedannibal prompt: Road trip to a convention/conference because Hannibal is convinced it's faster if he drives them rather than take a plane.

Bedelia is completely against the idea, but begrudgingly goes along, only for the car to break down on them.

And if you're *Really* feeling up too it, motel with only one bed trope?

i am SO sorry this ended up being like 1.5k but this prompt was TOO good!! pre relationship flirty bedannibal my beloveds!

—

The drive from Maryland to New Hampshire is 7 hours, give or take. Hannibal had mentioned a psychology conference two weeks prior, and Bedelia figured it was within her best interests to oblige him. While she has her reasons to be wary of him, she doesn’t imagine he’d go through the trouble of driving all the way to New Hampshire just to put an end to her.

While she’d suggested a flight, he insisted on driving. Bedelia is a nervous flier, but it was more appealing than spending seven hours in a car with Hannibal. It isn’t that she doesn’t appreciate his company, or that she doesn’t appreciate him. Her concerns were more centered around the fact she’s never spent more than two hours alone with him.

The early July air is thick and heady, the breeze combing through Bedelia’s blonde hair. They’d left later than intended, but the afternoon sun is still high and hot. She turns to glance at him through the tinted lenses of her sunglasses. They’re two hours into their trip, and it isn’t nearly as unpleasant as she was expecting it to be. He’s a good conversationalist, in his own way.

“Du Maurier,” he says simply. “French, no? I don’t believe I ever asked.”

She pushes her sunglasses up onto her head with a small hum.

“On my father’s side. I spent a handful of years in Marseille as a teenager.”

“Marseille is beautiful,” Hannibal hums thoughtfully. “Have you seen much of Europe, Bedelia?”

“Not nearly enough.”

“Have you been to Italy? I admit, I favour Italy greatly. The architecture, the culture. It’s deep. Rich.”

“Italy? Mm. Venice twice, but nothing beyond that.”

“Florence is my particular favourite. Perhaps you’ll accompany me one day.”

Bedelia’s eyebrow raises.

“You don't strike me as the type to take a colleague to Italy.”

A smirk settles on Hannibal’s face.

“Perhaps you wouldn’t be accompanying me as a colleague.”

Bedelia purses her lips at that, and she glances out of the window. He’s almost enticingly infuriating, and she has another five hours of this to look forward to.

—

Another two hours of idle conversation (although she’s sure that idle conversation between two psychologists is far from the ordinary), the engine sputters and the car comes to a halt. Bedelia stiffens slightly, glancing to Hannibal. He seems unfazed. Her eyes flicker to the gas meter, but she knows they left on a full tank.

The road they’re on is quiet, the sun getting lower in the sky with each passing moment. Hannibal gets out of the car, and Bedelia watches him circle to the hood. The smoke that billows up when he lifts it is almost comical, but she’s finding little humour in the fact his car is broken down on a stretching road in the middle of nowhere.

Bedelia gets out of the car, as though she could do something to help.

A snide remark about a flight sits beneath her tongue, but she chooses not to push her luck with him.

“Should I be making a call?” Bedelia asks, breaking the silence.

Neither of them are the type to be overly handy with cars. Bedelia always let the grease-covered men at the shop handle her car, and there’s a limit to how dirty Hannibal will get his hands.

“Perhaps,” he says, peering over the machinery of the car. “That is, unless, you know your way around a car.”

Bedelia huffs at that. Not very likely.

She almost misses the smirk tugging at his lips.

How perfect this is. Alone in the middle of god knows where with Hannibal Lecter. However, when she crosses back to the passenger seat to retrieve her purse, she catches the way the evening sun hits his high cheekbones. The way his muscles tug at the crisp white shirt he’s wearing. It’s entirely inappropriate, and so she turns her attention to her purse.

A call is made, but they’re given a forty five minute wait. Bedelia does her best to keep her tone polite, but the idea of waiting forty five minutes in this heat leaves her agitated and fussy.

So, the two of them sit side by side in the unmoving car. Hannibal is patient, and collected. Bedelia is growing more irritable by the minute.

“I take it you aren’t one for the outdoors, Bedelia.”

He looks almost smug.

“No. I am not,” she says. She toes off her Louboutins, crossing her stockinged legs and tapping her nails on the side of her purse.

“You and I both. I’m only grateful the weather is pleasant. I have an aversion to the cold,” Hannibal says, his eyes raking over her features.

“Mm.”

“Water?” Hannibal offers, and it isn’t chilled, but it’s better than nothing.

Bedelia takes the bottle, and eyes it suspiciously for a moment. For all she knows, this could be orchestrated. She ignores the thrum of perverse excitement that passes through her. Entirely inappropriate.

“It’s water, Bedelia. Nothing more, nothing less.”

“I can see that,” she replies hoarsely, unscrewing the cap and taking a long sip.

She notices the way his eyes flicker down to her throat as she swallows, and a light flush creeps onto her cheeks.

After a futile handful of attempts to strike up conversation, Hannibal leaves it alone. He knows that she speaks only when she has something to say, and it’s clear their predicament and the humidity is making her uncomfortable.

—

The exchange with the mechanic is perfectly polite, and no problems arise. She hadn’t expected them to, but Hannibal can be unpredictable. What shocked her the most was when the man had turned to Hannibal and offered them a ride, insisting on getting ‘you and the missus’ out of the heat. Hannibal had no response outside of a polite ‘thank you’, nor had he made the effort to correct the man. That left her with a strange, unidentifiable feeling in her stomach.

Hannibal’s demeanour hadn’t even changed when the mechanic let them know that while the car was very much fixable, it would be an overnight job. Their best bet was to find a motel nearby.

Bedelia, on the other hand, couldn’t help the way her face soured slightly. Less at the idea of their trip being delayed, but more at the fact she’d be staying in a motel.

The desk clerk, a buxom young woman, almost seemed shocked when they approached the counter. They were hardly odd to look at, but they were both dressed immaculately for a road trip, of all things. Too immaculately to be staying in a motel.

Bedelia toes at the carpet beneath her feet while Hannibal is the first to speak up. His request for two rooms is met with an unfortunate expression.

“We’re all booked up this weekend,” the young woman says, smacking her gum. Bedelia notices the way a vague expression of displeasure crosses Hannibal’s face. “There’s some big convention in town. The best I can do is one room.”

They have no choice, and Bedelia doesn’t say a word.

“We’ll take it. Thank you very much.”

—

The room isn’t as nauseating as she was anticipating. It’s clean enough, and while it’s not what she’d take if she had a choice, it’ll do for the night. She’s jolted from her thoughts as Hannibal sets their luggage on the bed.

Taking the couch is not an option, she notices. No couch in sight. It’s one night. She’ll live.

“You seem tense, Bedelia,” Hannibal says finally, his hand touching her elbow. His thumb grazes her arm, giving it a gentle squeeze.

She flushes, and clears her throat.

“Tired.”

He hums. Hannibal draws the curtains and turns on the air conditioning, smoothing out his shirt. They’re both dancing around the inevitable.

“Excuse me,” Bedelia says quietly, after opening her suitcase and taking out her pyjamas. She locks the bathroom door behind her, undressing and slipping into her satin pyjamas. She’s grateful she didn’t choose to pack a slip. However, the thought of Hannibal seeing her like that, with so much skin exposed…

She rids herself of the thought, taking a breath before she unlocks the door. Hannibal has taken the time to change out of his clothes and into a t-shirt and a pair of pyjama pants. It never even occurred to her that he might own a t-shirt. Her mouth turns dry at the sight of it clinging to his broad figure, his hair slightly unruly.

Bedelia exhales. It’s going to be a long night.

The two of them settle on their respective sides of the bed, facing away from one another. Neither wants to be the first to say something, and so a polite ‘goodnight’ is offered, and the lamps are turned off.

Bedelia’s rest is fitful and twitchy for a good while, before she manages to settle herself and melt into her sleep. In fact, it turns out to be the most fulfilling rest she’s had in months. In a motel, nonetheless.

However, it only occurs to her exactly why she slept so well when she opens her eyes to the light filtering through the curtains. She blinks herself awake to find herself wrapped up in Hannibal’s arms, her leg draped over his waist and his hand resting protectively on her lower back.

“Good morning, Bedelia.”

[johbeil]

Piazza San Marco 

Venice, Italy, 1973. Leica M3 with 50 mm Elmar on Kodak film, scanned from aged negative.