#whatever you like the most!!! I just love the idea that Tiziano accepts the fact that he’ll never see the Boss but still trust him 🥺🥺🥺

[palermosummer]

quick tiziboss 🤭🐙 wanted to convey the feeling of trust! you can interpret this ether as romantic or platonic! 😆

[sophiamcdougall]

EXPLAINING SANREMO

(PART TWO) I am back. I have barely eaten or slept and Tumblr has tried to murder me and this post multiple times, but I have survived. Thank you for your patience.

Part One of my attempt to explain the seismic experience that is 2020 Sanremo Festival of Italian Song is here. 

Ready? I assure you, you are not, but let’s proceed. So Sanremo rages pitilessly on.  Now everyone knows what’s at stake, and everyone, including your humble recapper, is exhausted, but doing the gay/chaotic best they can.

As the final battle to save Amadeus, Rancore, Italy and THE WORLD approaches, Achille Lauro has a last message for the troops. And I’m not deducing this, he literally said it on Twitter. 

...Hold me I’m scared.

Meanwhile (sort of) (go with it) (time isn’t real at Sanremo)  a minor drama  has occurred offstage. Singer Tiziano Ferro made an ill-advised joke about Fiorello’s interminable comedy bits, some idiots on Twitter ran away with it, and poor Fiorello was upset! This is minuscule in Sanremo terms. But consider the flapping of a butterfly’s wings. Consider hurricanes. But who is Tiziano Ferro?

Hold on. We’ll get to it. For now ...

Fiorello is dancing seductively for an absolutely delighted Amadeus while dressed as a rabbit. And wearing a blonde wig. Is there a rational explanation for this? I mean, sort of. But also no.

And then he worries Amadeus might give him herpes, which causes Amadeus to freaking snap.

“No, no!” yells the mercurial Fiorello. Amadeus isn’t worthy of his kisses yet. He ricochets out of Amadeus’s arms and into the audience and “passes on” the kiss to a guy in the front row. 

“Incredible things are going to happen tonight!” yells Amadeus, who has no fucking idea. ”Beautiful things,” corrects Fiorello. 

But just because Fiorello is a mayhem elemental on a mission of love doesn’t mean he hasn’t got feelings. 

Enter Italy’s sweetheart, Tiziano Ferro.

Actually, Tiziano’s been there all along. He’s the specialest of special guests, singing through basically his entire back catalogue every night. Which why it really was unfair of him to pick on Fiorello --   it’s not his fault he’s literally got to stand there and babble nonsense for aeons on end, Tiziano! He’s just serving the hungry chthonic entity that is Sanremo, same as you.  

While the gay mayhem (the gayhem, if you will) surges around him, Tiziano  has been fighting the good gay fight in his own steadfast way, so far untouched. His mere presence is a message of hope in itself, he knows this, and is determined to make it count. Ten years ago he was closeted, convinced coming out would end his career, and suicidal. Now happily married and gloriously successful, he is here to demonstrate that “it gets better”. He radiates such wholesome joy and resilience that everyone loves him.

So anyway, Tiziano didn’t mean to hurt anybody because he would never, and now he wants to make things right. So will Fiorello forgive him?

Ah, what better gesture of reconciliation than to goofily sing a  love song written by Fiorello himself. Of course Fiorello forgives Tiziano, because Fiorello loves everyone, good and bad, (after all he loves Amadeus the most). But he is also a chaos being, and he is working harder than anyone else to channel the divine madness of this deranged Sanremo Festival into anyone who gets close. Tiziano, watch out!

Seems TIziano naively thought he could lean in for a staged, nearly kiss, but  Fiorello’s very soul is antithetical to “nearly” anything.

“My husband’s going to divorce me!”  wails poor Tiziano, but Fiorello has never felt so alive. This is Sanremo, bitches. Rules like “sixty-year-old men can’t be danger twinks, Fiorello,” have ceased to apply. He is an apostle of Achille Lauro, he has accepted the sermon of Benigni into his heart: it is time for PHYSICAL LOVE. While not quite ready (yet) to fuck everyone in the orchestra pit, he is throbbing with readiness, to frolic all over the theatre giving all the guys he can get his hands on THE KISSES OF HIS MOUTH.

Naturally this sparks further firestorms of chaos. “Do it again!” begs grizzled rocker and high-ranking competitor Piero Pelù. Electrified by the touch of Fiorello’s lips, he is later to be found running shirtless through the auditorium where he steals a handbag.

Everyone is kissing everyone, age and orientation be damned. Summoned by the gay sorcery unfolding, 65-year-old queer rock goddess Gianna Nanini manifests and is kissed worshipfully on the lips by 36-year-old duet partner Coez.

There’s also some kind of song competition going on I guess. 

This happens:

That’s Ghali, GUYS, IT’S NOT WORKING, rappers ARE DROPPING LIKE FLIES ALL OVER THIS STAGE, WE’VE GOT TO DO SOMETHING.

(...  it isn’t really Ghali and don’t worry. This is a gag? Which I still don’t really get? And nor does sweet anarchist cherub Fiorello whom we will later discover is currently being physically restrained from rushing onstage to tend to the fallen rapper’s wounds.)

The real Ghali raps in Arabic which among other things is a big old “me ne frego” of his own to Italian Trump-tribute act and failed wannabe prime minister Matteo Salvini. Then he gets close to Fiorello, which can only end one way.

All the boys are crazy for Fiorello’s kisses but Amadeus still can’t have any

It’s already a difficult night for Amadeus.  TV presenter Antonella Clerici enters and far from standing a step beside him, righteously rips the piss out of him, which to be fair he accepts with grace.

And as for Achille Lauro ... ...No.  Patience. The time to bear witness to the last stand of Achille Lauro is not yet come. There are other forces stirring at Sanremo.

Chaos has its dark side.

The gun on stage is cocked and loaded. This is it. ENTER MORGAN.

... and enter Bugo,  who trails in behind Morgan, looking dazed and haunted. But whatever, it’s a million o’clock in the morning, aren’t we all. 

They start to play.  Italian Tumblr dozes fitfully on its sofa, idly crackshipping Amadeus and Fiorello. Utterly unprepared.

So most of us don’t notice what’s happening ...

... until the music just stops.

No one’s paid attention to the Morgan and Bugo in days. As far as I’m concerned Fabrizio Moro has already been avenged and my bloodlust is slaked.  The song - apparently written wholly by Bugo - honestly, isn’t bad, but Morgan’s been tuneless throughout and their duet/cover last night was cringeable. There have been some major reversals in the rankings but at this point there’s almost no way they’re going to be one of them.  And Morgan is not happy.

So Morgan changed the lyrics (and this isn’t even last-minute improv, he fucking printed it) to attack the one person who still had faith in him, blaming Bugo and Bugo alone for their poor performance so far. On live TV. In front of millions. After screaming at Bugo backstage just minutes ago. And he expects Bugo to just stand there and take it.

"Me ne frego to that shit,” thinks Bugo, and becomes the unexpected self-care hero of Sanremo as he vanishes into the night.

And that’s how I learned the Italian word for pandemonium. 

Morgan has the absolute nerve to ask what’s going on. Amadeus breaks out in visible cold sweat. Fiorello is thrown bodily onstage to DO SOMETHING, ANYTHING, OH MY GOD.

It’s long past midnight and a bunch of worried middle-aged men in sparkly jackets are scampering around yelping “Bugo? Bugo! BUGO? BUGO!!!” and that, I am here to tell you, when you are already delirious from exhaustion and shitposting-induced hysteria, is more than enough to tip you right over the edge.

Italian Tumblr resigns itself to never sleeping again.The memes aren’t going to make themselves. 

Translation: ”Is Bugo there?” “What’s happening?” “Where’s Bugo gone?” “I have to go and see where Bugo is.” “Bugo left.” “BUGO!”

Morgan wants vengeance. Fiorello, adorably indifferent to the fact that he was shoved on stage to, you know, entertain the audience, wants to find the missing waif, wrap him in a blanket and feed him soup. So they both rush offstage and Amadeus is left alone in a living anxiety dream.

The audience are booing.  The 70th fucking Sanremo Festival of Italian Song is falling to pieces on his watch. For all he knows murder is going on backstage and he picked known powder-keg and scoundrel Morgan for the Festival. The buck stops with him. And he has no lines, no back-up, no idea what to do about it.

And then Fiorello, angel of misrule, avatar of lawlessness and love, strolls back onstage. He looks confident and relaxed, like a man with all the answers.  Which he is.

“Have you got Bugo?” Amadeus inquires desperately.

NO RULES, NO MASTERS, NO SPONSORSHIP MONEY. ME NE FREGO.

Everything is broken. And somehow everything is OK.

Everyone, Amadeus included, bursts into hysterical, cathartic laughter.

“Is this my fault?” Amadeus asks. “YES!” crows Fiorello, lovingly forcing Amadeus to face his sins and his nightmares in a healing atmosphere of radical acceptance and mass psychosis.

And that’s how Amadeus learned that the real Sanremo was inside us all along.  And what he needs in this glorious maelstrom was never a beautiful woman standing a step behind him. It’s a chaos pixie dream boy at his side.

It’s time to cast out toxic masculinity and become a better man.

So Amadeus wraps up the show as best he can and then out of pure human compassion, he and Fiorello personally wander the streets of Sanremo looking for Bugo until four in the morning.

Bugo and Morgan are automatically disqualified

And now let us witness the final passion of Achille Lauro. Who is this Achlle Lauro kid anyway? How intentional is all this? Is he the Messiah, or a very naughty boy?

SO YEAH. Anyway, everyone’s wondering what the fuck Achille and his producer/guitarist Boss Doms (yes, really) are going to do, and BE, next. Achille’s first three looks were inspired by St Francis of Assisi, David Bowie, and Marchesa Luisa Casati. 

So ... Freddie Mercury, maybe? Elizabeth I? Jesus Christ?  And after the flurry of kissing Fiorello whipped up .. 

Will they ... can they ... dare they...

Do you even need to ask?

I have no idea how the crazy bastards who guessed “Elizabeth I” did it. 

Achille thrusts his hips against Boss’s backside. Drops to his knees before him and lets the shape of the microphone speak for itself. Briefly chokes him. And throughout they are tender, elegant, and utterly, regally dignified.

And then, at last.

A  joyous chorus of maenad-like shrieks rings out across Europe. If you’re in the Greater London area and your ears are still sore, I’m sorry. That was me. 

That’s it. Achille Lauro and Boss Doms ascend into heaven and pass into history. 

Not even they can give more to Sanremo.

The dust settles. 

The dawn breaks.

WE FUCKING DID IT! RANCORE LIVES! WOUNDED (as are we all) BUT SMILING AT A WORLD TRANSFORMED! (Not only that but, after starting at the bottom of the leaderboard he’s been catapulted up into the top ten and wins the special prize for Best Lyrics!)

And Amadeus?

Well, let’s hear from him in his own words.

Because Fiorello asked him to, Amadeus is wearing a blonde wig to look like legendary TV host Maria de Filippi. Amadeus doesn’t normally sing, but because Fiorello asks him to, he joins him in song.“A WORLD OF LOVE! LOVE! LOVE!” they chorus. It’s the hymn of the new day. 

“He can make me do anything!” Amadeus sighs to the audience. So Fiorello asks him to slow-dance.  And they do.

The prophecy has been fulfilled. Amadeus has let love into his heart. He has surrendered to the holy power of gay chaos. He is a man reborn. 

He didn’t find Bugo on that long, gruelling dark night of the soul, because incredibly,  poor Bugo never left the theatre and spent the night literally hiding in a cupboard.

But he found something else. 

As Sanremo finally, mercifully approaches its end, Fiorello grapples him close and, all teasing cast aside, whispers fiercely in his ear:

And somehow it was.

And toxic masculinity?

To find out why don’t we - and I am sorry about this - check in on Matteo Salvini who would normally be rage-tweeting up a Trump-style storm by now. He loves bitching about Sanremo for being “rigged by the left”  or occasionally letting a non-lily-white performer win, and this year he even tried to organise a boycott. Let’s see how that’s going.

This, the gayest-ever Sanremo in history, is the most-watched Sanremo in 18 years, with an incredible 60% audience share.

“Me Ne Frego” flies to the top of the Spotify charts.  (And though the judges are still cowards and traitors who left Achille in 8th place, there is no doubt across the media who the real star of the festival was. ) And Salvini’s “boycott” just meant he effectively banned himself from making a peep about it.

So who won the festival?

ALL OF US.

Oh, you meant literally.

This guy. His name is Diodato and his song is called “Fai Rumore” (Make a Sound.) It’s fine.

And that was Sanremo. It wasn’t a dream, it was a place. And you, and you, and you were there.

[okimargarvez]

YOU ASKED FOR IT

Original title: Te la sei cercata.

Prompt: train, love denied, Greek costumes.

Warnings: very smut, Penelope OOC.

Genre: smut, angst.

Characters: Penelope Garcia, Luke Alvez.

Pairing: Garvez.

Note: oneshot 13 in Garvez collection.

Legend: 😘😈👻.

Song mentioned: Fotografie della tua assenza, Tiziano Ferro.

MY OTHER GARVEZ STORIES

YOU ASKED FOR IT

 She walks along the train station with a slow and measured pace. Yet it seems clear that she doesn't know where she is heading, what her goal is. In her emerald green coat, it is hard not to notice her, even if her gaze is low, her eyes turned towards her feet and was a miracle that she doesn't clash continuously with other passersby. Long strands of straight blond hair emerge from the matching wool cap. The glasses of the same color are hardly distinguishable. The high-heeled shoes accompany her wanderings with a cadenced noise that almost seems to compose a song.

While many are approaching you, never succeeding...

For a hair a man doesn't end up against her, but at the last she manages to avoid him. She seems not even to have noticed him. Another man, however, has noticed her. He has followed all her pilgrimage, since she entered this place, framed by the huge portal that allows access to the tracks. His eyes never lost the woman's body as she stood under the display boards, when she had lift her head, allowing him to catch a few more details of her face (those red and fleshy lips, the aristocratic nose, the dark eyes masked by thick lenses), or when she had directed towards the fare box, she had discovered that it was not working and had therefore been forced to look for another. And now he is staring at her openly, while both are near a column, near those same hoardings, waiting for the number of their respective platform to come out. Provided that their goal is not identical, he thinks in passing.

In reality he alternates actual POV shot and other less explicit, obtained by exploiting the corner of the eye. The blond woman does not seem to have realized she had scored; she keeps looking at the bright written with a melancholy and impatient expression. Maybe she's waiting for someone important, for example a boyfriend (or a son, she's not too young to be a mother) that she has not seen for a long time. In fact, looking at her makes him think to the classic representations of beautiful young ladies as they exchange a passionate kiss, on the pier, with their future husband, just returning from the war. In any case, it doesn't concern him. He can enjoy the possibility of looking at her, precisely because there will be no consequences.

But the certainties of man begin to waver when he seems to be in turn the object of a look; of her, of course. At first, he thinks it's just his fantasy, he's too romantic, for these things, just looking at someone for a few minutes he's able to imagine whatever. And it's not such a normal thing for a male. But then, after having crossed again those dark eyes but also so mischievous, he's forced to review his idea. Their looks fit together on at least three occasions, in a crescendo of shamelessness. In fact, the woman's eyes don't just look: they speak. And they suggest something to him.

Firstly, he understands that she, in spite of that innocent air, she realized that he was looking at her. Incredibly this does not make it blush. Perhaps because she gives him a last glance, before a new number appears and she leaves him there, to walk towards her destination. The man reflects on the fact that, because she wears gloves, he has no way of verifying if on one of those fingers is lies a golden ring. But in fact, that she is married or is waiting for her fiancé caliente, it doesn't really matter.

Although he has moved delayed, he reaches her after a few steps. Here she is, in front of him in her green coat. He admires the movement of her backside and her legs, the waving blonde hair, following the rhythm of the shoes in counterpoint. He watches her get on a carriage, about halfway train. He observes the railway wagons that he surpasses: they are practically almost all empty. At least half an hour before departure. Then, as he continues to stare at the glass of the train, he crosses those eyes again and she smiles at him.

He doesn't need anything else to make the decision to get in and sit in her own cabin, but on the other side. In this way, it spends about a quarter of an hour in which, apparently, nothing happens. Both don't cease to look at each other, driven by the same curiosity. She looks at him as he looks out. He just wears a dark green sports jacket (they have the same taste) and mountain boots or trekking boots; he has brown hair slightly curls on the ends, but cut shorter in the lower part. She waits till he does something, even just take the phone; but man doesn't move. In fact, he uses the reflection on the glass to contemplate the figure of the woman, who instead pulls out a book from her bag and starts (it seems) to read. This makes him smile. And she notices it.

She closes the book with a snap, not before inserting a bookmark. She withdraws it in her purse, gets up and in a second, is seated directly in front of him. Their knees are touching, when he crosses his legs; a slow gesture that seems to be aimed at provoking him, because it almost allows him to glimpse part of what is hidden behind her dress.

Usually she isn't that kind of woman. But the dark handsome man has attracted her attention and stimulated her imagination. After all, they say, it's just an innocent game. Many times, she exchanged glances from one subway station to another, until the train left and her road and that of the unknown didn't split. It's not so different, she tries to convince herself.

The man looks at her directly, wondering with his eyes the reason for her move, because one sensible cause he can't find it. The blonde still smiles, taking a long look at his muscular arms, which the sports jacket he's wearing can't conceal enough. So, finally, she opens her mouth to answer him. -There was a light that was pointing in my direction. I hope I'll not bother you.- The explanation it makes complete sense, but the man is aware that she could also sit in the next place and not necessarily in the one in front of his. She seems to know it too, and imply it.

-No trouble at all, don't worry.- the warm tone, with some Spanish nuance, makes her definitely melt. The blonde understands that she has gone too far and that the game could become dangerous; her work should have taught her that evil creeps everywhere, even within such a fascinating type. A ringtone fills the empty space, occupied only by their bodies and their breaths. She picks up the cell phone from a pocket and accepts the call. It's her ex, who seems to have decided to win her back at any cost. She lets him talk, always feeling the eyes of his traveling companion on her. She says nothing, she doesn't even try, because he would not give the possibility to her anyway. And finally, she gets up, almost forgets the bag and gets off the train.

The Latin man watches her go away. Now only ten minutes are left before departure. He sighs and feels almost remorse for what he could have done. It does not matter, there will be someone else. Another opportunity.

When the next departure of the convoy is announced, he sees a green and yellow stain hurry up and get on board, in another carriage.

It is a sign of destiny.

 She walks down the street, a strange rushing on her that she can't explain. Even a little bit of fear. She realizes that she has risked too much, with that handsome dark man. Fortunately, she managed to come to her senses in time. Yet, she still feels his gaze on her and step by step she realizes that it's increasingly difficult not to imagine those big hands as they wander over her body, as if they already knew it perfectly. She holds hardly a moan and stops.

The air is cold. It's still autumn, but here it seems like winter. It hasn't snowed, but her breath is revealed in a cloud of condensation. She tries to calm her heartbeat. And it's in that instant of total silence, no car passing, no one on the street, that she hears that noise distinctly. Steps approaching, without the owner be visible.

She swallows. She decides to resume walking, then hides quickly behind a wall. But when she starts to walking, that noise begins again, which in her auditory perception is amplified and becomes a herald of a great threat.

She doesn’t stop, hurries her pace and is practically running, when she sees appear the familiar shape of the house. At the same time, she looks for the keys in the bag, she doesn't find them, the panic rises, he's always closer, closer and closer... Her fingers touch something cold, small and serrated. She squeezes them, thinking that they can always become a weapon and she's about to put them in the lock. She turns them with all the strength she has and prays that the door doesn't be difficult, as it happens all too often. Her pleas are heard, because the beloved squeaking now greets her.

She slips inside like a slingshot, but when she closes the door behind her, she discovers with horror that she can't, because something prevents her from doing it. To be exact it's a shoe. A brown boot. She has already seen it, recently. Just a few hours ago. In front of her, on board a train.

The man laughs, while his head peeks into the house, his teeth and eyes shine in the most absolute darkness and in the reflection of the lamppost coming from the outside. She remains paralyzed, unable to react. An internal voice that reproaches her and continues to repeat to her that this is what happens by playing with fire. And that's what he is thinking too.

Before closing the door and then denying her the possibility of escaping, he allows himself even a long look at her whiter face in the pallor of terror.

-I'm ... I'm a federal agent. You don't want to do it.- she stutters. She doesn't recognize herself in her own words. That sounds like a line from a movie, not real. He reads the lie, or rather the more complex truth that lies behind her sentence.

-Look at that, I'm too ... - he grins. -Your job not teach you that you never have to provoke strangers?- while he talks he starts to approach and of course the blonde moves back, until she almost stumbles into the carpet. He grabs her by the wrist; it's the first time that their bodies touch each other physically, not a layer between them. Concretely. She feels a spark, but she wants to blame adrenaline, while her brain processes millions of data in search of the best way to escape and survive, if possible.

-I don't ... - she just says it to buy time. But she knows she's lying, so she looks down. He also takes her for the other wrist and pushes her against the wall. It's funny, she thinks, this has always been one of her hot fantasy, but none of her boyfriends, not Shane, let alone Kevin or even worse Sam, has never tried to make it happen. The idea of a man taking control was extremely exciting. Too often it went exactly the other way around and this gave her too much responsibility; having to decide about the salvation or death of poor people only with their own fingers, typing like hell to find the right address, name, key data; at least she needed under the blankets, the boss, the one who took duties, it was another.

Living her own concrete fantasy, she changes her mind. Or rather, a part of her changes her mind; the other doesn't cease to feel excited, even when she feels himself pressed against his hard, terribly real. -You asked for it, chica.- with one of his, he blocks both her hands, away from the rest of her body. And with the other he opens her coat. Slowly, with that greedy air. The first armor falls to the ground. He admires the result of his mission. He passes only one finger, long and cold (he didn't wear gloves) from the chin to the concave of the breast. The black and white polka dot dress worn by the blonde is in fact abundantly low-cut. -It was you who wanted this.- he adds before letting her go, but only to have free both hands, which now end up on the well-shaped thighs, shamelessly to palpate the bottom. His gesture snatches a groan from her half-open mouth that she can't hold back. She regrets it immediately. Without leaving the grip, he makes her spreads legs and moves in front. With the fingertips touches her inner thigh.

-Please, no ...- her plea rings in her own ears as an encouragement to go further. In fact, by satisfying the sick part of her, the one not scared by this absurd and surreal situation, some fingers go under the fabric of her panties and stop there for a few seconds, increasing the wait and preparing for the lunge. When he enters in her for the first time in the course of the evening, the woman bites her lips until they bleed so as not to replicate the previous reaction. But it's useless. Because the moment he begins to draw strange squiggles in her intimacy, she falters and collapses, surrendering to the pleasure that those damn cold hands cause her. She strives to imagine that man is Sam, that this is not a rape... because it's not. He is right. She wanted this. She had never allowed herself escapades. She had always been faithful, and all too logical and rational, in her few serious relationships (she had never had one non-serious). After Morgan's goodbye and the break with Sam, she could grant herself this madness. She deserves it.

The movement of the fingers is facilitated by the fact that the terrain of their exploration is already moist and lubricated. He is going in and out continuously, alternating himself, experimenting with various techniques, playing with that part in every way, enjoying snatching ever stronger and more agonizing moans from her, sensing the woman vibrate with for the effort to resist again. -The rest of your body is much sincerer than your mouth ... - he scolds her, pulling off one of his fingers abruptly to pass her own fluid on her lips. It's only after this gesture that he presses his mouth against hers, not appeasing the thrusts and immediately going to catch her tongue. She continues to moan in his palate, until he moves away, to announce his next step. -This mouth of liar needs to learn the lesson.- a flicker in his dark eyes.

-No. I'll not ... I'll not do it.- she tries to show herself to be tough, determined and decisive. But she doesn't even know if it's not just an attempt to make the moment of surrender, of defeat, more exciting.

-You'll do it.- the man replies, leaving the grip to tinker with the belt and then with the zipper. Gives her the chance to escape. He is aware of it, and she too. But the blonde remains. He openly challenges his gaze. Pretending not to be interested in what is hidden behind a single layer of fabric, which gives her the opportunity to get a precise idea. And it's precisely while looking at this part that the latest complaint escapes her. He smiles, pleased.

-I said I'll not do it.- she insists, but this time it's a terrible actress. He nods and without any warning slips his finger into her mouth. Again she feels her taste. This helps to make her head spin, while he continues to mimic the fellatio. She'll not do it, she keeps repeating, but only to herself, and when she kneels at his feet the floor doesn't even seem so cold. She also says this one last time, a second before the finger is replaced with something much bigger.

And she feels that this is extremely right. So much so that she pronounces, or at least tries, the name of the man.

Breaking the imagination, and with it also the role-playing game.

 *

 It all began during an evening that started like many others; they just returned from a case close to Quantico, which hadn't required the use of the jet, but the presence on the field of Garcia. Exactly like that time in Bradenton, chance or a mocking destiny (with a strong and perverse sense of humor) had made Prentiss decide to put together the computer technician and Alvez, with protests from the first and too much joy obvious by the second.

It wasn't for too many glasses gobbled up, nor for affirming the power of life against death, not out of solitude or even to show the world an impossible conquest and predicted by all as failure; it was exclusively to be together at that time.

The fault had been Penelope's. She pronounced the incriminated sentence. It was she that asked for it, she gave him the courage to take her home and then follow her to her apartment. She had kissed him first; it had not been the sweet kiss he had always imagined. She didn't lay her forehead on his, looking at him with eyes shining with emotion and shy red cheeks. She didn't look for his embrace, not lean her head on his chest, not let herself be tightened and rocked. She never told him "I like you" nor certain that she loved him. Penelope not spoken almost. When she saw him enter after her, she just smiled and turned to look at him. The shy and insecure one, the one in love, was him. He was the one who had step back, until he slammed his back on the door. And she had not missed this opportunity.

She reached and kissed him, pressing her lips hard against the male ones, pushing to get to his tongue. She didn't want sweetness, she didn't want cuddles. She wanted instead to feel within herself the man who hadn't been able to hold back a moan of pleasure while their tongues intertwined innovative dances, in some rare moment of pause, she granted them only to resume that minimum breath enough to carry on with more vigor. She wanted those hands, cold or warm, she wanted they along her body, touching every inch of her skin. And she got it.

She wanted to have sex with Luke and not love. She also got this.

That was the first of many times when Penelope decided to deliberately reinterpret the agent's proposal to become the one can go to when she wanted to cry.

 **

 It was easier this way than in the other.

There'd be more flowers, puppets, various gifts; walking with Roxy, and then meet his friends (he has other friend outside Phil?), meet his parents (she even doubted the existence of these latter); they would come home together after every day at work, she would wait for him awake watching a book whose pages she wouldn't understand anything, she would fall asleep with her head or her back on his chest, his arms protectively wrapped around her waist, the toes touching each other; she would tell him about the car accident, the therapy, about Battle, Greg Baylor, Shane, Kevin and Sam, he would tell her about the war, Daniel Cullen and Mr. Scratch. He had would tell her every morning that she is beautiful, and she would almost believe him; one day, soon, he would say a stray "I love you" and they both would have cried excited. Then (perhaps) he had would kneel down and asked her if she wanted to marry him; and she would have screamed yes.

But then a brunette with very different curves from hers or a gunshot or a truck in the wrong direction or a knife in the wrong hands or ... would have broken the idyll and would have taken away from her in one fell swoop happiness and desire to live.

She had told Emily this, just before they could get Reid out of jail. Everything that had happened, especially in the last few years, had took away one part of her. And she could no longer let that happen again.

She knew would love Luke Alvez immensely; for this reason, she decided to exclude this possibility a priori.

Although she disdained the thought of a concrete future with the beautiful Latin, the same was not true of his body, which was like a drug for her. In the course of a week, if they didn't have a case, she would go to him at least three times, but also five in moments of severe abstinence.

I cannot shape a destiny that comes close to us ...

Even when she thought these things, to justify herself and tried to feel less guilty, she was in the man's arms, under him, that gives love or whatever else she needed.

 ***

He gave her love even if what she asked him was mainly sex. But in every gesture, there was love, because this feeling emanated from all his pores, when he was close to her.

He was the one who shaking when he saw her walk past his desk with a pile of paperwork, he the one who would smile in the elevator if she appeared out of nowhere, even before the blonde's fingernails dug into her shirt as she grabs him to drag him closer. Always he which after every embrace was remained with eyes full of tears that he couldn't shed, not even daring to contemplate the empty space next to his body, the shape of her still imprinted in the pillow and on the mattress, her floral perfume perennially in the air and in his nostrils. He was the one who wondered why she couldn't stay and sleeping with him. Stay for dinner. Eat his blessed lasagna.

Go out for a walk with Roxy. Allow him to hold her by the hand. Or a light smack, on the lips, on the forehead. Allow him to call her baby, sweetie, anything except chica. The first nickname that he had given her had now assumed exclusively erotic nuances. But all that Penelope rejected almost violently was exactly what Luke wanted and gradually began to pretend.

Not just because he was an old-fashioned one, grown up in a Catholic environment, with clear moral values. Not just because he had had very few relationships, and each was ended badly or in a soap bubble. Certainly not just because he was a military in the soul, super-set and he was lived in fantasies where he would have been the hero in shining armor of the woman he would have loved and married. Not because of his introverted, closed, reflective character, his difficulty opening up to others, his depression not so cleverly disguised and above all his latent insecurity.

No, none of this or at least not only. What bothered him most, what he couldn't bear, was the thought that Penelope wasn't really his. And not in the sexist or macho sense that this possessive pronoun often indicated. Penelope wasn't his, because they were not really together; and this implied that computer technician could very well go with other men, do what she wanted of her life, because she had no obligation to giving account to him. And Luke knew that her ex, Sam, had begun to wander around her again.

And so, I lost courage, that it's easy to fall into a mistake ...

Still, Penelope was never looked like that kind of woman. No, within himself he was convinced that she would never betray him (there we go again!), she would never have been with two men at the same time. But he never even thought that she could do something like what happened at O'Keef a few months ago.

Fought, Luke tried to concentrate only on the simple movement that was required of him. Because although it was not enough for him to be one body with Garcia only from a physical point of view, he would never have been willing to give up this privilege.

 ****

 The months passed inexorable, between hell and heaven and it was she who began to demand more, but in a very different sense than that desired by man.

It was not enough for her that he was having (pretending) the reins of the game, that he interpreted the part of the dominant that was out of character for him; but they couldn't be both submissive. And indeed, which really commanded was her. She forced him to make decisions, to realize his most pushed fantasies ... as long as they didn't involve white clothes or romantic dinners.

And the next step consisted in transforming him definitively into another person, or rather, others, many people. Penelope loved the theater and sometimes she had told him some anecdote about her acting experiences. She loved play dress up and soon she had affected Luke. He loved to hear her talk about whatever. He loved listening to her voice speaking to him.

That time, still unaware of what would happen, the man played Achilles, the brave Achaean hero made famous by Brad Pitt in United States, while the blonde was Penthesilea, or the queen of the Amazons who fell in love with him in the instant before the Greek pierced her with his own sword (was there behind this mythological image perhaps the umpteenth erotic allusion? Don't the swords maybe symbolize another kind of penetration?). She even showed him the photograph of a Greek amphora where the tragic scene was represented, the black figures in the red background. And then another, always the same subject, on another Greek vase. And from there he discovered that Penthesilea was a character loved by the art world, in fact many were his depictions, even a statue of the nineteenth century, where she was held by the Peleo, now lifeless. But the Amazonian wasn't the only one to have been hit by the arrow of Cupido: the same Achilles fell in love with her when it was too late.

A bizarre choice, that of I.T. girl, which immediately struck him and prompted him to reflect a lot, even while wearing that strange helmet and those even more bizarre clothes. In any case, Penelope was beautiful with that dress short enough to leave her legs bare right at the knees; and the black wig and sandals particularly excited him. Derek was right (she had told him, maybe to make him jealous): she was really a goddess.

The sword that would have used to pierce her in their case wouldn't have been of metal, but of flesh, turning the allusion into pure reality. And certainly, he didn't expect that a moment before making his gesture, the blonde would exclaim those words.

-I love you.- he stopped, thinking she was making fun of him. But she couldn't be cruel up to this point. Or at least he wished it; he was no longer able to recognize her, if he had ever been.

And I look for at least one of your details among all the people ...

The only effect that that statement had obtained had been to completely ruin the imagination and to prevent its realization.

 *****

 She had exposed herself and hadn't earned anything. It hadn’t been Penthesilea to proclaim her love for the Achaean, but Penelope for Luke. Because even if she had tried hard to concentrate only on the muscles, dark hair slightly curls (the eyes were forbidden, they are the mirror of the soul!), she couldn't help but notice many, too many nuances that they were composing the profile of the man she seemed to want to deny, forcing him to hide behind a thousand masks.

He was sweet, extremely sweet, as she had imagined. Careful, considerate, not only with her. Deep, intelligent, curious, eager to enrich his knowledge in any area; how carefully he had listened to her blabber about the various characters that she had forced him to impersonate! And he was fucking romantic. Patient. But above all, he had Roxy; and forbidding those walks had been the hardest thing of all the sacrifices she had ever imposed on herself.

So, when he didn't answer anything and indeed, had lost his excitement, Penelope had been very hurt and for a while she changed attitude, behaving even tough, like a nymphomaniac interested only in sex. To hurt him, mainly because she had believed that Luke was in love with her...

I have in my mind the raw essences of your last caress...

Because she had managed to be sweet and nice to him even though she had explicitly forbidden at him the same thing. And she remembered all too easily the last time the strangely cold man's hands had settled on her cheeks on the day of their first real kiss. The first light, not abrupt or bestial like those that had preceded it.

And it was just after that kiss that Penelope told him for the second time -I love you.- Luke, however, didn't let it run as on the first occasion. He opened his eyes wide and looked at her with such joy that instead of giving her more strength, it had frightened her again causing her to retreat.

In fact, when Luke pointed out her statement, to try to make her change her mind about the possibility of stay to sleep with him, Penelope answered him harshly. - Look that, I don't love you, I only love your body and having sex with you. Don't flatter yourself!-

She didn't think not even one of those words, but she had to protect herself from her feelings and the possibility of being happy.

 ******

 After this statement by Penelope, the attitude of man changed profoundly. Of course, he didn't stop loving her, but slowly elaborated his revenge, after all the revenge is a dish best served cold…

Since she only wanted sex from him, he decided to give it to her in more than one dose during each working day. So, he made the habit of appearing in her bunker at lunchtime, to offer her very different and not vegetarian food, because made of meat, his one. He no longer had to be persuaded to lend himself to various stupid role-playing games, but he also began to elaborate them on his own. Above all, he really became the dominator of the situation, beginning to feel even a certain enjoyment in contemplating the woman while she is performing his orders. He also began to make more interesting the calls she received, masturbating her or touching her breasts, tearing embarrassing moans that forced her to bizarre justifications that however almost never convinced her interlocutors. As it became a habit to oblige her to follow him to the O'Keef bath, where she first had to kneel and welcome in her hot lips, in the mouth tasted like Margarita, the sword that on the day of the first "I love you" not had pierced her. Or still waiting for her at home to take her as he pleased, acting on the basis of the moment's inspiration.

And I look giddy, with a smile, give me my salvation...

But he was remained in love with her.

 ******* He loves her when she does what he wants, which is what she wants too.

He loves her when he pretends to be a stranger who boards her on a train station.

He loves her even while muttering the usual sentence. -This was the last time. It won’t happen again.-.

Because Luke knows that it's not going to happen, that Penelope will be back in his arms again and again, yesterday or today, and not only for good sex. .

This story has different origins: 1- I had in mind a similiar idea for a long time; 2- I tried to write the initial part as if I were writing the screenplay of a film. My next exam will be Filmology, on Rossellini's films in the "Bergman years", the various films that owe a lot to Psyco (I love Hitchcock insanely), those of Antonio Pietrangeli and Rocco and his brothers of Luchino Visconti. 3- Three weeks ago I went to Lucerne's Christmas markets. We went with the bus. It was a long journey. I had too much time to think. 4- I love Greek archeology madly and I have always had a ship for Achilles and Penthesilea. Their love is even more tragic than that between Romeo and Juliet.

The words in italics and bold are as usual drawn from a song by Tiziano Ferro. The translation will never make the idea of the original. The song is Photographs of your absence (Fotografie della tua assenza)

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