Experiments in Technique: Feliciano

Never let it be said that Feliciano Vargas was an angel.

Never let it be said that the man was oblivious either, nor was he innocent for that matter.

In fact, after the length of time you've known the man, which for the record has been a very short amount of time, you were frankly shocked that his companions did not see the trickster just below that cheerful smile.

He was quite the opposite of what he chose to show the world, and for reasons you force yourself not to think about, you let those qualities tug at your interest. You let your curiousity get the better of you, and accept that invitation to poke beneath the surface.

Now look at you: hiding in a closet trying to be completely silent as said Italian is leaving small bites around your neck, sounds of the party just outside barely pricking your consciousness.

You're doing pretty well, or so you'd like to think, the only sounds between the two of you the laboured breathing, that silken lingering moisture on the skin and that semi-unpleasant slap as the skin snaps itself back into place after being tugged by his teeth.

Honestly you'd want to kill him if it wasn't for the expert way he's making your knees quake.

Damn Italian.

You have no idea how anyone ever got the mentality that he was anything remotely similar to pure and angelic.

Finally, finally he pulls away, giving you enough of a break to steady your breath, his hair teasing at your neck as he buries his head in your chest.

The heat is gradually fading, your only thought falling past your lips in a tumble of words that makes little sense at first, but by his laughter he understands entirely.

"How did we end up here, again?"

"Because a curious little soul ventured too close to the Rabbit Hole. But you needn't worry; I'll take good care of you."

Your voice is flat and serious. "Consider me comforted."

The first you're certain he had planned out. There was a small chiesa off of one of the main canals in Venezia, the church's paint peeling with long exposure to the sunlight and acid rain. It was a fairly humid day, chilled by the breeze floating off the waters as you wandered.

Feliciano had demanded you come check out some of the local shops with him and try some of the Northern pizza, "the best pizza in all Italia, bella!"

Naively, you believed his intentions to be entirely platonic, with no hidden meanings behind those small, knowing smiles and the molten caramel in his eyes.

The church was sun-stained into an almost marblesque white. Like a lot of the city, it seemed that the layers of history were peeling away, the dust lingering on the air to mix with the salt waters around you.

It was almost as if the ancient city was bringing out her true colours for you, proudly displaying the mars and scars that formed her dignified history.

Domed ceilings greeted those who entered the seemingly tiny building, the hidden awe and majesty breathtaking in its timeless beauty.

You may not be Christian per se, but anyone could appreciate the centuries old architecture that all of Europe had to share, Italy exclusively entrancing you. Venezia in particular had a certain charm to her, reminding you of some ancient painting, one in which the frame was being eroded with time, slowly but surely leading to the imminent exposure of the realm within.

How easily that depiction fit the very thing happening inside of Feliciano's mind that day. What had been occurring for several meetings now.

You thought it was a genuine trip when he fell into you, breath teasing at your ear and hands landing in places too intimate for a casual friend. The apology came, lips brushing against the neck in the slowest manner possible. He whispered it was the wax on the floor, something about his shoelaces being undone.

The contact was eons too long, leaving you a mess of tension and confusion, all too aware of how slowly and languidly his hands seemed to leave your hips, the molten caramel colour of his eyes as he stepped back out into the sunlight.

It was hours later you’d remember his shoes didn’t have laces. But by then it was far too late.


The day had been filling; he had shown you his city in the most fulfilling way a local could truly explain their world to an outsider. It was almost a fortress, a kingdom that truly belonged to the creatures of the sea, but instead was raised for mere mortals to appreciate. Everything hinted at an ancient history, a spirit that could never be truly crushed. There were centuries written into the crumbling walls, millenia whispering from the more submerged buildings. The salt floating on the air kept your senses alive, the sun on your back keeping you warm despite the cold breeze playing through the maze of walkways.

There was a library, intermingled with Venetian glass and a tribute to da Vinci's finer works. The books alone would have made any collector weep; the architecture within the building nearly blew you away with the wind.

The Piazza San Marco was not quite as exhilarating as you had been lead to believe by the guidebooks, overrun with fellow explorers and aggressive pigeons, fighting the crowds and visiting seagulls for crumbs and space. Feliciano quickly guided you away, familiar with the side streets and quickly guiding you to quieter areas and the side of the city passerbys truly get to experience.

The antique market, a small piazza where you saw a young family playing with a stray dog. There was a bookshop that you insisted stopping in, falling apart at the seams with works dating back to the Middle Ages. Feliciano seemed wary; you were ecstatic to find such gems for less than 20 euro.

And goodness- the food.


An admirable trait about the Vargas siblings was their never-ending knowledge of good cuisine, fashion, artwork and charm. In some instances, they were considered snobbish and arrogant for said traits, and in the past you had a difficult time associating Feliciano with anything other than obnoxious with his knowledge.

That was before you let him take you out for dinner however.

He spared no expense, and rather than give you the gift of a single risorante, of sampling one pizzeria or experience a single cafe, he spread it all out. He had planned, down to the last drink, how the evening would go, not only establishing a fine idea in your mind of what Northern Italy truly was like, but also give you the opportunity to see more of the city.

From the mortadella and romano sandwich at midday to the ever-bitter grappa after an early dinner, to the thin slice of pizza that played the role of a midafternoon snack to the house wine at his favourite private ristorante, Feliciano knew exactly where to take you to fall entirely in love with his city.


Another thing you would curse him for later.

You’re not quite sure when he cornered you.

It was nearing dusk, your food and drink tour on hold until the sun had settled itself beyond the horizon, dessert sure to follow.

One minute, you were standing on a small bridge together, the last hints of the sun playing on the now darkening canal waters, the sounds of voices and bells faded and echoing softly in the remote byway.

And then he had moved closer to you, hip pressing slightly into your own, arm wrapped behind you and securing you against the railing. Caution having been tossed to the Venetian winds ages ago, the gesture was more comforting than concerning, and you found yourself moving slightly more into his warmth.

“(Y/n), ho una domanda per toi.”

His voice was nearly unheard, words escaping on small puffs of air that teased the hair against your ear, causing you to shiver despite the warm evening. It was then your pulse skipped, dozens of questions hitting you simultaneously, your breath catching for a moment as you swore you felt him pressing even closer.

“Feli?” The two syllables were almost torture to squeeze out, thoughts in overdrive as to what he could possibly be doing.

A quick glance to the side showed a deep gold in his eyes, a small smirk adorning his lips. His eyes were focused on the canal waters before you, but that did nothing to ease the tension.


His words were a husky whisper, a rapid, fading Northern Italian dialect nearly confusing you at its presence. But the meaning was clear. The desire-


“Le mie intenzioni sono tutt’altro che nobile, ma non farei mai niente senza la tua concenso prima.”

His fingers teased at your cheek, lightly tracing incomprehensible patterns across the skin, fingers extending lightly to tease behind the ear. The dance was almost hypnotic, his eyes brimming with the promise of more to come.


He was a dangerous territory, someone your senses had told you to avoid from the beginning. But damn your sense of curiousity. Damn him. Damn-


“Sepevo che eri un demone.”

His smile grew slightly more wicked, were that even possible. His fingers paused, palm pressing lightly against the cheek, fingertips resting in your hair.

A sense of anticipation lingered in the air, his smile and beautiful brown eyes hinting at his sense of achievement.

“Were I a demon, I never would have asked.”


You could feel it coming, long before he had moved. You had expected the pressure to be firm against your lips, perhaps even a silent request to push deeper. You had not expected him to barely make contact, lips ghosting over your own so gently you almost had to ask yourself if he was there.

His fingers resumed their dance, other hand joining to lightly trace an opposing design on your hip and lower back.


And then, ever so gently, there was more pressure against your lips, then lifted once more, ebbing in a manner mimicking the canal water beneath you.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, he was everywhere again. You wanted to think things through, to guide yourself through the sudden barrage on your conscious knocking the wind out of you. But his hands were restless, his lips had coaxed yours into following his movements, breath stolen entirely when he increased pressure and pace.


Madonna santissima-


And so you pushed all thought away, your own arms adjusting and hands becoming more adventurous as you attempted to take control of the somewhat nostalgic dance.


You later would think of how the Devil had won, how you were a willing volunteer to play this game.


Some things never change.


He still teases, never quite allowing for contentment in this game. He always looks for ample opportunities to weaken your defenses, at moments when he knows you wish to keep your wits about you. He's ever-so-possessive, caramel eyes lingering on your thoughts long after you had bid him adieu.

And the biting!-

Ah, but he's stopped for the time being, reality once more catching up with you.



"Feli, we have to get back to the group-"

"Just a few more minutes, Sognatrice..." His voice is a quiet whine, forehead dropping against your shoulder in mild frustration. You try to fight the smile, really you do, but somehow his slightly childish attributes endeared him to you. "I don't want to share you yet."

You bite your lip, the smile irrepressible now. He knew how to play his cards, every single time.

"Fine," you breathe a winded sigh, one that has his fist gather some of you clothing in almost in an unconscious gesture of pride, your words almost disappearing in the small room. "Just a few more minutes."

"Grazie."


The chirp. His curl. His eyes. The soft smile that always played on his face when he was truly happy. Perhaps they weren't the traits of an angel. Perhaps there was still a chance you could call this whole thing off.

It was too early to throw around words like "love" and "adore," too soon to think of something so permanent.

But as he presses a gentle kiss to your temple, helps you fix your hair and leads you back into the light, a seemingly innocent grin on his lips-


Maybe it's time to start another adventure.