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fayes-fics · 2 months ago

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Il Ballo del Doge

Pairings: Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader, Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader, modern AU (threesome)

Summary: At the most exclusive event during Carnevale di Venezia, you find yourself sat between two irresistible, handsome brothers…

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, MMF threesome, no incest. Modern AU with Regency masquerade roleplay. Sexual acts with strangers. Very light dom/sub undertones, dirty talk, praise kink, frottage, handjob through clothing. Mentions of cunnilingus, blow jobs, vaginal sex, exhibitionism, sex in front of a crowd.

Word Count: 3.7k

Author's note: An exercise to warm up my writing muse that spiralled into a dirty-talking threesome 🤷‍♀️😬 This is modern AU with the boys dressed in Regency masquerade ball garb. Fic title is the name of the most exclusive ball during Carnival. Thanks to @colettebronte for quickly wading through this utter filth. Err enjoy 🧡

Venice.

Carnivale.

A masquerade ball ripped from the pages of history - an opulent smorgasbord of cabaret, circus and epicurean feast, held in a sprawling Venetian palazzo. You are stunned as you arrive; grand architecture ablaze with countless fire torches, jugglers and semi-nude performers under heavy garlands of flowers and vines while champagne overflows into towers of coupe glasses: a modern bacchanalian celebration, a luxurious escape for the rich and connected.

You have saved for years to be here - a once-in-a-lifetime trip. This ball is one night of fantasy and sensual indulgence. Detached from reality, you are plunged into another world behind a Columbina demi mask and elaborate costume picked from an atelier.

So when you find yourself sitting for the banquet between two tall, broad-shouldered, strong-jawed men with aristocratic British accents a few hours into the event, it feels enthralling to flirt with them both. The over-the-top theatricality of the setting and the masks you all wear lend an air of anonymity that makes you unusually daring. They are dressed sharply in full Regency garb, a cut that emphasises their appealing physicality. One of them leans in close as you finish the final course of the night; the meal has been a perfect symphony of flavour building upon the last dish.

“Pray tell, my fair lady, what do you wish for tonight?”

“A night I will never forget.”

Your response is truthful but intentionally enigmatic, craning to whisper into his neck, inhaling his delicious, unique, custom-blended aftershave.

“May I assist with that?” He proposes, intent evident from the tone he invokes.

“Perhaps….” You coquette, revelling in the delicious array of possibilities before throwing down a daring gauntlet: “Can you promise to be memorable?”

He huffs a throaty laugh.

“I most certainly hope I can. But safety in numbers may be most prudent to ensure it. Perhaps my brother can assist in such endeavours?”

He nods to the man sitting on your other side, who turns towards you, smile crooked under his demi mask.

“I am seated between two brothers?!”

“A Viscount and a renowned artist, no less,” the first man crows, a self-assurance there that speaks volumes to the veracity of his claim. And you can well believe it. Events such as this exclusive ball are the playground of the elite, after all.

“Which of you is the Viscount, and who is the artist?” You query, your gaze moving from one to the other and back again.

The other man leans in. “Now that would be telling, wouldn’t it? And where is the fun in that?” He hums, his breath ghosting through the tendrils of hair around the ribbon ties of your mask.

“I am Ant, and my brother here is Ben,” the first man explains, “and that is all you need to know.”

You offer your name before tilting your chin to the stage before you. “The evening's entertainment is about to recommence, though, gentlemen.”

“You will not need to miss a thing,” Ben answers blithely. “We can give you an experience like no other without you even having to leave the very chair you sit in.”

You can’t help the bubble of sceptical laughter at that bold statement. “How?”

“We will talk you through pleasure,” Ant intones, his voice dripping with a confidence that is skating the edges of arrogance. “We will not even need to touch you. In fact, I rather like the onus that we will not.”

You pull an incredulous face. “I’d like to see you try…”

“Oh, my fair lady, that attitude is just a red rag to the proverbial bull,” Ant cautions, voice like smooth velvet sliding over your skin.

Part of you wants to scoff and walk away, part of you wants to be stubborn and prove them wrong, but the biggest part of you, from your neck downwards really, wants them to do just that. Bring you pleasure. Here in public. In this loud, raucous, decadent room filled with hundreds of people.

“Go right ahead gentlemen,” you challenge, your tongue deciding for you as you raise an eyebrow to them each in turn.

Ant reaches around behind him and produces a long, black, polished walking cane. “Fortuitously, this came as a part of my costume,” he offers before pausing a beat to employ a clipped, brusque tone: “Open your legs.”

To your own astonishment, you obey reflexively. With a smirk, Ant slides the cane between your legs, still covered in voluminous skirt layers. He hooks its tip through the foot rung in your chair, then leans its ornate filigree round handle against the dining table in front of you. He rearranges the heavy tablecloth over it and around your lap to completely conceal the cane’s presence.

“Something for you to pleasure yourself against, subtly, of course,” Ant breezes as your head whips to look at him, startled by his matter-of-fact suggestion.

“Do not concern yourself,” Ben reassures. “There is far too much noise and distraction in this vast room for others to know or frankly care. Their attention will also be diverted to the stage and the performers. That is, if they are not themselves being pleasured. There are as many people to be found under these tables as people sitting around them, especially by the end of the night,” his opinion sounding very much based on experience rather than conjecture.

“Shuffle forward in your chair,” Ant encourages, and again you find yourself doing his bidding. The many layers of your costume scrunch between your legs as you close your thighs around the thin cane, a throb already in your silken underwear at how daring this is, allowing two virtual strangers to do this to you.

“Perfect,” Ben compliments just as the music pipes up loudly and a troupe of dancers take to the stage.

Ant places two napkins on the table before you.

“If either of us says or does something that you do not like, pick up the serviette closest to that person, and we shall desist,” he explains, a surge of pleasure that you are being given all the power to direct their behaviour.

“Men of honour,” you comment, impressed, as both men subtly shift their chairs closer, turning into your body slightly.

“We are gentlemen.”

“It is a privilege for us to do this.”

A spike of lust races through you at their dulcet tones, so close up now.

“And what should I do if I like what you are doing? For you not to desist?”

You feel more than see the matching smiles on either side of your face.

“Oh, believe me, we shall know…” Ben chuckles richly, “and we will keep doing so until you are satisfied.”

Something in that smoky promise makes your pulse all over, and you swallow heavily, a flush creeping over you at their proximity. You can tell no one is paying the three of you any heed, though, with all attention around you glued to the magnificent performers.

“You may touch us anywhere you wish,” Ant tempts, knowing your eyes have flitted down to the fit of their costumes a few times already, expensive wool wrapped tight around shapely thighs.

“But it doesn’t matter how much you beg; we shall not touch you,” Ben adds teasingly.

You bite your lip, already squirming in your cushioned seat. The tautness of the fabric between your legs due to the cane there has your clit swelling.

“Now, I rather suspect this fair lady likes a mental picture to be painted…” Ben begins.

“I think you might be right, brother,” Ant concurs. " You are the expert in such matters, after all.”

“So you must be the Viscount…” you crow, almost triumphant, turning fractionally towards Ant.

“Well, aren't you the clever girl?” he hums; that choice of words has a curl of heat unfurling in your gut.

“Of course she is,” Ben cuts in. “If there is one thing we can tell, it’s that you are an independent, smart woman. Who else would travel to Venice and attend such an event all alone? And yet… and yet…. secretly what you crave, what you would never admit to, is just how wet it gets you to be praised and told you are such a good girl, hmmm?”

You exhale shakily, slightly unnerved that he has been able to hit the bullseye so readily but so thrilled for the endless delicious prospects this could portend.

“But how good of a girl can she really be when what she most wants is for us to fuck her right here in public?” Ant piles in; his use of that phrase has you inhaling sharply, taken aback at how quickly it has escalated.

“Don't pretend you don't want that,” Ben clucks. “Your perfect little clit is throbbing right now at the idea, isn't it? Picturing these crowds of people watching, salivating and wishing it were them inside you. Watching as you claw at this table and take us both in turn….”

You are indeed clutching the side of the table already, nails digging into the wood through the cloth, breath stolen by just how explicit they are being. And yet, as promised, they do not lay a finger on you except the press of their clothed thighs against yours where they surround you on both sides. You rock further forward in your chair without even realising, needing to feel that hard rod against your slit, the relief that pushing yourself against it will bring.

“I rather think you would demand our tongues first, though,�� Ant remarks casually.

“Oh, I wouldn't doubt it,” Ben agrees. “For us to throw your legs over our shoulders and feast upon you. Run our tongues over and over until you are shivering and pulling our hair, directing us just where you want us. I suspect you are the type who wants to taste yourself in the mouth of those who pleasure you. For them to kiss you with their tongue thick with your arousal, face glazed with your juices.”

You are breathing ragged, honestly spellbound by their ability.

“And I bet you taste delicious. Like ripe berries, sweet but tart,” Ant contends. “A flavour that bursts on the tongue like a fine wine.”

He reaches for his glass and waits for you to watch him take an indulgent sip, the bob of his Adam’s Apple as he swallows. But he allows a drop to escape around the corner of his mouth dribbling a line that you track covetously, tongue feeling heavy, wanting to lick it from his hint of chin stubble.

“Remember, you can touch. That includes with your tongue, sweet girl,” he goads before using the pad of his thumb to wipe away that tempting trickle provocatively.

You can’t help the light moan that escapes your lips, grinding against the pole he has placed between your legs; the spike of pleasure it causes as it crushes your clit has you shuddering.

“That’s it,” Ben gusts. “Treat that swollen little pearl just a little rough. I bet all those layers of fabric are just adding to the exquisite ache….”

His hand lands on the table next to yours, not touching but close enough that you can see how long and shapely his fingers are compared to your own. He swirls his pointer and middle finger slowly on the tablecloth in a circular motion. An intentional tease that you stare at, your hips somehow syncopating with the speed of his movements, imagining that very hand buried between your thighs.

“That’s it,” he repeats, “not too fast, not too slow.”

“Just enough to make you reckless with need,” Ant interjects. “You would do anything we told you to if we got you to that sweet spot, wouldn’t you?”

You nod without even realising it.

“Oh, I know it,” Ant gloats. “I would tease you for so long you forget your own name. Clit so swollen you can’t cross your legs. Begging and pleading for relief…”

These men use words like finely-honed weapons. Each phrase is seemingly expertly designed to take you apart at the seams. Your hands splay out on the table, and you grab each of theirs, clutching the back of their knuckles into your palm as you rub yourself shamelessly.

“You get the prettiest flush when you’re aroused,” Ben whispers, his eyes flitting down to your décolletage. “I wonder how far it goes? Does it keep going all the way to those pretty, puffy lips that are wrapped around that cane right now?”

The way he says it conjures the thought of your mouth wrapped around a cock; in no doubt that both of theirs are likely sizeable.

“I know what you’re thinking of,” Ant murmurs darkly as you keep writhing, a bead of sweat running down your spine into your underwear. “I know you are a dirty little thing who loves to be on your knees as well. I can tell how much you love the power. Having a man vulnerable in your mouth. Their rapt attention begging you to suck a little harder, a little deeper.”

“She loves to tease,” Ben surmises as they lean in closer, both lips dusting the shell of your ear. “Little strands of saliva roping from your lips as you pull off and look up goadingly through your lashes. You love to feel the tremble of thighs under your palms, don’t you? That feeling when your lips are all swollen and your cheeks aching from all that sucking. But most of all, you love to have a man come undone in your mouth. To swallow every drop you have earned…”

You are panting openly, harshly, your mouth filled with saliva as you imagine how tasty they likely are, a sweetness that makes it pleasant, addictive almost. A yearning for either to stand up, unzip right now and offer you their cock to suck upon. All around you, lights swirl, and the music swells louder, obscuring what is happening at this table. The most risqué you have ever behaved, wantonly frottaging yourself as two strangers, albeit handsome refined gentlemen, spout utter filth.

“Tell me how you’d fuck me,” you demand, gasping, rhythmically crushing your throbbing clit, wanting to come so bad your skin itches.

“I’d go first,” Ben huffs, his breathing uneven now too. “You’re already dripping down to your knees from our tongues; you can take me, can’t you, sweet girl?”

Again, you find yourself nodding; your lip darkened from your incisor tooth snagging upon it.

“I think what you might enjoy is being face down,” he rumbles dangerously. “So you can’t see everyone watching you at first. Just hear their shocked but approving noises. Your forehead on this tablecloth as I place a hand on your spine to quell your quivering from behind. Drag your hips over this table and plough right into your weeping little cunt.”

That word is the catalyst. You can no longer hold back. Your hands fly into both of their laps and grab their thighs forcefully, loving the feel of warm, latent muscle as your fingers curl into their quads.

“Oh, you like that��” Ant assesses correctly.

You hiss your assent as Ben continues.

“You are so perfect for me, aren’t you? Such a pretty pussy, all swollen and puffy and soaked as I split you open. I’m not going to go slow because that’s not what you want, is it? You want sharp thrusts, your toes leaving the ground with each snap, pressed hard into the table, your nipples rubbing just a little raw inside your corset. You want your entire body to jerk with each thrust, clit catching the table edge….”

Your responding yes is sibilant, as all around you, the frenzy of entertainment continues, spotlights swirling, performers contorting themselves in a seeming match for your fever.

“You want my hands clamped on your hips, tugging you back into my cock. Curled over you and praising how well you take it and what a good girl you are for me and for letting everyone watch. You feel so divine, squeezing my cock so tight that my eyes roll. Butttt…” he rolls that last letter in his mouth as if a tasty treat, his hand flexing on the table. “My poor sweet thing, just as you are babbling, clawing and moaning so beautifully, drooling onto this cloth right here, I'm going to pull out and leave you wanting, for we are not ready to have you come again. Not yet, my sweet girl. We want you mindless, to build you up so many times over that you are aching. The reward will be so much sweeter for you in the end that way, won't it?”

No one has ever talked to you in such precise, poetic detail before. Your hands grasp their thighs roughly, but they maintain their promise, even as you see the mutinous desire in the flex of their bodies, a muzzled yen to touch you back. It makes you need them more, how much control they can exert despite wanting the opposite. You are shameless in your motions now, pushing yourself towards that high; part of you wishes to plunge your fingers into yourself, and part of you wants to see if you can orgasm untouched, coming undone with just their words and friction.

“Don't stop,” Ant gasps. “Make yourself come, sweet girl.”

“I want to grab both of your cocks,” you confess rapidly, the truth tumbling from your lips as you ratchet higher.

“Do it…” Ant dares you, as out the corner of your eye you can see his are glittering darkly, pupils blown.

They both growl as you twist your wrists and slide your hands greedily up their laps, shamelessly palming their erections, straining against their trousers under the table. The heat and mass of them both has your pussy quivering, knowing from this touch alone just how satisfied you would be to feel either or, ideally, both of them fuck you. Their grip on the table has their knuckles turning white as Ant speaks anew, a tinge of desperation in his words that has you gleeful.

“My brother has had a little of his fun; now it's my turn. And I think you are ready to see all those gathered around you, even those onstage gazing down upon you. So I am going to flip you over, my sweet girl. Place your ankles upon my shoulders, that drenched little slit ruining my trousers before I tug open my fly and take you too. How prettily you howl my name as I slide into you. This sturdy table is going to squeak, isn't it? You are such a demanding thing, ordering me to fuck you harder, your hands clawing at my jacket, your heels clicking together behind my head. Perhaps my brother needs to be on the other side of the table, holding your shoulders down so all can see. Maybe even ripping open your dress, your beautiful breasts bouncing with each thrust I take, my good girl. You want this and so much more, don’t you? For me to fuck you endlessly right here, right now….”

And it's true. You yearn for what they promise. For them to bury their tongues between your thighs, for you to be on your knees before them, sucking the very life out of their cocks. For them to throw you onto this same table and fuck you so hard and thoroughly, you leave fingernail marks on the wood. To have the whole crowd watch as you near peak after peak until you are a swollen, fucked-out mess. Craving nothing but more, another orgasm, that mind-blowing pleasure that makes you soar high above as well as stay rooted so deep in your body you feel a weight in your bone that is pure rapture.

And just like that, you are breaking, burying your face into Ant’s neck as you wrap an arm around Ben’s. Shuddering violently as you crest that edge, febrile pleasure breaking over your skin, each cell of your body seeming to snap taut and then relax into waves of bliss, floating somewhere high above the sparkling chandeliers that hang from each beam. Dimly, you hear them murmuring your praises, but it's muffled by the rush of blood in your head. It seems to last forever, jerking and spasming against that cane, wanting instead to feel their weight on top of you, their cocks spurting deep within you as you reach that peak in harmony. When you come back to yourself, you realise your hands are still unconsciously squeezing their cocks through their clothing, and suddenly you snatch your hands from their laps.

“Don’t you dare come,” you snarl, as they groan enchantingly, so close and yet denied at the very last moment.

“Why?” Ant puffs, a vein on his forehead pulsing beguilingly.

“Because I need you to fuck me…” you grit out between your teeth. “Both of you,” you add, addressing Ben, his whole body quaking as you utter it.

Even though your knees feel like jelly, you push back your chair, the cane clattering to the floor and rolling under the table, forgotten, as you stand up and grab their hands, hauling them from their seats. You are uncaring if anyone stares at you, costumes dishevelled and askew, as you march towards the exit. Neither resists as you tug them out of the ballroom, down the long grand stairwell and outside to the gondolas lined up on the dock, ready to ferry people back to their hotels.

“I have one requirement…” you practically bark as you push them both down onto a seat, twisting to name your hotel to the gondolier behind you, his smirk unmistakable.

“Which is…?” Ant prompts, staring up at you as you tower over them, your eyes drawn inexorably to the unmistakable outline still nestled in both of their trousers.

You take a seat on the bench opposite them in the narrow boat. Wordlessly pulling up your layers of skirt and peeling down your ruined underwear, tossing them into the canal as they stare covetously, likely catching a glimpse between your legs before you roll your skirt back down.

“You had both better fucking touch me...” you finally reply.

They throw their heads back and laugh heartily, twisting to look at each other briefly, seeming to communicate silently before their gazes land back on you, almost predatory.

“You can bloody count on it,” they growl in unison.

masterlist • wips • taglist (must follow this blog to be tagged)

Anthony & Benedict taglist pt 1: @makaylan @longingintheuniverse @iboopedyournose @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @queenofmean14 @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @elizah99 @fictionalmenloversblog @debheart @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @amanda08319 @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @m-rae23 @last-sheep @kmc1989 @ferns-fics @corpseoftrees-queen @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23

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auressea · 2 years ago

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Carnivale in Venice. Magnificent costumes - which are both costly and heavy!

#venice #carnivale #carnevale di venezia #costuming #masquerade #inversion festivals #high days and holy days #wow #masks #masquerade mask

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delicate-sketch · 1 year ago

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Carnevale di Venezia

Because I think it's a crime Nico being a venetian and having between none to nothing fanarts being extra and wearing a costume

#will solace #artists on tumblr #nico di angelo #solangelo #illustration #fanart #pjo hoo toa tsats #percy jackson #tsats #riordanverse #pjo

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the-nosy-neighbor · 4 months ago

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Poe

So, still digesting this information.

Also, I just realized that the wiki has links to Clown’s past comments about each character, so I have been enjoying reading those. I did a deep dive a while back, but didn’t see some of the things added.

The main thing I see here, if people aren’t familiar with the works of Edward Allen Poe, is the fact that two of his stories are referenced in the book. I assume most people are going to know, as his stuff is pretty popular and references abound. Sally has determined that they are going to do her version of “The Tell-tale Heart.” I wish we got to hear more about what her version was like, but we do get a small idea. The second references is “The Cask of Amontillado.” I’m going to do a super basic description of each story—I have read these in the past, but I’m using general info from Wikipedia as a source.

In “The Telltale Heart” (which I saw a feminist play version of recently), the story follows an unnamed person who lives with an old man and becomes obsessed with the idea that his “milky” eye (probably cataracts) is watching him at all times. He decides that he is going to have to kill him to get rid of this evil eye. He goes in at night with a shuttered lantern to observe the old man while he sleeps. For seven days, he doesn’t see the eye. On the eighth, the old man wakes up (I think the main character makes a noise) and then when the shaft of light lands on his unusual eye, decides that this is the sign he needs to go ahead and kill him.

Check out this awesome art from Wikipedia, an illustration by Harry Clark in 1923

He hears the old man’s heartbeat at this point. The old man cries out once and then dies. So he kills him, dismembers him, and buries him under the floorboards of the old man’s room. But someone heard the scream, so the police come. He has taken care of everything suspicious, so he doesn’t think that they are going to find anything, but he keeps hearing the heartbeat. He brings chairs to the old man’s room, and they sit there. The heartbeat keeps getting louder and louder, but the cops don’t seem to hear it. Eventually, the sound of the heartbeat breaks him, and he confesses to the crime. He tells them where the body is hidden.

The story was published in January of 1843 in a magazine. Interesting tidbit, it was published with a poem claimed by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, called “A Psalm of Life” but when Poe’s story was republished, he had them drop the poem, because he thought it could be plagiarized. It was first published anonymously, and some felt that if it was Wadsworth’s, it could be a translation of Goethe. The poem is about seizing the day, doing great things.

Now, the second piece, “The Cask of Amontillado” is also a story about premeditated murder. In this case, it follows an Italian noble who has fallen on hard times, who hates a man he blames for his bad fortune. The hated man is called “Fortunato,” and the murderer is called “Montresor” which is a family name. So, it’s Carnival (Carnevale), which has parades, costumes, masks, games, pranks, theatre performances among other celebrations. Mardi Gras is descended from this festival. Montresor finds Fortunato wandering around drunk (and it is insinuated that while he is called a connoisseur he could be a garden variety alcoholic). Having planned for revenge against the guy, he asks him to come to his house and check out this rare wine he bought, known for being counterfeit most of the time. Given that Fortunato has a taste for wines, he is going to give his opinion. Monstresor thinks with carnival happening around them, and both of them in carnival garb and masks, no one will notice them going to his house.

He takes the guy down to his basement, giving him some wine on the way down to keep him drunk, and instead of wine, there is a chain on the wall with a lock on the other side. Montresor locks him in, and starts to build a wall around him. Fortunato tries to take it as a joke, but it becomes apparent that Montresor is going to leave him there. Fortunato begs for them to leave and drink the wine together, while his murderer agrees with everything he says, still building the wall. With one brick left, Montresor looks at him, and calls his name twice:

I heard no answer. “Fortunato!” I cried. “Fortunato.” I heard only a soft, low sound, a half-cry of fear. My heart grew sick; it must have been the cold. I hurried to force the last stone into its position. And I put the old bones again in a pile against the way. For half a century now no human hand has touched them. May he rest in peace!

Also notable in this story is the imagery of Montresor’s family crest, which shows a foot crushing a snake, while the snake has its fangs in the heel of the foot. I read a discussion on the somewhat circular nature of this image, because the viewer can’t tell who the aggressor is there. Did the snake bite first, or did the heel crush first? “Montresor” means “my treasure;” “Fortunato” means “lucky, fortunate, blessed, or happy.” Fortunato is also the name of many Christian saints.

What does this mean for Poppy? And Sally? In our story, Sally is distraught that she suggested that Poppy act in the play, having forgotten (somehow) that Poppy is scared of everything, until everyone reminds her that Poppy is scared of everything. Barnaby says “brick by brick,” which gives Barnaby the idea to brick Poppy into her barn. Truly bizarre. So all the neighbors (minus Home) set to work bricking up her window with school glue and bricks. Interestingly, all the neighbors appear to be there, but you don’t see the hands of Frank or Sally, just trowels.

You see a shot of the interior of the barn with just a small part remaining open, with Sally’s face in the hole. Then a line says “Never had a home look so safe and cozy!” (sic, not sure about that, typo?) Agree to disagree, that sounds terrifying.

Poppy being out of the play altogether means that Home is in the play. We see the other neighbors prepping, so I assume that the page where they are all in windows shows what each one is doing: Wally is painting (scenery?), Frank is brushing Julie’s hair, Howdy is putting chairs out (?), Barnaby is eating a hot dog, home is staring directly at us, and Eddie is studying lines. Sally, in the center is being bummed that Poppy isn’t participating. Given that Home is in the background of the play itself, I am going to assume that Julie is the main character, Eddie is Cop 1 and Home is Cop 2. The play ends with the confession scene, but Julie confesses burying her alarm clock in a garden, not a murder. Home has three black dots on the front, but I can’t tell if that is some kind of decoration for the play, or if it is more of the black stuff that is on everything.

After the play, we are treated to silhouettes of the audience and cast, but we don’t have the audio of the lines there, instead, we are hearing Poppy’s panic. But it does have the line, “Most important of all, not a single peep was heard out of Poppy.” Then there is a page of a feather on a brick page (that reminds me of the old missing art that isn’t canon.

The book ends with an image of the bricked over window. While the audio tells us she is fine, the images themselves are suspect. More to come later.

#welcome home #welcome home theories #welcome home arg #wally darling #welcome home project

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ofginjxints · 9 months ago

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closed starter for @ourcwnside, my beloved

Aziraphale had always had a soft spot for Italy, it was always such a hub for art and culture, the people were so lively, and the food! Oh, the food! He was sure he had tried all the pasta shapes he possibly could, but new ones were being created all the time - such clever and wonderful people.

It was the end of February and that meant one thing Carnevale di Venezia! The Italians did like an excuse to simply have fun and revel in one another's company and so did the angel. Opting for a half-faced mask stylised like a cat, ears and all, he had built his whole costume around it. It was brilliant gold and white, dramatic and striking - as was everybody around him.

The music was raucous upon the streets, there was dancing and plenty of wine that was already offered to him as he approached Piazza San Marco. He brought the glass to his lips and made his way around the square to take in all the sights. He was halfway through his glass when he was sure he felt the presence of...

He turned his head and ah, there she was.

#ch; aziraphale #thread; aziraphale&crowley 13 #ourcwnside #<3

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persa-tra-i-miei-pensieri · 1 year ago

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Non penso lo leggerai mai ma ho bisogno di scrivertelo... la verità è che l'unica persona a cui vorrei raccontare ogni cosa resti tu. Ti ho fatto uscire dalla mia vita solo per paura, per gelosia, per paura di soffrire di più nel vederti amare un'altra e invece fa più male sapere di non poterti scrivere più nulla, fa più male non sentire come stai e cosa fai, se hai finito gli esami, se il tuo racconto sta avendo successo, se hai esultato al goal di ieri sera, se hai sfiorato con delicatezza l'astuccio dell'Inter che ti ho regalato quando la nostra squadra ha alzato quella coppa, se per te sarà lo stesso quando ricominceranno i programmi che ci hanno intrattenuto per tutto questo tempo e che ci hanno regalato le risate più belle. Ogni cosa ha perso un po' di entusiasmo da quando abbiamo separato le nostre strade. Mi domando spesso se sei più passato vicino a quella panchina o se la eviti con tutto te stesso per non lasciarti travolgere dai ricordi. Vorrei raccontarti che oggi inizierò finalmente a seguire le lezioni di scuola guida, vorrei raccontarti che non ancora finisco di pulire quelle maledette piastrelle, vorrei raccontarti la disavventura con quello sportello di orientamento lavoro, vorrei raccontarti che ho trovato una casa editrice vicina al mercatino, vorrei raccontarti degli spettacoli che ho visto in questo ultimo mese, vorrei raccontarti delle risate e delle lacrime di questi giorni, vorrei raccontarti anche di averci provato a far entrare qualcun altro nella mia vita e che nessuno ha varcato davvero quella soglia, vorrei dirti che senza te non è lo stesso, vorrei raccontarti delle ultime idee per il mio racconto, vorrei farti vedere il costume che probabilmente indosserò a carnevale, vorrei raccontarti come mi sono ritrovata spesso nella tana dei rubentini, dei commenti di mamma quando vede Inzaghi, vorrei raccontarti che forse anche papà inizia a sostenermi per il racconto a modo suo ti ricordi che temevo di no, vorrei raccontarti che a Pasqua forse andrò nel posto che tanto abbiamo sognato di vedere un giorno si proprio Civita di Bagnoregio, vorrei ridere ancora insieme a te per Crozza, per Paolantoni, per ogni stupidaggine che ci viene in mente, per tentare di batterti al fanta, vorrei scriverti ancora a topo invece di a dopo, vorrei vedere ancora i tuoi occhi furbetti color nocciola tostato come li avevo definiti io, vorrei ancora vedere i tuoi capelli ribelli e sentire la tua risata dolce, vorrei dirti che durante lo spettacolo di Peter Pan per un attimo ho pensato di averti a due posti davanti a me che quel ragazzo da dietro ti somigliava aveva perfino il tuo stesso neo sul collo, avevo il cuore che mi stava scoppiando ci ho davvero sperato che fossi tu anche se era impossibile e poi si è voltato, non eri tu ... Vorrei ammettere e scriverti che mi manchi.

Se solo non mi fossi innamorata di te, se solo non ci fossimo illusi per così tanto tempo ... forse la nostra amicizia sarebbe stata più forte di ogni cosa, forse io e te staremmo ancora parlando delle nostre giornate... Forse io e te saremmo ancora la più bella amicizia che sia esistita nella mia vita.

#pensieri per la testa #persa tra i miei pensieri #pensieri #pensavo #mi manchi #mancanza #tu #amici #amicizia #non si può tornare indietro da un addio #con te era diverso #vorrei #sbaglio #me ne sto pentendo #senza te #paura #vuoto #ti penso

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furlantravelfashionblogger · 22 days ago

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Venice Carnival 2025 | Italy Holidays from Citalia

Next February, experience one of Italy's most magical events the Venice Carnival!

The Venice Carnival (Carnevale di Venezia) dates back to the 12th century and has evolved into a grand, elegant celebration of art, culture, and Venetian tradition.

From the grand masquerade balls to intimate cultural performances, the Carnival offers something for every traveller. Stroll through the enchanting canals of Venice, adorned in ornate masks and costumes, surrounded by centuries of tradition.

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ginogirolimoni · 1 month ago

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Fascisti di ieri e di oggi.

Fa persino tenerezza vedere come i fascisti di oggi da un lato cercano di rendere visibile la loro “camicia nera” con gesti e con parole, per mandare cripto messaggi agli amici e forse anche ai nemici, mentre dall’altro, quando scoppia la polemica, cercano di nascondere la mano con cui hanno lanciato il sasso.

“Non sono antifascista!” risponde Vannacci a chi gli chiede se è fascista. Il busto di Mussolini in casa La Russa è solo un vecchio cimelio in soffitta, per altro a casa di sua sorella, non a casa sua. Romano La Russa, fratello di Ignazio, sorpreso a fare il saluto romano per dare l’estremo saluto ad un camerata defunto, dice che aveva alzato il braccio per chiedere ai camerati di evitare di fare quel saluto.

Vannacci gioca sull’equivoco di tracciare una X-Mas sul suo simbolo elettorale, si certo, e magari recatevi alle urne indossando l’accappatoio a fiorellini come il generale durante un’esibizione balneare.

Alla Meloni non estirperete mai nemmeno con le tenaglie una dichiarazione antifascista, ma non vi dirà mai che il fascismo è la sua vera grande fede, più di Tolkien.

Il viceministro Bignami indossa un costume nazista con tanto di svastica e viene soccorso subito dal suo sodale Donzelli, che minimizza, era carnevale ed io ero vestito da Minnie.

Elon Musk alza anche lui il braccetto destro in alto, ma quando scoppia la polemica mondiale, attacca i media lasciando intendere che hanno creato una fake news … neanche il coraggio delle proprie azioni.

Gira voce che Gianfranco Fini abbia abiurato qualche decennio fa la sua fede fascista, che a Gerusalemme, in visita ufficiale, con la kippah sulla capa, abbia detto che il fascismo fu un male assoluto e che abbia preteso in seguito che i suoi colonnelli e tutto il partito lo seguissero dopo nel fare i conti col loro passato lavando l’onta del fascismo con le acque di Fiuggi.

In realtà Fini disse solo che la “leggi razziali” furono il male assoluto e a Fiuggi i suoi colonnelli erano molto recalcitranti nel seguirlo sulla via del liberalismo moderato, benché fosse chiaro a tutti che si trattava di una semplice farsa, una vernice di nuovo perché il loro capo ambiva a sostituire un Berlusconi appesantito dai problemi giudiziari e da un incipiente marasma senile con lampi di satirismo.

I fascisti di ieri invece avrebbero detto: “Me ne frego!” e avrebbero molto più sbrigativamente usato olio di ricino e manganello contro chi osava pensare e chiedere loro qualcosa.

#fascismo #saluto romano #elon musk #la russa #vannacci #donzelli #bignami #leggi razziali #gianfranco fini

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scrivosempreciao · 3 months ago

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Sabbia sulle cosce

Sabbia sulle cosce. Gratta, gratta, a volte fa male, ma è così piacevole! L'ho sempre adorata. Stare lì, così, accovacciata nella buca sabbiosa che ho ricavato tra una sdraio e l'altra, mi fa sentire un animale. Una creatura del mare, tipo una foca, o un granchio. Una primitiva. E, oh mamma, quanto mi piacerebbe esserlo davvero. Un ammasso di cellule, ciccia, ossa e muscoli con nessun altro scopo se non quello di vivere.

E giocare, ovviamente. Selvaggia, rumorosa, sufficiente a me stessa. Invece ho dieci anni e quando questa estate cederà il posto all'autunno inizierò la scuola media. Ne ho una gran voglia, a dire il vero! È roba da grandi, un salto verso il domani, un'idea bellissima e nuovissima. Qualcosa che fa un po' paura, sì, ma che mette a disagio solo perché ancora non la conosco. Ne sono certa. Come quella sera di qualche mese fa, quando i miei stavano guardando "The Village" e io sarei già dovuta essere addormentata, al sicuro nella mia cameretta. Solo che non lo ero. Avvolta nel pigiamino blu, ero scivolata silenziosa come un furetto dal mio letto al corridoio; da lì, avevo provato a fare capolino dalla mezza parete che si affaccia sulla sala. Era tutto buio, ma le facce di mamma e papà erano illuminate dalla luce rossastra del film.

Mi ero messa sulla punta dei piedi per vedere lo schermo anch'io. Ed eccolo lì, il mostro di "The Village"! Era sbucato all'improvviso proprio mentre mi stavo sporgendo per curiosare. Ero tornata nel lettino con la coda tra le gambe, spaventatissima. Ma in realtà non avevo visto chissà cosa, giusto uno scorcio. Un microsecondo di quel mostro prima di scappare via. Mi aveva spaventata, molto, e mi era rimasto in testa per tutta la settimana, con quel suo mantello rosso, gli artigli e le zanne.

L'avevo anche disegnato, a un certo punto, da tanto era forte il bisogno di buttarlo fuori dalla mia mente! Mamma aveva visto il disegno e se n'era accorta. Mi aveva chiesto se per caso volessi parlarne e rivedere quella scena insieme a lei e papà, per far andare via la paura. Avevo detto sì e così avevamo fatto. Wow, a vederlo bene quel mostro non faceva per nulla spavento. Anzi, mi era sembrato quasi carino. Avevo sempre avuto un debole per le creature bizzarre. Sicuramente poteva venirne fuori un bel costume di carnevale per l'anno successivo.

Ecco, sono sicura che andare alla scuola media sarà proprio così. Mi sento nervosa e preoccupata, ma solo perché devo abituarmi e guardare tutto da vicino per la prima volta. Sarà fantastico; una cosa da grandi.

Sabbia sulle cosce. Mi metto a sedere e continuo a scavare, a giocare con la poltiglia sabbiosa che mi si forma nelle mani che ho appena immerso nel secchiello. Stravaccato sulla sdraio più vicina, c'è il nonno. Legge il giornale, borbotta qualcosa che non sento — c'è talmente tanto rumore lì, tra coccobello e la musica sparata a tutto volume dalle casse dei bagni 52. Sull'altra sdraio, la nonna. Si abbronza, i grandi occhiali da sole leopardati le coprono quasi tutta la faccia.

Sono loro i miei compagni di vacanza a Riccione. Mamma e papà sono ancora a casa, ci raggiungeranno più avanti. Mi mancano un po', ma diventare grandi è anche questo, no? Cavarsela da soli. Come una primitiva. Come una foca, o un granchio.

E, in fondo, non è per nulla male. Anche se…

Gratta, la sabbia gratta. Ora un po' più di prima, la sento sfregare sulla pelle delicata dietro le ginocchia: mi dà fastidio. La mia schiena è sudata. Da quanto tempo sono lì tutte quelle goccioline di sudore? Boh. Ma quanto rumore!

Pusch mi, en den giast tuch me, til ai chen ghet mai, satisfachton, satisfachton…

Quella canzone tutta agitata e dal suono che mi ricorda un po' le caramelle acide mi piace anche, parecchio, ma è tipo la quinta volta che oggi la mettono su e adesso inizia a trapanarmi le orecchie come non aveva mai fatto prima, mi entra giù nel collo e mi fa tremare le spalle. È troppo.

Quella sensazione pulsante corre da lì fino alla pancia e poi un po' più in basso, verso un punto a cui non penso quasi mai, se non per gioco o quando guardo i documentari sugli animali e a un certo punto il narratore spiega come avvengono gli accoppiamenti e le nascite dei cuccioli. Una piccola fitta proprio al centro, poi quel dolore sconosciuto si sdoppia e si sposta verso i fianchi. Ma come è possibile? Non mi era mai successo prima che il mio corpo avesse male in più punti contemporaneamente, non in quel modo.

Oh. Forse ho capito.

"Nonna?"

"Che c'è, Martinina?"

"Devo andare in bagno, posso? Mi scappa la pipì."

"Vai, vai."

Ma non è vero che mi scappa la pipì. Le toilette sono all'ingresso della spiaggia, proprio vicino agli spogliatoi e alle cabine dove William il bagnino mette tutti gli oggetti smarriti che ritrova sulla spiaggia dopo l'orario di chiusura. Entro in quella libera: dentro c'è odore di caldo, sabbia bagnata, sudore e acqua sporca. Non è certo gradevole, ma non direi che sia una puzza brutta; fa anche quella parte dell'estate e di Riccione. Mi abbasso la parte sotto del costume e mi siedo sul gabinetto. È tutto così buio, ma un po' di sole filtra in linee sottili dai tagli verticali della porta verniciata di bianco: guardo l'interno del costume.

Sangue. Sangue? Una macchiolina tutta rosa, pallida, sembra quasi un gioco di luce. Ma non è un gioco, è sangue vero. E il rosso sulla carta igienica che uso subito dopo me lo conferma.

Le mie cose. Urrà! Viva! Wow! Sono felicissima! Che emozione! Sono appena diventata una signorina. Mamma me ne aveva parlato. E anche nonna, anche se in un modo un po' da persona vecchia. Non sono impreparata, ho più o meno capito di che cosa si tratta e che cosa significa quando arrivano. Sapevo che le avrei avute anche io, prima o poi, ma mi sembrava una cosa fin troppo da ragazza grande: un'idea lontana, distante dalla mia vita di bambina che ancora gioca con il secchiello e fa le vocine per dare vita ai suoi pupazzi a forma di cavalli e draghi. E, invece, eccole lì, nelle mie mutandine. Sono una piccola donna.

Plic, plic. Un'altra scossa tiepida mi strizza la pancia e altro sangue scivola via da me, cadendo nell'acqua del water. Oh, ma allora è proprio una roba seria, qui c'è da dirlo a qualcuno. Mi pulisco come posso, tiro su il costume e torno dai miei nonni; felice, orgogliosa, con il cuore che mi batte a mille.

Ci affrettiamo a tornare in hotel, manco stessimo scappando dall'arrivo di un tornado. Nonno viene spedito prontamente a comprare degli assorbenti in farmacia — tornerà più tardi con quattro confezioni di marche diverse, due da me inutilizzabili, una troppo ingombrante, l'altra più o meno adatta; e anche dei cioccolatini.

Nonna si occupa di me. Mi dà un ricambio, mi spiega come lavarmi, mi chiede se sto bene. E io sto bene, eccome. Questa è una giornatona, è appena successa una cosa talmente importante che non riesco ancora a crederci. Chiedo a nonna di poter usare il cellulare per chiamare la mamma e dirglielo. Però, quando la voce di mamma tocca le mie orecchie e sento la curiosità elettrica di mia nonna agitarsi sopra la mia testa, in attesa che io mi sbrighi a dare la notizia, la mia euforia viene meno.

C'è qualcosa che non va. Qualcosa che non quadra. Io voglio dirlo alla mamma, ma le mie guance diventano tutte rosse e calde. Sento una sensazione spiacevole pizzicarmi la nuca, gli occhi e la gola. Non mi è estranea, l'ho già provata prima, quando le maestre mi rimproverano per qualcosa davanti a tutti o gli zii chiedono che io reciti la poesia di Natale davanti a tutti subito dopo aver mangiato gli struffoli e prima di scartare i regali. Imbarazzo. Vergogna. Che strano, non mi ero mai imbarazzata per qualcosa che riguardasse il mio corpo. Mai. E poi, perché nonna continua a darmi dei colpetti di gomito, esigendo che io dica quello che è successo? Che fastidio! E se non volessi dirlo? E se volessi che sia una cosa solo mia? Perché non può essere solo mia? Cos'è, se una cosa esce da te allora diventa di tutti?

Beh, comunque glielo dico, ovvio.

"Oggi ho ripassato le tabelline. Ho fatto un po' di matematica con nonna. Ah, e… e… emisonovenutelemiecose, ciao!"

"COSA?!"

È divertente, in fin dei conti. Sento mia madre inchiodare con la macchina — sta tornando a casa — e balbettare qualcosa, tutta agitata ed emozionata. Seguono un po' di coccole fatte a voce, parole di conforto, congratulazioni, domande e qualche lacrima. Mamma è buona, non vuole sottrarmi quel momento importante che, a voler ben vedere, appartiene solo a me. Ma certe cose deve dirmele, è così che funziona il mondo. Deve dirmi che sono diventata signorina. Deve dirmi che ora ogni mese sarà così. Deve dirmi che è tanto, tanto felice per me. Deve dirmi che sono entrata nel club delle ragazze grandi. Deve, e lo fa con dolcezza.

Ed è bello sentirsi così speciali, grazie a quelle parole. Ma l'imbarazzo non se ne va.

Quel pomeriggio non andiamo al mare. Nonno se ne sta nella hall, a leggere il giornale e chiacchierare. Nonna e io ce ne stiamo in piscina. O meglio, siamo sedute a un tavolino vicino alla piscina. Lei beve un caffè, io un succo alla mela. La pancia mi fa un po' male, ma non è per nulla insopportabile. Anzi, mi fa quasi piacere sentire un dolore nuovo: quei pizzicotti che arrivano dall'interno mi ricordano che tutto sta funzionando proprio come dovrebbe e mi incuriosisce scoprire tutte queste sensazioni che il mio corpo di signorina può provare.

"Martinina," fa mia nonna, "ora sei una donnina, lo sai, sì?"

"Certo!"

"Ora sei diversa. E stai attenta, perché anche gli uomini sanno che sei diversa."

"Eh?"

"Ora puoi avere figli. E gli uomini ti vedono."

Ma in che senso? La guardo aggrottando le sopracciglia, con i baffetti sporchi di succo. Lei si sporge per pulirmi con un tovagliolo e fa un gesto generico verso gli altri tavolini vicini al nostro.

"Mah, tipo quello, quello ti guarda."

Quello è un uomo, in effetti. Un signore che non ho la minima idea di quanti anni abbia, potrebbe averne trenta come anche sessanta, per me sono tutti uguali, con quei pantaloncini del costume sempre blu o grigi, i nasi un po' scottati e le gambe pelose. L'ho già visto prima, è un ospite dell'hotel e gli piace stare in piscina. Mi sta guardando, è vero. E non è la prima volta, ora che ci penso. Mi ha guardata anche ieri, e l'altroieri. Mi guarda quando aspetto che le crepes siano pronte a colazione. Mi guarda quando rido alle battute degli animatori la sera. Mi guarda quando gioco nell'acqua della piscina. Ma, ehi, che problema c'è? Anche io guardo le cose attorno a me.

Ma adesso è diverso. Mi guarda. E io lo guardo. Lo guardo e vedo il nemico. Vedo il pericolo. Ed è un nemico diverso da quelli che nascono durante i giochi di fantasia che faccio ancora con i miei amici al parco o nel cortile della scuola. Quelli sono finti, iniziano e finiscono quando voglio. Dietro di essi ci siamo solo noi, i bambini, e noi ci conosciamo, ci fidiamo della bontà dei nostri compagni. Io mi fido di loro. I "facciamo finta che" funzionano, in fondo, perché so che Matteo, Samira o Anna non vogliono farmi male per davvero. Farsi male non è divertente e mette nei guai. È un gioco, solo un gioco. Mi fido di te, tu ti fidi di me, e i nemici sono solo una maschera spaventosa da mettere e togliere tra mille risate.

Ma quello è un nemico diverso. È un nemico vero. Non finisce e non inizia. Non finge. Non gioca. Non ha maschere. È, semplicemente è, un pericolo. Lo sento.

È stato risvegliato dal mio sangue, come una bestia magica? L'ho creato io, quel pericolo, con la macchiolina rosa nel mio costume, o è sempre esistito? Se fossi ancora senza macchia e senza sangue, sarebbe diverso? Non lo so, io davvero non lo so.

"Non dare confidenza, sai, agli uomini che non conosci. Non puoi, ora."

"Ok."

Di nuovo, imbarazzo. Vergogna. Torno a dare attenzione al mio succo alla mela. Sento una gocciolina umida scivolare sull'assorbente. Più quel sangue esce, più ho la sensazione che un velo si stia alzando. Mi sembra di vedere le cose in modo diverso, un po' come quando mi diverto a mettere e togliere e mettere e togliere gli occhiali da sole leopardati di nonna: quelli hanno le lenti rosate e il mondo sembra fatto di zucchero filato e sciroppo quando li indosso. Poi quando li tolgo tutto torna normale, tendente al grigio. Ecco, è così: è come se avessi cambiato le lenti. Ora tutto sembra più vero, concreto, reale, presente. Io sono presente, lui è presente. Il mio corpo è reale, il suo sguardo è reale.

"Nonna, sai che non ho ricoperto la buca con la sabbia? L'abbiamo lasciata tutta aperta."

"Vabbè, Martinina, ci pensa William."

"Magari domani la trovo ancora lì, per giocare."

"Certo."

E spero davvero sia così. Spero che la buca sarà ancora lì. Così potrò accovacciarmi, come una creatura del mare, tipo una foca, o un granchio. Una primitiva. Oh mamma, quanto mi piacerebbe esserlo davvero. Un ammasso di cellule, ciccia, ossa e muscoli con nessun altro scopo se non quello di vivere. Sufficiente a me stessa

#scrittura #scrivere #writer #writers on tumblr #writing tips #writing

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