#Not dignifying this with a proper reply

[vladco-tech-official]

Maybe you should be a McMasters! We're hungry!!

[mugiwara-lucy]

honey girl, I ain't joking.I am serious. Tons of people feel the same way I do. white people have had enough with this nonsense and making a change. you think we voted for trump cause hes not a democrat only? no. we voted fro him cause he's gonna make amrica whte agai.

[angelfishe]

"𝐔𝐒 𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐏𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐎𝐖𝐍"

>> Genshin man x reader

<< characters : diluc, kaeya, ayato, alhaitham, zhongli, neuvillete, wriotsheley, childe, capitano, dottore, pantalone >>

Warnings : MDNI, contain sexual content

⚠️MINORS DO NOT INTERACT PLEASE ⚠️

DILUC, very flustered unable to form a sentence after the climax, exhausted to the point you have to serve the customer instead. he's unable to form a sentence, sweat is around his body, his clothes are a mess as well him breathing heavily as if he just went thru a marathon, some Patreon would ask what's wrong with him, and you just replied in his place saying his just tired.

KAEYA, smirking with his clothes disheveled as well as his hair as if someone has been pulling on it, jean asked him what's wrong and he said he just had the best lunch of his life with a satisfied smile and in his office paper are scattered and crinkle as if someone has been sitting on his desk. Jean doesn't question it but the knights that were guarding his office stand with a flustered look as if witnessing and hearing somethings.

AYATO, appears as in his normal self, not a single disheveled or messy hair always appears with a smile and a satisfied look, very dignified the stress on his face disappear after you went into the office bringing him tea and snacks when his working his documents, him leaving the office with a very disheveled you going inside the bedroom, and sometimes during a meeting or a party you and him would leave and go for a "walk".

ALHAITHAM, with a straight face focus on his book as if he didn't spend the last few hours ago having fun with you, the only difference is pink blush that is on his ear, plus in this state he's very emotional in this state, smirking a few times when you were limping next to him, him supporting your entire body. And would order your favorite drink after it. Kaveh would stay with cyno or tighnari if the noise gets too loud.

ZHONGLI, very demure, very mindful. Pink blush appears on his face as well giving you a smile and the eyes full of love. He very much appears as his proper self but more loving. His coat on your shoulder and you guys holding each other's hands together swinging around. His clothes are still in their proper state but his hair is not very messy as if he just let it lose. During his rut you and him would leave going to a mountain to enjoy each other's company.

NEUVILLETE, pretty much blushing the entire time he knows this is an improper way as a judge of Fontaine but he can't hold it in, during trials he looks disheveled and breathing heavily as if he's fantasizing over something, he would send you some looks during trial as if he wants to continue on what's going between you. Once a month he would take a week off of work and the reason for it is by far still a mystery.

WRIOSTHELEY, smirking and winking at you, his shirt button has gone down a few levels revealing his abs with sweat sticking on it, his pants are by far crinkle as if it is on the floor for so long, would whisper on your ear leaving you very much flustered and covering your face with your hands, I'm pretty much sure the entire fortress of meriopede knows you guys business together in his office.

CHILDE, pretty much his happy go looking self with you, smirking, whispering in your ear and sending you the look. Pretty disheveled as if he just won a big battle. Would be very cocky and bragging around, his division would leave his office alone in his request for alone time with you. As well some important documents would have some stains of its weird substance on it.

CAPITANO, appears as if nothing happens to everyone in the fatui in his normal self but very much in a good mood the entire time, his coat is with you sleeping in his tent exhausted after what happened. He will continue on his duties as if normal and nothing happens but plus words of appreciation towards his underlings.

DOTTORE, giggling and smirking the entire time like a school girl, his hair is pulled back by his sweat. Would give you words of admiration and affection towards you and praising you for your accomplishments and would be a little nicer than his usual Impatient self. In this state his much nicer with his experiments and his much older segments are pretty much jealous and wanting to spend time with you.

PANTALONE, sips wine in his very much expensive bath robe while your laying on his bed exhausted, going thru paper works after finishing the equivalent of the meme "he's just nutting inside of me and now he's doing paperwork" would spoil you rotten after it, would go shopping with you and buy you many luxurious gifts, dresses and some expensive lingerie plus new accessories for the next time you guys have a meeting.

[wrioluvr]

subby vampire x dom male reader

sorry for being inactive yall teehee just thought about this cute little idea and had to write it... also no sex just a little spicy lmk if yall want to see more of this guy 🤭

★ ; 🦇��. . ♱

you did not expect it to rain during your forest hike today. anticipation to dive into the lush green unknown was quickly turned into a wet mess as your scrambled to find shelter, unsure of where you were even going as the gps signal got weaker deeper into the forest you ventured. much to your surprise, you soon came upon a quaint winding road. following it lead to an ancient-looking manor straight out of the victorian era. despite your brain recounting that this was how every horror movie started, you were desperate to be out of the cold, and soon rushed to the grand door to seek warmth. luckily, someone answered the door. a tall, lanky, ghost of a man, who quickly invited you in and fretted over the prospect of you catching a cold. he was a little odd, speaking in such a proper, olden manner, but he was lovely.

despite your initial protests of overstaying your welcome, he managed to convince you to stay for a week. he invited you to join him for dinner everyday, and it was through these meals that you found out quite a lot about him. one, his name was kliff (you swore his face turned red when you said he had a handsome name), and that he was a vampire who was at least a hundred years old (he stopped counting after the 120th year). the way he revealed it was kind of adorable, he was so reluctant at first.

"sooooo, kliff. you're a vampire, right?"

"goodness, whatever gave you that idea? i most certainly am not." his face said otherwise as his eyes darted everywhere around the room but your gaze, and the tip of his ears turned red.

"and you're gay, right?"

"now THAT is an accusation!" he replied indignantly, now fully flustered. "i, a dignified gentleman, would never engage in such sinful acts."

"but i saw you peeking at me showering yesterday. pervert." you were having the time of your life teasing this poor fossil.

he stood up from the dinner table and paced around the room. "i did no such thing." he mumbled, face somehow steaming even more than you thought was humanly possible. wait, but he wasn't a human. nevermind.

you spent most of your week exploring his manor, poking around the various dusty bookshelves and artifacts of an era long bygone. if there was one thing you picked up from your exploration, it was that kliff was awfully lonely. and had been for a long time. he didn't seem to have had any romantic partners, probably due to his sexuality, nor any pets to keep him company. you could infer this from his clingy nature, he was constantly in the shadows observing you, blending in seamlessly using his powers. he thought he was being slick, but really, he was a rather clumsy vampire. whenever you caught him, he would always act oblivious, and give you a sheepish grin, before scurrying away. it was quite cute, really. another thing was the fact that he never asked to drink from you. "it is quite alright. i sustain myself well enough through other means." was all he said when you asked him about it. mysterious. almost like he didn't dare to taint your skin with his fangs. you decided not to tell him about the fact that you were aware he watched you when you were asleep in the guest room, sometimes even daring to climb into bed silently with you and bask in your presence. he was a lonely soul, you figured. you could let him be delusional for a bit. you would leave after this week, anyway.

but that week passed quick, and with each day, kliff seemed to grow even more on edge, getting nervous whenever he was around you but never daring to speak what was on his mind. brooding around the house, watching you silently as you attempted to grow something in his dying garden... oh it was bad for him. but this came all to a head on your last day, when you bid your goodbyes and were one foot out the door, and he suddenly gathered the courage to say something.

kliff threw himself at you in one final, desperate plea. "please... please don't go...." his tone was so pitiful, you stopped in your tracks and looked at the way he's grabbing your wrist so tightly. "i... i.... if i may, i have one final request."

"you want to drink from me? honestly, i'm surprised you didn't ask earlier."

"no, no... it's not that. it's the opposite, really. may i... may i humbly request that you..." he stops mid sentence and breaks eye contact to look at the ground, voice so soft you could barely hear him. "bite me instead..."

"i beg your pardon?"

"i would like for you to leave a mark on me. as a reminder of your presence." his tone is slightly more confident now as he meets your eyes, centuries-old desire rekindled and burning within them. he falters a bit as he notices your lack of response. "....please?" he mumbles pathetically.

oh, poor baby. he's wanted a man to love him all his life. luckily for him, you found his desperation cute. you drop your bag and take his hand in yours.

"want me to take the lead?" you squeeze his hand, and he nods shyly.

"i would like nothing more."

you gently, but firmly pin him to the nearest wall, the ancient manor creaking under the pressure. it's kind of poetic, kliff thinks, as he wilts under your touch, it sounds like my house is congratulating me. you start off by peppering fleeting kisses all across his neck, admiring the small noises of pleasure he made everytime your lips came into contact with his skin. the fleeting touches turned into harsher bites, as you nibbled at his delicate skin, so fragile and untouched. it was just like he fantasized, and he was in heaven. he gripped onto the wall for support as he gasped at the new sensation, writhing around as you marked him, but your strong hands on his waist kept him steadily in place, a feeling he quickly learnt to enjoy. all those years he spent in solitude seemed to culminate to this moment, he'd never felt more intimate with anyone in his life. you stepped back to look at your handiwork and he immediately collapsed into your arms, a dark purple hickey prominently showing on his neck. he stared up at you lovingly, unable to really form thoughts. "please don't go...." was all he could mutter as you slowly swayed him back and forth, soothing his cold, beating heart.

"guess i'll see you next week, hm?" he's never been happier to hear those words in his long life.

>ᵥᵥ< 💘

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Word List: August

"beautiful" words related to august for your next poem/story

August - marked by majestic dignity or grandeur

Baronial - stately, ample

Celestial - ethereal; eminently pleasing; delightful, heavenly

Colossus - a person or thing of immense size or power

Cosmical - characterized by greatness especially in extent, intensity, or comprehensiveness

Decorous - marked by propriety and good taste; correct

De Rigueur - prescribed or required by fashion, etiquette, or custom; proper

Distingué - distinguished especially in manner or bearing

Exalted - held in high estimation; glorified or praised

Formidable - tending to inspire awe or wonder; impressive

Genteel - elegant or graceful in manner, appearance, or shape

Heroical - exhibiting or marked by courage and daring

Homeric - of epic proportions; heroic

Imperial - of superior or unusual size or excellence

Luxuriance - grandeur; the quality or state of being abundantly and often extravagantly rich and varied; prolific

Magisterial - marked by an overbearingly dignified or assured manner or aspect

Monumental - highly significant; outstanding

Opulent - amply or plentifully provided or fashioned often to the point of ostentation

Palatine - suitable to a palace; magnificent

Pantheon - a group of illustrious or notable persons or things

Redoubtable - illustrious, eminent

Regal - of notable excellence or magnificence; splendid

Resplendent - shining brilliantly and attractive; characterized by a glowing splendor

Splendiferous - extraordinarily or showily impressive

Staid - marked by settled sedateness and often prim self-restraint; sober, grave

Titan - one that is gigantic in size or power; one that stands out for greatness of achievement

If any of these words make their way into your next poem/story, please tag me, or leave a link in the replies. I would love to read them!

Writing Notes: August ⚜ More: Word Lists

[osiiiris]

Terzo, from now on.

Stubborn acts of kindness and rebellion.

Papa Emeritus III, Omega.

Tags: depression, comfort, character study, trust, confessions, friendship, feelings, sharing, slices of life, introspection, loss, major character death. Omega wasn’t summoned to feel, Terzo teaches him.

Summary: About a pope and a demon finding something still worth saving, through acts of kindness and rebellion.

>> Read it on AO3, or down here 👇🏻

It all started with a handshake.

The daylight coming from the window didn’t seem to bring any comfort or warmth that day. Papa Emeritus III ran a hand through his dark hair, sighing as he stared at the letter clutched in his hands.

He stood up, calm and dignified. With slow steps, he approached the tall window, which offered a wide view of the garden. From behind, his black cloak stirred against the light of the day, like a shadow that belonged in the darkness of the night, never to be seen in a morning that bright.

A ghoul stood silently near the bookshelf. Watching, never judging, he didn’t blink, didn’t speak unless necessary or asked. He was present, as always, but no differently than one of the statues decorating the hallways.

“Do you ever think about time?” the Pope asked aloud, after long moments of silence, spent looking at life occasionally bustling through the trees beneath. “How we spend it? How much of it we waste chasing approval, or power, only to find that none of it stays with us in the end?”

The ghoul didn’t reply.

The Pope smiled dryly, just one corner of his lips lifting. “You know nothing of all this...” He finally turned, meeting the ghoul’s dark eyes. To a less caring gaze, he’d have looked as vacant as those of the sculptures. But not for him. “Are you even interested in what I’m saying?”

“I am listening, Your Unholiness.”

The Pontiff didn’t seem disappointed. He just looked like someone who wasn’t expecting anything different.

His voice was smooth and even; a beautiful voice, in truth… but it sounded like he was constantly reciting a protocol.

The Pontiff had never thought about the ghouls as something empty, nor mindless, just… painfully still. Their eyes, despite the — who knew how deep — darkness, seemed to him like a lake so still you feared what lay beneath it. Maybe, he thought, if one dared to jump, they’d find something beautiful instead.

“Do you need anything else?”

His Unholiness seemed to reflect on the offer. For a few more moments, he meditated on whether a jump was what he needed in that moment. “Yes,” he said finally, after a brief hesitation, “I want you to prove to me that you can feel something.”

The ghoul stood still, disoriented. “I wasn’t trained for that, Your Unholiness.”

“I will.” The Pope approached, offering his hand, open palm, for the ghoul to take. “First, we have to introduce ourselves.” He shook his hand firmly, making it feel like a proper introduction. “I’m Terzo, from now on. And you…” he looked at the fabric belt wrapped around the ghoul’s waist, “Omega.” He proclaimed finally, recognizing the alchemical symbol embroidered on it.

With trust.

In the beginning, Omega didn’t know what it meant to feel, and he wasn’t sure why Terzo had started what seemed like a kind of experiment.

He knew observation. He knew obedience. These were built into him, and that had been the only thing he was required to do. When Terzo first offered his hand, Omega took it because he was told to. When he sat beside him, or played guitar, or followed him on quiet walks, it was not out of desire, but response.

But soon, something began to shift, and meeting after meeting, he noticed his own stillness softening. He walked a little slower beside him, then a little closer, matching his pace, and he surprisingly found himself having more to say than just answering questions and orders when they talked about simple things. When Terzo rested reading in the garden, Omega remained close; not to guard, but to accompany, even if they said nothing for a long time. He discovered that silence could be comfortable, not just a time-space without someone talking.

Terzo told him that it was the great beauty of sharing moments: spending time with someone only for the sake of company, and not because you have to for work. It helped create memories that would remain even if the person was no longer with you, he said.

“Do you know why I leave the door of my room unlocked when you guard it?”

Sitting outside, on a stone bench sheltered by a secular oak tree, Terzo was fanning himself with a large black fan, hoping to find some relief from the heat of the late summer. Part of his armor against the sun were black glasses and the Saturn hat; between thumb and index, his cigar was already half-consumed. If he could have, he’d be wearing a band T-shirt and jogger pants, as he used to do in his room when he didn’t have to be a symbol for anyone.

“I was summoned for this role,” the demon said. “This and many others.”

“Because I trust you,” Terzo cut in, ignoring Omega’s reply.

The demon stared at him, but he didn’t speak. Terzo did. “Trust… it is allowing yourself to be vulnerable in the presence of someone else. It is me leaving the door unlocked because I trust you will protect me.”

“Why?”

“Because I know you’ll do it. Trust is an earned gift, and you earned it by never killing me.” It was meant to be a joke, but Terzo seemed definitely too serious while dragging from his cigar. “And I believe that your quintessence can go way beyond what is required from you.”

Omega fell silent for a long time. “I do not understand. Why do you bother? This isn’t part of your role,” he said, unaware of the fact that he had just centered the whole point. “And you risk finding nothing beyond what you see.”

Terzo breathed deeply, inhaling the scent of freshly watered soil and dying life. “Trust is a risk, Omega. That’s what makes it so precious.” A few moments after that explanation, he added, “I’ve spent years surrounded by people who obey. I could order someone to set a building on fire, make sacrifices for me… but what if I want someone to just sit next to me and tell me about the movie they watched last night?” Shaking his head sadly, he looked at some point through the flowerbeds. “I’m such a pathetic old man, ain’t I?”

Even though Omega wished to contradict him, he just stayed silent. Terzo told him once that sometimes people just need to say things, not to hear replies fit for the circumstances. “Thank you for not replying. But what I mean is that… if someone who was never meant to feel can learn to care about me… maybe I can too,” he confessed. “And if it has the power to piss Sister Imperator off… I honestly don’t see any more good reason to try.”

The pontiff could see the eyes of the ghoul narrowing at that, and he let out a breath that sounded suspiciously like a laugh that some Sisters of Sin would’ve found sinister; the kind of thing that made them slightly uncomfortable - and excited - when in his presence.

“So, can I trust you won’t kill me?” He turned slightly to Omega, offering his curled little finger. “Pinky swear?” As if acknowledging that was far too childish, by the way the ghoul didn’t react to it, he gestured dismissively again, as if inviting him to ignore it. “Nah, you’re right. Too silly.”

When he looked in his direction again, Omega’s little finger was offered, curled, right in front of him.

With music.

With time came attachment.

Almost against his nature, Omega started to understand that when Terzo was gone from the room, it felt different.

It was difficult even for him to name at first, but his absence felt... noticeable. If once the presence of this or that person meant nothing to him, just a new body in the room to consider, now he started to notice something was different when Terzo wasn’t near, and how different it was to talk with someone else compared to how it was with him.

What once was silence became presence. And presence became longing.

With that, he started to recognize Terzo and the characteristics that formed his being: when his voice lowered, it meant he was sad or tired. A twitch of his fingers meant he was impatient, excited, and about to say something to confirm it. When he stopped talking and just looked at you as if you weren’t there, it was time for you to leave him alone.

Once he classified all his characteristics, Omega started anticipating them: when Terzo might laugh at something he found funny, when he would fall silent mid-sentence while reflecting deeply on what he had just said. Omega began to wait for certain hours of the day not because they held duties, but because they held the time spent with him.

After the mass—one of the many—Terzo asked him to stay. Not ordered, just asked; of course, the reply of the ghoul had been a simple nod of the head. Terzo would have preferred a vocal reply, but he accepted the formality anyway.

Alone in the chapel, that now seemed so vast once all the siblings were gone, Terzo was playing a soft melody on the organ; not rehearsing something they both worked on, just playing something casual. Omega stood close behind him, his arms behind his back, while he watched the hands of the pontiff glide over the keys like he was touching something sacred. And in a sense, they were. Just because the cross above their altar was inverted didn’t mean the feelings beneath it were any less important.

After a long while, Terzo spoke without looking up. “Do you like this?” he asked, his tone casual, but there was something fragile underneath it. “The melody I’m playing.”

Omega answered quickly, automatically. “You’re a good musician, Terzo.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“I’m sorry,” Omega said. “I’ll perfect my answer next time.”

Terzo’s fingers stilled, resting lightly on the keys without pressing them. He closed his eyes for a moment, and in that moment, he looked more tired than usual. “You don’t have to be perfect,” he said quietly. “Just... honest. And present.”

Omega nodded, then looked away, toward the far side of the chapel—to the chorus section. His gaze landed on one of the old acoustic guitars, leaning against a wooden stand. “Can I join you?” he asked instinctively, waiting for Terzo’s approval.

Terzo turned at that, surprised, and he didn’t hide it. His expression softened, and a small smile tugged at the corner of his painted mouth. He looked back to the keys, then gave a single nod.

“That would be nice,” he said simply.

With vulnerability.

Omega was quieter than usual.

Terzo noticed, of course, but he said nothing at first. In the privacy of his room, he was sporting a simple—inelegant for his usual dress code—white T-shirt and grey jogger pants. A kind of déshabillé only a few lucky ones could witness. The purple night robe he was wrapped in and the papal ring on his left hand were the only indicators of his status, if it weren’t for the black slippers at his feet that toned the whole look down.

“Today you were gone most of the day,” the demon began. “I kept expecting you to appear. You didn’t.”

“I was doing some PR stuff… photo shoots, tour details. Things that take a lot of time but not a lot of fun.”

Omega observed him as he poured some hard liquor into a glass full of ice, then prepared another one with the deft moves of a man who was used to welcoming his guests with a good drink... or maybe just used to drinking it by himself. He grabbed a glass per hand and walked closer, so Omega went on, “I knew where you were.” He paused, then added, “But it was strange.”

Terzo’s expression softened as he sat on the couch, offering one glass to him. He crossed his legs as he sat, in such a graceful way very few men were able to. “Strange how?”

“I noticed it. Your absence.”

Terzo arched a brow. “And?”

“And when I saw you with the Sisters of Sin… laughing, smiling, touching hands…” Omega’s voice trailed off slightly.

“Did that bother you?” Terzo asked gently, looking at him curiously as half his face disappeared behind the glass.

“I did not understand why I wanted them to stop speaking to you.” Omega wasn’t one to waste words, and when he spoke, it meant something. However, what the ghoul couldn’t explain was that he felt something stir. A heat… not quite anger, just… a hollow that wasn’t there before. The glass rested in his hands, still full. “I don’t know what to do with that,” he confessed. “You were right… spending time without purpose creates something else. It’s like… a space. I don’t know what to fill it with yet. But when you are near, it feels full.” He finally turned toward Terzo. “I feel the difference your presence makes in me. And when I saw you give that to someone else, I wished… I wished it was only mine. I don’t know what to call it,” the ghoul said, a little unsure.

Terzo nodded. “You wanted something for yourself,” he said. “That’s very common… we all want that.”

Omega nodded, just once. “Is it making me weaker?”

“No,” he said firmly. He stood up again, walking back to the bottles, looking for something different. Terzo had never been one to rush a moment like this. He felt too much, sometimes. And often, too quickly, but this… this required care. Omega had just offered something precious: a proof that it was possible to feel something warm in cold things too. “You know, all my life I’ve been hiding, merging in the darkness that felt more comfortable than plain day. I isolated myself because I was afraid to be seen… I thought that once you become visible, you become a target, and so I’ve kept people at arm’s length because I thought joy wasn’t worth the price of losing it.” His gaze lifted and met Omega’s directly now, searching his expressionless mask for something he knew was blooming behind it. He spoke from the bottle table, standing, while pouring himself some more liquor, as if putting that much distance was a way for him to feel safe while offering his vulnerability to the devil, who was looking back at him offering not the flames of hell—not yet—but that same open heart. “Well, yes, being a pope definitely made it hard not to be seen.” A joke that didn’t unburden him from his own words.

“And is it still like this?” the ghoul asked.

“As I told you… trust is a risk,” he said, then glanced at the ghoul, still sitting with the same full glass in his hands, giving him every inch of attention he had. He spent his years being looked at, adored, feared. But seen? Very rarely. “…But how beautiful it is when it pays back.”

With honesty.

It came on a cold night in early fall.

Omega found him on the rooftop, where he knew by now he would find him, alone with the stars.

In his black robe, with its stiff collar rising almost to his chin, he looked as though he struggled to move, and for a moment, Omega realized how right Terzo had been in saying he felt more comfortable in the darkness. His somber figure, as black as the night sky, was adorned with golden medals that seemed to recreate the starry night under which they stood, while the music from the celebration party they had both left behind the rooftop doors was barely audible from where they were. He looked like part of it all.

“Sometimes,” Terzo started, looking at the city lights beneath them, “you spend your life climbing a mountain just to discover that the view is not quite what you expected.”

Omega just got closer, silent, standing beside him at the balcony railing.

Terzo went on, “Not that I don’t like challenges, just… I don’t like when they do not bring a fair reward.”

“Aren’t you satisfied you won?”

“I’m not talking about a literal reward,” he explained patiently. “I fear reaching a point in my life where I turn back and realize that what I have done, prized or not, was all in vain.” Then, he paused again, this time longer. Omega said nothing, patiently waiting for him to make up his mind on that thought. That was one of the traits Terzo appreciated the most about their friendship: the not demanding some kind of action from him. The just letting him be. “Do you ever feel fear?”

“No, Terzo.”

“Fear is what happens when you don’t know how to face a threat, either real or not, and you think you won’t make it against it. It doesn’t have to be rational, or the threat to be a concrete one.” He paused. “I fear I will be forgotten,” Terzo confessed softly, looking at nothing in particular far from them, “and that what I have done will be wiped away. I fear that my whole existence will turn out to have been meaningless.”

Omega didn’t understand why that was shared with him, but he had learned with time that those moments always came after a big victory, for Terzo. He knew there was something connecting his moments of greater success with that fear he was talking about, and he learned that after that kind of confession, a person needed to hear something positive.

“Why do you fear that?” he asked. “Life on Earth is just one small part of existence.”

“You don’t see it that way when life on Earth is the only kind of existence you really know.”

“I could tell you what’s behind.”

“I don’t want to know,” the pontiff said quickly. He had worn the paint of Papa, led the Church, won the most important prizes in the world, called the names of ancient gods, sometimes obtained responses from them, but when he’d be gone... who would remember that he tried to love in a place that didn’t know what that meant?

Omega stepped forward. “You taught me,” he said. Spontaneously, unexpectedly. Almost as if he had read that thought in his mind.

Terzo looked over, surprised.

“You taught me what holding a hand means. How important company and memories are. What trust is.” He paused, then said, “I will remember.”

And for the first time, Omega reached out and placed his hand over Terzo’s shoulder, finally unprompted.

Without.

It was a sunny day, similar to the one in Terzo’s office when they held hands for the first time. The autumn breeze blew gently through the leaves of the trees, and like many other days, the birds were singing their last songs before winter.

In one of their last meetings, Terzo had confessed that if he had to proceed to the next step of existence, he would have preferred to do it while he was still able to stand, read, play music, recognize people, and provide for himself on Earth. He said he was willing to accept it if it had to be that soon. He said that sometimes he even hoped for it to happen.

Omega wasn’t really sure what that meant. Terzo spoke as if he knew his time was approaching—maybe faster than expected—but as far as Omega knew, that wasn’t an ability granted to humans.

“You don’t have to want that. Lucifer knows, and when it’s your time, he will welcome you.”

Terzo didn’t reply immediately, but a flicker of movement in his eyebrows showed how touched he was by the words. Looking down, as he often did when immersed in thought, chin resting on his curled fingers, Omega wondered if he was imagining that moment. So the ghoul spoke again. “And if it happens when you can’t stand, I’ll accompany you. If you can’t play anymore, I’ll play for you. And if you can’t read anymore, I’ll read to you, and I’ll tell you that it’s my voice you’ve heard many times before, even if it sounds new.”

The flicker in Terzo’s eyebrows became a furrowed scowl on his face, partially hidden by his fingers now curled over his lips to cover the light pout forming on his mouth. “You learned,” he said simply, and Omega sensed something different in his tone.

Omega never needed to keep those promises.

Standing still in the Abbey crypt, he stared at the cold stone where the title Papa Emeritus III was carved.

Terzo, he told himself, without truly speaking the word.

Omega had not yet learned how to cry, what sadness was, or what it felt like to miss someone, but something stirred in his stomach and behind his eyes the longer he stared at that stone coffin. That day, Omega learned that feelings aren’t something you are taught.

He read that cold title again but didn’t recognize in it the man he had come to know.

Terzo, he repeated, now fully aware of the importance humans gave to names, and what that particular name meant. 

Terzo meant company, the feeling of the warm summer sun on the skin while chatting under an oak tree, a hand on a shoulder, a song played only because you liked it, longing, promises.

In the end, he kept one… He remembered.

Divider by @saradika-graphics

[nottellingofname]

Suguru Geto Tries Not To Die

Reason 3 - Baking ⋆⭒˚.⋆

Y/N showed up by Suguru’s room late in the afternoon the following Monday after school ended. He hadn’t expected to see you, but he wasn’t surprised, either.

“Y/N’s here again,” Satoru announced, barging into his room uninvited. He tried his best to sound casual, but the shock in his voice was barely concealed. Suguru rarely had visitors—aside from Satoru himself and the occasional check-in from Shoko.

Suguru’s eyes locked with yours as you offered him a soft smile. “We go dancing together,” you said simply.

“Oh,” Satoru smiled back at you. “It’s nice to see you with a hobby, Suguru.”

“We aren’t necessarily—” Suguru started, but you cut in smoothly.

“If you don’t mind, Gojo-san,” you said, your voice polite and sickeningly sweet, “I’d like to steal Suguru from you for an hour or two.”

Satoru nodded immediately, giving Suguru a solid pat on the back.

“He’s all yours,” Satoru said with a grin. “Suguru barely ever leaves this room unless he’s being forced to for a mission.”

You beamed. “I’ll take good care of him.”

With that, Suguru reluctantly followed you out. Behind him, Satoru shut the door, and Suguru gave you a skeptical look. “Where are you taking me today?” he asked, his tone laced with sarcasm.

You didn’t dignify it with a reply. Instead, you motioned to your bicycle.

“I’m taking you to Nanami’s favorite bakery.”

Suguru frowned. “What are we going to do at a bakery?”

“We’re going to learn how to make triple chocolate cookies,” you replied, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

You pulled up to a cozy bakery, well-known in the neighborhood. Suguru had only been there once before. Back then, Satoru, Shoko, Nanami, and Haibara had brought him for his birthday and told him to pick any cake he wanted. Naturally, he chose the most chocolate-laden monstrosity they had. He even remembered the sly grin the baker had given him when he made his choice.

“Y/N!” A man with flour-covered hands greeted enthusiastically. “Good to see you, girl!”

“Nice to see you too, Uncle,” you chirped, pulling Suguru forward by the wrist. “This is Suguru Geto. He’s one of my friends.”

The baker raised an eyebrow and gave you a look that could only be described as suggestive. “Are you sure the two of you aren’t more than that?”

Suguru’s eyes widened. You turned beet red beside him.

“Yes, I’m sure, Mr. Baker,” you hissed through your teeth. “Did you get the ingredients ready for the cookies?”

“Of course I did,” Frank smirked. “Your parents even called to make sure the date was perfect. They were starting to get worried you were turning lesbian since you’ve never been on a proper date.”

Suguru coughed, barely smothering a laugh. You looked like you were one second away from combusting.

Grabbing Suguru by the wrist, you marched him toward the kitchen. “Let’s go, Suguru,” you muttered, clearly mortified.

Inside the kitchen, you sighed and asked, “Have you ever baked before?”

Suguru shook his head. “Nanami does the baking if we ask really nicely and he’s in a decent mood.”

You chuckled. “I’ve never baked either. I usually ask Ijichi. So I guess we’re starting from scratch.”

Suguru gave a sly smile. “Great. So we start with the dough, right?”

You stared at the ingredients in confusion. “Right,” you echoed questionably. You grabbed a few eggs from the fridge. “Let’s start by cracking these.”

You both got to work, cracking eggs into a bowl—occasionally with a bit of shell for texture. As Suguru began whisking, adding sugar and salt, you wrestled with a stubborn bag of flour.

“Do we have any scissors?” you asked, trying to rip the seal open. Just as Suguru reached to hand them to you, the bag burst, showering your face in a white cloud of powder.

You blinked through the mess, your entire face dusted like a powdered donut.

Suguru bit back a laugh and handed you the scissors. “Still need them?”

You stood tall, flour dripping onto your shirt. “You think this is funny?” you asked, lifting a white eyebrow.

Suguru smirked—right until you opened your arms wide and charged. “Wait, what are you—”

You crushed him in a hug, smearing your flour-covered face into his shoulder. He coughed from the powder and shoved you away gently.

When he pulled back, flour clung to his hair and clothes. He scowled, picking up an egg. “You’re going to regret that, Y/N.”

The egg landed with a splat on your chest. You gasped. Without missing a beat, you grabbed a handful of baking powder and flung it at him, covering him in more white dust.

He glared.

This meant war.

Within minutes, the two of you were completely covered in baking ingredients, head to toe. You looked like two pastry disasters in human form.

The baker poked his head in. “How are the cookies go—OH MY LORD!”

Suguru bit his lip, trying to hide his guilt. “I—I’ll clean it up—”

“Kid, I’m not blaming you,” the baker said. “I’m blaming Y/N here. How do you egg a boy on your first date?!”

You turned toward Suguru, mischief lighting up your eyes as a grin slowly spread across your face.

“Reason number three, Sugar-u. Baking. We should definitely bake more often.”

“Not in my kitchen!” the baker shouted.

Save Suguru Geto?

[warnersister]

“Tea in the Cotswolds” Michael Gray x Reader

Michael Gray x Reader

When Thomas has business with Archibald Wentworth, a prestigious delegate in the Cotswolds, Michael is tasked with occupying the man’s adult daughter - getting more acquainted than expected.

The Blinders had expanded their business - all the way to the Cotswolds, Tommy had taken John and Michael for the ride; leaving Arthur back in Birmingham as he didn’t find this the right environment for any sort of negative articulation to be breaking out; especially at Wentworth Family Manor.

The houses became progressively larger as the carriage rolled down the cobbled street, some with drives too large to be able to see the house it belonged to at all. But eventually, the vehicle came to a stop at the looming house; substantially larger than all others. In his head, the only similar build Michael had seen to this was Buckingham Palace - large and awe-inspiring enough to be the encasings to a proud museum, contents sacred and protected.

But potentially Michael’s imagination wasn’t too far from reality.

“Right,” Tommy began, eyes flicking between the two men whom had accompanied him. “Today is a very important meeting. And i need to leave a good impression on the Wentworth’s. So we leave our egos and our guns in the car.” John’s brows creased in confusion. “Leave our guns?” “They’re not dangerous. This is legal business; real estate - dabbling a bit in the illegal side of things but not enough go start a fight. Mr Wentworth is an extremely prestigious man, as is his wife and daughter.” He told them calmly. “I’ll talk with Mr Wentworth, John you’ll talk with his missus and explain what we do: nicely. Michael - I’ll leave you to get acquainted with his daughter, yn.” “You’re leaving me with the child?” He asked, confused. “Yn is twenty.”

They were welcomed into the home by several butlers, two to open the grand doors - three to take their caps and the others to lead the family to their guests. “Thomas Shelby.” They heard, and a dignified gentleman descended the stairs, an unnecessary cain in one hand, the other wrapped around his wife as they descended the central staircase to the visitors, a young lady trailing behind.

“Archibald Wentworth.” Thomas smiled at the man and nodded out of respect. The man walked up to him and shook each of their hands firmly. “How longs it been old chap?” He asked Thomas. “Too long, old friend.” Thomas replied, and they engaged in friendly conversation as neither had seen each other since their fathers dealt with similar business in their own youth. The elder woman approached John who kissed the back of her hand and she curtsied, him remaining respectful as their shared introductions. You however, approached Michael who looked back at you fondly. You curtsied to him and he bowed slightly. “It’s a pleasure Mr Gray.” You say, voice soft and unbroken. He took your hand and kissed the back of it gently. “All mine, Miss Wentworth.”

“And please, do call me Michael.” He told you, smiling gently. “Well in that case you’re compelled to call me Yn.” Michael studied your face; never in his twenty one years of existence had he seen such beauty before. Your skin was fair and undamaged - soft to the touch. Your nails were clean and manicured with a neutral colour. Your hair was cascading down by your ears, as if instructed to sit perfectly, framing your face. You eyes were innocent yet appeared all-knowing - your mouth formed into a graceful smile. And you carried yourself with such proper dignity; it was admirable.

“Yn my darling?” Your father spoke from beside him and you turned to face him on command - trained to do this. “Yes father?” “Please will you accompany Mister Gray into the living area? I’m sure you’ll both be quite comfortable in there.” You nodded once at the man. “Certainly, father.” “It was a pleasure to meet you gentleman, and see you again Mister Shelby.” You say to the other two, before leading Michael into the living area - which was nothing short of double the size of his childhood home.

“May i offer you some tea?” You ask, as you settle in the room. “That’d be lovely, thank you.” You nod as the maid by the for stepped out to grab tea. “Normally I’d make it myself, however it is improper to leave your company unaccompanied.” You joke and he laughs in response. Soon, the tea arrived and you served it for Michael, who took the cup and saucer thoughtfully and nodded in thanks.

“It’s a lovely home you have.” You smile up at him. “Thank you, I’m sure my father works tirelessly to afford it.” “You’ve no job?” He asked, awaiting the words that he was utterly and totally in love with you. “No, I’m trained in etiquette - to be polite, to cook and to clean.” Michael listened to you thoughtfully. “So you’re kept awfully busy then?” You nod. “Busy however I don’t mind it, I get to live in this glorious building with a loving family and life skills. What more could a girl want?” You confirm and he was sure his eyes were forming hearts.

“And I’m sure you have quite the line of suitors with your beauty.” You giggled but tried to compose yourself. “No sir.” His eyes widened in mock surprise. “Surely you’re already married, how has a man not captivated a lady such as yourself. I’d do it myself if it wasn’t for the line of men ahead of me.” You looked down, blushing, before looking back up at Michael. “There is no line and there are no suitors. It is simply me, myself and I.” You tell him.

“And you Michael? Have you a wife?” You asked, batting your eyelids. “No, in your words it is simply… ‘me, myself and I’.” “And what business do you do yourself, Mr Gray?” You ask. “That is not the sort of information for a lady’s ears. It is not good business.” He almost scolds and you nod. “Oh I understand, my father is not too dissimilar. Staying safe in your business, I hope?” He basked in the way you simply understood, didn’t pry. “Not quite.” He said, raising an eyebrow. He rolled up his left sleeve slightly and you gasped. “Oh you poor man,” you say. “You must treat these with oil, that way they shall heal better.” You scold, touching his skin gently. “Well if you were my wife you could sort it out for me.” “Oh certainly Michael, I wouldn’t allow you to come home damaged as such without properly patching you up.” You say, seriousness written all over your facial features.

“And what do you do with the rest of your time, this afternoon per se?” He ponders, sipping his tea. “Well as you said yourself I’m quite a busy person regardless of what I occupy my time with.” You peer down at the dainty wristwatch wrapped around your wrist, Michael estimated the small device at a hefty sum. “At two o’clock I have etiquette lessons.” You say “and at three?” “At three I read in my library” “how about four?” “At four I have a date.” His face dropped. “A date? With who?” “William Wordsworth.” You giggled at his expression which sighed a breath of relief. “Oh I see, she lives the poems she could not write.” He says, quoting the famed poet. “More like she writes the poems she could not live.” You reply, and Michael notices a longing stare as you probably imagine the life you would have, if not the heir to an infamous delegate.

“And no man has yet compared me to a summers day.” You admit. “You have not yet met your Shakespeare.” You smile, enjoying how he understood your references. “Nor my Victor Hugo” “ah but you have not yet died so nobody may quote ‘Demain, dès l’aube’.” He spoke matter-of-factly. “For I am always the poet, never the poem.” You speak; in words of your own. And Michael cannot stop himself from reaching up with his free hand to caress the soft skin of your cheek gently. “It is impossible. How can a man write anything short of a novel about a maiden so fair?” He question, and you find yourself absentmindedly leaning into his light touch.

“You’re a charmer, Mr Gray” you speak, voice barely above whisper “I’m no charmer, just a man who knows what he wants” he leans to whisper in your ear “is it working?” He meets your eyes with a cheeky grin on his face. “Certainly.” You both finished your tea and the trolley was taken away, miscellaneous chatter arising from each of your lips.

“Madam?” A voice squeaked from the door behind you both. You spun on a pivot to look at the young maid by the entrance. “Yes Beth?” “Mister Wentworth has requested you and Mister Gray return to the foyer” she said, avoiding your stare. “Thank you Beth, we shall be there shortly.” The woman nodded before clicking the door shut behind you to allow you to make your own way there along with the company. Michael’s face contorted: annoyed, but relaxed it when you faced back to him.

“I believe it is time for us to depart.” You tell him. “When may I see you again?” He asks, holding your hands in his own. “Whenever you wish, Mister Gray; should my father allow.” You tell him, before slowly leading him back to where you originally met. There, the rest of the men along with your parents stood as you’d left them - engaged in unwavering chatter. “Ah, Mister Gray - treated well I hope?” Your father asks and Michael nods at the man. “Certainly.”

After some goodbyes and a hug for your father’s old friend Thomas, Michael smirked at you and kissed the back of your hand and whispered promises that you shall meet again.

The men walked back to the car in silence, Thomas lighting a cigarette once inside. “How’d you like her?” He asked, eyeing Michael before nicotine smoke billowed from his lips. “She’s a lovely young lady.” Michael tore his eyes away from his cousin and back to the house, hoping to catch a glimpse of you as you drove away; but to no avail.

“She’s a gentle lass. Innocent and proper.” Thomas continued and Michael squinted at him, wondering what the man was getting at. “Doesn’t need corrupting.” “I know that Tommy, what you on about?” “We’ve come to a business agreement with Archibald Wentworth. They in exchange for protection and a good deal of Shelby business, his daughter would marry a gentleman.” Thomas stubbed the last bud out on the leather of the car. “I trust you can fit that role?”

[fullstackonion]

Tedesco x Assente

part 1

☕ Morning Ramble: A Cup of Fluff and Plot

Good morning, world—and the earth says hello.

Apologies for the radio silence last night (and yes, even midday). I didn’t expect that being promoted would take up so much of my time. I genuinely thought it just meant more salary and less effort. (insert sarcastic laugh here)

Anyway—hi, hello, buongiorno. While I didn’t post, I did plot. The Tedesco x Assente crossover continues to steep like a proper brew. It’s leaning a little more fluff than diva at the moment, but I’m working on that balance. (You know I can’t resist a dramatic man in a cassock.)

Honestly? I think this one’s going to be cute. Like... genuinely cute. And I’ve been steeping it in my brain since yesterday like good coffee loves to steep. Speaking of which—have you had your coffee yet? I need one. Or three. Sorry. Rambling.

Just dropping by this soft little corner to say: thank you. For being here. For reading. For letting me write things that make me smile, and maybe—hopefully—make you smile, too.

Sending all the thanks, love, and fluff your way today. Stay soft. Be kind. Make room for tenderness. I hope whatever you’re carrying feels a little lighter this morning.

Enjoy the day, and as always—I’ll see you in the story.

☁️💛

—T.

Canto 1: In Smoke and Candlelight

The night Florence came to Rome.

The Vatican courtyard was dressed like a secret it didn’t want to keep—stone balustrades draped in soft linens, warm lamplight spilling across cobblestone, and string lights suspended like halos over a gathering too dignified to admit they were enjoying themselves.

It was a party. A welcome. Florence had a new Cardinal Archbishop.

And Rome—curious, jaded, glittering Rome—had shown up to meet him.

At the edge of the garden, Goffredo Tedesco leaned against a carved column, exhaling peach-scented vapor into the air like it was incense. Broad-shouldered, bearded, and loudly, unabashedly Italian, he was a picture of effortless contradiction: grace and chaos, thunder in a velvet robe. The vape clicked in his hand like punctuation. He didn’t smile yet, but the possibility hovered close to the surface.

Giulio Sabbadin was nearby, lounging with his usual Milanese nonchalance, cigarette in one hand and his other lazily gesturing as he held court over some remark Raymond O’Malley had just made. Raymond, soft-eyed and soft-spoken, stood beside him—loving him quietly, always—and only half-hiding his fondness when Giulio smirked through a biting reply.

Thomas Lawrence stood not far off, dignified and tall, his puppy-blue eyes focused on the entrance, where the last rays of golden evening light were beginning to shift into dusk. He was all calm poise, quiet laughter, sleeves rolled with diplomatic elegance. And beside him, Aldo Bellini—still and statuesque, a glass of wine held like a statement. Bald, brilliant, and beautifully unreadable. But his gaze wasn’t on the wine.

It was on Thomas.

It always had been.

Before any remark could cut the moment, the air shifted.

Vincent Benítez stepped into the light.

All murmurs quieted, if only for a second.

He had that way about him—like gravity wrapped in cassock and kindness. He stood in the archway with effortless command, and beside him was the man of the hour:

Cardinal Mario Assente.

He moved like someone who knew people would look. Tall, tailored, all smooth lines and studied warmth. His collar was precise, his expression one notch too unreadable, and the cigarette in his hand lit without effort.

Goffredo’s eyes tracked him first.

“Cardinals,” Assente said with a nod, gaze sweeping the group. “An honor.”

Giulio arched a brow, unimpressed. “We’ll let you know if it remains one.”

Raymond offered a hand and a small smile, polite in the way only someone raised well could manage.

Thomas, stepping forward with his usual gracious charm, said, “Welcome to Rome. I trust the journey from Florence was kind to you?”

Assente matched his smile, just shy of distant. “The train was late. But the skyline makes up for it.”

Aldo, ever composed, leaned in just enough for his words to cut velvet. “Trains tend to be late when heaven’s watching. Keeps us humble.”

Assente blinked once, amused. “And you must be Cardinal Bellini.”

“No one else dares speak in riddles before dinner,” Giulio quipped.

Goffredo raised his vape like a half-offer, finally speaking with that boisterous blend of elegance and bite. “You smoke?”

Assente’s gaze lingered on him just a second too long. “I’m told it’s a bad habit.”

“Then you’re in fine company,” Giulio said, already blowing smoke over the railing.

“I quit,” Raymond added, like a footnote.

“No one asked you,” Giulio snapped without heat.

Vincent sighed like a schoolteacher wrangling chaos. “Please. Let’s pretend we’re civilized. There’s good wine, and I only invite people I tolerate.”

Assente turned back to Goffredo. “I’ve heard of you.”

“And I of you,” Goffredo said. “Florence doesn’t send just anyone.”

Their eyes met—heat and knowing and something neither of them would name yet.

Aldo sipped his wine with the elegance of someone pretending not to watch. Under his breath, he muttered to Thomas, “I give them ten minutes before they’re quoting Aquinas or kissing.”

Thomas, ever the diplomat, smiled faintly. “Let’s hope it’s the former.”

Vincent clapped a hand to Assente’s back. “Come. Let’s get you a drink. Everyone else—try not to set the Vatican on fire before dessert.”

As the pair walked toward the wine table, Goffredo exhaled a slow stream of vapor, watching him go.

Giulio leaned closer, sotto voce. “He’s going to be trouble.”

Goffredo smiled, slow and certain. “Aren’t we all.”

[legacydowney94]

Regency Era Benelope Plot Bunny for Adoption.

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton/Penelope Featherington

Vibe:

Note: Eloise is aware of Penelope’s secret identity as Lady Whistledown. Penelope uses her column as a way to keep The Bridgerton Family from scandal.

———————————————————————

Penelope sat nestled into the corner of the Bridgertons’ sun-drenched drawing room, the delicate china cup of tea balanced perfectly on her knee. Across from her, Eloise reclined with a lazy grace that belied her sharp tongue and sharper wit. They were, of course, plotting.

More specifically, they were discussing the next issue of Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers, and Penelope’s cheeks were already betraying her.

“The next column,” Penelope murmured, trying—and failing—to sound impartial, “will be about how Miss Penelope Featherington was seen staring rather…longingly at one Mr. Benedict Bridgerton during Lady Danbury’s ball.”

Eloise choked on her tea in the most dignified way possible. “Pen! Are you writing about yourself now?”

Penelope shrugged innocently, eyes gleaming. “Purely as a narrative device, of course. A bit of misdirection. No one would ever suspect me of harboring affections for your brother if Whistledown wrote about it.”

“You say that, but you also turned puce the second you mentioned his name.”

“I did not!”

“You did.” Eloise grinned, then leaned closer with a conspiratorial glint. “And anyway, it’s not as if you’ve been subtle.”

Before Penelope could mount a proper defense—something involving the laws of journalistic integrity and/or romantic restraint—the door flew open with all the grace of a midsummer storm.

Benedict Bridgerton stumbled in.

He looked as though he’d wrestled a hedgerow and lost. His curls were an unruly halo, his cravat was hanging on by sheer will, and his shirt—oh heavens—was unbuttoned just enough to be both scandalous and intriguing.

Violet Bridgerton, ever the graceful matriarch, stood immediately. “Benedict, dearest, are you quite alright?” she asked, crossing the room in a flurry of silks and concern. She pressed the back of her hand to his forehead. “You’re warm. You must be feverish.”

“I’m fine, Mother,” Benedict replied dreamily, eyes glassy but fond. “Just looking for my wife.”

Eloise’s teacup clattered against its saucer.

Violet blinked. “Your what, darling?”

“My wife,” Benedict repeated, eyes scanning the room until they landed on Penelope. He beamed. “There she is.”

Before Penelope could utter a single word, Benedict shuffled forward, his legs moving with all the coordination of a newborn foal. He dropped unceremoniously to his knees in front of her, wrapped his arms around her waist, and laid his head quite contentedly in her lap.

Penelope froze.

As in: tea-cup-halfway-to-her-mouth, breathing-suspended, mind-short-circuited froze.

“Um,” she managed.

Eloise’s eyes had gone cartoonishly wide. Violet was too stunned to move.

“You are not married, Benedict,” Eloise pointed out, voice pitched somewhere between horrified and delighted.

Benedict waved a lazy hand. “Of course we are, darling Eloise. Nel and I have been married for three years.” He tilted his head, nuzzling gently against Penelope’s stomach. “You were at the wedding, I think. Or maybe it was a dream… but it felt very real.”

Penelope’s mouth opened and closed. She looked desperately at Violet, silently pleading for instructions. Violet, recovering slightly, perched beside her and patted her hand gently.

“Benedict, dear, I am afraid you and Miss Featherington are not, in fact, wed. You are not even courting.”

Benedict let out a very dramatic, very un-gentlemanly whine and tightened his grip on Penelope’s waist. “That cannot be. I have loved Penelope Featherington since the evening she caught Anthony cheating during Blind Man’s Bluff six years ago. She called him a ‘conniving cheater’ and told him to ‘get better at lying, or better at losing.’ It was magnificent.”

“Oh no,” Penelope breathed. “He remembers that?”

Violet blinked. “That was six years ago?”

“Apparently love at first scolding,” Eloise muttered, already backing toward the door. “I’m getting Anthony before this turns into a betrothal.”

Penelope raised a hand, still hovering in the air, unsure if it should comfort, push, or pray.

Moments later, Anthony entered the room, brow furrowed, coat still undone. “Mother? Eloise said there was a—”

He stopped mid-stride.

There, in full tableau: his brother clinging to Miss Featherington like a human limpet. Penelope, rigid and scandalized. Violet, looking vaguely like she was reconsidering the last two decades of her life.

Anthony sighed. “Of course.”

“Your brother is feverish,” Violet said simply. “Could you help us get him to bed?”

“Gladly,” Anthony muttered, stepping forward and glaring at Benedict. “Miss Featherington, if you could kindly—”

“Yes, yes, I—” Penelope shifted carefully, reaching behind her to peel Benedict’s hands off her waist with all the delicacy of someone diffusing a bomb.

“I object!” Benedict cried weakly, but he allowed himself to be lifted by Anthony without too much resistance. “Put me down, you brute. I have to kiss my wife goodnight.”

“You’ll kiss your pillow and like it,” Anthony growled, half-dragging him toward the door.

Benedict twisted just enough to blow Penelope a kiss before vanishing into the hall.

Penelope, stunned, looked at Violet. “Did that just… happen?”

“Oh yes,” Violet said calmly. “And I believe your next Whistledown column just wrote itself.”

Penelope blinked. Then grinned.

“Oh, it absolutely did.”

——————————————————————

[owlisbuffering]

What's in a Name?

Characters: Ruggie Bucchi x Reader, Grim (briefly)

Summary: reader calls Ruggie a nickname; can be read as platonic or romantic; gender neutral reader

Tags: fluff, slight crack, silly fic

Warnings: none

Word count: 436

Also on ao3

It was a brisk day at NRC, windy enough that though you were inside, just the sound of the howling gusts outside made you feel chilly. Ruggie was over helping you prepare for an upcoming Animal Linguistics exam and had disappeared into the kitchen. Grim was off in another part of Ramshackle, so for the moment you were on your own, trying to memorize the rules for honorifics when addressing different members of the rodent family.

"Here ya go, Y/n!" Ruggie appeared, holding a steaming mug out to you. "I won't even charge ya for the service. Though I do always accept tips." He winked.

"Thank you, Ruginald." You replied with a smile as you took the proffered mug. Ruggie, who had been turning back to retrieve his own mug, stopped and blinked at you, ears twitching.

"......what'd you say?"

Your eyes widened. His question made you realize just what you had said. You inwardly grimaced; you'd been referring to Ruggie as Ruginald in your head for some time now, but had never slipped up and said it to his face until now.

"Thank you?"

He shook his head and waved a finger as though turning a page over.  "Nu-uh. After that."

"Ruggie?" You knew you were caught but still desperately tried to play it off.

"That's not what you said and you know it." He said, crossing his arms.

You sighed. "...Ruginald?"

He cackled. "Is that supposed to be a nickname?"

"I think it's cute! And kind of fun." You could feel your cheeks heating up as you floundered, Ruggie snickering at your protest.

"It sounds all fancy." He said, wrinkling his nose with exaggerated distaste. You rolled your eyes.

"What, afraid it'll make you want to act like a proper gentleman?"

"Yeah, right. I don't think it works that way."

You shrugged. "It does a little with Grim."

Ruggie snorted. "I'll believe that when I see it."

Just then, Grim passed by the lounge entrance walking on all fours, half a fish sticking out of his mouth. He paused when he saw you two.

"Grimothy." You greeted him with a nod.

He gave a dignified nod in return and stood on his hind feet, clasping his forepaws behind his back. With all the airs of the noblest of kings, he walked on, the fish still protruding from his mouth.

A glance at Ruggie revealed he was shocked and speechless, staring at the spot Grim had been seconds before. He recovered a moment later and bowed deeply to you. Raising his head and giving you another wink, he smirked. "Ruginald Bucchi, at your service."

[am-i-interrupting]

I'm curious what Vox's first impressions were of the Alastor's daughter, like as a kid, I mean he briefly mentions it but I kinda wanna read his reaction about learning the radio host he grew up listening to has a daughter (and if he learned before the serial killer thing was announced, did imagine scenarios of meeting the radio man and his daughter like little kids do with their imagination or teens with their daydreams).

Another inquiry is what his impressions were when he read the reader's book (obviously he read it) and if he could sense there was more to it than the words written down

OATSH Master List

To answer your second question succinctly, yes. Not to the extent that he would suspect them of anything but he would have definitely picked up on some very subtle hints of defensiveness when it came to Alastor’s killings. I think he’d probably read it as them feeling like they need justification for still caring about him despite what he did but in reality, it’s less about their own justification and more so like a “he’s not a monster. He was helping people, why can you see that?” you know?

To answer your first question, thank you for giving me a reason to write this:

A Voice on the Radio | Vox x Alastor’s Child Reader

It was a surprise when the radio switched from producing the sound of blues to voices. For the past week, nothing but blues music came from the station. A very stark change from the upbeat jazz that normally played. There had also been no speaking. Not a single soul had spoken for the last nine days.

A throat cleared. “Is this on?”

“The light,” another, much younger sounding voice said.

The fifteen year old paused eating breakfast and looked at his mother who was staring at the radio with furrowed brows. Neither voice was familiar.

“Ah, yes, right,” the first voice said with a laugh. “Good morning all, we would like to apologize for the radio silence on our part this past week. Some unexpected tragedies came our way and with them uncovered some gruesome truths.

“The dearly beloved host, Alastor, has passed. He was killed by a misfire of a hunter. A truly tragic event but with it came to light the horrific acts of the late Alastor. As you likely know if you’re a long time listener, for the past decade or so, there have been many murders that have befallen this otherwise serene part of Louisiana and it’s been confirmed to be the acts of our previous show host.

“Today, I have here with me the one person who knew him better than anyone else and can hopefully shine some light upon the situation and perhaps give some peace to the families of the victims. Alastor’s daughter—“

He looked towards the radio now. His breakfast was forgotten now. His fork barely dangled in his hand.

Not only was his mother’s (and by extension his own) favorite radio show host dead but also a murderer and he had a daughter? So much information in less than three minutes. His brain was struggling to keep up.

Even his father set down his paper to listen in.

“Why don’t you say hello to the people?”

“I’m not dignifying you with a proper greeting until you dignify me with a proper introduction. You’re doing a terrible job, Gregory,” the younger voice said.

He smiled curiously at the radio.

“I— um, I’m sorry?” the man, Gregory, said. There was only silence in reply. An awkward chuckle, “Well, my apologies then. Let me introduce the daughter of our show host—“ Gregory said your name and silently he tested it on his tongue— “Do you have anything to say to the people before we begin?”

“Yes, I would like to sincerely apologize for Gregory’s lack of bravado and charisma. I did do my best to convince them that Raymond would be better but alas,” you said.

That’s when he got it. You did sound like a younger, more feminine version of your father. Down to the tilts of the accent.

There was a longer pause and then, barely picked up and barely able to decipher, “You have your father’s creepy smile.” Louder, intended to be heard, “Why don’t we get into the questions then?”

“Yes, let’s. The less time spent listening to you, the better for everyone, hm?”

“You little— So—“ the sounds of hands clapping together— “the reports I have here suggest that you knew about the murders. Was there a reason you didn’t say anything?”

“I’ve been raised by a serial killer, Gregory. Please, take a guess,” you replied.

He couldn’t help but snort as reached for his glass. His mother shot him a look. He bowed his head down as he took a sip.

“Right, well,” Gregory cleared his throat, “did you happen to know his motivations?”

“He’s a very righteous man,” you said. “You’ve seen him when people are being disrespectful. He’s not just some ravaging animal. He’s very selective.”

“Was,” Gregory corrected. “He was very selective, you mean.”

“Was,” you repeated and he could hear you seething even through the crackle of the radio.

“Oh, heavens! Get your stuff or we’re going to be late,” his mother said.

He didn’t want to go though. He wanted to stay and listen to you on the radio. He was having fun listening to your snark.

It truly surprised him, impressed him how you were able to have such moxie so soon after tragedy. He couldn’t imagine being so quick witted so quickly.

His mother called his name and he snapped back to reality. As he headed out the door, he heard you snap back at Gregory one more time, “And would you call yourself a saint? Don’t think no one’s noticed the looks you’ve shared with Ms. Brown, as a married man, no less!”

He compressed a laugh to his chest as he followed his mother.

The next day he saw a paper with a headline related to a serial killer in Louisiana. He paid for the paper and read another interview with you.

He couldn’t help but wonder what you looked like. What would such a snarky, confident girl look like? He wanted to know. He wanted to meet you. Even in tragedy, you seemed like good company to have.

[innovationhasnomercy]

If you get the flu do you use an antivirus?

He let's out a very long sigh, hand covering his screen before moving it to reply. "I'm not going to even dignify this with a proper response. Moving on."

[jumpywhumpywriter]

Beauty and the Freak part 17

Warnings: toxic parents, emotional abuse, forced compliance

It was better if her injury stayed secret, though, if possible. It would save her a lot of trouble.

Annabelle glanced at the clock on the wall -- and her heart sank. She'd been so preoccupied comforting Silas she hadn't been paying attention to the time -- and it was two minutes past dinnertime.

She was never late to family dinner. Her parents would be worried sick -- she was restricted to a tight schedule to follow day-by-day, never to stray from the strict parameters her parents had set.

"We have to go to dinner," Annabelle said urgently, "think you can get cleaned up in five minutes?"

Silas nodded grimly, getting off the bed and heading to the bathroom to change and wipe the tears from his face -- find some way to look at least a little presentable.

Annabelle hurried over to her giant wardrobe, aggressively rifling through the clothes until she found a long-sleeved, white-furred jacket to wear and hide her arms.

She quickly threw it on and hastily braided her hair.

Silas finished getting ready right as she did, and Annabelle swiftly led him to the grand dining room -- where both of her parents were already seated expectantly.

There were several fully armed men that stood attentively next to them, on high alert -- their focus immediately locking onto the large man that followed the little girl in.

Her parents had gotten into the annoying habit of always having guards around whenever Silas was going to be anywhere near them -- such as during mealtimes.

It was absolutely overkill, in Annabelle's opinion.

"I'm so sorry I'm late -- I lost track of time," Annabelle panted as she took a seat at the long table. Today's meal was bread and buns along with chicken and other fancier meats.

Sofia's eyes narrowed accusingly at Silas as the man settled down in the chair next to her daughter.

"Is your pet to blame for the delay? Is it being a bad influence on you?" She said dryly.

Annabelle sent her a withering glare. "Can you not make everything about Silas, for once? The world doesn't revolve around him -- lay off."

Sofia gasped in shock. "You dare take that tone with me?"

Annie winced. Oops.

Sometimes she just couldn't help the snark, especially when her parents were being jerks like they were now. And after dealing with Silas's meltdown a short while ago, she was tired and didn't have the patience to listen to all their garbage and barbed remarks.

Theo cleared his throat gruffly, interrupting the tense staredown between mother and daughter.

"I think what your mother is looking for is an apology," he remarked. "That wasn't very dignified of you to say."

No way. Annie wasn't going to apologize for putting Sofia in her proper place and drawing a boundary line. Not this time. She was sick of letting people walk all over her.

"If she apologizes for insulting my friend, I'll apologize for being rude," Annie growled.

Sofia's gaze hardened. "You're not negotiating your way out of this," she scoffed, nose wrinkled. "You're not being very lady-like right now. It's improper."

Says the least-lady-like person in this entire room, Annabelle thought angrily.

There was a long, charged silence, and even her parents' guards seemed to be holding their breath, waiting to see what would happen.

"I'm not apologizing for speaking my mind," Sofia hissed, her tone filled with annoyance.

"Then I'm not apologizing for pushing back," Annabelle replied evenly. "You have no right to constantly harass me and Silas."

"That's enough, you two. Let's just have a nice, peaceful dinner," Theo spoke up with a heavy sigh.

Sofia snorted in disdain, curling her lip at Silas. "Pathetic monster," she muttered under her breath -- but loudly enough that both Annie and Silas heard it.

Annabelle saw Silas deflate slightly next to her as the sharp words hit their mark, staring down miserably at the food on his plate, and it kindled fiery rage in Annie.

She'd had enough. Sometimes her parents were downright toxic. It was unacceptable.

She hated it. Hated how little her opinion mattered to her mother, and how her father never stepped in to stop it when Sofia started lecturing her over petty details like being a minute late to supper or not wearing the right clothes.

Annie was never good enough to live up to their standards -- because she wasn't her sister. She wasn't Caterina, the perfect golden child her parents adored. She wasn't the type of girl who dressed fancy every day and walked in high heels all day and always stayed immaculate at all times.

Annabelle was the girl who wanted to wander and explore the world, who wanted to be free and untethered from all limitations -- the girl who liked getting her hands in the soil and didn't care if her clothes got dirty.

But her parents always expected her to be like her sister. It was unfair.

Annabelle abruptly stood up, shoulders stiff and posture rigid, bristling with frustration.

"If you refuse to be polite and dignified at this table, I will leave. I will not stay here and endure it without complaint," she growled. "I'm too old for this babying anymore -- it has to stop."

Ugh, it was so stupid -- she felt like the only adult in the room, scolding her own parents for their wretched behavior.

Sofia and Theo stared at her in utter shock as she gestured with a hand at Silas.

"Silas, we're leaving -- you don't have to listen to them anymore. I'm tired of hearing it too."

Dang, standing up for herself felt good.

Silas didn't have a chance to get out of his chair before Sofia had sprung up and rounded the table, eyes wide as she approached Annie.

"What's gotten into you today?" She fussed. "You're never this aggressive!"

"Maybe it's because I've finally learned I have a choice in life, and that I don't have to tolerate your nonsense," Annabelle sniped, spinning around to stalk out of the room.

"Hey -- don't you walk away from me, Annie! I'm not finished talking to you." Her mother grabbed the sleeve of her jacket, and Annabelle instinctively jerked away -- slipping out of the jacket entirely, and realizing her mistake a second too late.

She clapped a hand over her arm -- but not fast enough.

Sofia's eyes flared with anger and worry in equal measure, her tone dropping low and dangerous.

"How did you get that scratch?" She asked icily.

Annabelle glanced nervously at Silas before she could stop herself, and Sofia didn't miss it, whirling to face her giant friend.

"YOU!" she shrilled, "You hurt her?!?"

"Mother, don't--" Annabelle took a step forward to intervene, but Sofia gave her a warning glare that froze her in her tracks.

"The first day you asked us if you could keep that mangy mutt, we warned you that if it hurt you, we'd put it down. You agreed to those terms, Annie. Or have you already forgotten?"

"It was an accident," Annabelle pleaded. "It wasn't his fault! I just spooked him once, that was all! He didn't mean to do it!"

Silas suddenly stood up from his seat, gaze full of raw guilt. "I can explain what happened, if you'll let m--"

"Did I give you permission to speak, vile beast?!" Sofia snarled venomously.

Silas's eyes darkened, his lips pursing into a thin line -- but he said no more.

Annabelle looked desperately at her father, her eyes wide and pleading. "Come on, please be reasonable. You know this isn't fair. Are you really going to sit back and let this happen??"

Theo glanced away from his daughter, shaking his head sadly. "While I do understand accidents happen, you did make a deal -- we let you keep the pet you bought at the party and bring it home, under the one condition that it be euthanized if any harm came to you. Whether it was intentional or not, you were still hurt -- because of your 'friend'."

He jerked his chin meaningfully at the guards around him, then at Silas. "Restrain him," he ordered calmly.

⏪️ Back Next ⏩️

Masterlist

@scoundrelwithboba @lumpofsand @isikedmyself878 @iamheretohurt @fleur-a-whump

@ay5ksal @otterfrost @sausages-things @togzy

@whump-till-ya-jump @cravesunconditionallove @whumpwritinglover222 @what-if-i-just-did @written-in-the-stars135

[seekers-who-are-lovers]

Blue, blue ocean

For @flashfictionfridayofficial entry: #fff242: Soaring above

and @fluffbruary February 27 : table | blush | laundry

Fandom: Bang Brave Bang Bravern

Pairing: Ao Isami/Lewis Smith

Words: 398

—

I wish I could have touched his face and ease that crease on his forehead… I wish I could have grabbed him and…

One in a million, but one and the same. Lewis thought as he soared above the clouds and began to disintegrate.

I wish we could have shared some more time… I wish I could have known you much earlier…

Regrets came in late of course. Afterthoughts that didn’t have any more space in the present time.

Fragments of memories, of a life that past, flashed before him like a camera reel. The shards of broken glasses became tiny mirror prisms showing scenes of his life.

He could see a makeshift boxing ring on top of a ship. Brought on by his suggestion to do some boxing where they could unleash their pent-up sexual frustration and the misunderstanding between them, the Japanese lieutenant was ready to find connection.

“Do you feel it too?” The yellow-blonde-haired American man asked his Japanese counterpart as he lay on top of him grinding their crotches together much to the delight of their comrades, who thought they were only horseying around.

Isami, a Japanese gentleman and a dignified military officer, blushed and was suddenly speechless. Shyness, yes. Better to lay blame it on that emotion, but frotting with Lewis in front of the public wasn’t what one would call a proper decorum.

“That’s private,” Lewis heard Isami say when they were in the canteen eating their curry.

It occurred to him that before the Purge, he and Isami began to talk in earnest. Still the same stoic younger lieutenant, he gave signs to Lewis when he wanted to strike a conversation.

One time Lewis observed how Isami stood there next to him, not responding at all, looking at Bravern’s direction. After giving his reply, he thought it was all over. He was ready to leave when a hand stopped him.

“Lewis… wait…”

The American watched the smooth face in front of him, the imperial almond-shaped black eyes, the urge to kiss those thin lips was so strong he had to step back.

“Your eyes remind me of blue ocean.”

His last recollection was Isami’s face during their last goodbye when the latter was boarding Bravern. A simple nod. That recognition that the two of them perfectly understood.

You stay alive for me while saving the world.

Then everything turned to dust.

*Episode 8 was such an emotional rollercoaster, but somehow expected.

[contreparry]

For DADWC! "Cuddling under far too many blankets"

I thought this would be a cute friendship fill for Merrill and Fenris for @dadrunkwriting !

He was freezing. It was obvious. Anyone could look at Fenris, with his exposed arms and thin clothing, and see that he wasn’t prepared for the mountain’s chill. And beyond that Merrill saw how he shivered at the edge of the dying ring of firelight when the wind picked up, and the hair along his arms rose up alongside the goose flesh. Poor Fenris was cold, but he was so stubborn he would never admit to it. They would share this watch until dawn, and Fenris wouldn’t say a word to her all the while as they kept guard over the other members of their party. He was simply too obstinate to ever admit to being cold!

Or, perhaps, he didn’t think he was permitted to complain. That was a worse and sadder possibility than mere pride. Fenris was so aloof and dignified that Merrill often thought it was pride that motivated his standoffishness, but he was so… so very…

Guarded! That was the proper word, guarded. Sometimes that caution was funny, like whenever he pushed against doors he just locked or when he kicked an extra bit of dirt over the soaking wet charcoal of a doused campfire. He was always so very careful about everything, so very particular. But other times his caution wasn’t funny, like when he scanned every room for exits, or how he endured hardship without complaint even while he suffered-

Well, there wouldn’t be any suffering tonight! Not while she was around. Merrill gathered up the blankets of her bedroll and carried them over to where Fenris set up his watch for the night, his back turned away from the embers of the campfire to watch the forest.

“What is it?” Fenris asked gruffly. Merrill held out the blanket pile towards him

“In the clan-“ Merrill began.

“I am not Dalish,” Fenris interrupted, turning his head sharply away from her in clear dismissal.

“In the clan,” Merrill repeated. “On cold nights like this, we’d share blankets and furs.”

“I presume this comment has a point?” Fenris asked testily. Merrill sat down beside him and swiftly flung a blanket over his shoulders before wrapping the other around her.

“We’re… companions. And I’d like to think we’re friends. That’s somewhat like a clan. So we ought to share, don’t you think?” Merrill noted that Fenris had ceased shivering, even though he held himself stiffly and away from her. The silence stretched out between them like the hours before dawn. It could have lasted forever. But then Fenris’ shoulders slumped, and he released a sigh that shattered the quiet.

“There is no point in discouraging you,” Fenris finally said, and when Merrill scooted closer towards him he did not push her away.

“There really isn’t,” Merrill replied with a smile. “I can be quite stubborn!”

Even in the dim light of the fire and the waning moon, Merrill saw how Fenris’ mouth twisted up into a wry smile.