taylor price
No title available
tannertan36
One Nice Bug Per Day
No title available
YOU ARE THE REASON
Stranger Things
KIROKAZE
Jules of Nature
blake kathryn
Andulka
⁂
i don't do bad sauce passes
tumblr dot com
Discoholic 🪩
trying on a metaphor
Origami Around
Not today Justin
🪼
oozey mess
seen from Belgium
seen from Germany
seen from Netherlands
seen from Malaysia
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from Germany
seen from Netherlands
seen from Netherlands
seen from Poland
seen from United States
seen from Singapore
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Canada
seen from United States
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Lithuania
seen from United States
seen from Italy
@wineworshipped
Half gods are worshipped in wine and flowers. Real gods require blood.
a mobile-mostly rp blog for a jaded party god. DIO(nysus) RP BLOG independent • 21+ • discord upon request • dms to main blog only plz • sideblog to @neverhangd
formerly @winewomenwit • based on original lore and mythology written by ren
about • rules • memes • opens • verses • promos • permanent interaction call PJO INFO LINK
template by calisources
like nature most cruel and yet, most gentle to mankind
“i expected better from you” well that was your fault lmao I got nothing to do with that
𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐃 " 𝐒𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐇 𝐎𝐑 𝐏𝐀𝐒𝐒 “ 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐌𝐘 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐄 𝐓𝐎 𝐀𝐍𝐒𝐖𝐄𝐑 𝐇𝐎𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐋𝐘 𝐀𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐒. 𝐍𝐎 𝐋𝐘𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐃 .
@wineworshipped said: "See? I'm not just a pretty face." 200 random dialogue prompts. | accepting.
"Oh, but it's a very pretty face," She teases with a smile. "You're just lucky you've got the wit and personality to match."
@wineworshipped & @victoriousfidelity
The only greeting anyone might get when entering the room is the clicking noise from Hera’s long, neat fingernails as they drummed against the table she was sat at. For someone with such expertise in making a grand entrance, the fact she was the first here felt almost like an insult. If she were fair, she would forgive Sigyn for what must have been a most unfortunate oversight. Dionysus, she was sure, was arriving after her on purpose, setting the tone for the brittle cooperation between them.
The idea had been simple. After centuries closed off from other pantheons, Olympus was finally willing and eager to extend an olive branch to gods outside their own jurisdiction and foster better diplomatic relations. Hera had been reluctant to the project at first. Much as she may enjoy the company of selected gods and goddesses from selected other pantheons, there was a certain relinquishment of control which came with proper diplomacy, a tacit understanding that alliances involved mutual protection. Had they not fought through enough? Had the spinning of fate not already demonstrated that all that had been would rise again, that conflict was immutable and inevitable? Should they not focus on protecting themselves whenever the time undeniably came?
For all her skepticism, Hera was their Queen, a title she had always worn proudly, and responsibilities she had always rose to. So if it was decided that they would try this diplomacy thing, there would be no one better but the Queen to show just how seriously, confidently, and capably Olympus took this attempt to meet other gods where they were at. The fact they had started with Asgard and Vanaheim was, in fact, at least partly her idea. She had known Sigyn, known her as a knowledgeable and passionate goddess, one who would no doubt be as passionate and helpful as she could, should she believe in Hera’s offer of better diplomatic relations. Dionysus’ presence, aside from being a thorn in Hera’s side, was meant as the more amicable, less business approach. In all his time away from Olympus, Dionysus had built genuine bonds that his family simply hadn’t. Though logically, Hera was not foolish enough to ignore that, it did not make his apparent lack of respect any better.
The sour scowl on her lips only dissipates when the doors open and the same people who had brought her in let someone else through. Hand detains itself, hovering millimeters away from the table’s surface as Hera’s blue eyes drifted to meet Dionysus’.
« How lovely of you to show up, » she comments, lips stretching in a fake, saccarine smile which remains on her face until the two of them are alone. Pretenses drop, then, the seriousness in her features only matched by the bitterness in her gaze. « Do try to be on time next time. As I am sure you know, we have quite a lot riding on this, and wouldn’t want our lovely hostess to think us uncouth. »
Dio hums timelessly as he looks between the three conjured images of him, each tapping a finger against his lips in time with the real deal, currently naked between them. A visit to Vanaheim wasn’t usually an occasion for such deliberation, but then, a visit to Vanaheim wasn’t usually a political thing for him. More of a girls trip, really, a chance to sneak Sigyn out from under Loki’s arm, drink and kvetch a little, and return her before the hubby had a chance to even miss her. Today, though….
Dio dismisses the center look out of hand: the deep purple robes and panther pelt disappear, his traditional Olympic garb set aside for the third time that day. He kept coming back to it, being so on-theme for the mission at hand, but it was just so…Greek. Since he’d gotten the missive from poor Iris herself, he knew exactly who else was going along for this diplomatic buddy cop mission. It means, on the bright side, that he doesn’t have to be the bad cop (diplomat?) this time around…but it also means it’s a little hard to feel like part of the family he’s supposedly representing.
So. Suit, or slutty costume? Gods, choices like this are agonizing!
The suit is a shade of purple so dark it passes for a muted black in some lighting, paired with a shirt so light a pink it’s white under those same lights. The whole thing is accented with gold, including the pocket square and the tie, which bear the same gold filigree pattern. It’s also something he’s worn to some of the swankier events he’s taken Sigyn out to, meaning she’s definitely seen it before. The costume is inescapably just that: a mostly see-through blouse and matching pants, billowy, sexy, stunning—something he’s worn in the past to “official” “diplomatic” events (which have admittedly ranged in their degrees of officialness and diplomacy). It’s lighter shades of purple and deeper shades of pink, still accented in gold, and something he knows for a fact Sigyn hasn’t seen. Dio sighs and dismisses it. She’ll just have to wait to see it; he doesn’t need her thinking the diplomacy’s changing anything between them, after all.
He snaps his fingers and the illusory version of him disappears, naked. His clothing has become Dio’s own; a little gold eyeshadow, a nice sharp liner, something to make his lips less pale—and he’s off, arriving in the front hall a fashionable fifteen late according to the summons Iris delivered. He made small-talk with the servants who guided him to the meeting place, waving to Frida and Ingrid without addressing Hera.
He doesn’t need to. No sooner are the girls gone than her venom rises to the surface. Dio rolls his eyes and takes a seat; no Sigyn means he isn’t late, despite his best attempts. Either there’s an emergency or someone somewhere down the line lied to him about the time. He’ll know which before he leaves these halls, no doubt.
“That ship’s already sailed; Siggy knows me for the uncouth, tardy bastard that I am.” It’s hard to sail whether he’s joking or not by looking at or even listening to him: neither his face nor his voice betray anything, a perfectly neutral mask. It’s easier to be neutral around Hera than to give her anything to work with. “I thought you two would be knee-deep into tense pleasantries by now. What gives?”
🐝 * ― 𝑺𝑯𝑰𝑷𝑷𝑰𝑵𝑮 𝑺𝑯𝑬𝑬𝑻.
send 🚢 or ( 'SHIP' ) if you ever considered shipping our characters romantically and want me to fill out the following form for our muses. bold all that definitely applies, italicize what could potentially apply. feel free to add more if you think certain options are missing or you just want to add more.
do i ship our characters together?: yes | no | not yet but maybe soon
would i like to ship with you?: yes | maybe, i'm willing to try | no
type of relationship i could see: childhood or high school sweethearts | exes | engaged | married | long-term relationship | crushes | unrequited love | fling | long distance | online relationship | just dating | new relationship | toxic lovers | friends with benefits
tropes i'd enjoy writing for them: friends to lovers | enemies to lovers | exes to lovers | fake relationship / dating | forbidden love | grumpy and sunshine | star-crossed lovers | surprise pregnancy | second chance | soulmates | amnesia / mistaken identity | forced proximity | secret relationship | slow burn relationship
would i rather plot first or jump right in and see where it goes?: develop their relationship first | jump right in | something in between ( what specifically? )
what now?: let's plot something | send me shippy memes | i'll send you shippy memes | write me a random starter | i'll write you a random starter
anything else i want you to know about me / my character / my shipping habits: ( put whatever you want here )
My mood remains p bad. Like for a bad pickup line. Sincerity of delivery may vary.
Edit: closed
i love how you give him so many layers. He's both approachable and distant, can be friendly, but definitely not somebody to fuck with either.
Anonymously send me your favorite detail about how I play my character.
That last part is so confusing to me. I just feel like I haven’t written anything where he’s in “don’t fuck with me” mode, except for that one time he showed off a little for Dena? 😂
But thank you very much. I’m glad his layers read, especially the more dichotomous elements!
Anonymously send me your favorite detail about how I play my character.
I will publish and respond OOC.
Try to fluster my muse. Do whatever it takes to make them blush!
The smile was doing her no favors. Even at a distance, Dio could see that was only sweet because it was rotting. His lip curled when she said his name and his body stiffened when she approached.
He isn’t quick enough to escape her grasp, but he slaps her hand away at the instant his body unfreezes. It tears a thin line into his cheek; it fills with ichor—and something else. Something that makes the gold look coppery by comparison: close, but not quite right. When he speaks, it isn’t in the tone of someone who was just threatened.
“Don’t you think I’ve tired? We’re deathless, d—.” Dio cuts himself off from throwing himself off a ledge he might not recover from, one hand help up between them to stop her from speaking as he recomposed himself with a deep breath. He exhales curtly and drops his hand.
“We’re deathless, your majesty,” he says instead, the lack of inflection somehow making light of the title. “I’ve died twice, and twice been reborn. It seems the tapestry just isn’t done with my thread yet.”
Dio shrugs at Hera as if to say what are you going to do? while slipping past her.
“To my original point—that is, not wanting to see you—why not just cancel these obnoxious ‘family dinners’ altogether? I’m assuming this your idea, since the Old Man wouldn’t be caught dead insisting on this.”
ire burned like the coals of a fire, low-lying enough that the heat could be subdued, however temporarily. stoked enough, and a fire would roar. hera may have found satisfaction in drawing blood, were the coals mere embers, but instead she only grew further enraged. a drop of ichor was not enough. not even a pool of it on the floor would temper her rage.
but hera was queen. she could be civil. she would grin and bear the weight of her rage because that was her duty. apparently.
"i've unwound more than a few tapestries in my time," hera said, her cruel smile returning. "what's one more?"
temperance, hera, she chastised herself. fortunately, a single thought ripped her from her anger, however momentarily. she turned as dionysus stepped away, brows furrowing. "cancel? oh, bastard, i never would have called these dreadful things in the first place. council meetings are torture enough. you truly believe i suggested this?"
She means to be cruel; he’s settled on indifferent for now, and belligerent to malicious an hour from now when he can blame it on the alcohol. For now, he inspects the marbled walls of the Olympic palace. (Damn. His interior designer would shit a brick if they could get a load of this.) He shrugs at her question—the rest is less of an insult so much as it is the naked truth—all of it—as he tracks a vein of gold through the polished stone.
“The Old Man wouldn’t’ve,” Dio repeats before adding, “but I guess in hindsight you don’t make sense, either. That implies way too much power and personal charisma. Maybe Thena….” Dio’s voice trails off, as does the vein of gold. Both vanish into the space around them, Dio turning back in Hera’s general direction as he thinks.
Zeus genuinely doesn’t make sense, unless old age has made him sentimental (senile?) out of nowhere. Hera hasn’t called it—it only would have been torture, anyway, if she had—and it’s a safe bet neither Hades nor Hestia made the call, one for his antisocial tendencies and the other because she need only have asked and everyone would have come. (Hestia’s warmth, literal and figurative, are a constant source of comfort for the whole family. There wouldn’t have been any need to send anonymous summons if she was the asker.) Athena made sense, if only for the convoluted plot holes he could feel himself introducing into the narrative, and Ares made sense because it only seemed like something Athena might do. Ooo!, could it be Eris? That bitch! He suddenly can’t decide if he’d love or hate for her to be the catalyst behind all of this.
“Dinner just got interesting!”
If you follow this blog and you’re mutuals only…and I followed you from my main blog but you never followed back…are we mutuals or do you just need to unfollow this blog?
@wineworshipped asked: Oh, gods. What I wouldn’t do to avoid having to see you again—you’re the absolute worst, you know that, right? Just fucking awful.
hera was the perfect image of composure, even going so far as to slide a smile into place. to stand with a facade of such calm when a tempest raged beneath the mask was an impressive skill, one she had long since mastered after many years sharing court with insufferable bastards and mouthy siblings.
"oh, dionysus, lovely to see you, as always," she cooed, regarding him with the same, sickly sweet smile and crinkled eyes. "your way with words continues to inspire me."
extending a hand, hera reached out to cup the god's cheek, running her thumb along the cheekbone. her grip tightened, slowly at first, growing more vice-like as the seconds passed. "if you really wish never to see me again..." her thumbnail dug into his skin, smile falling. "then you'll have to drop dead."
The smile was doing her no favors. Even at a distance, Dio could see that was only sweet because it was rotting. His lip curled when she said his name and his body stiffened when she approached.
He isn’t quick enough to escape her grasp, but he slaps her hand away at the instant his body unfreezes. It tears a thin line into his cheek; it fills with ichor—and something else. Something that makes the gold look coppery by comparison: close, but not quite right. When he speaks, it isn’t in the tone of someone who was just threatened.
“Don’t you think I’ve tired? We’re deathless, d—.” Dio cuts himself off from throwing himself off a ledge he might not recover from, one hand help up between them to stop her from speaking as he recomposed himself with a deep breath. He exhales curtly and drops his hand.
“We’re deathless, your majesty,” he says instead, the lack of inflection somehow making light of the title. “I’ve died twice, and twice been reborn. It seems the tapestry just isn’t done with my thread yet.”
Dio shrugs at Hera as if to say what are you going to do? while slipping past her.
“To my original point—that is, not wanting to see you—why not just cancel these obnoxious ‘family dinners’ altogether? I’m assuming this your idea, since the Old Man wouldn’t be caught dead insisting on this.”
@nosestealer | continued
There’s a lot to like about Lou-Lou. She’s dependable, respectful, reverent, kind—if that counts as the kind of thing to like about someone—smart, respectful…but there’s a lot not to like about Lou-Lou, too. (…okay, maybe that list isn’t quite as extensive and gets to be a little harder to remember, but the whole “lord” thing is definitely on that one.) Dio slings a chummy arm around Lou-Lou’s shoulders when she rises to his issues challenge only to immediately stop dead in his tracks and sigh when she starts talking again. He pinches the bridge of his nose between middle finger and thumb as he slips his hand back to the shoulder nearest him, using it to steer Eleusine to face him.
“Kiddo, we’ve been over this.” Dio removes his hand from his face and glances up towards the sky. Just a reminder as to why he’s so obnoxious about this particular point, a silent glimpse at his ancestral neighborhood that he denied long ago despite familial outreach attempts. “D, Dio, Uncle D—tartarus!, do what Kiki does and use ‘Big D’ for all I care!—but drop the old titles, yeah? I haven’t been the lord of the midnight torches since the Romans invaded.”
There are other reasons he’s rejected titles like lord, but they aren’t exactly camp conversations. Mostly because he has no interest in conversing about them.
“Anyway. It’s not exactly a secret.” Dio begins walking again; the part-timers will be leaving soon, with their summer mostly over, and he wants to see what damage they’ve laid out to be corrected this time. He knows Lou’ll follow. “It’s the same reason I have an in with the Egyptians: I was on the run and under a curse. You know how it goes. Someone (you know who) on Olympus decides they don’t want you around, so they orchestrate your downfall. I wasn’t the first or the last. Just the first one to return and throw it in her face.” Is he smirking? He must be smirking. One of his few untainted memories of triumph was his return to Olympus, retinue of followers foreign and local alike in tow.
If only every victory could feel as unspoiled as that one.
“—but back to what I was talking about earlier, not going easy on you. Talk to me, cupcake. You’ve been here longer than most, right? You could probably map this place in your sleep and wake up reciting every rule every person is expected to adhere to. Probably more. Right?” He has a big ask in mind, but she’s up to the challenge. Probably.
"I know, I'm sorry!" She's scrunching up her nose as she speaks while he slings an arm around her shoulders. "It's kind of like, you know how you call someone sir or ma'am or mx? Or 'you' but in a respectful way? It's like that. But I'll try my hardest to, uh, tone that down a notch. I'd say take it up with Mama Jade but her memory's fucked so maybe don't do that."
She perks up at the mention of Kiki, however, before she throws herself off the proverbial cliff of doom and despair, because the memory thing is still her fault, and it's still irreversible. "Oh? How is she doing?"
The younger of the two beams at the story. It's always good to hear these things straight from the source. And now she knows more than Malcolm Pace, which is nice, because that dude is always flaunting his knowledge and making her feel dumb.
"Sure could. It's always good to learn the rules before you break 'em," is the almost cheerful response he gets. "Makes it more satisfying. So, what would you have me do?"
“Titles are for sex and stories, cupcake. Unless we’re engaged in one or the other, I don’t wanna hear ‘em.” He makes a point of not thinking too hard about anything he’s saying right now, putting more attention into his surroundings. Had the field always looked like a mud pit?
“Kiki? She’s fine. She actually spent the summer in Japan, visiting temples, looking for guidance. I got a lot of very whiny text messages.” He’s smirking though. Kiki—she’s special, one of those kiddos (even if she’s not a kid) that’s wormed their way under his skin despite his better judgement. Like a camper here, but worse, since she lives closer by during the rest of the year and actually has his cell number. “She’s already threatening to move in here next summer to continue training.”
And she’s a great segue into rules and rule-breaking, as always. The perpetual paradox, keeper of the rules and balance but mischievous by nature. Kid’s got her work cut out for her—just like another girl he happens to know. Dio doesn’t need to pry into the Jade issue, and he’s glad Lou’s starting to find her way around it on her own. She’s starting to come into her own, too, also like Kiki. Which is why he thinks she might enjoy this opportunity in a way similar to how Akira had enjoyed being in her first theatrical production.
“I would have you take the reins as Camp Half-Blood’s off-season director,” he replies. His tone is nonchalant, his expression placid and his wine-dark gaze still turned towards the fields—but his attention is glued to Lou nevertheless, careful to keep her in his periphery as he pretends he hasn’t asked something world-stopping of her. Camp is nice and all, but giving up over half a year to the place every year is draining. It’s a demanding gig with a lot riding on it, but it’s also a show of mettle few are capable of. (Himself aside, he knows of just one among the Olympians who might be equal to the task of solo directorship, and she isn’t interested in the position even part-time.)
He isn’t planning on leaving Lou alone in it or anything, of course—he’s not that irresponsible!—and he’ll be easy to reach and checking in with her just in case, anyway, but…well. Frankly. It’s his turn for a fucking vacation, and if no one on Olympus will rise to the challenge, he’ll prove to them he doesn’t need to seek out Olympus to find champions. He gets to spend more of the season (the theatrical season, that is) up in the Bug Apple directing his heart out, Louey gets a promotion and a chance to proverbially spit in the face of the gods, and unless some world-ending crisis manages to emerge when most of the campers are away…well. It was a fun ride while it lasted.
@wineworshipped asked “All the world's my stage and you're just a player in it.”
"Too true." Gale said with a nod, swirling the wine in his goblet around. He hadn't been drinking it so much as contemplating as he started into the ripples punctuated by the reflection of the campfire.
"We are just... characters in some cosmic game of make believe, aren't we?" He chuckled, looking up to the other man with a playful smile. "Curious, then, that we still experience calamities in life, isn't it? You would think those writing our stories would want us living in happy lives without strife. But I suppose, we wouldn't know how good that good life is without a bit of the bad. Isn't that the way of things?"
Dio stared for a moment at the wizard before his expression—caught somewhere between surprise and confusion—broadened into a disbelieving smile and a laugh. And not the dignified, that’s-precisely-what-I-mean laugh of an intellectual being recognized by another beautiful mind, but the half-snorted laugh of someone who told a dirty joke only to be met with a response of I don’t get it. Maybe he could pass for mortal in this realm, after all.
“Y’know, honeycomb, sometimes you open your mouth and I’m shocked they all think you’re the smart one.” It’s more jest than barb, a fact evident in the bright tone of his voice and the warm smile on his lips. “In one breath you say, ‘gee, I guess you’re right, we’re all in a great big play together called life,’ and then in the next you act you don’t understand the principles of drama. There isn’t a play, a book, a story, gods!, or even a ballad worth the time it took to compose it that excludes all—borrowing your word here—strife. Without conflict there’s no risk of failure, and without risk of failure there’s no triumph. All things good in art come out of strife.
“It’s usually the same with life,” he concludes. “After all, art’s just an imitation of it.”
In the middle-distance: glinting eyes. It isn’t the devil in human form, but a cherubic standin for him all the same. The devil was an angel once, and this devil still looks the part: springy golden curls, big blue eyes, porcelain skin. A little angelic kewpie doll with all the homicidal rage of a late eighties horror mascot.
In his noir, this would be the entrance of the one who for away—the only woman his hardboiled P.I. character could ever truly love. But in the slasher, obviously, this is the entrance of the killer, the establishment of the threat. In real life….
Worst case scenario, she’s someone lost kid. More likely, she’s an out of luck actress unenviably out of work thanks to Peter Dinklage and the time it takes for equal roles start rolling out for women.
Dio raises his eyebrows but doesn’t ask any questions when she produces her own cigarettes. At least he’d only be partially to blame at the worst. He pulls the lighter back out and flicks it on for her, instinctively cupping his hand around it to shield it.
“Cheers to not being a shit-dick mugger.”
He waits for her to light up before pulling away, glancing down the alley. It’s a black-painted backdrop against a muted sky. Only the moon and the stubbornnest of stars are visible right now, eaten away as they are by the light pollution of downtown shithole Gotham.
“Didn’t think anyone else was booked here with the way they kept ‘offering to negotiate.’”
She doesn't answer right away, turns her face away for the first inhale, closes her eyes for a half-beat to savour the nicotine.
There is a part of her which understands, inherently, that she is in an alleyway, in the dark, with a man she doesn't know. It's the same part of her that feels the weight of the gun in her coat pocket. Cold metal through the fabric.
Her rap sheet probably has more felonies.
She tips her head back and exhales a thin line of smoke up into the air; the haze of it blurs the gaps between the buildings, catches what light there is. It had rained earlier in the night, but it won't now — Mary has lived in Gotham long enough to know the clouds have swept out over the bay, will roll back in with the fog for an early morning shower as the dawn approaches.
"What was their first offer?" she asks, not bothering to tell him no one else is booked here. Not yet, anyway. "They always liked to highball people first. It's like a pack of hungry dogs, you know?"
Her rap sheet has more felonies; his resumé has more starring roles. Dio doesn’t share Mary’s awareness of the inherent danger either one of them could be in: he is, after all, standing out in the cold next to a stranger in a strange city, wearing a designer coat and a cashmere scarf. His ignorance is a privilege afforded to him since birth.
The problem is that answering Mary’s question, hearing his answer out loud, makes him suddenly much more aware of things he had been doing inattentive to only a moment before.
“Yeah, no kidding. Their highball was sad, though. Low five-digits. Got them down to four and them providing some local talent out of their own pocket, apparently.” Dio had been less than impressed by the deal when he learned the details, sure that if he hadn’t been booted out of his unofficial position on the board that he could’ve done better. Like not starting in Gotham, for one.
But. Money talk and talent talk have made him acutely aware of what might be going on here. He sighs out a lungful of smoke and holds his elbow with his free hand, effectively shutting himself off.
“…look, if you’re here about a job, I can’t help you with that. It’s not my show anymore.” Something in his tone implies he’s repeating words he’s had thrown at him before, and that they taste just as bitter on his tongue as they had coming from someone else’s. (Bullshit, his name’s on the fucking title, it’s his show!)
In BG3 verse, Dio uses honeycomb instead of cupcake. Thanks for coming to my TED Talk.
