I just love writing the chaos of a bunch of the Papa’s interacting 😂 Grumpy Secondo gives me life 🥹🥰

A murder mystery game night at the Abbey descends into glorious chaos — Copia can’t hold his accent, Secondo’s threatening actual homicide, and Primo’s just trying to keep the candles from setting the tablecloth alight. But when the game’s over, and Terzo realizes you were the secret culprit all along, he can’t resist a little playful private interrogation. 🔎🧐

The storm outside is raging like something straight out of a black and white horror film. Lightning is flashing across the stained glass panes of the windows, lighting up the Great Hall of the Ministry. Primo insists that it is the “perfect ambiance”, though Secondo grumbles about the thunder drowning out his every word.

The long dining table has been transformed into a grand manor setting- candles flickering, crystal glassware catching the glow, and each setting is marked with a parchment paper card in an elegant looping script that can only belong to Primo himself.

Copia adjusts his magnifying glass for at least the fifth time, his fake mustache peeling back from the corner.

“Aha!” He cries out, in the absolute WORST attempt at an exotic detective accent.

“I, inspector Copia, shall solve zis most heinous crime!”

Terzo claps from his seat at the head of the table, absolutely beaming in his tailored Count’s coat and dramatic cape.

“Bravo, Bravo! You sound exactly like someone who definitely did not read the rules.”

Secondo, arms crossed in his role as the “gruff Baron”, rolls his eyes.

“If I hear one more “Aha!”, I’m going to commit an actual murder.”

Primo grins serenely, swirling the wine around in his glass.

“It’s a game, fratelli. No need for bloodshed.”

You’re hiding a smirk behind your wine glass as you take a sip. If only they knew.

Because you, of course, are the murderer.

The night descends into a glorious chaos.

Copia trips over his trench coat twice, Primo keeps trying to light more candles despite the protests from everyone else, and Secondo somehow makes his Character backstory into a rant about poor estate management.

And then there is Terzo- sashaying through all of the clues like he is performing at a theatre, accusing everyone with dramatic flair. He even pulls out what you assume is a fake pipe, until he puffs on it thoughtfully and nearly chokes you out with real tobacco smoke.

Every time his darkened eyes meet yours across the candlelight, you feel the corner of your lips twitching upward. He is watching you too closely.

When he rises suddenly, cloak swirling behind him, the whole table falls silent.

“I know who did it!” He declares, voice smooth and triumphant.

A collective gasp- but mostly from Copia, who seems genuinely startled.

Terzo turns slowly, deliberately, to face you.

“It was YOU, cara mia. The mysterious guest, with far too much poise to be innocent.”

You lean back in your chair, feigning innocence.

“You have no PROOF, Count.”

He prowls closer to you, a wicked grin spreading across his face.

“Oh, but you have motive. Opportunity. And that deliciously guilty look on your face.”

The others break into laughter and applause, the “case” closing in a round of cheers, with no actual confession, as Terzo gives a flamboyant bow.

Later, when the storm outsides quiets and everyone has drifted off to their quarters- Copia humming his own theme music down the halls, Primo collecting wine glasses on the way out, and Secondo muttering about “never ever again.”- you linger to blow out the rest of the candles.

You don’t hear Terzo until his voice comes soft and low from behind you.

“You were good tonight.”

You turn, finding him leaning against the doorframe, the last of the candlelight dancing across the sharp angular lines of his handsome face. His cape is gone, but his shirt is still open at the throat, the familiar glint of mischief dancing in his eyes.

“Good?” You tease. “I technically won, didn’t I? There was no confession.”

He steps closer, slow and meaningful, until the scent of incense and his expensive cologne surround your senses.

“Mmmm…you did. But you know, Cara, you played your part a little too well.”

You tilt your head, a sly smile spreading across your lips.

“Jealous you didn’t catch me sooner?”

He chuckles softly. “Oh no. I wanted to see how far you would take it.”

His fingers brush along the edge of the table directly next to you, drawing lazy circles in the wax residue of a nearby candle.

“Tell me,” he continues, “do you always get such a thrill from keeping secrets?”

You lean in towards him, eyes narrowing in a playful challenge.

“Maybe only when you’re the one trying to uncover them.”

Electricity sparks in the air between the both of you, the scent of rain mingling around you from a nearby window that is slightly ajar. Terzo’s smile softens as his gaze falls to your lips.

“Then perhaps, I should extract a confession.” He murmurs.

You swallow down a laugh.

“And what are your methods, detective?”

He reaches over, running his thumb just beneath your chin.

“Interrogation…persuasion…,” his voice drops lower, dripping in smooth velvet. “And a little charm.”

You let the tension stretch as your gaze meets his.

“Fine. I did it.”

His smile turns downright sinful. Spreading from ear to ear.

“Then I suppose I must punish you.”

Before you can retort back, he kisses you- slow, teasing and full of warmth. The candlelight flickers as if caught in a breeze, as your hands curl into his shirt pulling him closer.

When he finally pulls away, he is grinning that unmistakable smug Terzo grin.

“Case closed.” He murmurs against your lips gently.

You laugh softly, resting your forehead against his.

“You’re something else.” You tease affectionately.

“Sì amore,” he says in a pleased manner. “But you love me for it.”

Outside thunder cracks again, but in the golden glow of the few candles that are still burning, the only sound that matters is your shared laughter- warm, secret and utterly addicting.

I live for a grumpy Papa who would do anything for me 💅🖤

You talk Papa Secondo into a simple farmer’s market date — though “talk” might be generous. What begins as reluctance turns quietly romantic, until even Secondo can’t deny that some things — and some company — are worth the trip.

You nearly have to drag him out of the Abbey.

It starts as a harmless suggestion.

A simple, cheerful “let’s go to the farmers market this morning, Papa!”

It ends with a string of muttered Italian curses as he begrudgingly shrugs into his coat, sunglasses in place, trying not to look like a man willingly leaving the comfort of his lair.

“The farmers market,” he grumbles, hands in pockets as he follows you down the path. “Full of people. Crowded. Noisy. Smells like goats.”

You try not to laugh, though the corners of your mouth betray you as they form into a devious smile.

“You like goats!” You quip back playfully.

“I like them far away from me.”

Still, he walks beside you, hands in pockets matching your pace as the crisp autumn air swirls between you.

The town square is alive with chatter, wooden stalls overflowing with pumpkins, jars of honey, and fresh breads that make the air smell sweet and warm.

Secondo gives a long put upon sigh, that fools absolutely no one.

“You’re enjoying this.” You tease, watching him glance- multiple times- at a stand selling cured meats.

“I am tolerating this.” He corrects you, already reaching for a sample toothpick. “BIG difference.”

He takes one bite of salami and immediately calls the attendant for another. You raise an eyebrow.

“Tolerating it VERY enthusiastically, I see.”

“It’s purely research.” He says smoothly, then buys two packages- tucking them into your basket- before you could object.

It becomes a pattern: he complains about the prices but buys you things anyway. Fresh figs, fresh darkened honey, bread so fragrant you feel like you can taste the butter already. Every single time you thank him, he waves it off with a flourish of his hand, and mutters in exasperation something about “not letting you starve.”

When you pass a stall of beautiful blooming flowers, you slow down- the colors are a breathtaking fire of crimson golds and reds. Secondo notices the way your eyes soften, even though you say nothing.

He stops, sighing theatrically this time, and speaks to the vendor. A few moments later he hands you a bouquet of marigolds and eucalyptus.

“They smell nice.” He tuts gruffly. “Do not make a big thing out of it.”

But the shade of pink at the tip of his ears gives him away.

You stroll together until the crowd thins out, the sun warming the stones beneath your feet. You find a quiet bench tucked underneath a chestnut tree, the basket of spoils sitting between you.

Seconds unwraps a small loaf of bread, tears it in half and offers you a piece. You break it apart and laugh softly.

“See? Not so bad after all.”

“It’s fine.” He says as he chews. “For something you forced me into.”

You lean a little closer to him. “You’re smiling.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.”

He turns his head towards you, his expression caught somewhere between irritation and amusement- but his eyes immediately soften when they meet yours. For a moment, the noise of the market disappears. Sunlight glows golden against his dark coat, the scent of warm bread and autumn leaves hanging in the air between you.

When he speaks again, his voice is quieter. Rougher.

“You drive me crazy, you know that?”

You smile widely back at him. “Good.”

That earns you a low chuckle from him, and before you can even blink, his hand comes up to cup your jaw- careful, deliberate. The kiss that follows is slow and sure, tasting faintly of bread and honey and every little thing about the afternoon that has become perfect.

When he finally pulls away, his thumb gently brushes your lower lip.

“I still don’t like crowds.” He murmurs.

“Then we‘ll just have to come earlier next time.” You say, breathless.

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Next time.” He repeats, as if testing the words- and this time he doesn’t sound like he minds at all.

You walk back through the square hand in hand, his other arm steadying the basket he was insistent on carrying. The vendors are beginning to pack up, the hum of the market quieting and fading into the soft sounds of late afternoon- laughter, music, the rustle of leaves tumbling along cobblestone.

Secondo walks quietly beside you, not saying much on the walk back to the ministry. He didn’t need to. Every now and then his thumb gently brushes over your knuckles, a quiet rhythm of affection he more than likely does not even realize he is doing.

When the abbey gates come into view, he exhales a low sigh that almost sounds content.

“Next time,” he says, glancing down at you sideways, “we get there early enough to avoid the crowd. You pick the bread. I’ll pick the wine.”

You smile up at him affectionately. “Deal.”

He leans down, and presses one last soft kiss against your temple- much softer than the one before, but no less certain.

“And you,” he continues, a small smirk playing on his lips. “You carry the basket.”

You laugh wholeheartedly, nudging his shoulder playfully as you both disappear back inside the abbey- the scent of bread, honey and autumn still lingering between the both of you.

A poetry night with the clergy and a bunch of siblings of sin would be a RIOT. I just know Secondo would show up and shock everyone 🖤

The abbey’s first poetry night was meant to be lighthearted—until Papa Secondo decided to participate. Between Terzo’s flirtatious chaos and Nihil’s bragging, no one expected the quiet weight of his words… or how softly he’d look in the candlelight. 🕯️📜

The great ministry library has never looked quite like this.

Soft candlelight pools over the old wooden tables, spilling onto well-used books and well-worn chairs. Someone has dragged in a phonograph that is humming soft jazz in the background, while the ghouls and ghoulettes have been setting up trays of wine, hot coca and pastries. Terzo insists they are imported (he was told they were…they are not).

You have absolutely no idea who came up with the idea or the name of “Poetry Night”, but the phrase has stuck. The promise of some kind of open mic with performances from the clergy and ghouls alike quickly turned this into an entire event- one that Primo called “a celebration of creative devotion” and Terzo deemed “an opportunity for dramatic suffering.”

And somewhere along the way, during the planning process, someone invited Secondo.

He’s here now, sitting in the back, arms folded, eyes half lidded as he observes the chaos unfolding in front of him. Candlelight bounces off his rings as he adjusts his glasses- giving him an aura of confidence. You sit beside him, enthused that he has even showed up in the first place.

As Primo takes the stage first he sighs heavily.

Primo’s poem is calm and rhythmic, full of deep imagery of moonlight, renewal and new beginnings. He reads it as though he is performing a sacred blessing and the enthralled siblings of sin around the room listen with true reverence.

Secondo, mutters under his breath just loud enough for you to hear:

“Hmph, predictable.”

You bite back a giggle by clearing your throat, nudging him gently with your elbow.

“He’s just setting the tone.”

“The tone is sleepy.” He grumbles, but you watch the slightest twitch of amusement at the corner of his mouth.

Then Nihil takes the floor.

His “poem” really isn’t even a poem. Somehow, it turns into an extended speech about his “years of lyrical genius” that “carried” the ministry forward and how “no one writes with the soul of a rock and roll genius anymore.” Across the room Copia looks both impressed but also extremely confused. Secondo just rubs both of his temples.

“If he rhymes Ghuleh with olé, one more time…I am leaving.”

Then comes Terzo.

Terzo, of course, arrives on stage with a dramatic flourish- twirling the mic cord around his gloved fingers.

“My poem,” he declares “is about passion…longing…and the injustice of running out of wine at dinner.”

You can feel Secondo’s glare without even needing to look over at him. You have to physically put a hand over your mouth to stifle laughter.

The poem,-although this isn’t much of a poem either-is a wild mixture of flirting, rhythm, and self-indulgent metaphors- all of which of course make the siblings swoon and howl with laughter. Even Copia claps enthusiastically once it finally ends.

From the back of the room, Secondo mutters darkly:

“Philistine.”

“Oh, come on, fratello!” Terzo calls back to him. “You cannot tell me it did not move you!”

“Yes. To drink.” Secondo calls back towards him.

The Ghouls burst into laughter, and even Primo has to hide his smile behind his hand.

When the noise settles, you turn to Secondo.

“Your turn.”

“My what?” He blinks.

“You’ve criticized everyone else’s poems, so now you have to contribute. It’s the rule.”

“I do not follow rules made by fools.”

“Then consider it a challenge!” You tilt your head, lips curling into a large smirk. “Or are you afraid you’ll enjoy yourself?”

And then comes that sharp inhale, that flicker of personal affront- but then he slowly stands, the crowd hushes completely almost instantly.

He doesn’t take the stage so much as command it. Moving with that measured calm that also doubles as dominance, making the air shift around him. His hands are clasped behind his back, voice low and deliberate as he speaks.

The poem is simple. Straightforward. Precise.

Every word is chosen carefully, like notes in a beautifully written symphony. He speaks of devotion- not to gods or deities, but to fleeting moments: the sound of rain against stained glass, the warmth of hands meeting in candlelight, the ache of remembering something sacred and small that feels like incredible grandeur.

No dramatics, no silliness, no flaunts or flourishes, just Secondo’s voice. Slow and steady. Carrying weight and memory.

When he finally finishes, there’s a long silence and stillness that washes across the room.

All you can hear is the faint scratch of the phonograph needle and your own heartbeat.

Then Nihil coughs. “Hmph. Bit sentimental.”

Primo elbows him harshly. “It was beautiful.”

Terzo dramatically wipes an imaginary tear. “My heart. It bleeds!”

Copia sniffles quietly, actually very moved.

Secondo clears his throat finally. “It was nothing, just a draft.”

But there’s a flicker of warmth in his expression. Something vulnerable flickering under his mask of indifference that you can clearly see. When he returns to his seat, the crowd erupts into applause, laughter and teasing- with Terzo demanding an encore.

You lean close to him and whisper “It really was beautiful, you know.”

He exhales, a long and low breath, before replying to you under his breath.

“Perhaps. But don’t tell them that.”

Later on, when the candles burn low and the room fully empties out, you catch him quietly tucking a piece of folded parchment back into a leather bound notebook. His hand lingers there for a moment before he snaps it shut.

You don’t say anything at all. You just pass him the last glass of wine with a smile. He takes it with a faint smirk.

“Next time,” he says softly “you read first.”

One night only — the living, the dead, and the ghosts who still know how to throw a party. This would be the party of a lifetime! 🥹🖤

When the veil between worlds thins, the Abbey hosts a grand celebration to honor those long gone. You expect music, laughter, and maybe a few flickering lights — not the ballroom filled with the living and the dead dancing side by side. you realize the love that lingers between worlds — never truly fades. 👻⚰️🖤

Every year, when the veil grows thinnest between worlds, the ministry throws a lavish celebration to honor those who came before. This year is no different.

Hundreds upon hundreds of candles and string lights adorn the halls, music drifts softly from the catacombs through the Abbey halls- a party that very much belongs to the living just as much as the departed.

You are working extremely hard to help plan and set everything up to make this night perfection. Laughing and joking with the ghouls as they help decorate the grand ballroom in beautiful autumn colored decor.

But when the clock strikes midnight, the temperature dips drastically. A familiar cologne and the sound of distant, faint laughter rolls through the room. A cold breeze blows, rustling the linens all over the room.

Then- there he is.

Papa Terzo. Spectral, shimmering around the edges, wearing that same suit he is always known for. A huge grin is plastered across his face.

“Amore, you didn’t think I’d miss my own party, did you?”

At first, everything is absolute chaos. Spectral ghouls, long departed previous Papas, even departed ministry pets- begin phasing through walls and closed doors. Instruments are playing themselves and lights are flickering in matching rhythm and tempo. A concoction from both the living and the beyond.

Terzo, still the ever gracious host, is moving about the room mingling and charming everyone as if nothing has changed.

He flirts, jokes, and even spins you through a dance- even though his touch is cold and softer than incense smoke. “Just for tonight..” he grins ear to ear “the band is back together, yeah?”

Throughout the night the living and departed are mingling. Primo and Secondo toast together; Nihil plays his glittery saxophone stunningly; you dance, smile and laugh until your cheeks ache- a different hurt burning in your heart knowing this cannot last.

Finally, as dawn nears, the air begins to grow still again. The music fades and apparitions begin to flicker away returning to where they once came from. Terzo lingers the longest out of them all, brushing phantom fingers along your cheek. It feels comforting.

“Don’t be sad, Tesoro Mio. Whenever you hear the music, that is me. Still dancing, fully alive somewhere between the beats.”

You close your eyes, leaning into his fingers.

“I am always with you, la mia dolce metà.”

And then, he’s gone. Leaving behind the scent of his cologne- and a piece of silver sequin on the floor from his suit jacket- that refuses to fade away. Picking it up, you place it in your palm and hold it against your heart with a soft sigh. This truly is the most special time of year.

Secondo would be the absolute best date to take through a spooky haunted house and you won’t change my mind 😌😍🖤

You wanted autumn fun: a haunted house, a thrilling scare, a hand to hold in the dark. Papa II gives you all that and more, until you can’t decide what’s more thrilling—the scares or him.

You warn him ahead of time that it is only a silly attraction. A haunted house that a local company puts on in the month of October of each year. You tell him that it is meant to be fun- a harmless haunted house with nothing more than some dusty velvet curtains, flickering lights and a few cheap jump scares. “Not real.” You promise, though you are pretty much aware he already knows that. Still, he insists on accompanying you and you really didn’t mind that at all.

Standing in line in the cool nighttime air, Secondo wraps his arms around you enveloping you in the warmth of his trench coat and body heat. Muffled shrieks and screams are drifting from inside, making the excitement palpable. His hand is cool and firm on the small of your back as he pulls away and leads you towards the sagging archway of skulls at the entrance. Inside the air is damp and musty with fog machine mist, while the cheap velvet walls and ceilings are covered in spiderwebs that are getting caught in your hair. The entirety of the attraction is just barely lit with flickering lights, making the shadows of the props seem alive. Further ahead a scream is echoing, most likely a part of the attraction- but it still makes you jump.

Secondo chuckles low, a sound as smooth as incense smoke itself. “Bellezza, these walls have nothing to show but plastic and masks.” Leaning in close to your ear, he whispers softly “I have walked in crypts where the air itself was rotting. This?” He motions over his head theatrically “This is child’s play.” Lacing his fingers between yours, his rings lay cold against your skin. Leading you further along, he moves through the narrow halls and spaces as if he owns the darkness itself. The smile on his face is sharp, daring.

Still, when a masked figure lunges from the shadows- pale faced, dripping with blood, and shrieking at you- his arm sweeps around you in a single movement as if it is second nature. Pulling you inside of his trench coat and up against his chest more firmly this time, he scowls as if daring the creature to make a step closer. Only when it slinks back into the shadows does his grip loosen. A hand still lingering on your waist.

The deeper you go, the darker the narrow corridors become. Rattling coffins and chains, glowing eyes and snarls- with each sudden jolt of surprise- his thumb gently circles your palm, calming you down immensely. It feels less like protection and more like possession but somehow, that feels much safer. With a smirk on his lips he leans close again, a low indulgent whisper leaving his lips tinged with the thrill of this game he is playing.

“They think THIS is terror, Cara? They have never seen me preach.” You can’t help but giggle.

When you pass through the final velvet curtain and back out into the brisk October air, you find yourself still gathered up into his arms, fingers entwined. The breeze ruffles your hair and sends a chill through your body. Seemingly, he feels no real rush to let you go, his hand lifting to brush a stray hair away from your cheek. The sharp smile he once had is fading into something softer, almost tender considering the amusement still dancing in his eyes.

“You see, carissimia?” Satisfaction now permeating his voice. “Tonight, the shadows cannot touch you while I am here. The only spirit permitted to haunt you, is me.”