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Fake laughed at a customer's joke today and dropped the smile within milliseconds of them turning around. when I tell you that I felt like Patrick fucking Bateman

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I was extremely happy to find this on my dash. I love when Primo gets love.

This issue was wild in terms of gadgets too. It came with this promo that just says “freaks unleashed!” and I cannot not think about all of us on AO3.

Also they clearly lied on the ad because THIS is the actual size of the mitre:

(Excuse my unwashed hair)

It’s only secured with Blu Tack but I’m pretty sure tape wouldn’t change things, you know? It’s… quite something.

Primo must have been like “yes but did you make it as big as my dick?”

Would you like to read an old era 1 interview with a Nameless Ghoul and Papa Emeritus 1 answering questions? Boy, do I have a link for you. This is a scan of an article included in an issue of Metal Hammer from April of 2012. It's got insight into what the band was like back then and even some into the mysterious character of the old bastard fronting the band. You'll get some of that famous 2010's edge in there but it's a fun read.

In fact, included is Primo himself for some reason confirms he fucks but doesn't do foreplay in it!

it's a ride.

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cats (oo-waa-ohh)

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The Black Leather Suit

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I found this in my notes again over the past few days and wanted to thank you for all your kind words 💜

It bothers me that I haven’t posted anything since January (le gasp) because I’m super slow at writing. I’m also crippled by perfectionism and my full-time job sucks the will to live out of me.

But I’ve been editing a Primo x reader fic inspired by Umbra and the ancient Roman rites of Floralia, so watch this space. It will be ready in ten years, though.

Enough // Copia x reader, sfw

Happy 2025 ♡ I'm back on Tumblr after what feels like an eternity. The last 3-4 months of 2024 have been difficult for me, both physically and mentally. Plus, working in retail (bookselling) meant I haven't had time to exist for myself over the holidays.

The first Ghost fic I offer to the fandom is a self-indulgent piece I wrote to cope with my condition. Gn!reader insert for the most part, but it's intended for (and dedicated to) anyone going through severe period pain, endometriosis, and/or adenomyosis.

1k words, hurt/comfort, established relationship, a splash of angst, SFW

Disclaimer: I haven't written anything in over 10 years and English is not my native language.

It has no real beginning, but it always ends the same – sharp knives burrowing under your skin, coiling through your insides like parasites. 

Some days, they creep in quietly, like shadows slipping through a cracked door. You go about your day, pretending to be whole, until they force you to surrender. Other days, they come without warning, striking with a fury that chokes the fight out of you. Phantom hands clutch at your core, and you snap like a twig. The pain leaves you tethered to the bed, your legs betraying you as they buckle under the weight of something unseen.

You’re trapped in a body at war with itself, confined in a purgatory between the living and the dead. A demi-monde of sorts, where the ghosts of who you once were mingle with the echoes of who you can never be. 

And then there’s the guilt.

It seeps into the cracks of your broken shell, silent and heavy. Guilt for the days you’ve lost, for the plans you’ve cancelled, the promises you couldn’t keep. Guilt for the way your suffering spills over, touching the people you love, making them worry for you.

And then, there’s him.

Copia stands in the doorway, a steaming mug of tea in his hands and a hot water bottle tucked under his arm. The tea trembles slightly in his hands –  not enough to spill, but enough to reveal his unease. You both know you won’t be able to drink it, but brewing it has made him feel in control of something. 

He doesn’t look at you right away. His eyes are fixed on the floor as he braces for what he’s about to see. He hates this part –  the pallor of your skin,  your body curled up against the vastness of the bed, the helplessness that clings to him like a second skin.

“Hey,” he says softly, taking a few steps inside the room. He puts the mug and the hot water bottle on the nightstand and slowly kneels beside you, careful with every motion. His hands twitch at the sides, desperate to pull you into his arms, to take the pain away from you. 

But he knows better. Your body is fragile, unyielding to all but the gentlest touch, so he settles for what won’t make you wince. One hand interlaces with yours, the other combs through your hair in a slow, soothing motion.

“I’m here.” 

It’s not the pain itself that shatters him, though seeing you like this is agony. Mostly, he loathes the futility of his efforts and words. He can’t fix this.

Your body barely reacts to his presence, save for the faintest twitch of your fingers against his. It’s enough for him. 

“I have made you chamomile tea,” he states, glancing at the mug. “Thought, eh… maybe you wanted to try this time.” 

You crack one eye open, the effort heavier than it should be, and a shadow of a smile tugs at the corners of your mouth.

“Thank you,” you whisper, squeezing his finger with all the strength you can muster.

“Right, okay.” He exhales a quiet breath and picks up the hot water bottle. You watch as he makes sure your shirt is not rolled up before carefully nestling it close to your belly. Satisfied, he tucks you back in with practised ease. Then, lifting your hand to his lips, he presses a kiss to your fingertips with the softness of clouds.

Dark shadows circle his eyes, and faint stubble dusts his jaw. His face bears the evidence of his devotion: meetings cancelled without hesitation, sleepless nights spent researching remedies, mornings waiting in doctor’s offices. 

His love is a net woven around the frayed edges of your being, holding you together when you feel like splintering apart. Yet the weight of it presses against your guilt anyway, whispering that this kindness, this devotion, is more than you deserve.

You can’t fathom how he sees you when you barely recognise yourself anymore. Pain defines your existence; there isn’t a single task you can complete without pausing, lying down, and summoning the strength to try again. Your contribution to the relationship hinges on the rarity of your good days, fleeting as they are. His affection feels unearned. Who could love someone so broken?

“I’m making pizza for dinner, amore,” he says. 

“Pizza? You’re lucky my uterus will kill me first,” you quip weakly. 

He pretends not to hear, smoothing the edge of your blanket as if the small gesture might anchor you to the present. He knows you’ve spent too much time in your head again.

“Gluten free marinara,” he continues, almost matter-of-factly. “No dairy. No Coke.”

You attempt to laugh despite yourself, but all that comes out is a strained exhalation. “Even Jesus had a better last dinner.”

A soft snort escapes him, lightening the mood for a moment. “Eh, perhaps he had better food,” he replies, “but sure as shit he’d pay for my kind of kisses.”

You want to laugh again and tell him he’s an idiot, but another wave of pain pulls a grimace from you. Your eyes flutter closed as exhaustion drags at you.

“Thank you for making dinner,” you mumble, words slurred by fatigue.

“You don't have to thank me.” 

He lingers for a moment, watching the slow rise and fall of your chest. The mug of tea remains untouched on the nightstand, and he knows it will stay that way, but he doesn’t mind. 

“I’ll bring it in soon,” he says softly, half to himself, as he gets up. 

“Don’t rush, I’m not going anywhere.”

It’s meant to comfort him, but the slight waver in your voice and the implication of your words betray your own fears.

He hesitates, glancing back at you from the doorway. His lips press together, a quiet war playing out in his head, but he doesn’t let it show on his face. Instead, he offers a small smile.

“No, you’re not.”

As he disappears into the hallway, silence engulfs the room, punctuated only by the steady ticking of the bedside clock. You stare at the mug of chamomile tea, now lukewarm, yet you can still feel its warmth from a distance.

The knives stir in your core but Copia’s touch is stronger. You close your eyes, letting exhaustion claim you. The guilt doesn’t vanish, and neither do the cramps, but beneath it all, he's there with you. For you, somehow. Fragile as you are, you cling to that small, essential truth: you are not alone.

And tonight, that is enough.

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I remember when my best friend sent me a 4 minute voice message to complain about his new girlfriend’s word of choice for pussy.

i love it when italians argue about italian. like we don’t even know how our language really works we just roll with it

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Papa V Perpetua mocking Italians 😂💀🇮🇹

PAPA V PERPETUA, IN HIS NORMAL VOICE: I know what some of you said... PAPA V PERPETUA, IN AN EXAGGERATED FAKE ITALIAN ACCENT: "If we just wait, he will come back on stage and do one more. So prevedibile." PAPA V PERPETUA, IN HIS NORMAL VOICE: You think you know us! Milan, Italy (May 4, 2025)

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Daddy E the First, flashing some skin. Such a shame, that those stunning hands are hidden…

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A relatively simple piece done mainly to get me back into drawing again after a period of art block. And I felt like doing an evil Perpetua.

Kind of a different take on a picture I did back in December last year (way before Papa V's reveal), and I did reuse background elements from that original piece just to save myself a bit of time... As the way I've been recently I've felt like I might explode of I don't get some kind of finished drawing out there!

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The crosses came in!

Now I’m just waiting to hear back about the triangle pieces 

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yes sex is great but have you tried getting a confirmation email from HR notifying you that you are officially off on Friday 4th July which is when you'll see Tender Father again?

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I love you, Tobias Forge.

2019 // 2025

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eat me drink me

Thank you for being so nice about my first fic, im back! Basically I love him and he needs a good meal. as always sorry for the bad italian

rating: e

words: 1.6k

tags: slight sub!Copia & dom!Reader, light feeding link, blowjob

Your arms ache from the kneading. 

It is a good ache though, a content one. One which means you know your hard work will soon pay off. Dough is a wanting mistress and you need to treat her just right or she misbehaves - a firm hand is all that’s needed. A couple more minutes and they’ll be ready for proofing. Most of the hard work is done.

You glance up at the clock. 4:30am. He’ll be down here soon, his very own witching hour. The difference between you being that you’re awake on purpose to start your day early, and he hasn’t yet nodded off.

He sleeps so poorly and it makes your heart hurt for him. How much you long to wrap him in a blanket and settle him down onto a soft mattress, but alas, he is too restless, especially after he’s just come back from a tour - he’s told you that he needs to readjust to the quiet of his bed again after living squeezed into a cot on a bus surrounded by chittering ghouls. 

Well, you cannot herd cats and you cannot make Papas go to bed if they don’t want to.

You hear the creak of the door as it opens and a smile spreads across your face. You recognise Copia by his shadow now, cast downwards along the kitchen stairs. He calls your name out as a question and you didn’t realise how much you missed hearing it from his lips.

“I’m here,” you hum back up, and he finally appears. He looks tired, greying hair slicked back messily to keep it out of his eyes, red tracksuit creased and well-worn. You love seeing him like this, it feels like a secret only the two of you share: the real Copia, the man beneath Papa. When he sees you his whole body sags in relief, a weight taken from his shoulders just by being in your company. 

“I missed you,” he says as he approaches, words falling from him like he was sat in a confessional. His eyes seem a little sad, as if he doesn’t believe his favourite flour-covered sibling is really in front of him. To ground his reality you reach across the kitchen counter and press a kiss to his mouth, soft and sweet. He luxuriates in the feeling of you, reaching out to touch with needy hands.

“Copia, I am covered in dough.”

“I don’t care, tesoro…”

“Oh? You dough-n’t care?”

The silly wordplay is enough to make him chuckle. You take the lapse in lust to direct him to the chair you always set out next to the counter, the one with the pillow on the seat and back to help him relax better. There is something important that you must take care of.

“What do you want to eat?” you ask. Copia glances at the great clock you have hanging on the kitchen wall as if time has ever had any effect on his cravings. He still hesitates before he makes his request. 

“Fettuccine Alfredo?”

His favourite comfort food. You grin. 

“Mmm, I had a feeling, so I made fresh pasta earlier.”

He moans, actually moans at that.

“You are too good to me. I don’t deserve you.”

“You deserve the world,” you chide, and he knows better than to argue with you at this point. 

Long ago, before you came here, your love for food was considered sinful. Gluttonous. You never could understand it, how could something so delicious be bad? Who wouldn’t want to taste the roll of rich butter on their lips? But they called you perverse and, in trying to fix you, led you to His embrace. Here your talents are applauded. Your devotion to your craft is praised; you can share your love of cuisine with willing siblings who appreciate you. It’s home. 

When you’d first joined you’d found Copia sneaking down for snacks when you rose to start cooking for the day. At first he’d looked guilty - literally caught with his hand in the cookie jar - but when he learned you didn’t mind anyone who loved your cooking enough to come back for secret seconds, the two of you became friends. Friends became lovers over time, over wine and dinner taken under the silver of the moonlight. When he became Cardinal, though, it didn’t slip your notice that he started to forget to eat. You rarely saw him at breakfast and even less at dinner. So, whenever he comes to you now, you make sure to feed him whatever he wants. You don’t want him wasting away. Besides, how else could you show that you loved him?

“How was the tour? I didn’t catch you when you came back yesterday,” you say, putting the loaves into their proving draw before grabbing a healthy portion of pasta to boil. Copia winces. 

“Eh, I know, I’m sorry. I was exhausted after getting back. The ghouls were impatient to return home to the monastery and then Sister wanted a report about how it had gone… this is the first time I’ve had five minutes to myself.”

“And you used them to see me?” you ask, smiling. Copia returns it. 

“Who else?”

You get him to fill you in about the tour, all the places he visited, as you watch the pasta boil before draining all but the dregs of starchy water. Copia’s story soon gets lost as he watches you cut a healthy knob of butter from the block you keep outside the fridge, grate Parmesan straight into the pan. Within moments you have a delicious dinner ready for him, shoving a fork into the mess of fettuccine to keep it anchored. You approach him with it brandished… but stop just short of his outstretched hands. Copia whines. 

“Copia, when did you last eat a full meal?”

“Eh…” he narrows his eyes, and as they flick left  and right you know that he is trying to count the days in his head. You give his shoulder a shove.

“Ugh! I’m sorry, tesoro. It gets difficult on the road. You’re… you take care of me like nobody else does. You don’t know how much I appreciate you, and I don’t know if I can ever show it.”

His honeyed words win you over. You pass him the pasta but he takes your hand with his, kissing along your palm to your wrist, aiming upwards…

“Copia, eat.”

“I do want to eat…” he growls, eyes hungry for more than just his dinner. You won’t be swayed this time, though, and as you drop to your knees you point to his plate. 

“Eat.”

“But…” he’s flustered as you go for his waistband, not expecting things to change this quickly. You know if he had his way he’d bend you over the flour-dusted counter and fuck you until you left an imprint of your chest in it. However, the news of his lack of proper meals has worried you, and you’re feeling stern.

“If you stop eating, I’ll stop sucking,” you say simply, pulling his hardening cock from his slacks. You reach out and touch your tongue against the slit, tasting the bead of precum that’s gathered, and he looks at you like you’re a satanic blessing. You don’t continue, though, instead you just stare at the steaming pile of pasta. 

Hint taken, he twirls his fork around and shovels a mouthful between his lips. 

Satisfied, you begin to take him into your mouth, enjoying the salt which blossoms on your tongue. He hardens to his full length under your attention and you hear him groan as you take him deeper - but you look up sharply when you no longer hear the sound of chewing. Copia stares at you with desperation as you shrug, staying perfectly still with his cock resting between your lips.

“Amore mio…”

His hand reaches towards your hair but you pull back and he realises you aren’t playing a game. He groans and goes back to eating, so you finally take him further, not satisfied until you feel him hit the back of your throat. Copia chokes around his mouthful - you don’t choke around yours - but he dutifully continues to eat, not so fast as to not savour the taste, but fast enough that you’re happy. You bob your head up and down his length slowly, taking him all the way to the base before pulling back to the tip, teasing it with your tongue. You stay like that, a mix of adoration and excruciation, until he finishes every last scrap on his plate. When it’s empty he sets it to the side and you smile, even with your mouth full.

You pop off of him just long enough to say “good boy,” before swallowing him back down again. You’re not sure whether it’s the praise or the overstimulation which has him twitching into your mouth and bucking his hips, but all you know is that he’s coming hot jets down your throat in seconds. You take every drop, watching in delight at the way his soft tummy pulses, hoping you can return some meat to his bones now he’s safe in your care again.

“You’ll ruin me. I’m an old man, I can’t take it, eh?” he mutters as you kiss your way upwards. You let him taste himself on your lips.

“Mmm, I think you’re selling yourself short. Now do you want seconds, papa?”

Copia groans a yes and you know you’ve got him wrapped right around your finger. You’d have it no other way. Besides, the bread needs to rise, and the rest of the monastery is asleep. You’ll have him for long enough.

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worship

I just joined this fandom and unfortunately have gone insane for this man. It’s my first Ghost fanfic so please be kind, sorry if it’s ooc, I’m still learning! Ty to @lady-jane3 for proofreading! (sorry for bad Italian)

rating: e

words: 1.2k

tags: smut throughout (p in v)

How you both live for these nights. 

These nights where the sky is a dark velvet, its richness only exaggerated by the candles you light around the bedroom. The intimate caress of this chamber for just the two of you. This place is a sanctum, an altar, a place of worship.

The object of that worship being your lover’s body is a pivotal part of the ministrations. It’s what He would want for you, after all.

You remember when you first started these trysts. He was, of course, just Copia back then: awkward and fumbling and oh so sweet. How couldn’t you be drawn to him? You’d been friends before anything else, gravitating towards each other as the quieter ones in your classes. Him opening up like a flower as you chatted over coffee afterwards, revealing the petals of his soul under your soft scrutiny. Coaxing out that beautiful crooked smile of his, the one he was too bashful about to reveal in front of others in fear it would make him seem silly. 

And, well, he was a bit silly. But in a way you came to adore.

You’d spent more nights than you could recall chasing him down the empty halls on his damned tricycle, the two of you breathless with laughter. Then one night you’d tumbled into his lap and he’d looked down at you, smile faltering on his lips as the mood changed to something far more intense; and he’d kissed you, breaking the rosy tension.

You’d buried your hand in his robes and tugged him closer. Run your hand along his jaw. Swallowed the moans that spilled into your mouth. Lay there on the floor when you realised your desperate bodies couldn’t hold you up any more, legs tangling together like a couple of hormone-heady teenagers. 

“Copia…” the choke of his name from your lips had made him growl. “Your quarters are closest, yes?”

It took him a moment to register what you meant, but when he did his pupils swelled to nearly eclipse the colour in his eyes. 

“Sì. Yes, Satan. Let’s go.”

That first worship has been full of wandering, squeezing hands and awkward kisses as you mapped out each other’s bodies. He’d cum far too quickly and he looked like he wanted to evaporate from this mortal coil, the red blossoming on his cheeks and invading his entire face. Tried to stutter out an apology but you’d pressed your lips to his and encouraged him to caress you until he was hard again.

It was messy, exploring, perfect. The smooth slide of his cock into your needy cunt, his thrusts getting surer and surer as he worked out what made you mewl. How could anything ever top this?

The two of you never worshipped with anyone else after that.

He became cardinal next. Of course he did; you never had any doubt, he was so sincere in his faith. You’d lain with Copia to show the Dark One your joy at his elevation. You remember the way he held your arms behind your back and bounced you on his length, pulling out to the tip before slamming back home. You’d thrown your hair back exposing the long line of your throat to him, encouraging him to bite, to mark. Oh, how he did.

“Sei uno spettacolo,” he’d muttered, eyes transfixed on you as if you were some holy symbol at which to prostrate himself. Perhaps, to him, you were. How could you ever deny him? He held your body and your heart by now. 

Then, however, he was put in charge of the Ghost project. And he was gone for weeks on end. Your duties kept you at the monastery, and oh, it was such torture. Phone calls rambling long into the night where you talked about nothing, anything. Occasionally dipping into phone sex when the urge got too great, getting off to each other’s voices was never the same…. but it meant that when he returned things were that much more satisfying. You practically ripped his cassock off, kissing messily down his pale chest, taking his nipples into your mouth and biting until he groaned. Not finishing that night until you were covered in his seed, him sticky with your release. Sleeping in til noon the next day and only rising when a Sibling came to bring you both breakfast, squeaking in surprise at the messy tangle they’d caught you in.

It got worse when he was made Papa. For a while, anyway. Less time together. More longing. Oh, that awful, soul-wrenching longing. Tumbling into each other’s arms when he returned, then into bed when your bodies couldn’t hold it back any longer. Joining flesh in worship. Pinning him down onto the mattress with such force that he wept your name in pleasure by the time you were done with him.

And then… this. Frater. Different, administrative. At the monastery practically permanently. Though he couldn’t hide his disdain at not being with the band the blow was somewhat softened by the plush of your legs spread open whenever the two of you desired. Now you can worship for as long as you want, as often as you feel the urge. 

You feel the urge a lot. Just you and him. Perfection. 

Really it has long since gone past worship. It is just about being with the man you love… though, you could ask, what is holier than being one flesh with the head of His clergy? 

“Your mind is, eh, wandering, amore?”

The candles flicker warm orange light across his face. Your lover is kissing along the plain of your stomach; he’s already luxuriated between your legs, your thighs decorated in black paint smeared from his lip. You laugh gently - he can always tell when something dances across your thoughts. There’s no hiding from your Copia.

“I was thinking about you, love. Us. How lucky I am.”

He’s pleased with that, his face lighting up. He surges forwards to kiss you and you can taste your release on his tongue, tangy and sweet. 

“I’m the lucky one, I think. You’re the most beautiful thing in the world and the Dark One let me have you all to myself…”

You feel his cock press against you and you gasp, you always gasp, in anticipation of how he will make you feel. He presses inside you in one thrust and your body eagerly accepts him, his forehead falling to meet yours as he begins to slowly move inside you. He meets that sweet spot buried in your walls and your arms slip around his neck, bringing him closer.

One flesh, one soul. In these moments he is not Cardinal, nor Papa, nor Frater. He is just your Copia. 

A firm hand runs along your leg and he crooks it upwards, allowing himself to push impossibly deeper. You moan into his mouth.

“Copia…”

It isn’t a question but he replies anyway.

“Yes, always.”

He floods you with his release, making you throw your head back in ecstasy. When his cock finishes throbbing he doesn’t pull out, and you remain in an intimate embrace as you kiss him. Eventually he will grow hard again and you will continue - even as a self professed ‘old man’, your body can still get his engine running. He whispers your name like it’s a mantra, a prayer. You grin against his lips.

“My Copia.”

And he is.

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can we talk about this shot? can we? because it's absolutely making me go insane

look at the body language. this is not perpetua standing on stage. this is tobias — shy, fidgety, slighly awkward tobias — standing on stage in his hometown and breaking character for just a few moments because he loves this place so much and he can't not show it

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you know how sometimes you go through the roughest moment in your whole entire life and then you look up and it's like. oh. the moon is still there