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Do you really think Copia is truly dead? Gone forever? When Sister died, they gave her dignity. They let people mourn her. She was honored, remembered, mourned like she mattered. But Cardi? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. It’s as if he never existed at all, as if everything he was meant nothing. I know it isn’t real, I know it’s all part of the story, but it still hurts in a very real way. Because it feels just like real life, like when someone disappears and the world moves on as if they were nothing, as if they were never worth grieving. And that’s what devastates me the most: how could anyone not care about Cardi? How could they let him vanish like that, forgotten, erased, discarded? He deserved so much more than this. That evil Swedish man couldn’t have chosen a crueler, colder, more humiliating way to get rid of him. It doesn’t even feel like an ending — it feels like throwing someone away like trash.
- End of rant -
So, I have complicated thoughts on this. Like, from a realistic POV I think it was a way to keep the lore open-ended as Ghost went into this hiatus. This is where this particular arc ended. It very much felt like typical Ghost fashion to rip a horrible joke when things get too serious and while I was sort of angry when I first saw the chapter I think by now I'm kind of indifferent? Like, is it a bit of a tasteless joke? Yea. But that's also Ghost. Tobias never meant to set out and please everyone, it's just that we all got so attached.
Don't get me wrong, you all know I love Copia, but I already did not feel super into his character arc as Frater, so my investment in the chapters was purely from an entertainment, don't take it so seriously standpoint. (This is a whole complicated thing for me though.) And I think a lot of our perception now has to do with how we added so much depth to the world in fanon that the general expectations for the lore were just way too high. It was never meant to be some grand narrative, it's marketing, it's silly, it's a way for him to throw some of his ideas around.
The depth of the themes is always hinted at but it's never made explicit. It's always been the fandom who did that and I think Tobias trusts us enough to know how to handle, how to interpret and how to expand what he's doing, like a proper artist should!!! He doesn't cater, doesn't dumb down, doesn't explicate.
I don't really love to specuale and theorize. It might be a mask change, it might just be a cliffhanger, it might be a proper open ending. Do I think he's dead? Not really, no, and he won't ever be dead unless we get more lore that states it. That's how narratives work. He's Schrödinger's Copia now, we're doing particle physics over here. Tobias may choose to pick the character back up, he might choose to stop, and until then we're in the limbo.
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i do really think the only true violence secondo is capable of is against himself. not that he hasn't hurt other people in some capacity, he's not emotionally available, so of course he has. but a lot of his behavior is also just him randomly high-dosing on self-harm and thinking it's good, it's what he deserves and what he needs and what he preaches.
he despises himself as much as he's safe and confident in his own skin. it's a co-existence he's made peace with by now. he's calm and controlled, meticulous and educated, and on the other side he's mayhem, chaos, uninhibited hedonism. it's supposed to be a balance but is it, really?
i think it's claustrophobia, i think he's breaking out of this safe and solid life he's build but he's overdoing it every time. it's control vs. excess. it's routine vs. waking up hungover, it's a structured, responsible life vs. hollow drinking until you don't feel yourself anymore. it's reading your book at home vs fucking for the sake of it and feeling like a husk after. it's sophistication and expensive suits vs. the vomit stains on your shirt the morning after. leading the congregation vs. losing yourself in the strobe lights and loud music where no one else needs you.
and it works, for a time, until the self-loathing takes over and the only remedy to that is to repeat the cycle again and again. and how perfect that it pisses off the very people you hate anyway. life is full of regrets, what are a few more, at the end of the day, right?
In case you were following me on my eponymous Bluesky account, I have deleted it. Now I only have one account there, and it’s equal parts strident and silly. I make no apologies for it. Anyway, here it is:
☞ 1.1k words, gn!reader, non-descript, religious undertones, blasphemy, oral sex as communion, allusions to erectile dysfunction, power imbalance, 18+
It feels forbidden to approach him in the chapel, when he’s veiled in his white ceremonial robes and the mitre, his appearance grand and all-powerful. Primo shimmers like a preternatural being, surrounded by long beams that hold up high vaulted ceilings, halos of light reflected by stained glass, clouds of incense and the echoing chants of the congregation lingering long after everyone left.
He is one with the fog when he preaches, his voice subdued, yet roaring from the depths of Hell itself.
You watch him for a while, in the center of it all, the crackling, static atmosphere of mass still clinging to you. His sermon is burnt into your memory. It’s rare that he’s convinced to preach these days but when he does the impression lasts for weeks, like a feverish dream, the vision barely real but lingering in powerful fragments. Sometimes you hear people whisper about it, some confused, some in awe and some frightened to their very bones. For you, it’s all that you can think about.
“Will you help me with my robes, little lamb?”
His voice is softer now, mellowing when he’s addressing you. Your palm strokes across the warm wood of the pew one last time before you stand. His back is still turned to you, his attention focused on the altar. Your heart thumps in your chest but you have no reason to be nervous. The big bad wolf has become tamed in your presence, though his fangs never quite retract.
“You were mesmerising,” you compliment. He turns to look over his shoulder, his unbearably sharp eye still glowing white in the aftermath, and you almost flinch. Almost.
“You are flattering an old man,” he says, turning fully now, and the weight of the moment falls off of him. His shoulders release their tension, his features soften, though the corpse paint never loses much of its edge. When he removes his mitre some of the magic comes off with it.
You reach out to touch the smooth fabric of his robes, enamoured with the contrast of the man you saw during mass and the controlled yet tired old man in front of you. “I’m not exaggerating. The Sibling next to me stifled a cry when you started speaking.”
“Are you saying that I… still got it, hm?” he teases, holding out his arms. “Sadly, this time no one ran out screaming.”
You smile when you lift the robes over his head. He’s wearing a simple black cassock underneath that hides his scraggy frame. But when you wrap your arms around his neck you can feel him, hard-edged and ungiving. Primo is not a soft man, you wouldn’t call him very considerate, but he can be gentle when he wants to be. Right now, you feel the tenderness in his touch as his long, bony hands roam your back, up and up until one long finger reaches your neck and tilts your chin up to meet him.
His kiss is insistent, slow but thorough. He’s hungering for you after spending so much of himself on the congregation. You respond eagerly, inhaling bitter black paint and the intense remnants of burnt resin. Underneath it all, there is the forbidden feeling again, as though he is not a mere man but something else, something you’re not allowed to touch. He belongs to Lucifer, he belongs to the fog, but you have to remind yourself, that in these moments, he belongs to you as well.
“Have you taken your communion, little lamb?” he asks as he breaks away.
“No, Papa. I only take it from you.”
His eyes narrow. You’re familiar with this as well. Primo doesn’t have to order, you sink to your knees on your own, using the now folded robes as a cushion. From below, he looks dangerous. Tall and in all-black, jagged and death-pale, the shadows on his angular face deep, hollowing him out. His long fingers remain on your cheek for a moment, his face calm and expectant. You’re the lamb before the slaughter, wondering why the butcher hasn’t drawn his knife yet.
And perhaps he won’t if you only please him enough.
Primo doesn’t react when you reach to open the buttons on his frock. He’s made it clear that you have to work for what you want, that you’re here to serve, that this is not just for you but for Him as well, the one who carries the light. Primo’s guidance is a gift from Him, as is his attention, and your reverence is the answer to how he keeps you by his side.
When you look for the thicker button on his pants, Primo stops you. His thumb moves to your chin, gloveless now, and you can feel a sharp nail pressing into the softness of your bottom lip, quickly drawing blood. Obediently, you open your mouth, stretching out your tongue just enough to taste metal. He moves inside, pressing down on the centre until spit gathers and you can’t swallow.
His eyes remain fixed on yours. You note that he never blinks in these moments, that his focus is dangerously sharp.
“Are you ready to receive Him?” he asks.
You nod and keep your eyes on his. They’re all you see amidst the rustling of fabric, the slow sigh that falls from his lips. A moment later he replaces his finger with the tip of his cock, leaving you no time to give into the urge to swallow. It’s warm, heavy, familiar, almost choking you already. You close your lips around him and take him as deep as you can, breathing against the discomfort. He’s not fully hard, he never is, but the fullness of him is too much even so.
It’s a precious moment to feel him so deeply, to glance up at him in the hazy light of the chapel when he’s in full control, to have him to yourself just after he gave his presence to so many others. He’s your light, he’s your path to the end of all things that you walk down willingly. And you know that he'll always be there amidst the chaos.
You pleasure him for a while, slowly and to no specific end. He doesn’t always come but you don’t mind either way. He lets you go on for a while, just watching, moving with you at times, staying completely still at others, encouraging you with his admiration. His hand holds your head and it feels safe, it feels painfully intimate.
The only sounds in the chapel are your shared breathing and the echo of wet flesh.
Even so, you can feel a change when he approaches the height of his pleasure, ragged breaths breaking through his still demeanour, his fingers tightening, the sharp little sting of pain, the pulsing in his cock and the occasional taste of salt when he does find his end. It doesn’t matter how he gives you this blessing. Here on your knees, you receive whatever he is willing to give.
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🇮🇹🇮🇹ITALIAN TRANSLATION FOR WRITING ITALIAN SATANIC PAPA FICS…the return(?) (we’ll see)🇮🇹🇮🇹
Erhm hello, I’m writing this very loosey-goosily, and without much of a plan, and even less pressure on myself. Anyway. Onto today’s lesson…
A few short phrases to sprinkle in there:
Ma che cazzo!!! = “What the fuck?!” Said in both the classic sense of ‘what is this happening before me,’ and in the frustrated sense of ‘JFC I am so done with this!’
Macchè!! = Interjection. “Oh, please,” “get outta here,” “nahh, no way,” said in a really disbelieving ‘that’s just bollocks’ kind of way. Can also commonly mean “No, not at all!”
Boh! = Interjectional noise. “I have no idea,” “I don’t know,” “ain’t got a fuckin clue.” This is said extremely casually.
Caspita! = Interjection. “Holy shit,” but in acceptable polite-company kind of way.
And for a couple more romantic-ardour style wordies—
Quanto ti voglio… “How I want you…,” to be growled or whispered.
Dimmi tutto quello che vuoi = “Tell me everything you want”
Sei così dolce = “You are so sweet” …in the sense that you taste sweet
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