call-me-lizbeth

[call-me-lizbeth]

Ghouls and Nuns

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[call-me-lizbeth]

“They’re still coming after you…

and there’s nothing you can do” 🖤✨

Just a little side profile study in inks today <33 STAY SPOOKY!!!

[call-me-lizbeth]

44/∞ ghovie gifs

[call-me-lizbeth]

*opens tumblr in the middle of work, fishing for that crumb of dopamine from seeing blorbo pictures on my little phone that gets me through the next hour*

[call-me-lizbeth]

espresso // secondo

1k words, non-descript f!oc/third person reader (you can read this as my oc manon or just insert yourself/whoever), some self-esteem issues, reassurances, established relationship, mildly suggestive, 18+ MDNI

─── ⛧ ✦ ⛧ ───

The espresso cup clinks gently as he sets it down on the matching saucer – ceramics irrevocably stained by years of use, adorned only by one clean brown line just below the rim, right where his mouth rested a moment ago. He sighs, weary after a full meal, licking the remains of coffee from his lips. An easy-going smile, a hand on her shoulder, kneeding until the tension melts underneath his fingertips. Her own cup is empty, the tiny handle still trapped between two fingers, and he has to peel her hand away from it to fold it into his large palm.

"You know you don't always have to go out of your way to cook for me," she says.

"I am not going out of my way," he states.

Quiet, then, the rhythmic press of his thumb, gazes caught, that soft shimmer in his eyes when she relaxes under his touch.

"Does it make you uncomfortable?" he asks.

"What?"

"To be taken care of."

His readings of her have become so precise that she thinks it must be written all over her face, how she doesn't feel like she deserves this level of attention, him standing in the kitchen for hours to feed her, running her baths, massaging her tense muscles, comforting her anxieties. It makes her want to cry, makes her feel like a child, that ever-present longing, a hunger for love that was never sated when she was small, and now that he offers her such care it is like she doesn't know how what to do with it.

"Not uncomfortable just–" She sits with the feeling, locates the core of it. "Unworthy."

He doesn't disagree but his brows pull together, the barest hint of tension giving him away. She chews on this reveal, though she has a suspicion that it is nothing new to him. It is hard to explain, how you can long for something so desperately and still find it impossible to accept.

"I find pleasure in it," he says after a while, still looking at her, still kneeding. "Cooking for you, buying you things you would never buy for yourself, making sure you eat, rest, sleep."

He lifts her hand, pulling her towards him, and she follows willingly into his lap where he wanted her all along. His hands map out the shape of her, nose dragging up her shoulder, her neck, following the trail of her perfume with a soft hum.

"I find pleasure in taking care of you," he says, now so close, lips ghosting over her jaw.

"But– why?"

"Why?" he mirrors the questions. "Why does anyone? Because it is human, because we are made to care."

"Why me, then?"

Her hands find purchase on his shoulders just in time for him to lean back and away from her, searching her gaze. It displeases him, she knows this, when she speaks ill of herself, implicit– or explicitely.

"Because you are for me," he replies, as if that says it all. The long answer lies somewhere behind his eyes, the longing, that rare softness. For me, he says, meaning that she needs him, that for some reason he needs her too, that she has a deficiency and he has a surplus, that he too is lacking things only she can provide, that they are balancing the scales when they are together.

It scares her sometimes, to think that she is just a project to him, that one day the scales stop being even. The what ifs and what happens whens and the idea that he'll complete his mission and move on to someone who needs him more. He provides, it's what he does, he soothes and guides and teaches and brings relief to tensions that have been decades in the making. Would it be an illusion to think that he'll settle at last?

"No," he says, startling her awake just as her mind wraps around the question.

"No what?"

"You are in your head." His finger taps against her temple before his whole hand comes to splay out against the side of her head, a cocoon to trap her, so effective that the moment begins to feel real again. "I want you here with me, my dove."

"I suppose I am overthinking," she admits.

"As is your habit," he quips. "Always you slip somewhere else and I have to guess where it is, how to get you back."

She'd asked him once, after being intimate, after he'd admitted that he'd struggled to feel fulfilled in the past, who takes care of you, Secondo? And he'd been so sad at the question, but then he'd said, you do, perhaps you are the only one who does. It had been hard to imagine, then, that a man like him, so independant, so stoic and strong, could truly have need of her. But he had been genuine, perhaps the most genuine she'd ever seen him.

"I want to take care of you too," she states.

His lips curve. It's not much of a confession by any means, something she'd said in the past when he'd been so generous that she'd felt so very limited in her means to reciprocate. But somehow it weighs heavier tonight. He's a man so set in his ways, so used to being by himself in the moments when it matters, the stain of years of use, cracked ceramics glued together by spite, repressed pain of a lifetime yellowing the bottom of the cup like rings of old coffee. He doesn't have to pour it himself anymore, and perhaps it's enough that he knows.

"Will you accept me now?" he asks. "Let me take care of you in the way I've been wanting to all night?"

She nods, just so, and his hands dip low again, dragging her hips forward until they're pressed together. They share a sweet moan before their mouths come searching the other's taste, coffee and amarettini, the wine he picked for dinner. It's unhurried, slow and sensual, the type of kiss that doesn't immediately lead anywhere but bridges that gap between wanting and having, between need and relief.

Secondo's chair scrapes against hard wooden floor when he picks her up, carries her to the sofa where he'll have her for an hour or so, indulging in those very kisses, drawing them out before he thinks to take his time with her in bed throughout the night. Two empty cups on the table, a candle slowly burning out. He's not going out of his way, he said, and she knows he's right where he wants to be.

─── ⛧ ✦ ⛧ ───

this is another little ficlet that i took from what will hopefully be a full fic at some point but that i think works on its own as well. thank you for indulging me <3

[call-me-lizbeth]

cardinal copia serving unsettling christmas cunt 🌟

[call-me-lizbeth]

duality

[call-me-lizbeth]

I adore Copia's Cardinal face. So much. He looks more capable of evil with it. Like, that is the face of a conniving and manipulative man I would read about in a Victor Hugo novel. That face is framed in shadows as he lurks about the cobblestone streets of the peasantry. There's camera shots on dollies tracking him in silhouette walking briskly against a brightly lit courtyard while a frantic violin concerto plays. He's setting shit into motion that will somehow inexplicably place him closer to getting the crown. That is the face sculpt of a man seducing (either figuratively or literally) the queen into spilling secrets about her oafish king of a husband. He is a man of ill-intent and I wanna ride his fucking nose.

[call-me-lizbeth]

Secondo and his ghouls in Secular Haze video 𖤐

[call-me-lizbeth]

Copia probably gives the best cuddles and hugs, shit.

[call-me-lizbeth]

𝔉𝔯𝔦𝔡𝔞𝔶 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔯𝔱𝔢𝔢𝔫𝔱𝔥 - 𝔦𝔰 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔭𝔢𝔯𝔣𝔢𝔠𝔱 𝔱𝔦𝔪𝔢 𝔣𝔬𝔯 𝔡𝔞𝔱𝔢

[call-me-lizbeth]

reblog if it's okay for your mutuals to message you and create an actual friendship, not just interactions

[call-me-lizbeth]

when all paradise is lost go straight to…

[call-me-lizbeth]

I love how 80s-centric Copia is. His love of old video game systems, how much of Impera sounded like area rock, his boom box in his introduction, how easy it is for fanart to just slip a teenaged Copia into the gear of the day…

I also love that his death grip on that era means it’s easy to imagine him having a crush means he’s laying in bed, staring at a ceiling while clutching an album to his chest as his record player or stereo system warbles out some love ballad that encapsulates just how whipped he already is for someone whom he hasn’t even held hands with (yet). Because yeah he could just play it on his phone or whatever. But nothing is gonna take him back to his even more awkward years as an even more shy and hormonal mess than replicating the Blunder Years.

[call-me-lizbeth]

“He is… he’s the shining and the light without whom I cannot see” ✨🦇🖤

[call-me-lizbeth]

Ok since the last post I made with this became my most popular post like instantly here’s the better version of it. As a treat. The smoke loops a little nicer and I like the colors better on this one

[call-me-lizbeth]

I'm just saying that being baptised by Terzo would have like a 99% chance of fixing me forever.