osiiiris

[osiiiris]

Terzo blowing a little kiss in very low quality 🖤

Source is the same video of “I can’t hear shit” and it just couldn’t be left hidden there.

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papa can't hear you // oakville 2016

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The Light belongs to the People!! ⚡

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✨He's the shining and the light without whom I cannot see.✨

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Tag game: post 6 albums of 6 of your favourite artists in order.

Thank you @blackbird5154!

I was very good at reducing to six but I’ll add an extra choice on some artists because the suffering is real and compromise is key.

Verdena - Requiem (extra: Endkadenz Vol. 1)

Ghost - Infestissumam

Metallica - Ride the lightning (extra: black album)

Bon Jovi - Keep the Faith

Caparezza - Museica (equally to Il Sogno Eretico)

The White Stripes - Elephant

And I’ll summon: @anamelessfool, @lilspacewolfie, @d3dw1tch, @ryuzatodraws-archive, @angellayercake

[osiiiris]

Roberd.net

[osiiiris]

some studies and random doodles

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[osiiiris]

Otium cum dignitate

Summary: This story is inspired by a video in which Papa says he's been on tour for 3 months, but he's still holding up great. It is dedicated to all those who are tired.

Characters: Papa Emeritus III x Original Female Character

Generes: Hurt/Comfort, Romance, Fluff

Acknowledgements: Thank you to @1blondeabreu-blog who was so kind to help me with the editing! <3

You're standing in front of a door with an office sign mounted to it with a simple four-letter sign that reads, “Papa”. And the same one below, with the words “Do Not Disturb,” suspended by a string. The first one had been there as long as you could remember, the second one had just appeared yesterday.

A ghoul recently disappeared behind a door to announce you. One of the new ones, a young affable fellow whose face is customarily obscured by a mask. You pick a hangnail on your finger. Will Papa accept a guest? The time is eleven o'clock in the morning. You came here as soon as you heard that he had returned from his tour.

Usually after such long absences he asks not to be disturbed for a couple of days - he locks himself in his room, sleeps and recuperates. This tour lasted over three months. You're not sure disturbing him at the start of his second day of vacation was a good idea. You're lucky you were able to talk a ghoul from his team into visiting.

The Nameless returns, slipping quietly out from behind the door.

“He's ready for you. Just not for long, he needs to rest.”

“Of course.”

The Ghoul is still lingering in the doorway, shifting from foot to foot.

“You're special if he doesn't mind your presence.”

“I guess I am.”

The Ghoul blinks favorably through the slits of his mask and gives way to you. You trickle into a space set up like a hotel room. It's small rather than spacious, equipped with simple Ikea furniture. The Clergy headquarters in Otrogothia has never been known for its opulence. No candelabras or canopies, contrary to popular rumors. No mystical aura. This semi-dark room is just a staging post between the tours Papa spends most of his time in.

You stop in the small hallway, carefully closing the door behind you.

“Just a second," you hear his confused voice from the other room. It seems like you didn't come at the right time after all. You're ready to scold yourself for so tactlessly intruding on his private resting time when Terzo finally appears in the doorway. He hurriedly fixes his disheveled hair, which still falls stubbornly over his face. He's wearing a robe that probably has nothing underneath but underwear. He looks caught off guard, looking up at you from under his eyebrows a little confused, but his lips are already forming into the familiar crooked smile. He leans over to your hand to squeeze your fingers in his warm palms, leaving a kiss on the back of them. Incorrigible.

“What a surprise," he says.

His skin looks really bad due to numerous applications and removals of makeup in the last few months. Sixty-plus shows one after the other. His eyelids are swollen from sleep, his eyes glimmering with tired flames from beneath them. Tiredness tangled somewhere among his furrowed brow, embedded in the wrinkles on his forehead.

“Oh, it’s so embarrassing, Papa…”

“Totally not," he nodded at the room. “I was just about to continue my sleep marathon. Care to join me?”

“If it'll allow me to be here with you longer. After all, I have a few hours break between two appointments.”

These small, simple signs of attention. Terzo gives you a brief look of affection before turning back toward the room.

As you walk after him, the first thing you notice is the wide bed with the linens on it that have just been slept on. This room is familiar to you, but you've never seen it in such disarray. A large travel suitcase stands against the wall with its maw open. Some of the bags lie on the floor, some have crawled over to the nearest chair. A box of records and a vinyl record player are piled with clothes. You notice with amusement a the little yellow kazoo peeking out from under the mesh of the suitcase. It's useless at the big concerts. Does Papa carry it around as a talisman?

The rays of the stingy northern sun come through the curtains. You sink to the edge of the bed, smoothing the sheet against your sides.

“Want some water?” Terzo steps in front of you with a glass and a carafe. You notice again the tiredness in his gaze under heavy eyelids that he tries to hide, the difficulty he has moving his tongue.

“No, thank you. I just had breakfast.” You're experiencing a sudden rush of anguish over a belated thought. “I'm sorry I didn't bring you anything!”

“Don't worry, I'm not hungry," he smirks. “The IVs are very nutritious. Just kidding," he adds, noticing your panicked look.

You always suspected that the Clergy used Papas as cash cows, squeezing all the juices out of them for short "reigns". The frontmen were easily replaceable, which is why no one worried about their condition when they left the stage. What made Terzo different was the fact that he pretended to be unflappable, as if he had boundless endurance, treating all difficulties with his usual humor. You know that he could perform in a sick state, exhausted, on the verge of fainting, and only joked and apologized if it was discovered.

“I'm still not sure that such long tours are good for you,” you try to tread carefully. “What does your manager say?”

Terzo fills his own glass and takes a few sips, looking away. Then he returns his gaze to you.

“The fine print in the contract said, ‘Warning: working as Papa Emeritus can cause health problems!’ but I didn't pay much attention to it.”

“They should have written it in large print and accompanied it with pictures of a diseased heart and worn-out knee joints.”

“As for my manager, I think she quite possibly wants to kill me.”

He runs his hand through his hair, finding another strand sticking out the wrong way. You hide a smile because you remember what his hair feels like, heavy and very thick.

“So what about the marathon?” you ask.

“A sleep marathon,” he pulls back from his work and raises his index finger admonishingly. “There are different kinds of marathons.”

You glance around the bed. It's more than clear that Terzo is determined to rest further, but he doesn't seem to mind you staying. How does he imagine it? Will you just lie next to each other while your break lasts?

“I'm in my clothes,” you remind him hesitantly.

“So take them off. But not all of them,” he smirks obliquely. “Otherwise, the sleep marathon might accidentally turn into a love marathon.”

You walk around the bed, take off your jacket and pants, and leave them on the back of the chair. Modern church dress code. Then you pull your black top over your head. When you finish, Terzo is already waiting for you in bed; he has thrown off his robe, staying in his pajama pants. Catching your gaze, he pats the mattress beside him invitingly.

You remove the grucifix on the chain and place it carefully on the bedside table. Leaving your underwear on, you sink down onto the bed, throwing your legs up and crawling closer to Terzo, who immediately covers you with the blanket he prepared.

“Come here,” he whispers warmly. You find yourself face to face with him, in a cosy blanket cocoon. You snuggle against him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, feeling his soft hands pull you closer. Had he been thinking about this moment all those three concert months? Did he imagine breathing in your scent and pulling you against him?

“Are you comfortable?”

“Very, very comfortable,” he coos, pressing his lips to your forehead.

“So how was the tour?”

“Hey, are we going to talk about work?” he frowns, still smiling.

You don't really need an answer. You already know he was at his best, giving the audience one hundred percent of himself, putting smiles on their faces and fire in their hearts. And even when things didn't go according to plan, he always managed to turn everything in his favor. He knew how to use every misstep, awkwardness or surprise to make them fall in love with him even more.

“I know perfectly well that you were incredible, as always. It couldn't be otherwise.”

“Really?” He finds your gaze, looking genuinely touched.

“Absolutely. I don't need to attend your concerts to know that you've won everyone over again. I'm sure of it.”

“Well, actually, I've come up with a couple of new tricks,” he takes offense. “Make sure you watch them on video.”

You just nod, and then suddenly you feel the urge to yawn. You barely manage to cover your mouth with the palm of your hand. Terzo hums softly.

"A marathon is supposed to be a competition,” his voice is soft again, lulling. "Who do you think will fall asleep the fastest?"

"I'm willing to give you the lead. Although I've had a rough week, too. I haven't had quality sleep in forever. Constant overnight rework, endless meetings."

"I understand."

He gently moves a strand of hair away from your face while continuing to look into your eyes. You've never seen it take so much effort for a man to keep his eyelids open. You yawn again and roll over onto your other side, turning your back to him. He wraps his arms around you from behind, pulling your legs up and enveloping you in his body. You feel his nose against your shoulder, tickling your skin. He leaves a lazy kiss on it.

“I'd like to-” he purrs with a hint of eroticism in his voice. The phrase is cut off halfway through. You wait for him to continue, but as you feel him breathing softly, his arms softening around you, you realize he's already asleep.

You close your eyes peacefully, hiding them from the morning light filtering through the curtains, and relax. Then you fumble for his palm so you can fall asleep with it in your hands. Those few hours in his arms will be healing for you, too.

Support on AO3

[osiiiris]

Taking this back because it makes sense to give a little insight here too.

I meant this to be a moment of tension. I had originally envisioned a scene where Terzo walks past Copia and takes the chance to intimidate him a little—in his own way. And to me, his way of intimidating always carries a strong sensual connotation, regardless of who the receiver is.

I've had this thing done for the longest time, so now you're all watching it.

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what I think will happen if I message my mutuals

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“The Concerto was a great cry of rebellion. It was a "No" flung at some vast process of torture, a denial of suffering, a denial that held the agony of the struggle to break free. The sounds were like a voice saying: There is no necessity for pain— why, then, is the worst pain reserved for those who will not accept its necessity?— we who hold the love and the secret of joy, to what punishment have we been sentenced for it, and by whom? . . . The sounds of torture became defiance, the statement of agony became a hymn to a distant vision for whose sake anything was worth enduring, even this. It was the song of rebellion— and of a desperate quest.”

// "Atlas Shrugged" by Ayn Rand

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Pathetic little meow meow based on my favourite Ghost fan comic

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Yes, pre-Meliora Terzo fans may have fallen for him because he was hot, funny, fascinating... But post-Meliora gave Terzo fans far more complex and deeper reasons to love him.

Loving Terzo, even though we know he was removed without a fair reason, even though we know he’s not coming back as we had hoped and we’ll even be denied his story and memory, even though he never had the chance to say goodbye to those who loved him, is understanding that sometimes the world doesn’t smile at you. Sometimes, it just devours you. Sometimes, there is no happy ending.

But we are prepared for this. That is a feeling we know well, isn’t it?

They’re trying to bury him under an inexplicable damnatio memoriae, yet we keep saying his name whenever possible, searching for any detail that reminds us of him.

Terzo is the hope that never dies. The true devotion. The ideal that survives injustice.

Killing him and erasing his memory only made him more visible, and his presence even more valuable and desired.

Loving Terzo is embracing tragedy, fear, failure, and darkness. His fans share his same strength: that faint light that reassures you that, one way or another, you’ll endure.

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Primo: One night in 1975 I stayed awake for 5 days

Nihil: One night?

Primo: And what a night

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Hello! I would be very thankful if you could tag your Copiiia appropriately. They may be “just brothers,” but they are brothers! I have the tag filtered, but the previous art slipped through! Thank you!

Hi, I’m sorry if that art bothered you, but that is not a Copiiia drawing. Not all arts where they appear together imply a relationship.

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I've had this thing done for the longest time, so now you're all watching it.