#Cardinal copia

[kabukiaku]

a couple of young cardinal fratellinos ✨

[zanncom]

phantom of the opera 🌹

[plague-brat]

girly pop copia fail girl emeritus 🐀🧃🖤

[serpentine-illusion]

Earlier than promised but I just uploaded the nsft post for december! Copia having fun with his ghouls as an unofficial continuation to this post…. Sorry this is the only remotely acceptable part of this I can post as a preview!

[copia/aether/sodo/mountain btw🤘🏻😎😎😎😎 ]

[vnachtfalterv]

Today is my Bday!🎉 29 on paper, 16 in the head🙈

I made a special fanart of Copia to thank you for always supporting me!🥹🐀

So if you like, complete the heart with a slefie, fanart or however you like it! This is for you❤️

[skywarpie]

The fact we never got to see copia riding side saddle in his cassock on his pale white horse is a travesty

[preqvelle]

" I've always been the one to blame."

[mrclgrim]

I made this artwork last year (and it was my first ghost fanart), but i still love it and i put here all my love to Ghost and Copia

I’m afraid of posting this artwork for a long time because I thought that no one would see this … but now i think that I shouldn’t hide it anymore

[pumpkinpeasyy]

MESSAGE FROM THE CLERGY

We wish to inform you that the show has started!!!!

[nihildenial]

i'm in love with this bc it literally looks like copia cuddling with rigatoni

[faiyx]

Nsft post is up on my patreon! 2 pages! We ball!

[cowbell-ghuleh]

Happy Ghostmas!

[deudamnatus]

Did this before Halloween, since then… I dont have pretty much to show.

Fuck off, just take Cardi eating some m&ms okay?

[ghostchems]

blood and cookies

written with copia in mind but can be any papa. if you read, let me know which papa you imagined! this idea came to me in the middle of the night. 1.2k words. nothing crazy here except for some bloodsucking :) happy holidays!

Flames crackle in the fireplace, casting shadows on the simple garland draped across the mantel. A single, plain red stocking hangs from one corner - the extent of your Christmas decorations. You zone out in the direction of the display from the kitchen as you remove your oven mitts, placing them on the counter. A chill rolls down your spine despite the warmth of the cookies cooling in front of you, sugar cookies shaped like trees with green and red sprinkles. They're typical Christmas cookies, the only kind you trust yourself to bake.

Recently, you've had a visitor every couple of nights. They aren’t the kind to stick around, showing up because they *needed* something from you. You wonder if your dabbling in the darker arts attracted them— ever since moving here you’ve found yourself attracted to the strange herbs and mushrooms that grow wild in these woods. You've learned to identify them, to harvest them properly, and to learn what they are used for - spells that are meant to give protection and tranquility.

The knowledge feels ancient, like it's been waiting here in the soil for someone like you to discover it. Sometimes you wonder if it was a trap all along but you are enjoying your new hobby. Long winter nights are hard living deep in the forest with your closest neighbor miles away, but you make do with your DIY witchcraft. Sometimes you enjoy the solitude while other times you wished you had someone to share it with. That is, until some of your evenings have been interrupted by a mysterious visitor.

You hear fluttering from the living room and quickly move to scoop some cookies onto a plate. Smoothing out your apron with one hand, you take the plate in the other and head toward the fire.

A figure stands near the fireplace, his one otherworldly white eye glowing in the darkness. Dark wings stretch behind him, their leathery surface creaking as they fold against his back. He is like a living shadow, his form seeming to blur at the edges where the firelight touches him. He's never spoken. You don't even know his name but his visits have become more frequent. At first it was once a month, then every other week, and now he visits at least once a week.

“Good evening,” you say softly, placing the plate of freshly baked cookies on the small table beside your armchair. The scent of vanilla and cinnamon wafts through the air, mingling with the woodsmoke. His white eye follows your movement, and you notice the slightest tilt of his head — perhaps in curiosity, or appreciation. “Help yourself. I will, uh, get you some warm milk.”

You turn back toward the kitchen, your feet padding quietly across the wooden floor. As you warm the milk on the stovetop, you can't help but wonder if he'll still be there when you return — he sometimes disappears as silently as he arrives. The gentle crackling of the fire and the soft clink of the plate behind you suggest he's staying, at least for now. It doesn’t take long for the milk to warm, and you pour it carefully into your favorite ceramic mug — the one with pale green mushrooms painted all over it, their caps dotting the surface in cheerful reds and purples.

When you return, he's closer to the fireplace and two cookies are missing from the plate with a few crumbs on the table. There’s a sense of relief that he liked them enough to eat more than one. You place the mug of warm milk on the table carefully, having learned he isn’t too fond of sudden movements. That doesn’t stop him from moving with inhuman speed right up to you, causing you to gasp and stumble back a step. His wings unfurl slightly, casting strange shadows on the walls.

"You are hungry," you whisper to him, your eyes scanning his face. You can see more of him now—the white and black paint that clings to his skin. He gives a low rumble in response, coming from deep in his chest. It makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up. His eye narrows slightly, the otherworldly glow intensifying for just a moment. You know what comes next.

He crowds close to you, his wings curling around you like a dark embrace. His gloved hand gently tilts your head to the side, exposing your neck. You feel his impossibly cool breath against your skin, causing you to shiver. His other hand pushes the strap of your apron to the side and leans in, lips against your skin. The touch is gentle but cold, like winter frost against your warm flesh.

He kisses your neck. This is new. Usually, he just bites and drinks, a simple transaction of blood for company. But tonight there's something different in the way his lips linger against your skin, the way his hand cradles your head. The gesture is almost tender. You find yourself leaning into his touch, your hands reaching up to steady yourself against his chest. His fangs graze your neck, almost as if asking permission.

"Yes," you whisper, "you may."

His fangs pierce your skin with practiced precision, and you gasp at the sharp sting. All feeling melts away in moments. Your fingers curl into the fabric of his jacket as he drinks deeply, the sound of his satisfied grunts mixed with the crackle of the fire. Through half-lidded eyes, you notice his wing has curled more tightly around you, probably to keep you upright as you grow weak with each deep draw of blood.

Your vision starts to blur at the edges, darkness creeping in. He must sense this and withdraws his fangs, his tongue quickly lapping at the wound to stop the bleeding. His wings move away from you as you sway on your feet, and the last thing you feel is his arms guiding you gently into the armchair as consciousness slips away from you.

You awake with a soft groan, your neck tender where his fangs had pierced. Fingertips drift along the wound as your eyes fall to the fireplace. The fire has died down to glowing embers. Then, your eyes drift to the small table beside you, where only scattered crumbs remain on the plate that once held your Christmas cookies. The ceramic mug sits empty, a smudge of black - like paint or lipstick - marking where his lips had touched the rim.

Despite how weak you feel, there's a sense of contentment. He ate all of the treats you made for him. You smile softly, sinking deeper into the armchair. You wonder when he'll visit again. Maybe next time you'll try another treat, perhaps chocolate chips or snicker doodles. The thought makes you feel warm as you sink deeper into the chair, sleep claiming you. You dream of dark wings and winter nights, of sugar cookies and stolen kisses.

Outside, snow begins to fall covering the forest in a blanket of white. Somewhere in that darkness, a shadow moves between the trees, leaving no footprints.

[thatoneonionring]

Terzo :p