#primo I tell you

[age-of-moonknight]

“Under the Same Moon,” Vengeance of the Moon Knight (Vol. 2/2024), #6.

Writer: Jed MacKay; Penciler and Inker: Devmalya Pramanik; Colorist: Rachelle Rosenberg; Letterer: Cory Petit

[preqvelle]

New old pics of Primo courtesy of rise above records

[gravehags]

curator reader seeing a photo of primo in his middle aged, long haired prime: YOOOOOOOOO

copia: amore stop

primo: no let her speak please :)

[countfagula]

Emeritus Brothers Headcannon fall edition as promised!

Primo enjoys the changing of the leaves though it makes him sad that winters coming but he takes it as opportunity to teach younger siblings of sin about the cycle of life and death. Primo also enjoys baking and will make traditional Italian sweets for everyoone but especially his brothers.

Secondo throws the best Halloween parties there typically small events with a few chosen siblings and ghouls but their absolutely unforgettable plus he’s a sucker for a horror movie so the brothers have a lot of movie nights during that time. His favorite is Texas Chainsaw Massacre and I will not be taking arguments on it.

Terzo is absolutely elated when it hits October first because he loves the macabre and spooky! He absolutely is someone who starts planning their costume in august and boy are his impressive! He loves either doing couples costumes with his partners or group costumes with his brothers! I also headcannon that his birthday is on Halloween so he’s a huge birthday month guy.

Copia loves fall because it gets cooler and he’s a lot more relaxed with his causal wear it’s not odd to find him in his office in a hoodie and sweats doing paper work that’s most certainly overdo at this point. He’s a sucker for Pumpkin spice lattes fight me on it. He also loves being able to gather his brothers up to help plan the Samhain/Halloween festival the ministry holds each year.

[estoy-cansado-jefe]

Táctica y Estrategia / Tactics and Strategy

Había hecho este otro comic hace rato pero me dio pereza subirlo aquí xD La verdad solo quería dibujar a K!Rubius manipulador, y aunque amo un K!Quackity empoderado, bien alocado y armado, me gusta pensar en esos breves momentos de angustia y confusión que sintió al día siguiente de las elecciones. Me atrae esa vulnerabilidad y quiero pensar que al oso también y se aprovecharía de eso.

IGUAL DESPUÉS EL OSO FUE Y SE CASÓ CON LOLITO ARRUINÁNDOME OTRO COMIC QUE TENÍA EN RELACIÓN A ESTE PERO RUBEGETTA XDD

Anyways, here is the english version:

[I didn't know how to translate the last panel, it's about the list that K!Quackity made, writing down the steps of his plan, but the most important I would say are the last two steps: Kill Luzu and Escape Karmaland forever]

And the title of the comic, this time is based on Mario Benedetti’s poem of the same name, se los recomiendo ;)

[kabra-malvada]

*me quiero morir plays on the background*

I am- speechless? shocked? IDK

Weyyyyyyy lo vi y quedé :0 La neta ya ni sé que decir alv wow, nomás, WOW. No me enojo o me ofendo fácilmente, pero chingada madre se esforzaron y lo lograron, felicidades! me dejaron en shook

Me va a dar algo lmao, no sé ni por donde empezar. La canción culerísima, el estilo de arte que se ve no muy refinado, el diseño de personajes poco memorable, los comentarios de la actriz de voz, fucking earthquake heights (look up the 2017 earthquake in México on YT), las personas que dicen que no los podemos criticar por que "lo hacen por representación" Y podría seguirle y seguirle :/ Aclaración mi pedo más que nada es que creo que no solo se notan insensibles (por los estereotipos y así) sino que activamente se rehúsan a escuchar lo que los demás tienen que decir. Sí hay personas latinas que no encuentran problema con esto pero los que sí han estado siendo catalogados de "ofendidos" nomás por que no quieren escuchar o entender lo que disgusta de este proyecto.

Coming from an actual Mexican here: this is rly weird and uncomfortable, I'm sitting here like :/ Idk man, I'm just gonna sit in the corner and pretend this doesn't exist.

Y arda al que le arda se dice "OIGAN" no "OYE" por que es en plural. "Grammar nazi" mis huevos. Son una corporación de miles de millones de dólares como para no tomarse la molestia de averiguar si está bien escrito spm

[lightbluuestars]

if Peemo got to be your boyfriend husband for the week, how would you spend it?

A WEEK?!! AN ENTIRE WEEK?!! oh my god i'd simply pass away (of love and happiness)

how should i put this, hm? just a day with this man would be enough!! (until it ends, then i'm empty for the rest of my life)

seven whole days of love and affection and appreciation for one another, oh my god

sunday would be particularly cozy, spending the day inside and just lovin on each other. hugs, kisses, cuddles, fueling each other for the week ahead. he'd have a ghoul tend to his plants, just for that day. preferably an earth ghoul, please.

monday would be kind of busy, having duties to attend to around the abbey and whatnot. inviting me out to his gardens and greeting me with an affectionate hug along with a sweet kiss. he'd show me around his gardens, pointing out specific plants and flowers he liked or thought i would like. the day ends with dinner and reading together in bed. i'd show him the pictures in my books, fascinated. (wwii books, i like them a lot, very interesting)

tuesday would come, and every morning is almost the same. waking up together, showering (depends on what mood we're in, together or alone), dressing, and leaving each other once again to preform our duties in the abbey. occasionally, i'd help him with his paints, but i don't often because i joke i don't trust myself with that kind of job. i simply cannot focus enough for that. this time, i invite him to have lunch with me, and we talk about what we had done earlier in the day, and what we will do. depending on our moods, we might spend the night in bed together pleasing one another, or we might stay outside and look at the stars. he likes to watch the stars, and points out constellations in the sky for me to look at.

wednesday arrives, and the morning is a free one. we shower together, and i attempt to apply his paints but fail miserably and end up a heap of laughter on the floor. he fixes his paints, taps my nose, and then we have breakfast. he brews some of his own tea, and i happily join him in sitting outside and enjoy the morning sun. we spend most of the morning outside, and he watches as i fashion flower crowns out of the clovers in the grass. (with his permission, of course.) i place one on his head, and one on mine. he smiles, and admires the crown i had made for him. the day ends with a nice bath (together, obviously) and doing our own thing before bed. he might finish up some paperwork, and i might end up drawing. a good day.

thursday is here, and he is gone when i wake up. turns out, he was needed somewhere, and left me alone. (sad, i know) i continue on with the day, barely even seeing him. i end up coming back and jumping his bones, and the entire night is spent together, making up for the lost time from the day.

friday, finally, and he's stuck in bed with a bad back. courtesy of last night's events. i take the day off, reassure him that his garden will be fine, because i asked a trusted earth ghoul to care for the garden. i care for him the whole day, brewing him tea and massaging his back. i draw a bath for him, with epsom salts, and leave him be for a while. after he's back in bed, i give him some painkillers and kiss his forehead, telling him to get some sleep. i stay up for a while longer, before retreating to bed and falling asleep next to him.

on saturday, his back is better and he can get back outside again. this time, he goes without the paints. it's a saturday, he can relax. he takes his time out in the garden, and will happily accept my help once i'm out there with him. i had brought him some tea and scones, and we enjoyed the morning together. the afternoon was spent in near silence, just existing together. the occasional turn of a page or the flutter of the curtains in the wind disrupted the silence, but it was well welcomed. we were happy together. the day ends curled around each other in bed, whispering words of affection until we drift off to sleep.

[abasketofnothing]

ITS HIS DAY!!!!

[queenharumiura]

A flower safe to look at, but not to touch. Many would dare regardless, but are you one of them?

This is a piece I commissioned for. Do not steal, do not edit, do not use, and do not repost. I was given permission to post this onto my blog.

Fiore Rossi is my OC for the Primo Generation Vongola

Artist is KINNYno from dA

[madraleen]

anyway, i’m having a blast seeing all the wonderful venti birthday art that people are making. happy birthday, lil love <3

[sisterruthisconcerned]

I’m a firm believer that all of the papas drink blood. And I mean DRINK IT. It’s the most important meal of the day Gary’s way, kinda way ok.

[laindependencialuna1899]

If you have Layla in Genshin, technically you have a Zhongli and Freminet wrapped in one. Build her

[braziliannamelessghoul]

Ghost was able to bring me one damn obsession that I never thought I'd have due to religious trauma: ecclesiastical fashion.

[max-uhhhh-talks]

Primo is like a marshmallow. Secondo looks like he was forced to eat rocks as a child. Terzo is like a crunchy cracker delicious. Copia is gummy bear, very chewable. Nihil is like pixie sticks but without the flavor, just powder

[nightmareonpeachstreet]

c’mon man if Paimon is gonna say something that’s supposed to start you on a quest at least let the quest actually start as soon as she talks I can’t be expected to remember everything Paimon ever said to me outside of a cave

[revelisms]

Copia grows up in the shadow of so much music, so much magic, so much life.

Copia, little blue-eyed ruddy-haired Copia, in shoes too big and coat too baggy and breathing in the cool, damp air of the gardens. Led by a gentle hand, bony hand: cold as death, but loving. Much as it can be, in its jadedness.

"You see these ones, here?" their eldest says, the words rasped and ashen, like he's spent a lifetime drinking down the soil his hands have tilled. "They are beautiful, no?"

Copia stares hard at those white flowers, his little fingers pinched at his palm.

They are beautiful.

Tall and beautiful and strange, like the ghoulish creature looming above him, with eyes pale as moonstone; one who is more a mother than a brother, is a beacon, a beam of light in this dark place he fears ever losing.

"You'll have to try planting some, one day," Primo continues. "Won't get a green thumb otherwise, eh?"

Copia will never get a green thumb. But he'll try.

And he'll be older. Only a little—enough to grow into gangly legs, a nose too big for his sullen face, freckles smattered across his cheeks and hair unruly. Older, but not as old as the hand burning as coals, rough as rock, squeezing slow at his shoulder.

"Not like that," his brother gristles, patient as his nonexistent patience can manage. His fingers flick off him, point sharply at the lane stretched ahead. "Eyes on the road, little rat. Now—easy. Second gear, you remember?"

Copia, white knuckled on the steering wheel, huffs. "Yes, yes, I know—"

Secondo spits a breath through his teeth. "I was driving the old bastard's Ferrari, at your age," he grouses, more to himself. "Alright. Easy, now—you've got it—Hell beneath, the clutch—"

"Sorry, sorry—"

Copia will never be a good driver. Puttering away in his go-kart of a Fiat, dingy and denim blue, that they'll tease him endlessly for. But he'll try.

And Copia will be older, still. Not quite a man, not quite a boy, not quite an Emeritus—not quite anything but a rat listening in on everything, sticking his ear where it never belongs.

(Where has he ever belonged?)

It winds him towards misplaced conversations and snarking gossip, plucked guitar strings and crashing drums—and often, so often, to the old music room on the second floor. The one with the chipped black piano Terzo favors.

Terzo, with his midnight clothes and midnight hair and midnight nails, his hand-poured coffees black as tar, books upon books of stained lyrics and notes. Terzo, hazed with the morning's gloom: paintless and beautiful and bone-tired, always, since his oath-taking.

And Copia envies him. Resents a brother who can swoon men and women and demons alike with nothing more than a crook of his finger. Who needs only to tuck the half-tamed waves of his hair behind his ears and flash a smile to look impeccable.

Whose fingers melt across the keys like a lover. A symphony of emotion that is powerful, hateful, all-encompassing.

He dances between two set of melodies: two songs at war with each other. Eventually, they will become ballads of their own. One, Copia will find the ink-scrawled pages for, years after his brother's soul has been thrown back through the Gate, and claim.

Another triplet of feather-light notes, climbing a dissonant ladder. His voice soft from his chest, haunting in its echoing, deep and light at once.

"I can feel the thunder that's breaking..."

A pause. His nose crinkling. A waterfall, slow-stroked fingers and thumb, repeated like a skipping record.

"With flesh, and blood, and bones, I...mnh...Did no one hear the distant...no, no, no—"

And he'll smack out ripples of classical adagios, crescendos: broken, jazz-chorded flails: snarling in frustration, before slumping. Slowly, sighing, tracing back to those lovely notes. An effortless bleeding of his soul over the keys, over and over and over again.

Copia will never be a good pianist. Saints, never like him. But he'll try.

He'll try—in his unevenly-spaced flowerbeds; in his father's battered, beat-up cruiser; in the white-glossed grand piano he has them drag up on stage, just to pluck out a sea of chords that are only partly his own.

That is home, for him. Where he belongs.

Glittering in those suits, grinning in the sweat of it all, flipping microphones with sightless ease and dancing circles over those checkerboard floors, as though they were meant for only him.

And, in a way, he supposes, they always were.

Metal squeezed in his palm. Armor draped off his shoulders. The paints of the dead claiming him, above all else.

His people. His stage.

His music, his magic, his life.

For all of them, in their own ways, they always were.

copia / stages