What I look like checking a specific X reader tag for the fourth time today, only to realize I’ve truly read everything…
This problem is more regular than you might think… and this being a problem in itself might also be an issue, but that’s not what we’re here to talk about 
The mausoleum that has inspired the fictional location of the Ministry in the Ghost chapters, is in need of repairs to their stained glass.
"...Over nearly a century, these treasured windows have faced natural wear and tear — and more recently, the Eaton Fire caused additional damage, putting the integrity of the glass and frames at serious risk."
More information about the damages to the stained glass can be read in the link below.
I had the opportunity to visit this beautiful place for a Ghoul's Ball fan event in 2023 that was also meant to help with interior restoration.
Their goal is to reach 125k, a big number, but necessary to cover the costs of restoration.
If you can't financially support, reblogging the post and sharing with other Ghost fans will be good too.
Mountain View Mausoleum | Stained Glass | Pasadena Cemetery Association
was thinking about the Papas and their need for eye contact when they’re deep inside you.
one of Primo’s big hands cradling your face, surprisingly strong, but it’s not his touch that keeps you from looking away—it’s the intensity in his eyes. uncanny and ageless, unblinking as he looks down at you. you’re pinned to the spot, even as he moves, hips rocking with shallow thrusts as he works himself deeper and deeper into you. you’re writhing beneath him, panting like an animal, clenching around him as you adjust to his size—and he just gazes at you like you’re all that exists. “let me in,” he says on an undertone, voice thick and husky, “and let go.” and when he finally bottoms out, you arch, throwing your head back and squeezing your eyes shut. with the hand he’s been holding your face with, he taps your cheek—three quick taps—and you quickly look back at him. he sighs and says, “just like that, anima mia. keep your eyes on me.” and you do.
a calm, “look at me,” from Secondo, spoken low and controlled and hot. and it’s hard—it’s so hard—when he hasn’t stopped moving, when his fingers are biting into the meat of your thighs as he pins you open for him. he always looks at you like you’re a puzzle he needs to figure out, like he’s trying to develop the ability to read your mind, and it paralyzes you. it’s like everything disappears—the walls around you, the floor beneath you. you’re just floating in an abyss and all you know is how full you are. but you force yourself to keep your eyes on his, even as you feel your climax building in you, hotter and tighter. he watches. and his mouth quirks up at the corners, pleased. “bene.” a single word. you might have imagined it, but it’s enough to push you over the edge. and a rough hand finds your chin so he can keep you from hiding as you come.
Terzo has his fingers twisted into your hair, but not harshly—merely deliberate. he combs his fingers through your hair, tilting your head back up so you can blink up at him. “there you are,” he says with a smirk, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. “I want you to watch while I take you apart.” his other hand splays flat against your abdomen, pressing down like he wants to feel how deep he is. the pressure makes you whimper, but his grasp tightens in your hair just slightly—so you catch yourself before your eyes try to squeeze shut. his lips curl up into a satisfied grin. “tell me what you’re feeling, amore. let me hear it.” but as you open your mouth, he angles his next thrust and brushes the spot inside of you that makes your veins flood with electricity. all you can do is cry out his name—which he answers with a rasped out laugh, though the way his breath hitches tells you he’s not unaffected.
holding your hands in his, fingers laced with yours, Copia leans in to nuzzle you, bumping your nose with his, uttering a rasped little plea of, “'look at me… please.” and when you do, dragging your eyes open so you can meet his gaze, you see it. like a switch flipping. and his hips start snapping against yours faster, a vein in his neck popping, his face and chest flushed a delicious shade of red. he’s thanking you, telling you how perfect you are, how good you feel around him. your eyes flutter closed at the next ripple of pleasure, and he says your name like it hurts. your eyes pop open again. focus on him again. and he says, “sì, sì—you’re mine. All mine. my perfect—” his words cut off, turning into a deep groan as his rhythm falters and he comes unexpectedly, with no warning. but the night is young….
he’s not squeezing, but Perpetua’s hands rest against either side of your neck, thumbs pressed up under your jaw to keep your face tilted toward his. he’s in no hurry—his hips rolling slow and deep, his eyes locked on your face. the noises you make are very undignified, and it’s too much. he’s too much. but every time your eyes close to escape the hunger in his gaze that makes you feel raw and exposed, his thumbs press harder under your jawbone. “now, now…. stay with me, cuore mio.” and then he pushes in and holds himself there, watching your face as you struggle to maintain eye contact. a soft plea leaves you—not that you know what you’re begging for—and he sighs and says, “oh, i know, i know. just a little more.” it’s a lie. it’s a lot more. but at least he relents and lets you look away after your second orgasm.
Copia is sentimental. Half of him is afraid of change and half of him clings to what once was, the things he knows. It's a habit he can't shake—that he prefers his movies on VHS, that he still uses the old interface on his computer, that he refuses to update his phone, plays his old games, struggles to throw things out, still falls asleep on his tattered old couch in clothes he's worn for decades.
The first time he shows you his photo albums it's not without shame, but it's not without yearning to go back, either.
He's spent a lot of time on them and they open the way you'd expect—with old polaroids. The subjects seem random, at first, until you spot the same consoles he still plays on, the same VHS tapes, a sad little room that must have been his, Star Wars action figures from the 70s. They don't show other children, they don't show any teenage friends, only a few adults from his childhood, Marika, Mr. Psaltarian, some others you don't recognize.
Later on, the photos show Copia—at his graduation, then in various clerical robes as he rose through the ranks of the Ministry. He tries to flip through these pages faster but you stop him by resting your fingers on his, even as his cheeks turn a soft rosy color and his top lip trembles. He's always been handsome, soft brown hair and a neatly trimmed mustache à la Vincent Price, freckled all over and with a deceptively shy expression. Some of the pictures show his true character though, the silly laughs, tongue sticking out, peace signs and action hero poses.
As the quality of the pictures increases so does the resemblance to the man turning the page. Photos of his early days as a Cardinal, the unmistakable make-up, the biretta, only his face looks younger, more even and boyish, hinting at mischief. Eventually you find him in some of the clothes he's still wearing today, his old room that you've first met him in, still filled with the objects of his youth only now in higher resolution. There are mismatched pictures of Sister he must have added later, both of her youth and after her return to the Ministry. It's easier to spot their resemblence when they're side by side, mother and son.
Then his face in the photos suddenly changes, new features, new make-up, and even though there are a handful pages left Copia urgently closes the album. His smile is strained as he rests his gloved hand on the cover, as if to absorb who he used to be. He's still the same man and yet he is nothing like those past versions of himself.
Your lips find his cheek, then, feeling the uncomfortable heat that rose to his face, and there are no words to catch these complicated feelings, the pain and regret and bittersweet memories he carries. Instead he finds a reassuring smile, another soft press of lips to remind him that he doesn't have to be anything but himself, no matter who that might be. And yes, he's sentimental, he doesn't like the unknown, but perhaps some things in life are worth clinging to.
Riding Copia. The soft of his tummy jiggling with every slap of your body coming down to meet his. The tangling of fingers into the hairy thicket of his chest. And when he slurs that he’s getting close, to come with him, oh, to trail a hand down the path created by his hair, ending where you are united to play with yourself in order to catch up.
Only for him to snarl and move your fingers, knowing you can’t bring yourself up to speed the way he can. He grabs your hips and forces you into a grind, dragging your clit against the thatch of curls. The evil smirk he manages as you whine, knowing damn well that while the stimulation is not undesirable, it’s not what you seek, what you NEED to climb the mountaintop with him.
When he’s had enough of your pouting, his fingers result your work. A high-pitched keen that fails to become the words you mean to utter escape you as you arch your back and nearly fall on top of him, only able to catch yourself on wobbly arms as your palms press into the mattress on either side of his head.
It’s a fight to keep drooling from slipping through your moaning lips as you feel his fingers take your clit between them, rolling the sorry bud before giving it firm jerks through its tender hood — almost as though he were returning the very favor you’d granted his cock earlier in the evening.
Yes, leave all the hard work to your Papa. Be a good girl and do as Papa says and all you wish will be yours for the taking…
author’s note: 18+! mdni! exactly what it sounds like… thank you ghost for releasing a chapter and making me crank out 1.5k words of frater filth. ao3 link.
Frater Imperator has been increasingly irritable the closer the new tour dates and album approaches. To add fuel to the fire, he’s been waiting on his new office space to be complete and he’s currently camped out in an unoccupied room that is unequipped for his role. He's been having angry outbursts, peppered with expletives, as his frustration mounts. The shift away from being in the spotlight seems to be wearing on him particularly hard. Despite the rising tensions, the ghost project continues to progress with Frater's twin taking the lead.
The Staff are caught in the middle.
You’re a transplant from America, having fled due to the increasingly hostile environment. But now that you’re there, there is so much pressure. Most days you return to your quarters with your head spinning, unsure of how things will all tie together in time. And you feel bad for him — of course you do. Frater feels tossed aside but he *is* important and on good days, he’s a sweet man. Always asking about family and pets, how you’re feeling, if you’re enjoying the weather…
But you're starting to see another side of him lately. Change is in the air.
“Your habit is, eh, shorter today, Sister.” His gaze falls to your legs, his voice more rough than you’re used to. It pulls you from your work, collating production packets for the tour crew. Your hands immediately fall to your hem to tug it down, though you know it won’t do much. The thick fabric barely shifts an inch.
You try to keep your voice steady as you reply, "Laundry was backed up this week, Frater. This was all that was available."
He tsks, his eyes still wandering over your exposed flesh. "Come here." Frater beckons for you to come closer, his hand outstretched in a gesture that leaves no room for refusal. Despite your apprehension, your feet carry you forward until you stand before the couch he's using as a temporary workspace. His nostrils flare as he inhales deeply, and you can't help but notice how his fingers twitch against the bright yellows cushions.
“I’ve been… thinking that perhaps I need some… stress relief. Only seems fair that you help me… unwind." His voice drops an octave, sending a shiver down your spine as he pats his thigh in invitation.
A darker side had always lurked within him. When he first arrived as Cardinal, glimpses of it surfaced, though they faded as he settled into his role. But now, as his former comforts are stripped away, that cruelty and hunger for control began seeping through the cracks once more. Trapped in this temporary space with him, you feel that same darkness reaching for you.
Hesitantly, you begin to move toward his lap. How could you say no to Frater Imperator? You would be lying to yourself if you hadn’t thought about him in this way.
He shakes his head slowly, a wolfish smile spreading across his face. "No no, Sister. Across my lap." You freeze, eyes widening until his hands take you by the waist, ultimately guiding you until you're bent over his thighs. Your habit rides up further, a heavy palm resting against the small of your back to keep you in place.
"Such a pretty thing," he murmurs, more to himself than to you. His free hand traces idle patterns along your thigh, each touch making you shiver. "But you've been distracting me. Making it so hard to focus."
You bite your tongue, wanting to point out that you aren’t the cause for all of this chaos. But all the same, your heart races as you feel the press of his fingers through thin fabric. Something in his tone, in the way he holds you here, tells you there's little point in protesting. And truthfully, some part of you doesn't want to.
The leather of his gloved fingers skim the hem of your habit, pushing the fabric up to reveal black lace underwear. He exhales sharply at the sight. His palm smooths over the curve of your backside, the cool material rubbing over your flushed skin. The touch is both possessive and exploratory, making your breath catch in your throat.
"Tell me, Sister, have you been thinking about this too?"
Your throat is dry, trying to swallow and find your voice, but all that comes out is a shaky gasp as his fingers continue to explore. Your hips shift against his thigh, drawing a sinister chuckle from above. Another sharp crack of leather against skin echoes through the room as his palm connects with your already burning cheek. You cry out this time, the pain less starting than before.
"Such lovely sounds you make," he purrs, beginning to alternate between gentle, probing caresses and stinging, harsh spanks. Tears begin to sting the corners of your eyes.
“Who is your Papa?”
The question hangs in the air. You’re new, having not been around when he *was* Papa but you know better. You know not to disappoint him now, not when he quite literally has you over his knee.
"You are, Papa..."
“Good girl.”
He delivers one final resounding slap to your tender backside, the sharp sting making you gasp and arch against him. Your eyes are squeezed shut, ragged gasps falling from your lips. He coos, shushing you as he delicately runs his fingers along the edge of your underwear. You relax in his lap for a moment until he’s moving you, firmly gripping your hips to shift you upright. His strength surprises you, effectively positioning you so that you’re straddling his lap.
The evidence of his arousal is unmistakable beneath your dampened panties, his pants visibly straining between your thighs.
“You’ve been in need of some relief, haven’t you? I’ve seen you around the Ministry… always so tense, hm?” His gloved hands splay possessively across your ass cheeks again, kneading the sensitive skin that's still warm from his earlier attention. Frater guides you forward, encouraging you to gently rock your hips against him.
“*Oh*…” you groan out, clutching his shoulders as waves of pleasure crash through you. His hands directing your movements, setting a steady rhythm that’s smooth compared to the harshness of how he spanked you. His eyes have glazed over, lips parted slightly as his hands squeeze your ass tighter. You can feel every breath he takes, his chest rising and falling rapidly beneath your palms. A soft groan escapes his throat as you grind down particularly hard.
"Do you like this, Sister? Do you enjoy being used like this by your Papa?” His voice is strained with need, his eyes boring into your own.
"Y-yes... yes, Papa," you stammer breathlessly, your voice trembling with a mixture of desire and fear.
His hands slide up to grip your waist, just feeling you as you start to lose yourself. You begin to roll your hips against him, a sick kind of need filling you. His grip on you loosens, allowing you to get what you need from him without restraint. A deep, almost inhuman growl rumbles from his chest. You find your eyes start to close, your mouth dropping open in a silent moan as your thighs start to tense.
Frater’s hand suddenly has you, gloved fingers digging into your cheeks to force your eyes open. You come undone with a whimper. His hips buck up against you as he reaches his own climax with a strangled groan, the evidence of his release dampening the front of his tailored pants.
The both of you are in limbo for just a moment. Your head swims as you try to catch your breath, still straddling his lap. Your thighs quiver with aftershocks as he smooths his gloved hands over your hips in soothing circles. The room feels too warm, too close, but you can't bring yourself to move just yet, until he begins to shift you off of his lap.
"Thank you, baby. I needed that." His voice sounds lighter now, almost back to normal as he helps you stand. "Go home for the night, yes? Get some sleep. I want you back here first thing tomorrow—looking fresh and ready for our morning meeting." He flashes you that charming smile, the one that makes you forget the darkness that lurked in his eyes just moments ago.
"Yes, Frater.” You turn toward the door, legs still trembling from the evening's activities. The heat from your spanking still radiates through your body, and you're acutely aware of the wetness between your legs.
"Ah! Before you go..." He catches your wrist, stopping you. "Leave your panties with me."
A flush rises to your cheeks as you comply, hooking your thumbs under the damp lace and sliding them down your legs. The fabric catches slightly on your shoes before you manage to step out of them. Your hands tremble slightly as you place the black lace panties into his waiting palm.
His fingers curl around them possessively, and he brings them to his nose, inhaling deeply. "Such a good girl for Papa," he murmurs, tucking them into his pocket. "Now run along."
You *hurry* from his temporary office on shaky legs with a sore ass.
