#it's funerary wear

[erregiulydraws]

*thinks about vol 19’s sleeve illustration*

*thinks about vol 19’s sleeve illustration*

*thinks abo

Bonus:

[zanmor]

Skull portraiture is amazing and it's a real shame that hasn't stuck around as a wide cultural practice.

Check out this amazing art from 9000 years ago:

More than 4000 years before the dynasties of Egypt, people were treating the dead in truly reverent and beautiful ways. It leaves me with little wonder that so many religious beliefs professed life's creation from clay. A skilled neolithic artist could keep a loved one with them for years after death by use of clay.

Would that your face looked that good 9000 years after death.

[eorzeashan]

I kind of liked my original idea that Eight adds the clothes of whoever he's working for/sworn to at that time to his operative outfit, or it came to resemble theirs in some way. It fit his character of a copycat who stole traits from others and inducted them into his malleable personality.

Under Intelligence, he wore layered coats-- fitting himself into that urban businessman mold for their office wars and concealing the assassin underneath.

Under Jadus, he wore a filmy black synth-silk veil attached to his headgear that helped camouflage his head and protect his neck if needed (see silk used as armor in ancient times for real history); it also gave him the moniker of the black-veil bride for his frightening obscured appearance as a servant of shadows.

Finally, in the KOTFE/ET era where he fights under Lana and Koth, he steals the captain's infamous coat and drapes it over his shoulders like a cape out of sheer mischief. Occasionally, he'll do the same to Lana's scarf and wear it as a hood/cover for the bottom half of his face. (She's not as amused as her compatriots when he does so, but she's also secretly happy that he's finally warming up to her even in antics).

[livesunique]

Golden Throne of Tutankhamun

New Kingdom, late 18th Dynasty, reign of Tutankhamun, ca. 1332-1323 BC. 

The luxurious armchair is distinguished by the complexity of its technique and an abundance of details. Two projecting lions’ heads protect the seat of the throne while the arms take the form of winged uraei or rearing cobras wearing the double Pschent crown of Egypt and guarding the cartouche names of the king.

The golden throne of Tutankhamun was discovered in 1922 by the British archeologist Howard Carter. It was found beneath a hippopotamus funerary bed in the antechamber of the Tomb of Tutankhamun.

The throne is called (Ist) in Egyptian hieroglyphs after the name of the mother goddess Isis. who was usually depicted bearing a throne on her head as her characteristic emblem. It is made of wood and covered with gold and silver. It is ornamented with semi-precious stones and colored glass.

The throne meant, not only the link between the worlds of Gods and the people, but also majesty, stability, safety and balance. Since kings were considered Gods on earth, it may not be difficult to imagine Tutankhamun imposing his divine will over the rest of mortals while sitting on this golden throne.

Wood, gold leaf, silver, semi-precious stones, glass paste,

Height: 102 cm, Length: 54 cm, Width: 60 cm,

Egyptian Museum, Cairo.

[theancientwayoflife]

~ The royal belt of Calakmulhul.

▪︎ Towards mid-November 1988, researchers from the Calakmul Project discovered in Building III a crypt that housed the remains of an ancient sovereign accompanied by a modest funerary trousseau. Among the objects deposited in the tomb were three green stone masks. One must have been placed on his face, the other two smaller ones were interpreted as medallions or pectorals.

The belt was part of the dignitaries' attire, as can be seen in some steles. It was made up of a small mask from which three green stone axes hung. The masks represented deities or embodied ancestors. The axes, when hitting each other, generate a tinkling sound that is heard like the murmur of the wind. By wearing the belt, the rulers were transfigured into the axis mundi , in the center of the Universe.

[artifacts-and-arthropods]

2,000-Year-Old Fayum Portraits from Roman Egypt: also known as "mummy portraits," these funerary paintings were often fastened to the coffins of the people they depicted

Above: Fayum portrait of a woman from Roman-occupied Egypt, c.100-110 CE

Fayum portraiture was a popular funerary practice among the upper-class families of Roman Egypt from about 50 CE to 250 CE. Given the high mortality rates for children during this period, many of these portraits depict children and youths, but adults were often featured, too.

Above: portrait of a youth wearing a golden wreath, c.130-150 CE; the wreath and the background of the portrait are both gilded

The population of the Faiyum Delta, where most of these portraits were found, largely contained individuals with both native Egyptian/North African and Greek heritage. The Greek lineages can be traced back to the Ptolemaic period, when the Greeks gained control of Egypt and began to establish settlements throughout the region, gradually leading to a cultural diffusion between the Greek and Egyptian populations. The Romans eventually took control of Egypt in 31 CE, absorbing it into the Roman Empire and colonizing much of North Africa, but the demographics of the Faiyum Delta remained largely unchanged.

Above: portrait of a man with a mole on his nose, c.130-150 CE

Many of these Fayum portraits reflect the same blend of ethnic and cultural roots, depicting individuals with both Greek and native Egyptian heritage (a claim that is supported by both archaeological and genetic evidence). Some portraits may also depict native Egyptians who did not have any European ancestry, but had been integrated into Greco-Roman society.

Above: portrait of a bearded man, c.170-180 CE

These representations of native Egyptians provide us with unique insights into the actual demographics of Roman-occupied Egypt (and the ancient world at large). Non-European peoples are rarely included in depictions of the classical world; it's also interesting to see the blend of cultural elements that these portraits represent.

Above: portrait of a priest of Serapis, c.140-160 CE; the man in this portrait is shown wearing a fillet/crown that bears the seven-pointed star of the Greco-Egyptian god, Serapis

As this article explains:

In the 1800s and early 1900s, Western art historians didn’t know what to make of these portraits. Scholars of Roman history labeled them Egyptian. Scholars of Egyptian history labeled them Greco-Roman. These binary academic classifications failed to capture the true complexity of the ancient (or, indeed, modern) Mediterranean. In reality, Fayum portraits are a syncretic form, merging Egyptian and Greco-Roman art and funerary practices. They reflect the cosmopolitanism of both Roman and Egyptian history.

Above: portrait of a man, c.80-100 CE (left); portrait of a bearded officer, sometimes referred to as "Perseus," c.130-175 CE (right)

Above: portrait of a young woman in red, c.90-120 CE

Nearly 1,000 of these portraits are currently known to exist.

Above: portrait of a man wearing a gilded ivy wreath, c.100-150 CE

Above: portrait of a bearded man, c.150-170 CE

Sources & More Info:

Curationist: Fayum Portraits

Harvard Art Museums: Giving the Dead their Due: an Exhibition Re-Examines Funerary Portraits from Roman Egypt

Getty Museum: APPEAR Project

Getty Museum: Faces of Roman Egypt

National Geographic: Ancient Egypt's Stunning, Lifelike Mummy Portraits

The Athens Centre: The Myth of Whiteness in Classical Sculpture

Forbes: Whitewashing Ancient Statues: Whiteness, Racism and Color in the Ancient World

[suzukiblu]

Day twenty-one of “obligatory sugar baby Kon” ( no cut today, we die like Steph's tolerance for her dad's bullshit ). prev: (( chrono || non-chrono ))

He should be taking notes, Tim realizes. This is a new and unprecedented level of supervillain behavior that his fifteen-year plan can only aspire to reach. 

“Asdfghjk,” he says, which is apparently actually an actual sound that an actual person can actually make, go figure. Learn something new every day. 

Kon laughs at him, the fucking bastard. Tim would probably swear vengeance but unfortunately Kon looks way too damn pretty and way too damn happy doing it and is not wearing a single thing he didn't buy him and bought him a camera with his first allowance and wants to see him skateboard and has also laughed so many times tonight that Tim is starting to develop the opposite of a tolerance for it. Like, he's getting weaker and weaker to it the more exposure he gets, which is in his opinion total bullshit and totally unfair but is unfortunately still happening. 

. . . well, not necessarily unfortunately, since it’s specifically happening because Kon keeps laughing and looking happy about it, but that’s besides the point. Somehow. In some way. Just–somehow. 

“You’re so fuckin’ cute, babe,” Kon says, grinning at him again. He keeps doing that too. He keeps laughing, and grinning, and just–just all these things that Tim is not prepared for and honestly doesn’t even know how he could’ve been? There’s having five minutes of prep time and there’s situations that are just impossible to prepare for because how could he have fucking KNOWN. How?! How could he ever have?!?!

Literally not possible, Tim is certain. 

“You’re actually incorrigible,” he says, quickly flipping his dropped board onto its wheels with a foot and then giving it a quick pop to the tail and hooking a foot underneath it to kick it up into his hand. Kon looks delighted, his eyes immediately lighting up. 

“Sick!” he says. Tim felt like maybe he was getting in a win for a second there, except Kon being genuinely delighted is actually even worse and he thinks he’s just, like, kind of screwed in general now? Kon’s not supposed to be genuinely delighted by things, he’s supposed to pretend to be too cool to be impressed or just jealous that someone else is getting attention! 

Tim really, really could not have ever been prepared for this. 

“So like, do you know any cool tricks?” Kon asks with a wider grin, still looking way too genuine about his excitement. Tim is resigned to ruining his best non-funerary/non-gala slacks and possibly also his shirt and definitely also his dignity. His dignity is as scuffed as the shoe he just dropped his board on, and frankly that’s being optimistic. 

Extremely optimistic. 

“I know a couple okay ones,” Tim says, since Robin-level parkour doesn’t count as either “tricks” or anything he could show Kon, and also he’s screamingly out of practice, and also he was never really that good a skateboarder even when he had the time to do it regularly, plus skill decay is a thing and– 

“That mean you’re gonna show me a trick or two, daddy?” Kon asks, grinning slyly at him.

[sacred-algae]

MCD HEADCANON WARNING:

Sometimes... Sometimes I make myself sad thinking about Geralt dying and Jaskier selfishly keeping his medallion even though witcher funerary rites demand that a witcher’s medallion be returned to their family because he can’t handle the truth and the medallion is the only thing of Geralt he has left and you can’t make him give that up—

Jaskier never taking it off.

Jaskier wearing it under his clothes so it can touch his skin.

Jaskier holding the pendant in his hand as he falls asleep.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Geralt’s supposed to outlive Jaskier. Geralt’s supposed to be fine. And it wasn’t even a battle that took him out like it should have been, it was a bloody infection. And Jaskier barely made it to Brokilon forest where he’s held by the dryads to say goodbye—he walked for days on end with nothing but his clothes and his lute—and Geralt never even knew.

Geralt died before Jaskier could tell him. At least he could say goodbye to his sleeping body. At least he could see him take his last breaths.

Yennefer says Geralt knew, thinking it would help Jaskier—but that just makes it worse.

Jaskier doesn’t sing for months.

And Vesemir only knows something is wrong when Geralt doesn’t return home for the winter, and come spring, he goes to find Jaskier, knowing the bard he’s never met but heard so much about would probably know where to find Geralt.

Jaskier was supposed to be beautiful, according to Geralt. This man was a shell. And Geralt’s nowhere to be seen. And then… it hits him. And all he does is hold out his hand expectantly.

And Jaskier silently moves away, hand over his chest. His voice shakes. “No. No, you can have it when I die.”

And Vesemir can live with that. Because Geralt loved Jaskier. And Vesemir tells him as much. And from Yennefer it’s a lie to him. But from Vesemir? From Geralt’s father?

Jaskier just folds under the grief and disappointment, sinking to his knees, and starts sobbing because he could have had him. And Vesemir just stares. And for the first time in centuries, he feels the urge to cry too.

[holycosmolo9y]

Head of a funerary couch, in the shape of Ammit 😛

Ammit is a celestial beast who bestows final judgement on the deceased and devours the unjust in the court of Osiris.

Populalrly depicted in funerary texts like the Book of the Dead, Ammit is usually a combination of a crocodile's head, the front legs of a lion, and the hindquarters of a hippopotamus.

Found among three ritual funerary couches in Tutankhamun's antechamber and made of stuccoed gilded wood with each animal's eyes inlaid with colored glass paste, this particular couch is variedly composed of a curiously different configuration: a hippopotamus' head wearing a wig, a leopard's body, and a crocodile's tail and crest

[mars-and-the-theoi]

Low energy Devotional Acts for when you don’t have a lot of energy (or time, or money, etc.) pt. 8

💀Hades/Plouton💀

- listen to a devotional playlist for Him

- learn how to budget if able

- if you have a dog- spend some time with them

- if able volunteer at an animal shelter or volunteer to walk dogs

- if able learn about your ancestors

- learn about death magic and spirit work

- learn about death doulas

- learn about the Underworld or afterlives in general

- listen to ‘dark ambient’ soundscapes

- if able visit a cemetery

- learn about cemetery and graveyard etiquette

- learn about funerary practices throughout time and around the world

- wear black (can be as simple as a hair tie or socks to your whole outfit and even makeup!)

- listen to goth music

- carry some coins on you if able

- do Halloween or gothic themed coloring pages

- learn about the roles of hospice workers, funeral directors, morticians, etc.

- honor deceased loved ones (can be pets, friends, family members, etc. doesn’t matter)

- be kind to spirits and respect* them and the dead (*I know there are some folks who don’t deserve respect in death so obviously you don’t have to respect them this is just a more…in general kind of thing)

🌺Persephone🌺

- if able go on a walk (can be as simple as down the driveway and back up if that’s all you can manage)

- if unable to do that try to sit outside or open a window/door to let some fresh air in and open the blinds/curtains to let some sunlight in

- listen to nature soundscapes

- pick some flowers or get a bouquet for yourself or others

- learn about herbalism

- enjoy some pomegranates, pomegranate juice, or something with pomegranate in it

- listen to a devotional playlist for Her

- if able visit a cemetery

- learn, read, watch stuff about ghosts (yes even those weird ghost hunting shows that come on at like 2 am and make you feel like you’re experiencing a fever dream)

- learn about reincarnation

- be kind to Demeter

- if able donate to or volunteer at a battered women’s shelter and learn about their history and importance

- if able do some baking (especially bread)

- learn about the underworld or afterlives in general

[travelingthief]

Hades Devotions and Offerings

Learn About:

Parts of the Underworld

Rivers of the Underworld

Persephone

Embalming practices (ancient and modern)

Funerary rites and practices across cultures

Chthonic deities

Death magick

How gravestones are made/parts of a gravestone

Most common causes of death

Offerings

God of the dead and the Underworld:

Bones

Preserved dead animals (pinned bugs, wet specimens, taxidermy etc.)

Dog fur

Dog imagery

Cerberus depictions

Keys

Skulls/skeletons

Grave imagery

Graveyard dirt/regular dirt

Bident

Red wine, whiskey, bourbon

Mint, cypress, asphodel

Urns

Ashes

Pictures of dead loved ones

Persephone depictions

Dried flowers

Spices

Dead plants

Ghost imagery

Chains

Depictions of black animals

Black cloths

Black items

Crowns

Black candles

Snakes

Gravestone rubbings

Ashes of cremated animals/loved ones

Coffin imagery

Items from deceased loved ones

Family heirlooms

God of Wealth and Abundance

Silver/black jewelry

Gems and crystals

Coins/money

Cornucopia

Money bowl

Soil

Devotional Acts

God of the dead/Underworld

Walk in a cemetery 

Clean graves (properly and with permission)

Write an advanced directive/last will and testament

Wear black

Create an altar/shrine for dead loved ones

Leave flowers on old graves

Leave coins on old graves

Sit and visit with graves

Become death positive/death neutral

Accept death as a reality

Contemplate your morality

Donate to funeral costs

Assist bereaved people (with food, money, company, etc.)

Preserve dead animals

Embrace silence

Pray for roadkill

Sit with dead animals you see

Pray for the dead

Do ancestor work

Learn suicide warning signs

Learn overdose prevention

Learn CPR/first aid

Sit in total darkness, outside if possible

Live your life as fully as you can

God of Wealth and Abundance

Save money

Increase your financial literacy

Invest

Create a money bowl

Carry cash

Keep track of your finances

Pay your bills on time 

Donate to causes you care about

Create a weekly/monthly budget

[vampiricgf]

— leon kennedy | psychomatchia

re2r leon x fem reader

wc: 3k+

what meaning does sex and violence hold when they become inextricably linked in the mind?

dead dove do not eat, dark content, no outbreak au, surrealism ish, heavily inspired by one of my favorite books story of the eye by george bataille, alcohol consumption/intoxication, pornography/drawn erotica, mention of parental loss, foot fetish, bridle wearing, spitting, piss drinking, slapping, fingering, face riding, gore descriptions, jerking him, orgasm denial, begging, blood

The first person he’d met that morning had been you: a black clad funerary vision as soon as he stepped foot inside the station. Your lips, painted a red so dark it may as well have been black, broke out into a wide smile as he introduced himself and it was like you sunk a fishhook into his cheek. Your voice was sweet as you grabbed a box of things, presumably for him, and told him to follow you back into the office portion off the main hall reception. He would be a liar if he said he wasn’t checking you out a little as you back was to him, enjoying the shape of your legs as he traced their path from your chunky boot clad feet to the back of the velvety long sleeve top you wore. 

“Hey, your rookie’s here!” Your voice had carried through the din of ringing phones and multilayered, but indistinguishable conversations that pushed up against the wood pannelled confines of the room. He caught sight of a banner stretching over your head and between the archway sides, welcoming him in. 

You moved, turning to him to hold out the box, smiling soft again. 

“So they came up with this little activity for you but if you need the combinations to any of the locks and can't figure them out I wrote them down just in case, can’t have you locked out of your desk all day. But at least try before cheating otherwise the Lieutenant will never let me hear the end of it.” 

He accepted the box of miscellaneous supplies with a smile to match your own and he didn’t miss the way your eyes scanned over his face. 

“I’m just down in the secretarial spot, so, if you need anything come find me,” you also told him your name then and he would swear, then and now, that it was the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard. 

He’d promised that he would and you’d set off back towards the frontal area, giving a little wave to other officers that greeted you as you passed. 

In the weeks after that initial meeting he’d learned you were a relative of another officer and just in a secretarial position so they could keep an eye on you, worried about a girl so young spending her time alone although you were around his own age. No other family, similarly to himself at least in that your parents had passed but at least you’d had some relatives looking out for you still. It softened you in his eyes despite your look, that similarity. He knew what it meant to have practically no one, and absolutely no one who could understand how it felt despite all their efforts to. 

As the days passed he found himself fixated on you in a way that only grew from that first meeting. You were always sweet, friendly, every time you’d be back in the bullpen for one reason or another. Laughing with different officers and he wished the two of you could be close enough that he could walk up, chatter to you about nothing or everything, make you giggle in that way that made heat rise from his collar up his face, warm and a little itchy.

That desire for closeness with you is what made him take note of the book you were always toting around or had your nose buried in when there wasn’t anything pressing to do in your workspace. Story of the Eye. It sounded weird but he made sure the title stuck in his brain, planning to look it up after his shift that day in the hopes of having even one other point of commonality with you, maybe read a summary and then drop a line over the next few days, something that would impress you in a “I can't believe you’ve read this too!” sort of way. 

Except later that night, in his apartment, his blue eyes were blown wide as they stared at the screen. The Histoire de l'œil, as he larned, was nothing but a blood and piss soaked exploration of sexual debauchery. He’d even found an excerpt, gaze full of curious disgust as it scanned over the words and absorbed the meaning of their described action. The passage detailed a young woman sitting her bare cunt in a saucer of milk on a challenge from the male narrator who laid at her feet masturbating at the sight, describing how in his eyes cunt was the most tender name for the vagina. Other excerpts were more extreme than the last, and as he rushed to close the window with a shaking hand on the mouse his thoughts raced.

There was no way this was the book you were reading in broad daylight in the middle of a police station. When he’d spot you grabbing for a pen, scribbling annotations on a page, what could you have been noting? Things that interested you? Things to try with a sexual partner? Was this the sort of thing you were into?

Leon got little sleep that night as his train of thought continued to loop around and around the winding track of you in his head and what your absorption in that book could possibly mean. 

Which leds to the current moment, a morning where his head is functionally full of fuzz as he tries focusing on the words coming out of your mouth but remained distracted by lack of sleep and the memory of what he spent the previous night doing. 

Since the questions surrounding your sexual tastes kept prodding at him he’d been indulging in pornography of an ever increasing level of extremeness, every website visited was more unhinged than the last and he would ask himself the same questions each time he��d spill all over his own abdomen in a mixture of self disgust and ashamed desire after breathlessly fisting his own cock to fantasies that the women on screen were actually you. Would you let him do those things to you? Slap, bite, choke, squeeze your cute cheeks together so you'd open your mouth and let him spit right on your pink tongue? Lap at your feet and draw your toes in his mouth, run his tongue against them like he was tasting divinity?

How would you look right now if he slid a bridle on your face? The leather straps digging into your cheeks, the bar slotted between your black laqured lips, would there be tears in those pretty eyes of yours? Would you try calling his name through it, garbled and barely intelligible as his fingers rubbed hearts against your stiff nipples, hands shoved up your shirt-

“Oh also, before I forget, did you want to get drinks later tonight? Everyones going to that bar downtown to celebrate filling quota,” You were looking at him, anticipating an answer to a question he only half understood. But the important part, the part his mind immediately latched onto, was that of drinking. 

If you were a little hammered would it be easier to bring up that book, would you be more forthcoming about satisfying his curiosity? 

“Uh yeah, yeah I’ll be there,” he gave you a small smile as he took in the pleased expression on your face before you left, back down into a room of endless paperwork and the four walls that probably knew better than anyone nearly all the answers to his questions, if only they could speak. 

But maybe tonight he’ll be able to get those answers from your lips. 

~

Usually he enjoyed his shifts, even if the routine of a beat cop was a little monotonous and mind numbing at times it was still a stepping stone on the path he’d always wanted to tred. Today however, was spent practically jumping out of his own skin and so wound up thinking about tonight that he could barely focus on patrols or reports, head drowning in the whisper of possibility that something might happen with you tonight, finally.

Every glimpse of you today was particularly cruel because all he could do was suck it up and hide the semi he’d been walking around with since waking up that threatened to become fully erect at even the sound of your laughter drifting towards him. It was a horribly confusing mixture of embarrassment and unadulterated need, like if he didn’t get you naked and writhing beneath him soon he’d die on the spot. 

But soon enough the hours were down to practically nil, and he’d changed into street clothes in record time, not even bothering with his usual routine to prep for Monday morning too preoccupied and wound up tighter than a steel spring about to snap. It didn’t help that as he walked towards the main hall he could hear you, his heartbeat kick starting like a prized race horse and his footfalls becoming quicker as the sound guided him sightlessly out into the marble floored and high ceilinged area. Like you were the prize to be won after a long day and the thought wasn’t far off from his goals with you.

“Leon!” You called to him and he couldn’t help the immediate satisfaction that oozed through his body at the way you said it with so much familiarity. He wanted to hear you say it again and again as if it were the only word you knew, would ever know. 

As he joined the chattering group he couldn’t help but be disappointed hearing you say you’d be riding over to the bar with someone else, jealousy flaring in his gut like acid reflux, sharp and uncomfortable. But nevertheless in record time he’d driven out from the station lots and in the blur of neon lights downtown found his feet carrying him inside the little not quite hole in the wall bar and back into your presence. It was like going from stumbling in the dark to being flooded with a sparkling light, something that whispered in his head that this was meant to be, that he had to be ready because tonight he was going to find a way to satisfy the unbridled lust you kicked up inside his head. 

Pleasantly it didn’t take long for an opening to make itself known to him, it was obvious that you were a bit of a lightweight as more and more beer and liquor made its way to the tabletop the later it got and the more the conversations devolved into spirited nonsense. In those amberglow orange bar lights you looked like an angel, eyes glossy the drunker you got and your laugh becoming more and more unrestrained with every sip of dark liquid that passed your lips as you spoke animatedly in a conversation he couldn't be bothered to pay as much attention to.

Your lipstick was smudged and it was suddenly endlessly fascinating to him, his hand itching with the need to bring his thumb up to your bottom lip to swipe away the messy stray bit of black that bled from the clean edge of the flesh. His teeth felt like they could start vibrating the urge was so powerful but before he could act on it you grabbed ahold of his hand. 

“Leon can take me home!” Your voice was unsteady but clear and he could feel his palm getting damp as he refocused on whatever was being said between you and another officer.

“He hasn’t even been drinking, right?” You turn your head to him and it’s like getting beaten by a rough wave, like hes the rock on the shoreline, powerless against the battering wall of water. 

“Right,” he offers weakly, fingers still tangled in yours and becoming increasingly aware of your chest pressed against his elbow. 

“See, don’t be a worrier. I’m drunk but I’m not unsafe,” you manage to force the words out but he can tell you’re definitely more inebriated than you want to let on and a part of himself he doesn’t want to examine too closely at the moment feels satisfied that you got yourself in a vulnerable position, he didn’t even have to do any of the work. 

“I can take her home,” he says it more clearly this time, offering a reassuring look to his fellow officer before you let go of him to hug a few others goodbye. As you come back at his side you stretch up to plant a kiss to his cheek, making his face flush hot. 

“Thanks for being sweet,” you murmur and he could kiss you full force if he wasn’t so aware of the current surroundings. “Lets go.”

The squeak of rusty hinges and the bang of the door cutting off the burst of revelry heralds your exit into the chilly, damp air. A promise that there would be a blanket of dew laid across the world once the sun rose.

The car was tense for him, being in such close quarters with you as you happily slammed the passenger door shut, buckling yourself in and he can’t help but notice how right it feels to have you sitting to his left, shooting him a shy smile as your eyes drift over him. It’s not lost on him, the way you were suddenly so touchy as the two of you made your exit, how you jumped to claim him as your ride home. It felt good to know you wanted him, at least a little bit. It made clearing his throat, preparing to start prodding you about the book far easier. 

As streetlights flickered by and you rattled off directions to your apartment his hands tightened on the wheel, practically white knuckle.

“So that book you’re always carrying around, is it any good?” He already knows the answer. 

You give him a look but shrug noncommittally. “It’s interesting, have you read anything by Bataille before?” 

“Can’t say I have,” he lies as he takes a right turn a little too sharp, making your body jolt to follow the motion of the car. 

“Hm, well he was a pretty weird guy but you can’t really blame him for it. Rough upbringing and all that. Anyways,” you stretch the syllable out, smiling to yourself before continuing, “he seemed pretty interested in sex, violence, and meaninglessness.”

“Meaninglessness?” 

“Yeah, theres one part of it where he talks about how a woman could die in the middle of sex or something but would the man even notice? She could get possessed or act insane like a demon and he wouldn’t even notice, too focused on the sexual part of it, thinking of her as just an object. And sure, people can have all the weird sex they want but whats the real meaning in it?” You're babbling and he’s having a hard time focusing on the road. 

Thankfully the building you live in comes into view quickly, allowing him to ease into a parking spot and kill the ignition before turning to look at you, your profile barely visible in the dark as you turn to peer out the window. 

“Whats the meaning of it for you?” He’s asking before his mind can even catch up to what he’s saying, heart hammering so strongly he’s half sure you can hear it across the center console and it’s like the entire car went through spontaneous decompression, all the air suddenly sucked right out. 

You turn, smiling in a way that makes your features darken and his tongue slides over his bottom lip. “Haven’t had enough weird sex to figure it out.”

"Do you want to?" His voice is barely a whisper and the silence afterwards cuts against his nerves like a serrated blade on twine.

"Are you offering, Officer Kennedy?" you raise a brow at him like it's a challenge, teasing him with the title and in the span of a second he's unbuckling, reaching across the console to slide a hand to the back of your neck practically scruffing you, forcing your bodies closer and your lips are crashed together in a sloppy clack of teeth and barely audible gasps that punch through the almost darkness.

As you pull back he can hear the change in your breathing, harsher then it was just a moment ago and you only let go of him to unbuckle yourself before your voice reaches his ears again.

"Do you want to come inside?" It's such a laughably benign question after what he just asked you, after kissing you like he could swallow you whole and he almost feels dizzy, like maybe the kiss wasn't even real but he knows it was, can still feel the stickiness of your lipstick against his mouth.

He nods, not really trusting himself to speak but you get out to lead the way and it doesn't escape him how your hands shake as you fumble with the keys in your front door lock after hurriedly crossing the parking lot with him. As the door swings open he's not really paying any mind to the interior, eyes glued on your body and focusing on the faintly floral smell of perfume he didn't notice on you earlier. Then again he hadn't been so thoroughly in your personal space before.

You look back at him, not bothering to turn on any lights before grabbing his hand and he manages to push the door closed before you're leading him further inside and down a little hallway.

Your bedroom isn't what he expected but then again he's not really sure what exactly he expected it to look like. Through the dark he can make out bookshelves, each row neat and filled with title after title. Some more in little stacks on the floor beside the shelves. Gauzy curtains frame a window on the left side of your bed, facing the parking lot he guesses. There must be hundreds of books in here.

As you let go of his hand to pry your boots off he crosses the room, footfalls muffled by the carpet, so enamored by the sheer volume of your collection he could almost forget why you two came in together. Almost.

"Like to read huh?" He mused, running fingers over the spines before feeling you coming up behind him.

"And what would've given you that idea?" Your voice is full of faux sarcasm as you tug on his forearm, shifting his attention back towards you.

At just that moment something comes tumbling from the shelf, following the motion of his hand pulling away, clattering at his feet and the spine cracks open to reveal this one is not a novel but a sketchbook. He can sense your body tensing up beside him, your grip on him becoming more firm and suddenly hes desperate to know what's in those pages. What don't you want him looking at?

There's a silent struggle of will that happens in the span of a millisecond between you two. You seem to abdicate, stepping back to perch on the edge of the mattress as he bends forward to pick up the book. A lamp clicks on, illuminating his eyes to a figure floating in an expanse of white.

You've drawn her without adornment, without background. A woman half bent at the waist, viewed from the side, and some sort of mask on her face making her appear featureless. A delicate hand is posed between her legs but with closer scrutiny he can see one finger is reached inside herself, the rest splayed around to frame the obscenity. Her other hand grasps her breast, sharp nails rendered carefully and seeming like if he just kept looking they'd pierce fully through the flesh.

"Didn't know you were an artist." His own words sound lame against his eardrums and he cringes internally, hoping you don't take it as a condemnation. It's very much the opposite, he can feel himself getting nearly lightheaded, coming to sit heavily beside you on the bed still grasping the sketchbook.

You swayed drunkenly beside him for a moment before resting your head against his shoulder, not looking at the page, as if it were some hidden shame. So you're a bit of a sexual eccentric, not the end of the world and there's worse things to be. But for him it's terribly exciting, making his body feel like it's on the edge of vibration, like electricity might come arching off him at any moment.

"You think I'm gross or something?" Your voice is small, still not looking at him until he reaches over, lightly directing you to meet his gaze through touch.

"I think you're beautiful," and in an instant the book is abandoned, his hands full of you and feeling the slide of fabric as you move to straddle his lap and he can't help but run them all over your body, every part he can reach.

And you're amazingly receptive, but it's seemingly not enough for you as you bite and tug on his bottom lip. A demand for more. So sharp without even saying a word, just the feeling of your canines threatening to skewer the delicate skin. It sent shivers down his spine. But like a well trained dog he answers, rolls you onto your back and your legs part to allow him to slot himself between in a perfect fit as he kicks off his shoes and they meet the floor with a dull thump.

The skirt you wore bunched up around your waist, and the friction of his jeans grinding against your damp underwear makes your lips part so perfectly he forgets himself and grabs your face just like he wanted to earlier, squeezing slightly. The question passes once more in eye contact and you open your mouth wider, eyes never leaving his as a glittering string of spit makes the journey from his own mouth to your waiting tongue.

And you fucking moan when you swallow it down.

You grin at him and he's never felt so inebriated without a drop of alcohol in his bloodstream, just you. His mouth moves to devour you again and it's all tongues and more spit, messy and imperfect as you both tug at clothes and yank them overhead to be tossed in some haphazard heap over the side of the bed.

"Can I- what's okay with you?" He finds himself stumbling, waiting with bated breath to know the extent of what you'll let happen right now.

"You were lying, about the Eye, right?"

He nods, not even thinking to be embarrassed at having been caught out, only hyper focused on your features, every sound from your throat, as he cages your head with his forearms and rests his forehead against yours.

"You know what they do to the priest in Seville?" You giggle breathlessly and he can smell liquor on you for the first time, "Don't kill me, but we can do everything else."

And that's all it takes, your absolute permission to do anything he wants. He settles back on his knees, running hands up and down your thighs as you squirm, enjoying the feel of the tights you have on sliding against his skin. It's like choice paralysis now that all his options are open to him, mind flicking through the near endless catalog of porn he's consumed over the last few weeks, all the things he imagined doing to you. Everything from those piecemeal passages of the book.

In one fluid, slow movement his hand glides right up between your legs and over your cunt to the waistband of the tights and underwear you have on. Rolling them down felt like edging himself, bit by bit of your cunt revealed in the low lamplight and he bit his cheek staring at it. Slick and glistening, suddenly he understood that passage about cunt being the sweetest word for a vagina.

But he didn't allow himself or you to linger too long like that, ignoring your rolling hips to hover over you again, grasping your jaw in a harsher grip that made you yelp and his adrenaline spike. You looked so cute with your lips forced in a purse he just couldn't help but full force spit on them, making your eyes widen but you didn't have time to react to it before his hand withdrew only to reconnect with your cheek in a slap so firm your head snapped to the side.

He watched you bite your lip, tongue coming out to lap at the spit splattered over it and one of your hands snaked down between your legs and he didn't have to look down to know you were touching yourself. The sound alone conjured up a near perfect picture, your fingers sliding in and out of that squelching hole and he was reminded again of a passage from that novel.

Burying his face against the side of your throat he nosed his way up to your ear, the request far too debasing to even speak aloud, the enticing heat of shame rushing beneath his skin as his lips formed the words despite his body's will to hold it in.

"Let me taste it?" Never in a million years would he have guessed previously that he'd be begging a girl to drink her piss but there's a first time for everything and he hopes to indulge in quite a few more firsts with you.

You understand immediately, of course you do, and nod your head as he shifts to lay down and you abandon fingering yourself in favor of hovering your naked cunt above his face. He watches your fingers force the folds apart, enraptured by the shiny flesh and the butterflies in his stomach, gripping your thighs so tightly you'll undoubtedly have bruises in the morning. Your fingers move to rub little circles at your clit as your other hand grips the headboard and he hears your nails scratching against the wood.

He closes his eyes and it's not long before he feels it, hears your moans reaching a higher pitch as warm liquid meets his lips, his chin, his tongue. You piss on him like a cat and it's one of the best experiences of his life, like being soaked in liquid ecstasy as he yanks you down to sit fully on his face, not even bothering to wait for you to finish before he's sucking and lapping at your pussy like a starved animal. The mingling tastes of arousal and piss as you ride his face and rub your clit makes him so painfully hard he feels like he could black out, maybe even die on the spot and he'd be the happiest dead man in history.

The shade from your skirt falling back into place gives the illusion of privacy and in a way it elevates the experience, like he's devouring a bodyless pussy. Delirium takes hold, wrapping spindly fingers around his brain as he tastes another gush of warm piss and feels the muscles in your legs flex so hard they're straining against the skin, shaking with exertion, like they'll split open in a mess of gore and sinew as you come violently against his face.

The image is so profound in his mind he could almost swear he tastes blood on his tongue but before he can even recover from the experience you're shifting and the brief darkness vanishes as you straddle his thighs and tug his cock free from the underwear he still has on. Barely pulling them down enough to cup and fondle his balls as you stroke him experimentally, getting a feel for him in your hands.

Anticipation and arousal was a knife edge you kept him teetering on, running your thumb over his leaking slit just to watch his hips jerk, like he was a specimen and you were the scientist jamming electrified rods wherever in an effort to see any kind of bodily reaction. The sudden role reversal only served to heighten the eroticism and obscenity, making his mouth practically start watering.

He'd hardly been a kiss less virgin before but at most all he'd done that could be classified as outside the norm was a bit of anal. You were like a religious experience, wholly different and something to savor. And you were right, or that dusty old writer was, but sex and violence were both bursting at the seams with meaning, untapped potential, and while he still isn't sure what meaning it holds for you, he knows what it is for himself.

Devotion.

It's what makes him whine like a bitch in heat beneath you, reduced to pleading and begging to come as you alternate jerking him off and fondling him right when he's about to spill all over himself. It's torturous but it's not bitter, more like melting sugar on his tongue as tears threaten to spill from his eyes.

You cup his face then, abandoning his cock completely, and coo at him.

"You look so pretty like this, you wanna come so bad don't you?" And he's shaking his head so rapidly the world tilts on its axis. Please, please let him come doesn't he deserve it? "You're like a whiny little puppy."

And you're bending down, biting his lip so hard you draw blood, make him cry out as his hands fumble to grab at you from the sudden shock of pain and it's at that exact moment that you reach down and squeeze his balls so tightly the coil of pressure that's been built up inside him ruptures. Blood floods his mouth as it drops open, screwing his eyes shut and he swears it's like you're licking it out of his mouth as hot ropes of cum paint his stomach.

You kiss him as he whines and pants like a dog on the dizzying comedown, stroking his face and kissing the top of his head so chastely it's inherently at odds with what you've both just done to one another.

As his lip throbs and his muscles relax in your hold he can't help but wonder if you'll let him do more tomorrow, if you'll let him explore this newfound meaning, expose all its hidden depths. More importantly, he hopes you'll piss in his mouth again.

[openphrase123]

morbid thought but do you think the isat crew fights over who gets to wear odile's funerary gem after she dies

[discountalien-pancake]

I just need everyone to understand that we have hardly any surviving intact garments from before, say, the 1700s. There’s dozens of reasons for this, but one of the big ones is that people reused the materials. Things were cut up and refashioned into new things, over and over, until the fabric was essentially just rags, bc the labor required to weave cloth and stitch up a garment was intense. You would wear and wear and wear things until they were dead. This includes the elaborate garments of the upper classes.

And in the same way that today many people pick apart old things to cannibalize the buttons and trims and other salvageable bits, they did that too! No sense throwing away perfectly good buttons just because the shirt is shredded. Snip those off and sew them onto something new! We have lace cuffs that are incredibly old, but rarely the garments they were worn with, partly because lace was so fucking expensive you’d have to be insane to throw it out. You would save those and refashion them again and again as often as possible.

So what we know of medieval clothing has been learned from writings, often very vague, illustrations (also very vague), and other imagery like statues. We have bits and pieces of garments, often from funerary contexts, but the same context that prevented them from being chopped up and reused also made them susceptible to decomposing.

Which is all to say that we do not know the exact details of garment construction for any given period. We don’t even know all the ins and outs of the clothing of the 1800s, and we have hundreds of surviving pieces from that century!

Do we know how frequently and in which contexts hooks and eyes were used prior to the late 1400s? Not precisely, but we can make some good guesses based on artwork and later usage. But we may never really know, because guess what! Hooks and eyes are reusable. I guarantee they would have been snipped off of unusable clothing and sewn onto new pieces.

[egypt-museum]

Kneeling Statue of Kaemked

Old Kingdom, 5th Dynasty, ca. 2494-2345 BC. Tomb of Urirni, Saqqara necropolis. Now in the Egyptian Museum, Cairo. CG 119 The statue depicts Urini’s funerary priest, Kaemked kneeling in a position of worship, clasping his hands on his knees, wearing a short kilt, tied with a belt. Kaemked was the funerary priest and is shown here offering devotion and homage to his master. The pose of a kneeling man was rare for this period and is an example of the artist’s desire to introduce innovation, resulting in a work of originality and excellent quality. Read more

[p6tgel]

i'm having trouble finding any information on TA7 - what is it that's available in the files?

There's possibly more, since I haven't checked every single file, but I'll share what I have because gatekeeping = booo 🍅

Who's TA7?

In short, a third ghost that would haunt the Espiritu Estate in TS2PSP. His full name is Transit Administrator #7, and he is PT9's alien friend who gave him the picture book with his first family.

What can we find out through the script?

His character/object info (appearance + description)

Dialogues from other characters that talk about him.

First of all, Emily Emory introduces TA7 to us by unused dialogue. His ghost would be in the player's bedroom.

I tried to make it as readable as possible. The text in grey is that of the player and the underlined in yellow is what is important, in case you are too lazy to read it all :)

I removed a part where Emily and the player talk about roommates, which is completely unrelated. Still, it feels like there's missing dialogue. And that is because there is! In a separate file, Emily Emory tells us more about him:

Having these conversations would unlock a secret named 'Ghostly Secret'. Its description reads: "Soldiers at Division 47 brought down an alien spacecraft and its pilot!"

TA7's remains would be found on an operation table. The interaction would be 'Pick up Dead Alien' and you'd recieve 'Alien Remains', a not-sellable item with a description that reads: "Eww. The totally gross remains of a dead alien starship pilot."

Into his character file

Strangely, his character is named 'Alien Ghost' & 'Transit Admin #7' (in separate files) not TA7 or his full name. But a similar thing happens with PT9: in the code, he is referenced as PT9 and Polytech, but his character is actually named 'Mister Smith'.

Atributes

social = -1, intimidation = -1, personality = 0,

These are also the same as Dennis Philips, Nervous Subject, the Night Beast, Beelzebeef, Tycho Curious, and every zombie.

The social and intimidation parameters determine how easy it is to chat or intimidate NPCs, and the personality parameter tells us that he would have a Fire personality. However, it might be more plausible that 0 (Fire) is the default personality.

Interests

His interests are alien, dresses, makeup, and birdbee (the latter is a generic interest). Here's a visual of those topics:

Appearance

He is an adult male alien (at least he has the alien skintone), he is bald, has the alien face archetype, wears white briefs, and ambodynaked-nude-autopsy-s5, whatever that is.

So imagine this guy with a messed up torso:

Misc. info

Lincoln Broadsheed and Tank Grunt would've bought his secret for a better price than usual. On the contrary, Hoot Howell wouldn't be interested in it.

I could not find unused dialogue about PT9 talking about TA7, there is only what already appears in the game:

"Alien … FRIEND … came … to … give … me … PICTURE book." "And … humans … TAKE … PICTURE book." "HUMANS … SHOOT … HIM … DOWN … AND … TAKE … HIM … AWAY!"

3. Not only is it the first time that funeral traditions are talked about, but it also mentions alien autopsies, which were also present in TS2 for Nintendo DS!!

In that game, thanks to the metal detector, you could find mummified aliens in the desert (which gives us another clue to alien funerary traditions). They could be dissected in the laboratory of the hotel's basement, and their organs could be sold, which are very highly valued.