#you can talk to the ghosts. and if it is link specific then its not smth he got as a result of or during ph

[waywardsalt]

with my phantom hourglass replay, there are two things i noticed;

a possible theme you could glean from the game is action vs inaction, and i think it's especially prevalent before you even leave mercay the first time, with oshus frequently urging link to not go after the ghost ship, then to just wait until the broken bridge is fixed, and seems reluctant at every turn while link and ciela are more than eager to go and do something about this problem, and the people of mercay in general talking about things and their problems but never seeming to act on their fears or desires, as well as the mention that due to the ghost ship, very very few people are still sailing around, while linebeck is one of the only people we see in the game actively going after the ghost ship and still sailing around. i might make a longer post just talking more about the action vs inaction in phantom hourglass but i just noticed it a bit and thought it was a bit of an interesting sort of theme you could find in the game.

linebeck moves so fucking much. i think he moves more than any npc in the rest of the game. not just in his intro cutscene where he is very animated, just in how much he moves when just standing in his little idle post, it's damn near distracting when the camera is focused on him, he moves a lot. i don't think i've really acknowledged how much he moves, and it really gives the impression that he's antsy or eager to get going, both of which fit him pretty well with how he acts.

[screampied]

‘GHOSTIN' ?! ★

ᡴꪫ sum. it's midnight and you're bored. bored and horny. everyone knows ghosts aren't real, or are they? you end up summoning a ghost and he's not leaving anytime soon, in fact, he wants to give you a taste of your own medicine for disrupting his slumber. you get a taste, alright.

wc. 5.0k

warnings. fem! reader, ghost! toji, unprotected, switch toji, praise, dirty talk, oral (m! receiving), manhandling, spit, impact play, brēeding, biting, size kink, mentions of tummy bulge, nipple play.

an. don't summon ghosts unless their name is toji fushiguro idk

don’t summon ghosts they said—you’ll regret it in the end they said,

but who cares? not you. besides, it’s not like ghosts even exist. you’ve never been one to believe in paranormal activity anyway, although all of that starts to change on a specific night. this night, the clock just struck twelve and you’re bored out of your skull. it was an ordinary sunday night and it was just you and your dead quiet apartment walls. as you’re scrolling on your phone, glancing at your feed a certain link catches your eye. wanna summon a ghost? click here to find out how.

to keep it brief, your curiosity eventually gets the best of you. with a snort, very much not believing the lengthy follow up article that warns you of the possible dangers to come of the spirit, you go into your bathroom, following the steps before your lights flicker. at first nothing happens, oh, see you knew ghosts weren’t real. annoyed a bit that you wasted fifteen minutes of your time—you prepare to leave the restroom when you feel a cold hand on creep on your shoulder.

“tch. the nerve,” a rough voice murmurs behind you. you tense up, craning your neck to indeed see the ghost that was displayed on the picture. yet, he looks more human-like if anything. toji, the name that was said to be his. toji eyes you up and down before a scoff leaves from his reddened slick lips. “why’d you summon me..”

you’re taken aback immediately. with a staggering height of almost six feet, you meet the soulless eyes of a mere attractive spirit. “i— uh,” you sheepishly peer down at your feet, not in a million years thinking it’d actually work. “you’re a real ghost?”

“uh obviously,” he murmurs, mocking your expense. trodding his bare feet across your carpet floor as if he knows the layout, he scratches his chest. “eh, what a mess. you live here?”

ouch, so he was hot and rude. figures,

you take a moment to gawk at the ghost’s attire. nothing really too appealing—just a simple white t-shirt with sweats. it almost could be mistaken as an eerie nightgown if you squint. again, he looks more human than an actual spirit. it was just the paleness of his skin that gave away his non-human features. his clothes weren’t the only thing you were staring at though.

his bulge,

its hard to not notice it, especially with a size like toji’s. you spot the invading print poke through his sweats, the roundness of it, basking in all its dirty glory. you had to restrain yourself from making a fool of yourself — licking your lips and almost allowing your lewd, obscene thoughts to take over. you couldn’t help it though, it was quite literally all in your face. you’re so entrapped in your little phantasm that you don’t even feel the ghost flicking his chilly cold fingers against your forehead.

“girl are you even listening?” he rasps.

“h-huh?” you look up, snapping out of whatever trance had you on such a leash.

toji deadpans, a groan sliding past his lips before he eyes you up and down. his gaze alone makes you nervous. “don’t huh me, i saw what you were looking at,” and he peels up his shirt with a single hand, exposing his curled up washboard abs. god, even as a ghost he was so ripped. your eyes ogle down towards the sable-black boxers he wore, the hem of it peeking from over his pants before he hums, amused. “wanna feel?”

“can i…?” your voice trails off, and it’s so pathetic and soft. you could hardly recognize your own softened tone but you didn’t care.

“knock y’erself out.” he hoarsely shrugs, and you barely give him a chance to finish before your fingers twang against his skin.

immediately, you feel how cold his body was, a shivering temperature that ghosts against your digits as you feel against his body. jade pupils of his burn into you as he watches intently. the hardness of his abs — you feel everywhere, the texture of it was rock hard. his muscles, the way he carried himself, the flexing of his abs. it was all just so attractive. despite how the lower half of his body was freezing, you continued to let your fingers wander on every part of his abdomen.

“you’re cute,” he murmurs, and you don’t realize he’s been staring at you the entire time. toji had to admit, for a human, you were quite easy on the eyes. maybe even his type, if he was a human himself. “are ya always this handsy towards people you first meet or…?”

“not really,” you huff, and your hand trails deeper until it stops near a certain area.

his happy trail,

it was so pretty, jumbles of blackened curly hairs run down near the under part of his v-line. he’s so perfectly sculptured. it was easy to compare his ghostly anatomy to a mere greek god. so perfect, the more your fingers explore down his muscular frame, the colder your fingertips get. “wow, are you sure you’re not a human?”

“wanna find out?”

his words struck right into you like a knife strikes its enemy — you pause, leering up at him with glossy eyes and a slight head tilt. in a coy tone, you rub the back of your neck. “y- yes.”

“c’mere then, girl.”

inching towards him, the ghost then pulls you into a longing kiss. its passionate at first then shifts to sloppy. you moan, feeling him try to pry open your lips with his tongue to allow him access. you do, savoring his freshly minty taste and even his tongue was just as cold. toji tasted like hypothermia—chillingly cold, yet your lips stuck against his like ice. speaking of, his lips stuck against yours like velcro, like glue. your breathing continues to grow heavier by the second before he snakes a hand around your neck, giving it a delicate squeeze. already, you were weak for his touch. toji’s thumb skids against the middle opening of your throat, physically feeling the vibrated sensations pour out from your sweet little esophagus.

a gasp wretches from your throat once you feel the front of his knee go right between your legs. it’s sneaky, the friction you feel from that muscle alone earns a soft noise from you. you whine in his mouth as tongues dance and tangle together in harmony.

where there’s harmony, there’s sync,

he loved the way your tongue curls into his mouth, tasting and savoring his minty flavor. you only wanted more by each dreadfully long second that passes. wobbly arms of yours sling around his neck and the static from his rubbing knee only grows. “f-fuck.” you’d whimper between hot, sultry kisses. suddenly, the air felt thick and heavy. you’re panting, lungs already feeling like they were about to collapse as he gingerly starts to suck on your neck. while he does, you succinctly open your eyes to see him already staring at you. darkened raven eyes, long untrimmed bangs that almost shield his eerie pupils alone, his eyes told a thousand stories.

his eyes told a thousand stories and maybe you wanted to know more about this ghoulish visitor.

after a while, the steamy kiss ends up departing and you gasp for air. “knees, pretty. get down for me.”

with how compliant you were, it was almost amusing to see. you get down on your knees, being face first with his bulge yet again. you just wanted to run your tongue everywhere. so full and well rounded, you already started to feel the saliva trickle into your mouth. mouthwatering. toji’s eyes rove towards the pullover hoodie you wore. with an impish expression, he claws a hand over your head delicately. a free finger of his crooks near your chosen attire.

“this. take it off, wanna see more of your body.” he utters in a low tone.

“for a ghost, you’re pretty pervy.” you tease, hauling the piece of clothing over your head.

“girl please. says the mortal staring at my crotch,” and as your hoodie is suddenly removed, he takes a good peek at your bra. he simpers. “mhm,” he inhales for a second, taking in your frame for a few solid moments. toji’s eyes then glance towards your chest. “bra, take that off too.”

you unclasp the back strap of your bra with one hand and he grunts once he sees your breasts spring free. “fuck, y’er pretty. ‘m gonna ‘hafta take my time with you.”

and he does,

toji’s got you on all fours, cutely struggling to take him fully into your mouth. his ruby-colored tip greets you and you can’t help but skitter your tongue against the frenulum. he groans, raking a hand in your scalp. as he’s standing, he moves a few strands of hair away from your face. “yeah, open that jaw. get it wet, spit on it if you have to, doll.”

“mmf,” a muffled moan comes from you as your knees dig into the ground. his taste was flavorless and still you wanted to savor it. sweet like candy, toji’s scent alone clogs up your nostrils and his darkened pubic hair tickle against the rim of your nose. he’s just so big though, so fucking big . .

as you’re taking him down inch by inch, it’s hard to try not to gag as he continues to gradually shove himself into your throat. toji’s abs clench and tighten as he sees your jaw hang open, giving you a single thrust and you pull away to gasp. already, you’re starting to drool for him. with your mouth left open ajar, it had easy access to the saliva dribble down the sides of your lips and onto your chin.

“heh, ‘s too big for you? that’s my bad.” he purrs.

“shut up,” you grumble, your tongue licking alongside his dick. a throbbing vein of his that runs down his side pulses against your tongue and you hear him hiss. toji’s still got a hand combing into your hair, pulling your head up concisely just so he can see that pretty face one more time. “so f-fuckin’ big.”

“this is just y’er mouth, wait ‘till ya feel me from the inside.”

you roll your eyes at his cockiness, preparing to take him inside of your mouth again. your spit covered lips open up and he coos once he sees that you’re slobbering. you let a few amounts of your sheeny saliva pour onto his shaft, wetting it in the process. “play with y’er tits, use ‘em.”

you grab ahold of your plump mounds, brushing a thumb against your perked nipples before your head starts to bob. as he’s sinking his dick into your tight little throat, he groans.

toji could get used to the warmth of your mouth, your plush lips suffocating all around him — he was addicted, and so were you.

with your head resuming to jolt up and down, bobbing repeatedly from the decent pace, your tongue continues to flick against his leaky tip, relishing in the bitterly sweet pre-cum that resides against the very top. another muffled moan slips past your lips as you’re still playing with your breasts, feeling them bounce against each other in crude tandem.

“such a pretty mouth… ugh,” he tightens his grip against your hair, thrusting his hips into you a bit. you break your hands away from your tits to latch onto his thighs. immensely, your fingers dig into the cottony fabric of his sweatpants. toji starts to pant laboriously. heave after heave, you’ve got him sweating already. peeping down, his dick twitches at the sight of your spit dribbling down the corners of your pretty purses lips.

as it travels — it cascades like a waterfall, landing between the curvature of your chest. “mhm, jus’ like that. good girl. haah, ‘s good.”

as his hands rummage in your hair, it’s still maintaining its strengthening grip—you inhale through your nose as your head bounces in consistency. his fingers were still crispy cold, you’re feeling frosty all the way from the waist down.

not only were you feeling frosty though, you were throbbing..

it was no mistake. the sudden adds of multiplying throbs that pang against your pussy makes you start to whine as a hand of yours reaches between your thighs. your panties protect your slick arousal and a pout contorts against your lips as you’re still having your mouth stuffed full of ghostly cock.

“f-fuuuck, y’er fuckin’ nasty. play with y’erself while ya suck me off, do it.” he groans, it was as if he read right through your mind. toji’s breathing starts to pick up as he’s keeping strict eye contact with you. doe-eyed and all, your lashes suddenly shut close for a few seconds. toji meanly pistons his hips, and you moan as you drag your fingers against your sheathed pussy. peeling your laced panties to the side—you strum two digits against your slick entrance, starting to rut back and forth. toji snickers, ruffling the top of your head. “gonna fill this throat up with so much cum, you want that, sweets?”

abruptly, you pry your mouth away from his fattened dick before breathing in a gasp of fresh air. slyly, you hum, a hand wrapping around his hefty base. “don’t you mean with ectoplasm?”

“y’er mouth’s getting smart,” he sneers, grabbing ahold of your head before making you go back down.

toji started to get addicted to your frisky tongue. the way it’s so sloppy, slurping up every part of his fervor, he only wanted more.

he’s a ghost and well, it’s been a while..

as his dick perfectly tucks inside of your mouth, you take him even further. a clammy hand of yours starts to fondle with his balls and he groans. with his jaw tightening, he starts to feel his thigh pounce. “fuuuuck me,” he heaves lowly, knowing his finish was about to approach rather sooner than later. he was just so thick in your throat, tap-tapping away at your little uvula. toji stares at your pretty slobbering lips, your hands still crammed all up inside of your cunt before he presents a more thorough thrust into your mouth.

a familiar primal heat pools into the very depths of your tummy before you hear toji suck his teeth.

it’s a long, deep and sexy groan.

it bellows throughout the thin walls of your small apartment — his face turns sour and you start to feel a surprised guest get introduced on your tongue.

his cum tastes more sweet which was peculiar. usually it’s tastelessly bitter, bland and purely insipid.

but with him, it was sugary sweet. as he pours such volumes of satiny ropes into your mouth, your hands continue to cling onto his pants. it’s a lot, with the way the ghost’s cock erupts into your mouth it’s like a volcano. spitting out such gooey sums of seed. its warmth has you wanting more, as it fills the very inside of your mouth, your tongue swirls all around the savory uncanny mixture.

toji yokes your head back, taking his heavyset dick out of your mouth and you gawk at how red it was now. from the very top, a smile stretches against your lips knowing you did that. swollen, fat balls of his were all in your face, neglected and just desperate to be played with a bit more.

“shit,” he sighs, taking a moment to breathe. toji looks down at your dumb expression, more smug than anything. a hand of his cups underneath your chin before he bends down, pulling you into a deep kiss. again, you return the favor, glissading your tongue against his. it tickles and tangos together, enjoying each other’s wet company. he grunts, reveling in the sweetened taste of his own cum that’s just residing inside your mouth. no shame, no shame at all. the kiss was much sloppier this time—toji pulls away to lick near the corner of your lips, capturing a few remnants of his own seed that tries to stream down from your mouth and below toward your chin. breaking away, he grabs your neck softly, giving you an intimating stare. “you,” the ghost murmurs, his eyes flickering towards your bed. “i wanna break you.”

“you’ll have to pay for that you kn-”

“don’t make me drag you, human.”

you let off a soft playful ‘oof’ once you’re faintly tossed on your own bed. his strength was out of this world— quite literally though,

you look at toji and he inches himself closer towards you. as he leans in for another warm kiss, his body presses up against yours. he starts to grind against you, the friction leaves a wave of fuzz in your ears that never seems to go away. cold glacial lips squashing against your own as you flick your tongue against his, moaning for more. as he’s claiming your mouth in such a rough way, you start to paw at his pants. you feel a simper tug against his lips as he makes out with you, feeling the weight of the bed collapse and shriek a bit in ponderous discomfort.

“taste so good,” he grouses, withdrawing his lips to nip chaste kisses near your neck. you moan, feeling him prop between your thighs. he then licks all against the hidden crevices of your collarbone. “ever fucked a ghost before?”

“usually i’m more into humans,” you pant, and he gives you a subtle eye roll. if you knew a ghost such as toji would look this good — perhaps you’d summon him a long time ago on that stupid link.

“really, oh,” he plays along, prying your legs open a bit to take a quick peek at what he was about to destroy. with low hooded eyes, toji grunts as he sees your soaked pussy all open and on display for him. a padded thumb of his runs down your puffy slit and your legs twitch slightly as a greeting response. “mhm, such a pretty cunt. tell me though,” he huffs, enveloping all five digits around his cock to give it two single pumps. he prods his leaky cockhead against your entrance, watching you writhe underneath him. “before you summoned me, were ya playin’ with her?”

her as in between your legs, your pussy,

for some reason, toji addressing your cunt as her made you throb profusely. you felt it. an annoying ring screams through your ears as you slump back against your bed, your ankles making an attempt to lock around him. “n- no.”

“y- yea,” he mimicks your little stutter. your mouth drops as you feel yourself starting to gape open for him the moment he starts delve his dick into your pussy. he was so big, you feel the curve of the head and it’s just voluntarily crooking inside of you. toji gives you a side eye with misty peripherals, watching as you make an attempt to hide your face within the crack of your elbow. “nah, girl. don’t hide that pretty face from me. i wanna see you while i stretch you out.”

you moan, feeling his frigid fingers peel your arm away and he’s got a full face view of you.

already, your toes started to center with feelings of pure numbness. his thick cock splits inside of you so good that it’s already got you whimpering out elongated syllables. your voice was a euphony, “oh my g-goddd,” you whimper out, grabbing ahold of his shoulders. toji falls into your chest, still easing his way into your accepting walls. it’s relatively hot inside, smoldering gummy walls of yours entrap him, holding him hostage. he sibilates out a single hiss as you’re still trying to adjust to his massive size. his sack hangs from the base down and you let off a lusty giggle, already cockdrunk. “s-so the rumor’s true that ghosts have big dicks, f-fuck you’re gonna split me open.”

“heh, oh? that’s a fact, not a rumor,” he playfully flicks your forehead. a hand of his then clasps around your thigh. he spreads it apart, sinking into you further. he’s so deep, halfway in that your stomach’s already seizing. it was his tip that made you feel everything at once. the girth he has, he makes sure you feel every inch, every part. toji’s filling every area of your orifice with his spectral shaft. “ugh, clampin’ around me so good,” and he presses a palm against your tummy. “feel me here, yeah?”

and you do, as his hand gingerly brushes against the outer skirts of your stomach, your lips part into an ‘o’ shape of surprise. “y- yesss, fuck. ‘s deep, toji.”

“fuck,” he groans, and you let off a cute astounded, ‘oh’ once you feel him fully plug you all the way in. it’s a popping noise that you’ll never forget. heavy balls of his creates a single thrust and you jolt all the way back. clawing at the backsides of his skin, you whimper out a sweet melodic hum. “pussy’s gonna get me addicted, girl.”

your legs lock and ensnare around toji’s slim waist as he starts up a pace—he’s slow and steady at first. slow and steady wins the race, but with a dick as big as his, you’re already losing. not so much physically, at least not yet.

just a few fathomless thrusts from the ghost and you were whipped, starving for more. hungry even.

perhaps if this was some sort of dream, you didn’t wanna wake up. it all felt to real to just be your imagination anyway,

his hits against you were just so good that it was brutal. toji’s got you laid against your back so he can stare right into your eyes. he’s panting, gawking openly as he feels you bare down on him. your dense walls squeeze around him before he’s starting up a more salacious tempo. you could barely even keep up. you whine, craning your neck to the left a bit — to the right, then to the left for the umpteenth time. your legs were already shuddering, your cunt feels so stuffed of his shaft that you’re already flumped against the mattress. not even before long, it’s stares to bounce and judder from the clumps of weight on top of it. you dig your teeth into toji’s shoulder, whimpering at how he repeatedly thwacks his tip against that forbidden g-spot. “t- toji, tojiiii,” you hiccup, cross eyed and doe-eyed.

he could listen to your voice all day, a tune he could forever hum.

for the nth time within seven seconds, your pussy squelches from the parching sensations of pleasure. you’re so wet, sopping so much that you put faucets to shame. toji feels your slick trying to snail its way all the way down to his base. “that’s it, mhm. fuck against me, girl. c’mon, yeah,” he shushes up against your ear, licking against your lobe. you shiver, his voice all deep with a slight hint of rasp in it. a raw moan grabs itself from the back of your throat and you feel a hand of his snakes its way towards your jouncing tits. toji groans—leaning in to suck against your neglected nipples, feverish breath ghosting against your sweet skin before you whine. “god, you taste so mmf, good.”

as he’s still jerking his sharp hips into you at full might, his tongue swirls around your pretty nubs, savoring it. another ear splitting ‘pop’ leaves his lips each time he breaks away from your mounds. “could eat you up.”

“f- fuck, ‘s good, toji. harder p-pleaseee,” you mewl out, his weight that hovers over you sends you shivers all throughout your spine and body. strained deep inhales escape from your heavy lungs as you feel his calloused fingertips dance against your skin. a big hand of toji’s caresses alongside the curvilinear juncture of your body, your pretty physique—taking in your humanly beauty. oh, a sight for sore eyes.

toji was almost positive he was addicted to you, he’s fucking you so deep that he makes it so easy for you to jerk away from from your attentions. he even has a scent to him. despite his phantom being, his aurora alone was just enticing. its strong. the musk infiltrates the insides of your flared up nostrils and you whine again. your whine was more of a choke, clinging onto his back, scraping your nails down his tense back muscles.

“f-fuck, squeezin’ around me so good, baby,” he groans, leafy eyes staring into yours the entire time. toji leans in to nip kisses everywhere on your face, near your neck, and right back to your chest again. your body, he could get used to this,

to you.

maybe humans weren’t all that bad,

toji’s hips were rude, the perfect way to describe it. it really knew no bounds, he knew no bounds.

your glossy eyes glance up at him and he’s got nothing but a sly smirk plastered on his face. you study his features as he’s plowing you deeply into your own bed—the bed creeks and creeks that it sounds like it’s hanging onto his final hinges.

as you’re gazing into his features, the first thing you notice was that scar.

he’s got a slanting, slashing scar that runs down near the right side of his mouth. surprisingly, it makes him ten times more attractive than he already was. as you’re trapped in your own thoughts again, he moves his face closer to you to kiss an alluring slope down the side of your neck. just a few minutes with you and he was already memorizing each particular spot of yours.

an adorable lewd expression marinated against your features as your pussy continues to slosh and squeak against his thickened cock. he’s so big inside of you, your tummy ends up extending a bit from his angles he’s hitting. toji never misses a spot though, he’s a precise man, a precise ghost,

you’re left stupid with your tongue visibly lolling out. he can’t help but chuckle.

“look at that tongue, mhm,” and he takes the opportunity to suck against the limp muscle. you whine, hugging his beefy body tightly as you suddenly feel agitated with the pure feeling of your arousal. pretty soon, you were getting close.

he was too—he could feel it, warm bodies against each other, he was gonna lose it.

toji’s mouth goes against your neck, exposing his pearly whites and he bares a single fang. he buries it into the crook of your neck again, adam’s apple bobbing out from each guttural moan that detaches from him.

“f-fuck fuck,” you sob out, your ankles securely locking around his hips as he’s making more haste. you let off a tiny whine, his teeth gently nibbling against your flavorsome flesh. you tasted so sweet, he craved you. crimson lips of his twitch before he pulls you into another kiss. this time, it’s more passionate. as his tongue explores the very depths of your mouth, his tempo was now relentless. flimsy arms of yours continue to flop due to your weak grip against his wide shoulders before he gently bites your bottom lip. “inside,” you huff, licking the edge of his scar. a faint purr comes from toji once you do that and it’s a bit cute. “wanna feel you from the inside.”

“careful,” he groans into your neck, pressing a palm onto your tummy again. “you might get possessed after this.”

you pause, giving him a furrowed eyebrow look and he only sneers at you.

“joking, ghost cum ‘s harmless, baby. i think..”

he was nothing but a mere tease, you roll your eyes before you babble over and over in his ear for him to shoot inside of you. with ease, he’s emitting out all kinds of moans from you. you’re so loud, he’s got sensitive ears so it makes his ears twitch. your voice though, he’s so drawn in to hearing every little whine that departures from the backs of your precious throat.

welts of pleasure surge through your body as your chest recoils against his. gnawing down on your lip, you spasm once it finally approaches.

it’s a wave, pouring into you all at once. the crash was unexpected. expect the unexpected, they say.

your legs felt zealously numb, your eyes dramatically roll back as your high finally comes. it’s so much, you could still feel your cunt gaping. a whiney grunt cuts out of your throat before a squeal shortly follows. waves and waves of pleasure make way for you, pupils twinkling with stars, you were experiencing pure ecstasy.

shortly afterward, toji’s comes and when he cums, it’s a lot. he spurts into you in volumes, it dumps into you so good that you’re left twitching. suddenly, you grow quiet from the way his palm swats over your mouth. “listen to it with me. saved so much for you.”

and his words were slow, his breaths were slow, everything was ploddingly slow.

you don’t think you’ve ever felt more full in your life, your cunt constricts one more time around his length before you let off a dry whimper. “mmm,” you inhale a candied breath, he’s still buried balls deep. his hilt thrashes against your sodden entrance gently before he pulls out, staring at the mess. such goopy amounts of cum pour out of your slit, he brings two fingers to peel back against your sloppy folds. you’re covering him with your slick, viridescent eyes of his peer down to see the head of his cock still oozing out with gluey white masses of seed. “toji..”

“atta girl,” he whispers, hearing the little falter in your voice.

so cute,

he’s filled you up to the brim and that was only just the beginning. “i know. i kn—” and he pauses, being cut off as he feels you bedaub his sensitive tip against your greedy cunt. you move it against your opening slit, watching as it tries to swallow it hole before you pull it back outs you’re still oozing and his eyes flicker to white for a second. “fuuuck, ‘m still sensitive girl.” and he’s the one to let off a whine this time. toji’s weight still hangs against you before you drag him into a kiss while hearing his deprived whimpers feed into your mouth. jet black strands of his tickle against your forehead as he grinds his hips against you, already weak for you. the epitome of pussy drunk. whatever spell you had, he wanted to know what it was. perhaps your pussy was a curse he wasn’t aware of.

your taste was just too tasteful. with the way you linger on his tongue like a treat, he only wanted more. toji pulls away after a while, shaft still halfway into you—idle, not moving a single inch. he’s buried but remains still. a shimmery concoction of spit leaves each lips and toji pants as your lips stray away from his. toji’s lungs feel like they were on fire, each breath he takes feels like it’s being snatched away.

“you,” he exhales, a thumb curling underneath your chin. with a needy look, the ghost’s confidence throws itself out the window and his bottom lip quavers a bit. he pants, making you switch positions and he pats his lap, pouting. “you, on top of me. i- i want more of you. please.”

[katakaluptastrophy]

What do the Fifth House actually do?

Sure, yes, ghosts and tradition and the Heart of the Emperor, and Watchers Over the River - but none of those things give you the kind of assets that mean you can dress your cavalier in a coat that "probably cost more than the Ninth House had in its coffers" for a dinner party.

It's made clear very early on that the Fifth are a power to be reckoned with. When they first receive the letter about the Lyctoral pilgrimage, Gideon assumes it would be on the Third or Fifth. Harrow, meanwhile, has frequently-repeated anxieties about the Ninth being subsumed by the Third or Fifth, to the point that she worries that the anniversary party invitation may be an attempt to wipe out the other Houses. Teacher describes the Fifth's relationship with the Fourth as "hegemonic". The Fifth loom so large in the cultural imagination, they even inform the name of the made up porn magazine that Gideon offers to Crux.

The links between the Third and the Fifth that both Gideon and Harrow make seem to reflect both the fact that these two Houses have particular power and influence, but also that they frequently cooperate. Judith writes about the close cooperation of the Second, Third, and Fifth, a relationship which becomes a source of tension as the scions seek to establish authority after the Fifth are murdered. Judith says:

“The Fifth are dead. I take authority for the Fifth. I say we need military intervention, and we need it right now. As the highest-ranked Cohort officer present, that decision falls to me.” “A Cohort captain,” said Naberius, “don’t rank higher than a Third official.” “I’m very much afraid that it does, Tern.” “Prince Tern, if you please,” said Ianthe.

Which makes it sound as though Abigail might technically have been considered the highest ranking person at Canaan House (likely because she was head of her House and not an heir in waiting like Judith or Coronabeth), and that following her death there is some question as to whether the Second or the Third should take control, but notably no suggestion that anyone else might.

We know what the Second do: they are the leaders of the Cohort and the Bureau, the military and intelligence that forms the core of imperial expansion. Most of the information that we get about the other Houses talks only about their cultural or ritual roles in the empire - we get very little in the way of gritty details of what happens outside of the Dominicus system.

We know a little bit about what the Third does - according to Tor they are cultural trendsetters and players in soft power, but the one detail we get in GTN itself is revealing: when Gideon imagines her glorious future in the Cohort, one of the assignments she considers boring is the prospect of being "in some foreign city babysitting some Third governor." Which makes it sound rather like the Second are conquering the planets and the Third are then running them. But the books are even lighter in details about what the Fifth do, beyond ghosts and manners.

However, there is one suggestive detail: an important topic in HTN is stele travel - the necromantic FTL used by the Nine Houses. And Mercymorn, in describing a stele, specifically states that Fifth House adepts are required for their construction. Which rather makes it sound like the Fifth have a monopoly on the manufacturer of the technology required for FTL travel. Now that in and of itself could be the basis of their enormous wealth - selling aerospace tech to an ever expansionist military is probably quite lucrative.

But there's another element of House imperialism that only gets mentioned in passing that doesn't seem to be entirely accounted for, which Judith describes in As Yet Unsent:

"Their other line of attack is the business contracts. They claim that the services asked of them by the Emperor were set down in lifetime contracts by previous generations, who assumed the contracts would be terminated upon the Emperor’s death."

There are obviously some unanswered questions about the imperialist project of the Nine Houses - both Augustine and Coronabeth question quite why it works the way it does - but from the above it sounds like in many respects it functions exactly as you would expect an empire to: as a vehicle for the exploitation of others' resources.

Perhaps the Cohort themselves administer these business contracts. Perhaps they fall under the purview of the Third House planetary governors. But if you're exporting resources from the living planets of your empire to the mostly desolate planets of the Dominicus system, you're going to need some FTL ships and a whole lot of bureaucracy.

And if there's one other detail that we get about the Fifth, it's that there is something significant about the political power of their bureaucracy. As Judith puts it: "Quinn himself is a Fifth House bureaucrat with all that entails."

Are the Second, Third, and Fifth so close and so powerful because they form the bedrock of the empire: the conquest, control, and exploitation of planets beyond the Dominicus system?

[bigassmoonchild]

The Aftermath

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

Word Count: 2k

The first part does give context, but isn’t required for this read.

Summary: You knew the difficulty the process of being a mated Omega in the military. You understood how much you would lose, but you never thought about the difficulty in your normal life. Never thought about the panic you would have, or how much it would effect you and Ghost's personal relationship.

Content Tags: Hospitals, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, No use of Y/N, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha! Ghost

A/N: I was not expecting such a good response to Maple Syrup, and since y'all seemed to like it so much here's basically the next part. Let me know if you want anything specific, my asks should be open. <3 I'm adding a 'keep reading' link to make sure you can scroll on if you want.

Previous, Next | Headcannons, Masterlist

Everything felt wrong. Ghost wasn't injured, but he was being held overnight in the medbay. The Maple Syrup had run its course through him, but he could hear chatter echoing in the room. He could smell you, you weren't too far from him but he wasn't allowed to see you. Price had come in not too long after the doctors had checked him over and cleared him, arms crossed as he sat in the chair next to the bed Ghost was in.

"We'll need to talk, you know," was the only thing Price had said, leaning back and relaxing in the chair.

"Is the Doc okay?" Ghost asked, looking in the direction your scent was coming from. The sickly sweet smell of heat was becoming stale, but you were on lock and key just in case any Alpha soldiers tried to come in. Price looked in the same direction, giving a faint shrug.

"I'm going to be updated once she's steady enough for the doctors to leave her alone," Price said. "Gaz is on watch outside her room," Ghost nodded. Gaz was a Beta, so it would be fine for him to be that close. Ghost still didn't like it, he didn't know how his pack was, where everyone was, if everyone was safe.

It took a few hours, it was well past midnight before any movement came from the direction of your room. The curtains surrounding Ghosts bed was moved, the Doctor gesturing for Price to follow him. Ghost had tried to listen in, but it wasn't worth it. He was still in mild pain from the mission, the place where the tranq had stabbed him still throbbed every so often.

Price walked back in some time later, looking at Ghost with a sigh. That didn't make him feel good, panic started to flow through him, thoughts of you dying flashed in his mind for a few moments.

"She's gonna be fine," Price started. "They got her heat back under control, they're just waiting for it to finish cycling through her. Outside of that, she's fine," Price sat next to Ghost. "I can't ask you about what happened. I can only tell you what will happen," he looked away.

You woke up, head foggy and throbbing with a headache. You could see a form moving next to you, checking your vitals. You gave a soft groan, your neck throbbing alongside your core. Everything hurt, but you weren't able to tell if it was everything.

"You finally waking up?" The voice asked, and you could recognize it. "You've been out for a few days, you've even had Ghost trying to get in," she giggled a little. Amanda. That was her name, she was one of the nurses you'd been working with prior to the mission that went south.

At the mention of Ghost, you sat upright, vision spinning before righting itself.

"It was a really bad heat you were sent into, y'know. Took us a few hours to stabilize you, but you're doing good for yourself," she smiled, trying to lay you back down but you pushed her off of you.

"I need to talk to him," god even your throat hurt. She nodded slowly, sticking her head out of the door. You rubbed your head, headache now making you feel sick. It took a few moments, but you heard footsteps come in the room, a figure standing next to you. When you looked up, it was Price.

"There are some procedures we need to go through. I've already got some officers in, but we still need to talk about what happened," Price started, moving to sit in the chair near you. "Ghost has already spoken with them, so it'll be you, me and the officers. I think Laswell has flown in as well," you stared at Price.

With a few blinks, you looked down to think. Ghost had already spoken with the officers? You knew what the rules were like, and you knew that your career was now in his hands. It pissed you off, if you could really focus on feeling much outside of pain.

"The officers are trying to get him to make a decision on your career. I can't let you two talk about anything yet, the Adjutant Officers still need to figure things out before you'll be allowed near each other," Price looked away, your jaw tensing. You really had no rights anymore, did you?

It took another few days before you were released. The second you had clothes of your own to wear, you were gone off into your room.

Someone had been here. You could smell a stale scent, but you weren't able to place it. It was too distant to be able to decipher, but your room was exactly the same as it had been left before you were hospitalized. You didn't feel comfortable in your room, knowing someone had been here.

A knock on the door made you spin, nerves set tight. As you opened the door, a large figure came into view.

"Doc," Ghost started, before being yanked into your room and having the door slammed behind him. You turned on him, staring at him sharply. You pointed, opening your mouth before shutting it and groaning, running hands through your hair.

You kept trying to start talking before you stopped yourself, eventually kicking at the wall in irritation.

"What did you say to them?" You hissed, back still turned and facing the wall. You could hear him shift behind you, boots scuffing against the ground. You turned, storming up to him, chest to chest. "What the hell did you tell them? You gonna dismantle my career? Make me some fucking house-omega?" You were growling now, you could feel your muscles tensing.

When he didn't respond, you groaned, tossing your hands up in defeat and walking away from him. You turned, hand on your hip, waiting for a response.

"I don't want to take your career away," he whispered, finally. You barked a laugh, rubbing your wrist against your bitten gland. His hand reached out to grab you, but you moved away from him. "I don't want to make decisions for you," he added, voice growing more desperate.

You shook your head, pulling your hand away from your gland and shaking them out. Ghost reached out to you again, hand catching your shoulder before you shrugged him off.

"I don't know what to do," you whispered. "I'm terrified, because now I'm outed to so many people, and there's quite literally nothing I can do to save myself," you turned to look at Ghost.

He scoffed. "You think I'm going to ruin things for you? I've already told you, I don't want that kind of control over you," he looked away, crossing his arms. You could smell the distress on him.

"You have done shit to make me trust you!" Your voice raised before dropping, a hand running down your face. "I have zero control left, you know how many rights I have as a mated Omega?" He shook his head. "None," you glared at him.

Ghost glanced at you before looking away again. He shook his head, moving to leave before you blocked the door from him.

"You don't get to walk out when we're talking," you growled at him and he growled back.

"This isn't a conversation, this is you getting all pissy on me," he loomed over you, forcing you to take a step back. "I didn't want this to happen, I would have chosen any other way to save us, but we didn't get a choice, did we?" You looked away.

"Get out,"

He could smell the distress on you the second he spoke. Your scent left him spiraling, he was panicking. His Omega was distressed, and he was the cause. He wanted to fix it, correct the problem and make you happy again.

Ghost could do nothing when you repeated yourself.

"Get the hell out," you glared at him. Ghost opened his mouth to give you a retort, but you had turned away. He bit his tongue, turning to stare at the door.

"You know that's not what I meant," he whispered, opening the door and leaving.

Even after walking aimlessly for ten minutes, he could still smell your distress on your scent, the sour taste stuck on the back of his throat. This wasn't how he had intended to talk to you, he wanted to make a plan for when they asked him more questions regarding your career.

Ghost was pissed off, more so with himself than you, but he wanted to comfort you. Fix what he had said, take it back.

But he had a meeting to attend, and he needed to make sure he didn't say anything wrong.

You sat in the conference room, Price, Laswell and an Adjutant officer sitting across from you. This was the third time you'd gone over what had happened.

"So you say this 'Maple Syrup' is what caused Ghost to go into a feral rut?"

"Yes," you deadpanned, glaring through the Adjutant. "We've already been through all of this, there is literally nothing else that I haven't told you," the Adjutant hummed.

"We need to make sure everything is covered," he told you, looking at the paper he had been writing on for the past hour and a half.

You looked at Price, hoping he would help you in any way. He looked away, leaning further back into his seat.

"What about my career?" The room went silent, the Adjutant stopped reading, glancing over at Price who had finally looked at you. "I want to know what's happening," you whispered. The last few days had left you unsure of yourself. You wanted to confront Ghost, you wanted to apologize for snapping at him, you wanted to fix what you'd said.

None of them spoke, Laswell had opened her mouth to speak before closing it, taking a deep breath. Her fingers tapped on the table, looking at Price and the Adjutant.

She looked back at you. "You aren't allowed to make any decisions regarding that, you know," your head dropped back with a groan, wrist rubbing against your bitten gland roughly. You were terrified, you didn't know what the future was going to hold.

You had so little control and it was getting worse. You stood abruptly, going to walk out the door before Price spoke.

"Would you like to speak with Ghost?" You closed your eyes and took a deep breath. With people around, you wouldn't snap on him, but you also didn't want to see him since his last remarks. You really needed to know if you still worked here, or if he was going to force you to become a house-omega.

You nodded, turning around and sitting back down while staring Price down as he made a phone-call. A few moments later, Ghost walked in and sat beside you, but you still couldn't look at him. It was silent for a few minutes, everyone looking at each other, waiting for the first to speak.

"You still have a job here," Ghost spoke up. "I didn't let them remove you, but they won't allow you on missions anymore," he added the last part quietly. You nodded.

You could hear Price and Laswell ushering the Adjutant Officer out of the room, the door closing with a click behind them. Neither you nor Ghost talked for a few minutes, you could smell a certain level of stress on him.

"Thank you," you whispered, glancing quickly at him. He was staring at you, eyes watching your every twitch and shudder. "I'm... sorry, for the other day," you fiddled with your fingers. "I didn't mean to snap at you."

Ghost shook his head, hesitating before grabbing your hand, pulling it close to him and in turn tugging you towards him. You finally turned to look at him, and his eyes visibly softened.

He looked down, then back up to you. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said what I did. Not in the way I did," he tugged you even closer to him, nuzzling into your gland. "I don't regret having you as my mate now, but if I could've changed what I did, you wouldn't be stuck with me making decisions for you now," you leaned in to him, pressing your face into his chest.

It relaxed you, his scent, and allowed you to think much clearer.

"I'm just so scared,"

Next

[doctorbunny]

A little speculation about Corpse Disposal and J-horror

But I'm a little bored so sharing a part-theory, part-headcanon on Muu and Rei

So we unfortunately don't see much of Rei in "Its not my fault" but I want to point out three key times we do

The first time we see Rei in the MV, is her wet sleeve (we know its not Muu because Muu wears a pink jumper under her blazer)

Then, after a lot of bug stuff, we're finally back in the real world, where Muu has just killed her Post-After Pain. In INMF, we don't see the surroundings as well, just the dirt track and bushes. But in AP, we see this is right next to a rushing river (Muu's undercover card also features a bridge as a landmark)

The next time we see Rei after her corpse, is a flashback to the start where she turns the hourglass over. Then it cuts just further back to before Rei stood up - as she pulls herself up off the floor She's alive and absolutely soaked after a session of intense bullying (which we saw Muu insert herself into in AP)

However, I want to now switch a little to talk about cinematography and a concept called the Kuleshov effect The video I linked is pretty concise but the gist is that if you put two shots next to each other, even if they were filmed separately, the brain interprets it as a continuous scene (so if you film a character looking off screen, then a picture of an apple on a table, we're going to assume they're looking at the apple)

Therefore while we understand chronologically that the sequence of events is Rei (wet and alive) -> Rei's murder on dry land ↺ Flashback to Rei still wet and alive Which I think everyone understood as a commentary on how this power struggle was a constant cycle of the hourglass being turned over

I think visually, it also implies a sequence like Rei was bullied -> Muu kills her -> Sopping wet, Rei crawls back to the classroom

But wait! That sequence suggests a missing step How did Rei get wet again?

Well, we know Muu killed her next to a river And if you were a scrawny teenage murderer with a body on your hands, would you leave it there where someone could see it while you grab a shovel and stand in broad daylight digging a hole in tough ground??? Or try lighting a fire in public??? Of course not!

It'd be much easier for Muu to, in a panic, just roll her body into the convenient river and let all the evidence wash away!

(Of course, if Muu was panicking, she might not have been very careful. Given she ended up in MILGRAM, there must've been something tying Muu to Rei's death and in T2 Muu seems to have finally remembered losing her left shoe...)

Fun fact: this is the same shoe Cinderella loses in the animated Disney film (and the best known version of that story came into English from France)

Shoe break over, back to the Endless Queen's Game

So, if we assume Rei's corpse was thrown in the river, what does it matter? Its just a pointless headcanon

But I speculate the meaning goes deeper!

So that image of Rei, soaking wet, crawling off the floor reminded me of something: J-horror ghost girls! Specifically the most famous of ghost girls Samara/Sadako Who became a vengeful spirit after being thrown in a well and now crawls out of TVs to kill people who watched her VHS tape

Her story too is a cyclical one (its called 'Ring' for a reason), the only way to break the curse is to copy the tape and have someone else watch it, who will then become the victim unless they can themselves copy the tape and show it to another unsuspecting patsy

The story goes back further because this movie is based on a novel, which is based on the legend of 番町皿屋敷 Banchou Sara Yashiki. There are many versions but generally a maid girl Okiku is proposed to, and when she rejects the proposal, her master breaks one of ten plates and promises to forgive her if she marries him. When she declines again, he beats her to near death then throws her into a well (sometimes it's a jealous mistress instead of a master)

Interestingly, Atrophaneura alcinous (swallowtail butterfly) larvae found in Japanese wells became known as Okikumushi お菊虫 (Okiku bugs), tying back to the whole insect thing...

It's been said a bunch now, but the name 'Rei' can be read as 霊 meaning ghost (seen in words like Yuurei 幽霊, a more common word for ghost than Rei on its own)

We know Muu is afraid of ghosts too (though I must admit she says Obake, not yuurei, but both words refer to ghosts)

Remembers the i/井 in Sakurai/櫻井 can be read as 'well' I'm sure that has nothing to do with anything

Uh, I can't think of a conclusion because its 1 am and I had to look up a bunch of spooky images

TL;DR: I think Muu may have quickly shoved Rei's body into the river next to where the murder happened (maybe forgot her shoe at the scene of the crime) and now she's scared by the cycle continuing and Rei coming back to haunt her

[raven-ovs]

On This Night Of Ritual | Papa IV x f!Reader

Summary: On Lust, and Love, and all the sweet emotions in between. Copia and his partner choose to spend their night in a special way, expressing their devotion to Satan and to each other through the pleasures of the flesh.

Content: ~6.5 words, 18+ MDNI, established relationship, religious imagery, ritual sex, body workship, mutual masturbation, vaginal sex, soft, they're in love love

Ao3 link - Full art

🥀

You shiver in anticipation, pulling the robe tighter over your chest, your eyes flitting around the bedroom. Your shared bedroom, you remind yourself, little bits of your own style scattered around, mingling with his, a quiet reminder of how your lives have intertwined since he asked you to move in with him.

The fabric feels soft against your bare skin, reassuring. He gifted it to you for this occasion specifically.

You glance down at your bare legs framed by the rich blue silk, a sigh escaping your lips.

Faint sounds of him getting ready reach your ears from the en-suite bathroom. A thud followed by a muttered curse makes you smile. He must be just as nervous as you, even though you've both agreed to this. You've talked about it so many times, fantasised about it, dipped your toes into it without fully committing.

But now... You're ready. Or at least, you want to be.

The bathroom door creaking open snaps you out of your thought, and you look up to find a very flustered Copia making his way to you.

He looks stunning, to say the least.

Divine.

He's wearing a silk robe as well, matching yours. His is in a deeper blue, though, and has golden embroideries all around its lapels and cuffs. It fits him.

A familiar warmth settles low in your belly at the sight of him, all your anxieties starting to melt, replaced by a much more intense eagerness.

You can spot a few lines of his tattoo, barely hidden by the robe tied loosely around his waist. His facepaint is pristine as always.

"Hey," you smile tentatively, searching his eyes. The white one almost seems to glow in the faint candle light of the room, and its magnetic pull only gets stronger as he steps closer. It's mesmerising.

"Amore," he whispers back as greeting, the mattress dipping when he sits down on the edge of the bed.

"Everything's ready." You gesture vaguely around you, a shiver of anticipation running down your spine as he looks around as well.

The crimson red sheets underneath you, the candles burning on every free surface of the room, the little bowl of red paint waiting on your nightstand.

He nods in approval, and you see that flicker of excitement in his gaze that always makes you swoon, until he jolts up, genuinely scaring the shit out of you.

"Copia, che cazzo!" you exclaim, only getting a dismissive "sorry" in return before he's padding off to the other side of the room, mumbling to himself.

"Shit, how could I forget? Eh... Just gotta... Where the hell did I put it?"

You raise an eyebrow in his direction, but don't comment further. Silly rat man.

How you love him.

A pleased little "ha!" follows, and before you know it, soft notes are filling the room, coming from his record player.

Oh... Right.

He's back at your side in an instant, and his grin tells you that he's waiting for a reaction from you. And that this is meaningful to him.

You listen carefully to what sounds like religious music at first, the sort of solemn hymns that you used to hear echoing in Catholic churches, a long, long time ago.

You're confused, until you begin to make out the words of this first song. They're definitely not Catholic.

It sounds like a Ghost song, but not quite... It's softer, more intimate in way, despite still having a grandiose feeling to it. A bit of an oxymoron, just like the man in front of you.

"Unreleased," he chimes in, filling the gaps in your thought process.

"Hm?"

"I... wrote this. Some time ago. Never released it." he explains, a vulnerable note to his voice that you don't fail to notice.

"Oh." You take another moment to listen in silence, feeling goosebumps raise on your skin as his rich voice reaches your ears from the recording. *Oh.*

"Copia... It's beautiful. Why didn't you release it?"

A shrug, dismissive. You nod, realising that it'll be a story for another time.

You both have a plan now, and you want to get through with it.

The music is just an unexpected, yet perfectly fitting addition.

“So…”

“So.” He gives you one of his lovely smiles, his eyes crinkling at the corners, his cheeks, you assume, turning pink under his facepaint. You melt on the spot.

You've come up with it together, this… ritual you're about to do, if one might even call it that. It's a mix of you two, really. Your beliefs, your journeys, your shared faith. A manifestation of your devotion, for each other, and for your Lord, Satan.

You return his smile, and adjust your posture, sitting cross legged in front of him, a silent confirmation that you're ready, that you want this.

He mirrors you, running his fingers through his hair in an attempt to fix it and then folding his hands in his lap. The gray strands at his temples stand out in this light, and you love it.

So… There you are. First step. Soul gazing.

You scoot a little closer, trying to get comfortable before your eyes meet his. You sigh. Focus.

This part is all about building connection, stating your intentions, tapping into the right mindset.

“Our Father who art in Hell…” You hear him whisper, his low voice taking on that edge he has when delivering a sermon during Mass, but more muted, just for the two of you. You glance down when his inverted cross catches the light, shimmering in the middle of his sternum, then your eyes return to his as soon as he starts speaking again. “Guide us through this journey. Let the worship of our bodies be a token of our devotion to You. Watch us sin, and rejoice.” A pause, a breath escaping his painted lips. “Nema."

“Nema.” you repeat, your voice small compared to his, but no less firm.

You already feel the hypnotic nature of this exercise, your breathing slowing down the longer you look into his eyes, trying to sync to his. The mismatched green and white of his irises draws you in, and you can see every emotion playing out on his face, just as he can do with yours, you think.

His soul… Can you really see a person's soul, through their eyes? What does it even mean, soul? As a child, you were taught that your soul would be damned and cast to Hell if you sinned, but you don't believe in any of that anymore. It's not you, and it's definitely not him.

What you can see in his eyes is an energy, burning bright. It's the same energy you see when he's singing to his fans, when he's eating his favorite dish, when he’s petting his rats, when he's making love to you. Now that energy is focused, though, and it's all on you.

It makes your breath hitch, but you immediately school it back into the slow rhythm you two have built. In… Out… Again. Again.

His pupils are dilated, be it from the darkness or from arousal, you cannot tell. Most likely both.

You're not sure how many minutes pass like this, but it doesn't matter. Not when his hands reach forward, nimble fingers gently tugging your robe open. You do the same to him.

Step two.

You break eye contact to take in his revealed torso, the brown and gray dusting of hair on his chest that turns into a darker trail from his belly button down. So beautiful. Yours.

His gaze almost burns your skin in its intensity, and you imagine him already painting symbols on your body, his fingertips tinged red, making you shiver and sigh with every brush. Not yet.

“Still good?” You hear him ask, his voice barely above a whisper, an hopeful light in his eyes.

“Yes, yes, of course.” You smile.

The music has already faded in the background of your mind by now, but you're still grateful for its presence, for the way it fills your silences between one breath and the next. With measured movements, you each bring your right hand to the other's chest, over the heart, and then cover that hand with your own left one. A deep breath, and then you’re gazing into each other's eyes again.

There's a part of you that wonders at the single minded focus he shows in this moment. He's usually easily distracted, his thoughts scattered between his endless tasks and nerdy interests, fluttering from here to there like a moth at a lights fest. But not now.

The more you breathe, the clearer you can hear his heart thrumming under your fingertips, your pinky finger barely grazing his nipple. If he feels it, he doesn't let you see his reaction. When he's thoroughly fucked you, and lets you rest with your head on his chest, that's when you feel his heartbeat the strongest. That, or when he gets really anxious, and comes to you for reassurance. When he looks at you with eyes wide, a little lost, and you place your hands on his chest, guiding him to breathe until the darkness dissipates enough to keep going.

Now it feels just as strong, a steady, reassuring rhythm that proves to you that he's actually there, in front of you. The man of your dreams. Not a figment of your imagination, but real, solid, human.

You wish you could read his thoughts right now. Is he thinking about you the way you’re thinking about him? You almost want to ask him, whisper a “penny for your thoughts” just to see one of those smiles that light up the whole room, but no… No, this is about something else. This is about laying yourselves bare for the other to see, and to love. Words are not needed for that.

You breathe in his love for you, and breathe out your love for him. An exchange. Again and again. Time passes, but again… It doesn't matter.

For the next step, you need to be bare. Literally.

You're not sure who reaches out first, who switches position first, but your next breath is taken on your knees, his hands on your shoulders, sliding the robe off of you. You let it fall somewhere behind you, and watch him kneel as well, his own robe open, splayed out from his back down to his feet like a wedding veil.

He almost looks too good to take it off, but you know it's part of the process. Both of you naked. Vulnerable.

“Sei bellissimo,” you find yourself whispering as your hands find his sides, sliding up his torso and towards his arms to start guiding the robe off. The blush you earn in response is enough to make your heart stutter, the red so vivid that it's visible even under the layers of white paint.

Copia averts his gaze, but you know he's silently preening at your words. Always a sucker for praise.

He shimmies out of the embroidered sleeves, and then the robe falls behind him just like yours did, discarded. It almost feels like unwrapping a gift.

“I can feel Him,” he mumbles, making you look at his face again.

“Who?”

“Satan. Watching us…”

“Oh.” You blink, finding that notion a bit foreign, but not unpleasant. You can't deny the buzz in the air around you, the almost palpable promise of what's coming. Your Papa knows what he's talking about, that much you're sure of.

“Is He pleased?”

He lets out a quiet huff of laughter, his shoulders raising a bit. Cute. “Think so. But… He, eh… He's waiting for the next bit.”

That makes you chuckle, and you find it reassuring that now, now that should be the most ritualistic phase, you’re acting more casual, connecting in the way that you're used to, that's familiar to you.

“Right, yeah.” As if on cue, you turn around to grab the little bowl you had left on your nightstand, bringing it between you two and placing it on the covers. Strategically red, yes, but alluring too. Red paint on red sheets. That will look good.

You discussed which symbols to draw and on whom. You remember his words distinctly. The way his rich voice explained to you the meanings and differences between each one, the fervour of his belief as he spoke to you of his life’s work. That had ended in a very intense, unforgettable night of sex. But tonight will be different, in a way.

“Should I, uh… Should I start?” you ask tentatively, seeking his approval.

He nods, laying his hands back against the mattress, leaving his whole front open to your view and to your touch. You know he'd trust you with his life.

Trying to rein in your trembling, you dip your fingers into the bowl, shivering at the feeling of the cold, burgundy liquid. Not blood, of course, but it does look like it. You take in a shaky breath, and let it out, and then your clean hand is cradling his jaw, tilting his head up as you lean closer.

As precisely as possible, you draw a small, inverted pentagram on his forehead. The first symbol of your faith. The stark contrast between the red and his black and white face paint is striking. Gorgeous.

Next, you draw an inverted cross on his left arm. The design matches that of your own makeup, a gothic feel to it that reminds you of the tapestries and stained glass artworks you always admire around the Ministry. He simply kneels there, watching you, embracing the solemnity of this moment.

One last symbol for him. The Sigil of Lucifer.

You take your time drawing it, your index finger sliding along the curves of his stomach. His abs tense as you pass over them, and you have to bite your lip at the noise he makes when you draw the little swirls at the bottom, framing his happy trail. Framing his cock.

You've tried not to focus on it, but it's near impossible now, knowing that you’ll be touching him soon. He's been hard since the moment you started all this, but now… Oh, by now he's leaking, his head flushed a deep red, the vein on the underside evident as his cock twitches against his belly, almost smearing the paint you've just placed there. You barely stifle a giggle.

“Don't be so smug about it,” he grumbles, his brow furrowing as he glances down at himself. He worries his bottom lip between his teeth for a few moments, his lipstick fading in that spot, but as soon as you're done painting he lifts his head again, an air of confidence about him that makes your cunt throb. “Your turn.” he declares, reaching down to grab the bowl and slide it closer to himself.

You brace yourself, but nothing could have prepared you for the feeling of his fingers dipped in red tracing lines around your nipple, drawing a pentagram of his own. You clench your thighs together, and you know he notices, but he doesn't say anything. Only smirks.

“Turn around, tesoro,” he instructs in that seductive voice of his, a voice that could bring a nation to its knees if he only ever asked. He doesn't need to, though. He has you on your knees for him, almost every night.

You do as told, and present your back to him. Your ass, actually, as you shift to place your hands on the mattress, on all fours. He actually groans at the sight, the little bastard.

You huff in reply, your head hanging low between your shoulders to hide your blush. “Don't get distracted…”

“Never, piccola.” You can practically hear his shit-eating grin in his voice, but you press your lips together, silencing yourself from further remarks. Not the time for banter, as much as you love it.

Without another word, his fingers meet your skin again. He starts at your hip bone and makes his way along your ass, drawing another pentagram. This time, though, he adds more strokes, tracing lines with practiced ease to form the Sigil of Baphomet.

He hums once done, sounding pleased with himself. You turn around again, careful not to sit on your heels any longer, not wanting to mess up the paint before it has dried. A small penance for the ineffable amount of pleasure that you're going to experience soon.

“Last one.” He reminds you with a smile, his expression softer now, more caring. You wonder what came over him. “You're being so good, baby.”

That really makes you blush, hard. You're not sure who likes praise more in your relationship.

“Ah… Grazie.” you mutter, your gaze falling to the bowl in front of you, unable to sustain his stare.

He laughs fondly and shakes his head before dipping his fingers in the paint one last time. You did his belly, so it's only fair that he should do yours too. Satan's Cross. Right in the middle of your stomach. All goes well until he draws the infinite under your belly button, his finger scorching like fire on your already over sensitised skin. You moan, unable to stop it. He winces, his hand trembling as he pulls away.

“Amore… If you keep making sounds like that, this will be over much sooner than we want.”

You sigh, giving him an apologetic smile. You're both more worked up than you've probably ever been, and you can't help but wonder how exactly you're going to last as long as you're meant to, edging each other to ecstasy. Satan will guide you in that, you hope silently.

You take a moment to appreciate how perfect he looks with all those symbols painted on his skin. A fallen angel, worthy to stand beside Lucifer himself.

You wipe your fingers on the sheets below you, and watch him do the same. The paint is sex friendly, sure, but you don't want to stain his whole body with it. Neither does he.

“I want you, Copia… I want you so bad.” You search his eyes, finding that same desire reflected in them.

“I'm all yours.”

That's all it takes for you to move forward, still on your knees, and cup his face in both hands. Is this what they mean when they talk about holding the world in your hands? The thought makes you grin.

“What?”

“Uh? Nothing.”

“What?”

You can't deny him when he's looking at you like that.

“I love you,” you whisper simply, hoping it can somehow convey the depth of your feelings. You're not sure, but if his smile is any indicator, at least part of that sentiment reached him.

You brush your thumbs over his temples and at the corners of his eyes as he whispers an “I love you” in return. You must have heard those words coming from his lips thousands of times, but they still make your heart flutter like the very first.

“May I kiss you?” As if you even need to ask. He hums, pretending to think about it, that mischievous twinkle crossing his gaze as he leans closer, your lips now mere inches apart.

Copia looks up at you through his lashes, in a way that looks almost coquettish, and you're unsure whether to slap him or kiss him stupid.

“Ti prego…” he murmurs, his breath fanning your lips.

Fuck, this man.

Before you can stop yourself, you've closed the distance between you, capturing his lips in a searing kiss. You don't know if it was the synced breathing, the symbols, or just staring into each other's eyes for so long, but this kiss feels so powerful, so meaningful that it makes you swoon, and you have to grab his face tighter, ground yourself. He moans in response, feeling that same intensity.

Heat pools in your core as you feel his tongue swiping along your lower lip, asking for entrance. His arms snake around your waist to pull you closer, and could almost swear you heard a muffled “please” against your lips. You’re powerless.

The kiss turns messy the moment you part your lips and let him in, your tongues pressing against each other, lips fusing together as if you can't get close enough fast enough. You swallow each other's moans, licking and nipping until you're both panting.

You pull back just enough to breathe, your gaze falling to his kiss-swollen lips. Fuck.

“Amore…” he starts, but goes silent again when you wipe the spit off his bottom lip with your thumb, your fingers grasping his chin.

It shouldn't be like this. You should go slow, keep that energy going. But dammit, it's hard.

“Sorry, sorry… I know.” Your hands leave his face, and you breathe harshly. In through your nose, out through your mouth. Like before. Kinda.

“I can't get enough of you.” you admit, your fingers trailing down his chest, following the contours of his tattoo. Focus. Focus.

You always knew there was something about you, a craving that you never seemed to satisfy. You deemed it wrong for so long that it almost felt like second nature to chastise yourself. He's taught you to indulge, though. He has embraced that part of you, and that flame has grown, threatening to consume you both. What a way to die, that would be.

Still, he looks hopeful now, and his eyes are burning, yes, but so soft. So soft that it makes you think you would do anything to make him proud. Suddenly you feel calmer, and reverence replaces hunger. After all, works of art should be admired quietly, carefully, taking your time. And he's the ultimate masterpiece.

“That's it, sì…” He nods down at your hands on his torso, and soon reaches out to touch you as well. Slow. Gentle. Light as if touching the most delicate porcelain. It's almost funny, when you know that he can fuck you hard enough to make you cry. And that you can do the same to him.

Your hands wander, fingertips still stained red, even though the paint has dried by now. You do nothing to suppress the sighs and gasps that his touch elicits, knowing it emboldens him, lets him know it's okay to make noise. Knees parted, you both lean closer, breathing each other in as fingers graze the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. He mirrors you, you mirror him. Like a dance. A slow… Slow dance.

You let your nails scrape lightly at the juncture of his pelvis, and he groans, a deep, needy sound. You love it.

He spreads his legs some more, encouraging you, and you take in on his offer. Of course you do. You reach his taint, your touch so light that it's almost ticklish, and you can hear the thought forming in his head even before looking at his face. He's grinning like an idiot.

“You're impossible.” You shake your head, unable to suppress a smirk of your own, and then press harder on the spot, your thumb massaging his skin until-

“Oh! Fuck…” His eyes widen, the noise coming out of his mouth sounding positively sinful.

You won't be going into a full prostate massage, but you know what it does to him. Indulge, no? That's the whole point.

You keep rubbing there until he goes a little cross-eyed, and you have to stop then, worried that he'll come right then and there. You can't have that.

He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to regain his bearings. “Cazzo, amore… You can't just do… That.” He pouts, and it's the most adorable look he's given you all night, with his lips still puffy from your kiss and his lipstick smeared into a dark gray around the edges.

You giggle, but retreat your hand, resorting to stroking the top of his thigh in soothing motions. Copia huffs, running a hand through his hair to brush some unruly strands out of his forehead.

“Better?” you ask with a small, self-satisfied smile which earns you a glare from him.

His hands find your waist again, and he pulls you closer, one of your knees going between his. He leans back with one hand on the bed, exposing himself to your gaze in an almost challenging manner, his eyes roving over your body, almost as if trying to commit it all to memory. Then, his hand reaches between your legs for the first time tonight, and you're done for. You're drenched. So drenched that it actually draws a gasp from him as he dips his fingers between your folds. Satan below, how are you meant to last?

His thumb finds your clit as his eyes meet yours again, your lips parting in anticipation. “What a sight you make, piccolina…”

“Copia…” You close your eyes, trying to maintain at least a semblance of control even as he starts rubbing tiny circles around your clit, his moves practiced and precise.

He's grown confident with it. Not that he wasn't great to begin with, but oh, now he knows just how to play your body, how to make you gasp, and moan, and whimper, and scream until your throat feels raw.

You try to focus on your breath, as you're meant to, and let your hand slither back towards his crotch. It needs to be mutual.

You cradle his balls in your palm, feeling them hot and heavy in your hold, ready to burst. His lips part in a silent moan, so close to you that he could kiss you if only he leaned forward a little bit. He doesn't. So instead, you slide your fingers up and wrap them around his cock.

“Ahh-” His eyes widen, and he does brush his lips against yours then, his tongue barely peeking out. He slides a finger inside you, another step in your dance.

A stroke, all the way up to his tip, and his finger pushes further in. Your thumb swipes over his slit, slicking him up with his own precum, and his finger curls inside you, the pad of it pressing against your front wall just right. You're staring at each other through half-lidded eyes, and it doesn't feel like you're fighting anymore. You’re both breaking in front of each other, bit by bit, unashamed.

“Copia…”

“Mmmm…” He leans in properly, and your mouth finds his. It's wet, and just as messy as before, with him licking past your lips, and you sucking on his tongue. That makes him growl. The sort of noise that you sometimes beg him to make. Deep, and feral, and so fucking hot.

You clench around his finger, desperate for more, and he seems to sense your need, sliding a second one inside you with almost no effort at all. Your left arm rests on his shoulder, your fingers tangling in his hair as you pull back to look into his eyes again. They're almost pitch black now. Two pools of pure Lust, surrounded by thin crowns of green and white.

You stroke him faster, the slide made easier by his own arousal. “Cazzo, ahh…”

“I'm… I need you. Fuck, I need you. Please…”

Your words snap him out of his pleasure fueled haze, and he blinks at you before glancing down between your bodies. So connected and yet so distant. It's not enough. His fingers pull out of you with a sloppy sound, making you whine at the sudden emptiness.

“Shhh… I know.” He reaches down to grasp your hand, stilling it with your palm against his tip. Your fingers intertwine with his, and for a few precious moments, you move together, your thumb rubbing along his frenulum as he guides your palm back and forth, your slick on his fingers mingling with his own. He whimpers, actually whimpers, resting his forehead against yours. And then he's pulling your hands away, to your disappointment.

“Amore, please…” You watch him pull away, and rearrange himself so that he's sitting with his legs in front of himself instead of kneeling.

“Come here, piccola.”

You scramble towards him, eager, and straddle his firm, perfect thighs. “Like this?” you ask. He shakes his head.

Last step.

He reaches for your hips, squeezing affectionately, and guides you up. “Oh…” You know what he wants. What you both want. Yes. Oh, yes.

You reach down, grasping his cock and lining it up with your entrance. The way he twitches against you is almost enough to make you come.

“Breathe, yeah?” he reminds you, even though he's pretty far gone himself.

“Yeah, yeah.”

He waits for eye contact, for your nod of consent, and then slowly, slowly pulls you down, breaching you.

“Ah- Fuck… Fuck…” It's agonising, almost, how good it feels.

You have no idea how much time has passed since you started, but it feels like hours. Hours in a constant state of arousal, each sense heightened, bringing you higher, until every touch feels like pure bliss. Pure, damned bliss.

“A-amore… Mmmm.” He holds your hips in a death grip, and you can almost feel the bruises forming, knowing you’ll smile at your reflection tomorrow when they'll remind you of the night you had, of the pleasure you shared.

He bottoms out, your ass meeting his thighs, and you've never felt so full. Physically, yes. But not only that. You're in tune with him, your chests rising and falling in sync, even as your breaths grow laboured. You can't look away from his eyes, not for an instant. You're one.

No more words are needed then. There's just him, and you, an “us” that feels more genuine than it ever has.

You breathe, and breathe, feeling the pleasure building despite you both staying still. A thought strikes you then, that Satan actually is watching, and that he's letting that energy build more and more. How could it feel so good otherwise?

You shift forward, angling your hips so that his tip can press against that perfect spot inside you, your arms circling his neck. His hands unclench from your hips, and he hugs you. Properly hugs you. His arms around your back, his chin resting on your shoulder. You close your eyes, sighing. You can practically feel his heartbeat inside you.

It's intimate, more than you think you can bear. But it's with him. Him, whom you've loved for years. Him, whom you've admired for even longer, silently, from afar. Him, who’s yours. Your Papa. Your Copia.

It's intimate, and raw, and a little scary. And perfect.

You stay like that for as long as your bodies allow, your walls clenching around him in a vain attempt to get some friction. You hug, and breathe, your nose buried in the crook of his neck. And then, you start moving. A slow roll of your hips, a timid rock up of his. You gasp in unison, stars sparkling under your closed eyelids.

It wouldn't be so bad, dying like this, so wrapped up in each other. And if you did things right, you will die soon. A wonderful little death, or a few, maybe.

The rocking of his hips soon grows more purposeful, and you feel him pressing deeper, where he belongs. You moan against his neck, your lips parting to mouth at his earlobe.

“Ohh… Oh, please…” He squeezes you tighter against himself, snapping his hips up until you feel like you're going to pass out from the pleasure.

“S-shit. Slow down. Oh, Satan… Slow down.” you pant into his ear, not wanting this to end yet.

Not yet. You're greedy like that.

He groans in frustration, but eventually stops moving, just in time. You pull your head back to look into his eyes, finding him with his brows furrowed in concentration, his lips pursed. It reminds you of when he's trying to poke the straw into one of his juice boxes. You giggle.

“I love you… So damn much, you know?” you whisper, your voice rough from all the moaning, and shaking with the effort of still holding back.

“And I love you. Ti amo.” he whispers back, just as wrecked at you.

“Ti amo.”

And with that you're moving again.

It builds much faster this time. It's exhilarating, and it goes straight to your head. You're both overstimulated, your bodies quivering. And yet… More. More, more. Satan, please, more.

You don't want to stop. And that fire spreading in your core tells you that you can't stop. Not now.

“Amore- I can't… So close…” He seems to voice your own thoughts, and you nod desperately, struggling to keep looking at him with your eyes rolling back at his every thrust.

You brace your hands on his shoulders, and ride him as you've done countless times before, but with more purpose now, more focus, and with hours, fuck, hours of buildup. You start out slow, lifting yourself up almost all the way, and sinking back down, your thighs burning.

He's holding on for dear life, and you can see it clearly. His chest is heaving, his eyes unfocused, his lips parted, a flush spreading from his ears and cheeks all the way down to his chest. Debauched. And yours. You're sure you're not doing much better.

He grabs your hips again, and makes you speed up, the litany of moans escaping his lips telling you that he's past reason. Like a destructive tsunami, it can't be stopped.

You cling to each other, and it builds, and builds, and builds. And oh, the edging worked, because the more you move, the surer you are that you’re going to touch Heaven, only to fall down past the crust of the earth after, down right into the pits of Hell. You'd be welcome there.

His moans and yours mingle in a symphony of your own, and an outsider could almost think that they're in time with the music still playing in the background. That you're part of that music now.

You climb higher and higher, and wonder for an instant if that is how the people of Babel felt, as they got closer and closer to God. But you're not looking for God. You have your own piece of divinity right in front of your eyes. The love of your life.

“Ahh- Ah!” your love cries out, and you feel him tense beneath you, rocking his hips as far up as they'll go, burying himself fully inside you as his eyes roll back into his head, and his orgasm hits him. You feel his cock kicking inside you, his familiar warmth flooding your core, and you hold him tighter, hoping to prolong his high.

You're right on the edge yourself, and he's still twitching in you when he reaches his hand between you two to rub your clit. Just a few strokes, and you're joining him.

You press your mouth against his still open one, muffling your scream, and clamp down around him, your walls, your whole body really, pulsating with ecstasy. It's all consuming.

He gasps sharply when your climax seems to trigger another one from him. Unlikely, but even if it is just one, it lasts an ungodly amount of time. Thank Satan.

You keep grinding down on him until every last ounce of pleasure has been pulled from your body, and you're left drained, completely. You don't really know how many orgasms those were. Maybe one, maybe five. Who cares, when you're practically about to pass out on top of him.

Copia pants against your shoulder, sounding pretty close to hyperventilating. But then it dies down, the euphoria, leaving just buzzing static in your minds, your ears ringing, your hearts still racing.

“That was-”

“I think-”

Your voices clash, and you end up laughing, his cute little chuckle in your ear making your heart do a somersault.

“You first, amore,” you prompt, pulling back a bit to meet his gaze. He's a whole damn mess, but you know you look the same.

“Eh, just… That was… One of the most intense experiences I've ever had.” he mutters, sounding back to his usual self, not the agent of Satan on earth, just Copia.

“Yeah. It was… A lot.”

“Mmm.”

You smile at him, but then that smile splits into a full on-grin when you watch him making a face and shifting his legs under you. You know what that means, yet you ask anyway. “What?”

“‘M sticky…”

It's true, you can feel his seed dripping down your inner thighs as he goes soft inside you, but it doesn't bother you, it never does.

You roll your eyes, but still gently lift yourself off of him, wincing when he slips fully out. You miss him already. He flops down on his back over the mattress, and you join him, draping yourself against his side, your arm around his waist and your head resting on his shoulder.

Sometimes he likes it too, staying inside you, letting the feeling linger. Sometimes that turns him on again, and he fucks his seed deeper into you, until you’re both completely exhausted. Other times, he just wants this, and you love it just as much.

“Shower?” you offer.

“Hmm, in a bit.”

“Alright.” You tilt your head up to place a kiss on the underside of his jaw. It always makes him shiver. “I think He liked it.”

“Huh?”

“Satan, He liked it. I could feel it, I think, near the end…”

That makes him peek down at you, a hint of a sleepy smile tugging at his lips. “He likes you.” he tells you in that rumbly, sultry voice that never fails to make you weak.

“Well…” You avert your gaze, blushing, and fix it onto the inverted cross resting over his chest, your fingers coming up to toy with it. A reminder of the power that this man holds. Your man.

He hums, clearly not pleased that you looked away from him, and you feel his hand cupping your cheek, covering half of your face, really.

“Your Papa still demands your attention, topina.” He pulls you up to him, guiding your face towards his so that he can kiss you, nice and slow, almost languid, the way he kisses you when his mind is still floating in post-orgasmic bliss.

“Want me to wash your back, Papa?” you whisper against his lips, and he smirks, making your stomach flutter. Maybe the night is not quite over yet.

“If you'll indulge me…”

“I always do.”

The moment after, he’s dragging you to the bathroom, his eyes sparkling with teenage-like excitement. As if you didn't just go through a whole damn sex ritual.

But you do indulge him. You always do.

You'll just have to remember to put off all the candles before collapsing back into bed, loved like only he can love you.

[elvain]

how i make sure the fundraisers i share are legit

i've seen numerous people in the past few weeks talk about how they never know if a fundraiser is legit, so they don't "risk" sharing or donating. while we all know there are villains out there who will take advantage of the genocide for their own gain, we also need to remember to take care of those who are really victims.

we have a humane duty to help every person who needs it, who approaches us for it. there is always a risk involved when you donate to "unofficial" campaigns online in any capacity, but using it as an excuse to avoid taking action for palestine is a moral failure.

that being said, i thought i'd make a small list of things i personally do before i donate/share fundraisers to make sure they are verified.

i check the notes of the reblogs on the fundraiser post. more often than not, i find a link to the verification or an actual verification. for example, 90-ghost, specifically, is one to reblog a post and verify its legitimacy. many tags also indicate where/when/if the campaign is verified.

i check palestinian blogs that have taken up this duty/responsibility/burden. nabulsi, 90-ghost, fallahifag, fairuzfan, el-shab-hussein, and palipunk are just a few off the top of my head.

i check the gaza funds spreadsheet for the family's name, which is an incredible resource. note: the numbers of the spreadsheet aren't always aligned for some reason (ie, #181 on the list can sometimes mean #184 on the spreadsheet). take the time to properly look through this list.

i check my own mutuals' blogs. many of us get the same people in our ask boxes and sometimes my friends have verified campaigns themselves or they have sources to verifications.

my resources/methods are not exhaustive or perfect. i don't even know if what i do is enough/worthy - but the important thing is that i do it.

it'll never be time to give up on palestine. please, let's all make sure we do our part in liberating our fellow humans that we may all one day enjoy the freedom and justice that we deserve.

[billie-black]

Thread of odd connections between Ikora, Elsie and Eris

I was scrolling through concept art when I noticed that, despite not being so in-game, The Stranger's rifle is Branded as a Cassoid weapon. This wouldn't mean much, bungie tends to use decals at random, except-

The curse of osiris variant, The Machina Dei 4, is also branded with a slightly altered version of the Cassoid logo, which I think proves that it has been upgraded with components from the foundry.

But let's put a pin on that and talk about another Cassoid weapon, The Invective shotgun, Ikora's signature weapon. The Invective has an ornament called Iconoclast, a word which here means "Destroyer of images used in religious worship." This nomenclature is very similar to-

The Vex Mythoclast, a weapon which, thanks to its sister weapon, The Worldline Zero (which coincidentally also has a prophecy variant), we know to be made by Elsie Bray. Canonically, we earn the Mythoclast as part of-

the "Not forged in light" quest, which ends with Elsie gifting us the No time to explain. A weapon which eventually ends back up in her hands and she gifts to us again earlier in the timeline as-

The stranger's rifle, which hangs around until it becomes the Machina Dei 4 (later Adhortative). And the prophecy attached to the Machina Dei 4 desribes Eris Morn and the events of Shadowkeep, when Eris discovers stasis and starts using the darkness.

A charnel but effulgent orb.

beacon in a loathsome dark.

Fêted, fetid corpses rise.

a too-long-absent gibbous spark.

Now, it's generally accepted that No time to explain (and all it's variants by proxy) was created at some future point in a distant timeline, this is incorrect. Ghost specifically points out that "parts" of it shouldn't exist, because the rifle itself is a common suros frame.

Going back to The Invective, you're probably more familiar with its legendary sister, The Comedian, and its D2 counterpart, Deadpan Delivery. The Comedian's flavor text reads "A. A ha. A ha ha ha. A ha ha ha ha ha ha ha" In D1 the joke wasn't really clear, but with the addition of a lore tab in D2, the joke has become the vanguard's falling victim to a hive god's deceit. Now, let's take a little trip to The dark future.

In The dark future, Beyond light never happened, Eramis was allowed to grow her armies and master stasis, which led to a massive attack on the city by Cabal remnants, Savathûn, and the glorious House Salvation, all masterminded by Eris Morn, who up to that point was believed to be an ally, but had been corrupted by stasis and the darkness.

Coming back to our timeline, let's look at differences between our case exotics and their variants. Elsie's rifle has undergone many more modifications than Invective. Matter of fact, Invective has barely undergone any changes from its default. It's painted red, AND It has tape wrapped the handle and the grip, just like No time to explain. (I know I'm talking about grip tape right now but please don't go, it gets better, I promise)

It's a weak link, many weapons have grip tape, but I think many of these small details add up and point to The Iconoclast being one of Elsie's gifts. Let's review the similarities between Iconoclast and other gifts from Elsie.

>It's sourced from one of the city foundries and later received Cassoid upgrades (Invective and it's variants are nadir products)

>It has grip tape where the original does not.

>Mythoclast and Iconoclast are very similar terms and could point to a connection.

>It has a perpetual ammo function, like No time to explain and The Mythoclast.

But we should also look at Iconoclast within it's own context. Invective being her weapon, what does it mean for Ikora? She's never been been known to combat or really oppose any sort of religion, at least that I can find. And let's make it clear, the gun is not the Iconoclast. Just like the Mythoclast is not The Mythoclast. The weapons, in this case, are named for the wielder. You kill Atheon and so you become the Mythoclast, the gun is more of symbol. So, what religious figure is Ikora supposed to kill in order to become the Iconoclast?

Well, just this season, the hive have come out with a brand spanking new god, one very close to Ikora. Now I don't think Ikora is going to kill Eris. Eris would need to do something completely heinous for her to even consider that. Like, idk, bombarding the last city with House Salvation and the shadow legion... i. e., what happens in the dark timeline.

Look, I really don't believe Eris is going to turn evil all the sudden, that would be character assasination of the highest magnitude. But from Ikora's point of view? She has a supposed time traveller yelling at her that she's letting everything go sideways.

So my theory is that Elsie took Ikora's Invective from some other failed timeline (possibly the one where they smooch) and gave it to Ikora as the Iconoclast, along with the idea that alternate Ikora ruined everything because she failed to act and put Eris down when she could.

And this is where Deadpan Delivery comes in. You see, Ikora doesn't use invective anymore, and she doesn't use the Comedian. She exclusively wields Deadpan Delivery. Now, I know this was probably just the animators being faithful to her character, seeing how she prefers shotguns-

But the retroactive additions to the Comedian's lore, outside my crazed theories, implies a statement from Ikora. The Comedian's joke is the vanguard falling victim to a hive god's deceit, and in the dark timeline that god, the Savathûn figure, is Eris morn. And so-

By maining Deadpan delivery Ikora is subtextually saying "It's not funny. I'm not laughing. I don't subscribe to the narrative put forward by the comedian or Elsie. I trust Eris". And by rejecting the Comedian she's additionally disavowing it's older sister, The Invective, which is a symbol of the gung ho attitude which defined her in her youth. And wether my Iconoclast theory is correct or not, we can definitively say: Ikora is against what it represents , she is a guardian, and she will make a new fate no matter what.

[youhavehitawall]

i love hearing about your worldbuilding its my favoritest thing eaverrr 🎤what are ur current thoughts about car bloods if you have the time🥺

ifnot: 🐢 tortiese

i will happily make time for worldbuilding :)

not sure if specifically abt Genetics or about literal Bloods but ive talked abt genetics enough so blood time:

Cars have many different fluids that are integral to their function. Blood is not really one of them - they have substitutes for blood. And they have no repair system, so the important part of blood (keeping cells alive to regenerate) is not important.

But in cars universe, cars have a more organic composition and I would guess a small amount of self-repair ability? Because they're not concerned about little scratches or scrapes. They also eat non-metal foods. So these 'organic' components would make sense to have blood. (They're not really organic but are more closely resembling an organism to a rock or metal. It's a special pseudoalloy specific to the Cars universe) Car blood is called blood, nerve-blood, or ichor. It is highly toxic to organic life when wet. It has a very cloying copper-grease smell and moves strangely, as if mercury had a lower surface tension. When newly dry (an hour to five years) it has a soft clayish composition, often easy to mix with dirt. After five years, it slowly hardens and compacts with itself to become as hard as literal rock - sometimes taking hundreds of years. At the rock stage its original colour deepens and forms crystallic refractions. Ichor comes in many strange colours. It often coincides with a car's eyes or paint but there is no direct link to either. A car's gums and tongue are coloured with ichor. It is rarely seen in liquid form because its hoses run deep within a car's chassis and cabin, and are not supposed to be found. Major accidents or surgeries to the chassis rail can split these hoses and cause leaks. Damage to the gums and tongue can also cause bleeding but are rapidly repaired by the body.

Ichor dissipates easily into soils or substrates, and when dry, becomes a rich mineral deposit for certain plants or fauna. Metalroot is the most famous ichor-eating plant, known for growing over car's graves. Metalroot is a low-growing, densely leaved plant whose white flowers have a distinct chromatic gleam in sunlight. There's also a few animals that will dig for dried ichor because of its mineral richness.

Ichor eventually moves down into the rock bed. All cars come from the rock and they return to it. Many cars believe it's ichor that carries the cars' soul, and also that a car can remain as a ghost until their ichor is dissipated into rock. (And some believe that with a ritual, some pure ichor, and a body, a car's soul can be re-tethered.)

Large veins of crystallic rock-hard ichor, exposed to the right conditions, can sometimes bud and form bitlets that are an entirely new genetic subspecies of car. These species will have genetic components from whichever mixed bloods they spawn off, but are often new and different. Open rockfaces with ichor deposits are jealously guarded by individuals hoping to discover a new breed of car.

And rarer still, the buds turn into monsters...

[dingodad]

What is the deal with the beta and alpha kids ghosts in Terezi remem8er? When their main bodies die, their souls just go into their dream body/god tier body, so their dead bodies shouldn’t have specific ghosts. I get how dreamselves have ghosts since when the main consciousness takes over the dream body, the original soul dies, but there should be no soul left inside of the main body of the kids if they ascended. As far as I know, this flash is the only one that shows ghosts of the dead bodies of characters? Every time a character dies, is there just a ghost made of them no matter what? Do souls just not work that way in homestuck?

Remem8er is a moment in the comic i prefer not to think about most of the time because of these exact insane implications but I think the best way to frame those implications in a way that expands our understanding of the rest of Homestuck rather than coming across as a crazy last-minute twist is to think of the ghosts in the dream bubbles not as "souls" as we might traditionally understand them, but as "memories".

like, obviously the point of the entire flash is "Remem8er"ing, so any understanding of the events in the animation should stem from that. but we ourselves also have to remember that these structures we think of as an 'afterlife' are first and foremost "dream" bubbles. and while we tend to think of ghosts and memory projections as two distinctly different things in the dream bubbles, they're not without their overlap; remember that psychics like Aradia and Sollux interacted with and even summoned the shades of the dead all the time before they ever visited the dream bubbles, and there are subtle implications that interacting with a memory of an event can have some real impact on how that event plays out.

the "soul" as it is exists in Homestuck is something that can be "splintered" by a mere thought - the Brain Ghost Dirk has its own ghostly existence, but it's really just Jake's 'interpretation' of Dirk, and Hal and Dave's bro are all just different kinds of interpretation of the same character. and this is basically how the things we see in Remem8er are framed; the animation ends with everything flashing by in a neuron, because it was all a visualisation of Terezi's Mind powers, and Mind is an aspect that deals not with facts of physics (like 'you only get one soul') but with the way our own interpretation of events dictates reality - as quoted in the link above, reality isn't something that happens to you but "SOM3TH1NG [you] 4R3 M4K1NG 3V3RY MOM3NT W1TH 3V3RY THOUGHT".

as I've said before, as Homestuck approaches its conclusion and the shape of the Ultimate Self begins to emerge from the fog, the comic starts to introduce more and more of these different kinds of 'interpretation' - first doomed timeline versions, then post-scratch versions, then post-retcon versions - not because it wants you to keep track of them all as if they were different characters, but because it wants you to get the picture that no matter what permutations you make they are all ultimately the SAME character. I once talked to someone who suggested Remem8er was SUPPOSED to be some kind of shocking twist that forced us to deal with the gravity of death in Homestuck in a way we had previously been ignorant to, but I don't think this could be further from the truth: Remem8er puts importance on these deaths precisely because they are NOT moments of grave severity, but stepping stones in the journey the characters took to become who they are now. after all, "Remem8ering" is not mourning something you lost, but accepting that something has always been part of you, even when you weren't aware of it.

so to actually answer your question: yes... as hard as that might be to accept initially, i guess it does make a ghost every time you die even if you get reborn afterward? but like Terezi points out, we make new memories and therefore new ghosts any time we make any decision that affects the world around us. don't think of the soul or pieces of the soul as something you lose to the void every time a new ghost of you is born into the void, but rather as one huge picture that gets sharper as each new ghost takes the place of a new pixel in the image!

[waywardsalt]

genuinely wondering where some of the ph-specific misinformation comes from

[pub-lius]

WAKE UP ITS HAMILTON TIME (hamilton pt 1)

everyone thank richard for getting me to put all my knowledge about alexander hamilton in one place. if you're at all new or confused, @thereallvrb0y once asked me 3 years ago to tell him everything about every historical figure i can, and since then i have been doing that. now we are onto the last one on the list he gave me, and studying hamilton is literally my life's work, so here it is. on tumblr.com. for free.

my sources for this are Ron Chernow and Hamilton himself and a strange amalgamation of knowledge from different museums, documentaries, interviews with historians, and other otherwise publicly accessible knowledge that i have compiled into the vast library inside my mind! you can find my notes in the link in my pinned post. let's go (this historical research is sponsored by the ghost of freddie mercury and my aunt who made me a whole pot of coffee)

Background Information

Ron Chernow loves to talk about how the island of St. Kitts and Nevis was formed, but that's not fucking important. What's important about Hamilton's birthplace is that it was positioned in the Caribbean in such a way that made it a very easily accessible port, however the coastline was pretty smooth which made it generally unideal for mooring ships.

Source: The St. Kitts' Scenic Railway; Six Frigates: The Epic History of the Founding of the US Navy by Ian W. Toll, p. 112 ("Basseterre Roads was not a good natural harbor. It was little more than a dent in the otherwise smooth coastline that ran along the western side of the island. There was no pier- visitors were obliged to run their boats directly onto the beach, sometimes surfing in on waves that broke heavily as they reached the shore.")

Now, notice that St. Kitts and Nevis is, in geographic terms, to the right-ish of the Caribbean. That means when you're coming from Jolly Ole England, you might make a pit stop in St. Kitts and Nevis. So if you ignore the fact that the island has no natural harbor (at least not a good one), it might be a good economic prospect for a young merchant, right?

Well, not if that merchant is James Hamilton, because he was an idiot. And I say that lovingly, or at least more lovingly than Ron Chernow did. Ron Chernow also emphasized that St. Kitts and Nevis was filled with the 18th century version of Shameless, and also Jewish people. Ron Chernow might not hate Jewish people, but he does hate the character archetypes in Shameless. In Shameless terms, James Hamilton was like Frank Gallagher.

Disclaimer: knowledge of Shameless is not necessary to understand that being compared to a guy named Frank is not a good thing

I've already made posts about Hamilton's parents and brother (here, if you'd like to read that ig. weirdo), but I want to talk about the things that Hamilton would have learned from his parents. Later in life, Hamilton vaguely alluded to his father's failings in business being due to an excessive amount of generosity and not really understanding where he should and shouldn't spend his money. This did not by any means make Hamilton stingy with his money, or even smart, for that matter, but it did make him want to be something specific: independent.

James Hamilton's tragic flaw was his dependence on other people, whether it was his older brother or Rachel Faucette or his business partners, etc. Due to the position and order in which he was born, James was never destined to be a leader. He wasn't exceptional academically like other non-first-born-sons, such as James Madison, or dispositionally inclined to organize and inspire, like George Washington. He was just a dude, and he was a dude who was not built for 18th century society, especially not in the Caribbean. From what we can tell, James Hamilton was a gullible, moderately intelligent man with symptoms of autism and non-descript mental health issues. He was basically fucked from the get-go.

Source: Alexander Hamilton by Ron Chernow (p. 12-16); Papers of Alexander Hamilton, vol. 25, p. 89, letter to William Jackson, August 26, 1800 ("In a capacity of a merchant he went to St. Kitts, where from too generous and too easy a temper he failed in business and at length fell into indigent circumstances.")

Rachel Faucette was like James Hamilton's polar opposite. She was forced to learn how to provide for herself, not being able to rely on anyone, because that could be ripped out from under her feet at any moment, and the only thing concrete in her life was herself. She was a woman, and that was what most women had to learn at some point.

Rachel was also perfectly poised to be the clear moral guide for young Hamilton. When James Hamilton left, he basically sacrificed any reverence his son might have for him, and instituted Rachel as Hamilton's sole role model for his developmental years and i just burned the shit out of my hand with coffee.

Disclaimer: James Hamilton had nothing to do with me burning the shit out of my hand with coffee, I promise. You can't blame all your problems on deadbeat dads

If you're a Sigmund Freud fan, (good opener, I know), you're aware of the Oedipus Complex, and that's not exactly what I'm talking about, but yk. look it up. This theory proposed by Freud was only partially rejected by the psychological field (due to the fact that not everything is about wanting to fuck your mom and kill your dad, and also that's not the story of Oedipus Rex like. at all??), but the part that still rang true was that children do have a unique attachment to the opposite sex parent.

Psychological studies show that children tend to describe their opposite sex parents more favorably than same sex parents. Why? I don't know, I'm not a psychologist, I'm an 18 year old who drinks coffee like he was 5 kids to raise.

Source: "The Relation between Attachment to Opposite Sex Parents and Attachment to Romantic Partners" by Gary L. Grogan and Dr. Mary E. Pritchard, p. 10 ("However, most significant for the present inquiry were the findings that respondents described their opposite sex parents more favorably, and same sex parents more critically.")

This statistic is visible in Hamilton's descriptions of his parents, and must have been enhanced by James Hamilton's early departure in his son's life, the consequences from that which seemed constant, but also by the reputation his father had built on the island he left Hamilton on. Hamilton would grow up to see his mother not only providing for herself and her children, but also overcoming the consequences of James' actions, which provoked resentment towards his father, and admiration towards his mother. This will develop as a theme throughout his life, but we'll touch on that as he grows up. He isn't even born yet! So let's get on to that.

Source: so when I say Hamilton's description of his mother, I really mean HIS son's, but JCH most likely got this description from his father, Life of Alexander Hamilton by John Church Hamilton, vol. 1, pg. 42 ("...a woman of superior intellect, elevated sentiment, and unusual grace of person and manner. To her he was indebted for his genius."); for the sake of my reliability and reputation, I'll include JCH's description of his grandfather for comparison, Intimate Life of Alexander Hamilton by John Church Hamilton, p. 13 ("Hamilton's father does not appear to have been successful in any pursuit, but in many ways was a great deal of a dreamer, and something of a student, whose chief happiness seemed to be in the society of his beautiful and talented wife, who was in every way intellectually his superior.")

Early Life

Alexander Hamilton was born ginger on January 11, 1755, and I don't entertain the argument that he was born in 1757 because I'm not an anarchist and I believe society has laws (I'm actually lying, I'll talk about the birth year debate in the college section). Hamilton was not, however, born black or Jewish. He was also, potentially, born not James Hamilton's son.

"Wh- WHAT?! *cries*" I hear you say, and I know, it's shocking information, but yes. First off, Hamilton was not black in any percentage more than the Pillsbury dough boy is black. This theory comes from the fact that Rachel Faucette was a lower class woman and therefore we have no proof that she WASN'T partially black. I don't even have to dispute that for anyone with a gram of critical thinking skills to see that that isn't a valid historical hypothesis.

The Jewish thing has a little more merit to it, and there's a whole book about it that I haven't read. There is some evidence to suggest that Rachel Faucette's ex husband, Johann Lavien, could have been a secret Jewish person, and possibly caused Rachel herself to convert, and she tried to pass on that to Hamilton by having a Jewish woman educate him when he was a toddler (that last part is a true fact, and is the earliest piece of information we have about Hamilton's education). If this is true, (and it's nearly impossible to prove true or false because well if Lavien was a secret Jew, it was a secret), it did not impact Hamilton's religious beliefs in any way, and he identified as a Christian throughout his entire life.

We'll do a paternity test on Hamilton later, just hang tight. See, this is how I get you, I say something controversial, and then I don't talk about it until 16 paragraphs later.

Source: Alexander Hamilton by Ron Chernow, p. 9 ("A persistent mythology in the Caribbean asserts that Rachel was partly black, making Alexander Hamilton a quadroon or an octoroon. In this obsessively race-conscious society, however, Rachel was invariably listed among the whites on local tax rolls. Her identification as someone of mixed race has no basis in verifiable fact. (See pages 734-35 [this is in Chernow's Acknowledgments, and he just talks about how he used a paper trail to come to this conclusion, and thought genetic research would only confuse the evidence. He also discusses that there is a small chance that Hamilton fathered a black child named William Hamilton, but I can go ahead and tell you that's false due to the fact that Hamilton had just arrived in America when William was born -HWS]) The folklore that Hamilton was mulatto probably arose from the incontestable truth that many, if not most, illegitimate children in the West Indies bore mixed blood."); Life of Alexander Hamilton by John Church Hamilton, vol. 1, p. 42 ("...rarely as he alluded to his personal history, he mentioned with a smile his having been taught to repeat the Decalogue in Hebrew, at the school of a Jewess, when so small that he was placed standing by her side upon a table); Ibid., vol. 7, p. 710-11; Papers of Alexander Hamilton, vol. 26, p. 774, "Comments on Jews"

Hamilton's education began with his mother, who is almost definitely the person who made him fluent in French by the time he came to America. Despite limited access to books (34 books in both French and English to be specific), Hamilton still studied everything he could from a young age, with an early love for learning new things and proving that he was smarter than you. However, most of his education was in the School of Hard Knocks Community College, which was amply provided by the environment around him.

In the height of the British Empire, the Caribbean was essentially a social prison for anyone who broke the moral laws of the colonial, Eurocentric society of the time. This included pirates, prostitutes, drunks, thieves, and basically anyone who didn't fit the mold for a member of high society and/or someone who could serve high society and their lives of luxury. Hamilton, by birth, was one of these people.

Hamilton's father moved the family to St. Croix right before he left, which was a dramatic shift from Hamilton's life on St. Kitts and Nevis. In St. Croix, everyone knew Hamilton's mother as the disgraced ex-wife of Johann Lavien, and therefore knew her two sons as "whore-children", which was a word usually given to illegitimate children. Here, Hamilton was roped in with the degenerates of society, and it was practically said directly to him that he was destined to be unholy, unclean, worthless, and disgusting. Could you believe that this would have an impact on his mental health?

Along with seeing the poor lifestyles of the inhabitants of the Caribbean, Hamilton also saw glimpses into a very different world: ~rich people~. There were few rich white people on the islands, and they owned vast amounts of enslaved people, with the black to white ratio being 8:1 in the Caribbean. These enslaved people were forced to live in horrible conditions, and Hamilton saw it everywhere- his mother owned three people, but they were often rented out to garner profit for the white family, rather than working a plantation as others in the Caribbean did. Violence towards enslaved black people was only part of the violence young Hamilton witnessed in the Caribbean, some of which came in the form of dueling *insert ominous music*

Source: Alexander Hamilton by Ron Chernow, p. 18 ("To the extent that dueling later entranced Hamilton to an unhealthy degree, this fascination may have originated in the most fabled event in Nevis in the 1750s [a duel between two men where one of them was killed"); Ibid., p. 19; Ibid., p. 23-24

James Hamilton abandoned the family in 1765, and the reasons he did so are debated, but most likely are due to debt. However, there's another possibility that I've alluded to before: Hamilton's paternity.

So, remember, Rachel Faucette is not a perfect angel, and she also didn't particularly care for matrimony. There is a chance that she was with other men besides Hamilton and Lavien, and though we have no evidence that she was, there is an interesting character I'd like to throw into the mix.

Thomas Stevens, a moderately rich guy, was a merchant who lived on King Street in Charleston, St. Croix, with his wife Ann and his son Edward, who was born a year before Alexander Hamilton. Thomas Stevens was a very generous guy, and Edward Stevens would later be lifelong friends with Alexander Hamilton. And uh. They looked almost exactly the same. I really wish we had a portrait of Edward Stevens, but according to literally everyone, it was hard to tell the difference between him and Hamilton. Now, statistically, we all have some kind of doppelganger out there, but like what are the chances that they grew up down the street from each other and their parents had suspiciously close connections? Now, I'm not saying that Hamilton should have been Alexander Stevens, I think that's pretty irrelevant, but it is possible that Thomas Stevens... you... ARE THE FATHER!!!

Source: Alexander Hamilton by Ron Chernow, p. 27-28 ("Nevertheless, in the absence of direct proof, the notion that Alexander was the biological son of Thomas Stevens instead of James Hamilton would clarify many oddities in Hamilton's biography.")

The Hamiltons' life post-dad-desertion was actually somewhat comfortable due to Rachel's kickassery. She established a little store for a source of income, relocated a couple times, rented out the enslaved people (as one does, i guess, that's such a wild phrase), and kept a pet goat for milk and cheese and idk soap or whatever else people make with goat milk. Her sons would help out, possibly providing an origin for Hamilton's incessant need to be productive at all times without resting. At times, they were supported by his aunt Ann Lytton Mitchell, who he would remain loyal to until his death. During this time, as he was old enough to understand what his father did, is probably when his fiercely loyal, chivalrous and family-driven attitude developed.

Source: Alexander Hamilton by Ron Chernow, p. 22-23; Ibid., p. 28

I'm so hopped up on caffeine I could do a triathalon.

Hamilton and his mother were both afflicted by a strange and unspecified illness in the winter of 1768. The primary symptom was a severe fever, and they were treated with purgatives, medicinal herbs, and bloodletting. Nothing helped, and Rachel died at 9 pm on February 19. Hamilton miraculously survived.

Immediately, Hamilton and his brother James had everything they owned taken away, indebted by bills charged against them by local debtors. Their half brother inherited whatever else belonged to their mother, which brought up the marital scandal all over again, beginning a legal battle that lasted for around a year. In the end, the two Hamilton brothers were left with two things: jack shit and fuck all.

Custody of the two boys was appointed to their cousin, Peter Lytton. In my notes, I described him as "white trash" and "insane", including the quotes, so idk who said that. Peter Lytton lived with his black mistress and their illegitimate child. He killed himself on July 6, 1769, and what's strange about that is that we don't know if he shot or stabbed himself. I don't know who got confused about the difference between a knife and a gun, but that isn't my problem.

To make a bad situation worse, Peter Lytton didn't leave the boys anything in his will, and neither did his father, who did "his best" to help. His best could have been even just mentioning the name Hamilton in his will, but whatever, I guess.

These events held very important lessons for the young Alexander: 1) nothing lasts forever; 2) everyone dies; 3) the legal system is terrible; 4) rich people hate you; and, most importantly, 5) the only way out was up.

Source: Alexander Hamilton by Ron Chernow, p. 22-27

On His Own

This marked a split between Hamilton and his older brother, but this didn't seem to affect him as much as what happened with his parents- possibly because he wasn't biologically his brother, but I don't really care about that. What's more important is that Hamilton was almost entirely on his own, with inconsistent housing, so he couldn't always rely on the Stevenses. He was in a very similar situation that his mother was in at one time not long ago: alone and self reliant.

Hamilton was already working for the mercantile company, Beekman and Cruger. This company was later renamed, so I'll just say that Hamilton worked for Cruger, who was a business man with ties to New York. Hamilton worked as a clerk at this import-export business, giving him the responsibility to monitor intake and outtake as well as the organization of papers and just generally keeping everything in line. Due to the international relevance that was St. Croix, Hamilton often used French in his business dealings. Here, Hamilton perfected his handwriting into that elegant mess we know and can't read, picked up information on shipping/navigation, and learned his famously proficient math skills, particularly in relation to finance and economics.

Hamilton's famously maniacal work ethic began here, but so did his yearning for military valor. The first piece of personal correspondence we have from Hamilton is a letter to bestie Edward Stevens, and was made very famous from The Musical.

"Im confident, Ned that my Youth excludes me from any hopes of immediate Preferment nor do I desire it, but I mean to prepare the way for futurity. Im no Philosopher you see and may be jusly said to Build Castles in the Air. My Folly makes me ashamd and beg youll Conceal it, yet Neddy we have seen such Schemes successfull when the Projector is Constant I shall Conclude saying I wish there was a War. I am Dr Edward Yours Alex Hamilton (sic)"

Source: Alexander Hamilton by Ron Chernow, p. 29-30; Alexander Hamilton to Edward Stevens, November 11, 1769, St. Croix; Library of Congress, Image 13 of Alexander Hamilton Papers: General Correspondence, 1734-1804; 1734-1772

When Cruger left St. Croix for New York due to medical reasons in 1771, he left 16 year old Alexander Hamilton in charge of his primary source of income. And you're probably thinking that's a stupid idea. Because it is.

BUT ITS ALEXANDER HAMILTON. SO IT WAS FINE??? Well, fine for everyone besides the captain of the HMS Thunderbolt.

The Thunderbolt pulled into St. Croix's busy harbor after crossing the ocean and manned by a veteran captain, however Hamilton was not satisfied with the outfitting of the ship nor the quality of the goods that had been transported.

"Reflect continually on the unfortunate voyage you have just made and endeavor to make up for the considerable loss therefrom accruing to your owners." -Alexander Hamilton to Captain Newton, February 1, 1772

You can really see Hamilton's "I'm better than you and I know it" attitude shining through, made more shocking than ever than the fact that he was SIXTEEN YEARS OLD and talking to a man who was LITERALLY TWICE HIS AGE. The only reason he didn't lose his job over this is because he was right. The mules that had been transported were in such poor health, Hamilton had to pull strings to get them sold, and the wood was too waterlogged to be sold on the open market, so he sold it to a private buyer who was able to find something to do with them. He showed quick thinking, confidence in his abilities, and managerial skills. It was these skills that would later appeal to George Washington, not his financial abilities, and led to his most important appointment.

Source: Papers of Alexander Hamilton, vol. 1, p. 23, letter to Tileman Cruger, February 1, 1772 ("It would be undoubtedly a great pity that such a vessel [the Thunderbolt] should be lost for the want of them [cannons]."); Ibid., p.4, letter to Captain Newton, February 1, 1772; Alexander Hamilton: A Biography by Forrest McDonald, p. 128 ("Taken aback, Washington replied, 'I always knew Colonel Hamilton to be a man of superior talents, but never supposed that he had any knowledge of finance.")

Cruger's firm also engaged in the Atlantic slave trade, as did the majority of trading firms in the Caribbean and the American south. It was this exposure to the abhorrent conditions on slave ships and the violence African people faced in the triangle trade that shaped Hamilton into a vocal opponent of slavery- when it was convenient. More impactful was the fear he developed of slave revolts, as was very common in the Caribbean because of the disproportionate slave to free/black to white ratio in the islands, and this would later define his views on the French Revolution and public protest in general. He and Thomas Jefferson had this in common.

Hamilton continued studying books in his free time, and the local newspaper, the Royal Danish American Gazette, began publishing poems from an anonymous young writer- obviously it was Hamilton. His poems ranged in subjects, and aren't particularly good, but they're better than any poems I've written angrily in my journal about my evil exes, so that is to his credit.

Hamilton's poems took a religious turn, most likely traceable to the arrival of Reverend Hugh Knox, who took in Hamilton as a mentor. Clergymen were a hot commodity in the hell hole that was the Caribbean, and Knox had a lot of work on his hands, but he took a particular interest in Hamilton, specifically in getting him out of the aforementioned hell hole. He saw that Hamilton was incredibly intelligent and hard working, almost to a fault- he was probably the first person who was genuinely concerned for this dude's health over how much he worked.

Fun fact, Knox also had personal ties to the Burr family, but that is literally only a fun fact and not a sign that Burr and Hamilton were star-crossed lovers in fair Verona or whatever Chernow has deluded himself into thinking.

Source: Alexander Hamilton by Ron Chernow, p. 32-33; Ibid., p. 34

Source: National Guard Bureau, "Examining Lessons from Katrina 10 Years Later"

Then, a massive hurricane struck the Caribbean on August 1, 1772. It was incredibly damaging, causing mass destruction in St. Croix, and this is most definitely one that we in the south would evacuate for. Even my dad would evacuate for this one, and it took a lot of convincing to get him to evacuate for Katrina.

In reaction to this event, Hamilton wrote his famous letter to his father detailing and reflecting on the storm. And finally, I'm giving y'all my analysis of this letter that I keep saying I'll do. However, this post is already incredibly long, so I'm going to do it in a google doc and attach it here.

Source: Alexander Hamilton to The Royal Danish American Gazette, September 6, 1772

The letter was published to The Royal Danish American Gazette, which spread around the afflicted community. Knox's congregation gathered money for the anonymous young author (now not very anonymous) to sail to the American mainland for his education. Originally, Hamilton went to study medicine, due to the high demand for doctors in the Caribbean (his knowledge of anatomy would remain helpful throughout his life). However, at some point he decided he would not be going back to the Caribbean, and switched his focus to law, but we'll discuss that more in part two.

Source: Alexander Hamilton by Ron Chernow, p. 37-40

Well, there's part one. I did all of this in one day because um. I don't know, but it is now one in the morning and i have to wake up earlier than normal. so that's fun. i hope y'all enjoyed. shout out to my mom for proofreading half of this, and shout out to my aunt who gave me coffee, that was a horrible idea. i'll be back with part two at some point, which will probably be more concise because hamilton's childhood in the caribbean is where most of the theories are, so yeah. love y'all.

[deleteddewewted]

Ghost Learns That Patience Runs Out

Ghost x Gn! Reader

W/n: Ghost angst cause i said so. This is also very OOC mainly because I like some angsty and fucked Ghost concepts. Im basing some of this off of his comics since there are some concerning scenes with him having very concerning behavior towards vulnerable people. DO NOT TAKE THIS SERIOUSLY (P.s. Commissions are open! You can commission me through my ko-fi. Dm me for details and commission specifics. Kofi Link Here!)

Summary: You love him, a lot. You are always so quiet and patient with him, wanting to make sure that his needs are met before your own. When he comes back from deployment you cook and clean for him. You make sure that everything feels relaxed and stress-free but its too much at times. Sometimes he looks at you and sees someone whom he hates. Sometimes he yells and breaks down while you're in the middle of helping him get clean. You take the verbal lashings and the occasional remarks in stride but you've hit your limit.

W: Unhealthy relationship, Simon "Ghost" Riley has issues, Break up, Hurt/ No Comfort, Hurt Ghost, Hurt Reader, Sad Ghost, OOC Ghost

You made sure everything was spotless. You knew how grimy and dangerous his work was, how much it weighed on him to do it and you wanted to make sure that your partner if that's what you could even call him, came back to a clean home.

You both hadnt said it out verbally, not that you thought you needed to, but you were together. Kinda. You knew he was only seeing you and he knew that you were only seeing him. It made sense to you to say that you were together but he never really enjoyed labeling your relationship. It started off as a mutual agreement to help each other destress but here you both were moving in together and sleeping in the same bed every night.

You did the laundry an hour before you knew he'd get home just so he'd have something warm and fresh smelling to put on once he took off his gear. You cooked something that would be rich in flavor and aroma while also being easy to eat since he didn't really take his time eating his meals.

You did everything to make the place feel like home to him.

Instead, when he opened up the door the first thing out of him was a grunt followed by his silence. He took off his gear, toeing off his boots by the door before taking off his socks. He was silent and had his back facing you but you didn't allow it to deter you.

"So, how was the flight back? I hope it wasn't too stressful. Im still cooking so you can go ahead and shower before eating, ok?" He didn't honor you with any response and instead walked into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him and turning on the shower.

You're used to it, his cold gaze and his uninterested attitude. You cold usually get him to relax with a meal or a quickie in the kitchen while your trying to cook. But you're tired, and your body is sore from working earlier in the day and preparing for his arrival.

"I'll set the table for us so you don't need to wait to eat!" You called out but you doubted he heard you.

When he came out of his shower, he was wearing the clothes you had set out for him and was toweling off his hair. The eyeblack was mostly removed but still stained around his eyes.

He said nothing, just sat down in his chair, and began to eat all while ignoring you.

"Did things go smoothly? Are John, Kyle, and Johnny ok?" You attempted to start the conversation again but were met with the sound of utensils scraping against the ceramic plate.

"We can talk about it later so you can unwind." You cut the conversation short and ate your food all while holding back the urge to cry.

His absence from your shared home was noticeable his presence was overpowering. He wasn't affectionate but he at least would answer your questions. He would at least touch you and pressure you that he was home. He would at least say a quiet "thank you" for the meal.

Instead, you both cleaned up the table and cleaned the dishes. He finished his and walked straight into the bedroom. You follow him once you finished cleaning the kitchen and began to undress. Maybe he wanted to have sex tonight. Maybe this would get him to speak to you or pay attention to you.

"Simon, I want you." You did your best, you even put on a bit of a show for him. But he wasn't looking at you. He just lifted up the sheets and laid down.

Maybe you were being too overly sensitive but his rejection hurt. It had you questioning if you were good enough for him if your body was pleasant to look at or to even touch.

You put on your usual sleeping clothes and joined him in bed. You slept with your back facing him. Sleeping next to him felt suffocating.

In the morning things weren't any better. He was talking to you but he was being crude and rude about the smallest of things. You had to go grocery shopping for something small and he began to berate you.

"How did you forget to buy more cooking oil? You're the only one in this house that cooks." It was getting annoying. His eyes never left you and it felt like you were a caged animal that he was keeping an eye on.

"I'm sorry, ok? I forgot. I was just excited that you were coming home and I forgot." You wanted to be patient, he was stressed all the time. He had to watch people die as part of his job but it didn't stop you from growing more and more upset with him every time he started these petty arguments.

"You don't leave the house most of the time. You're always here or at work. How could you forget something so basic? This is incompetence, Y/n." He had his face mask pulled down so you were able to see the majority of his face. He looked disgusted.

"Simon, please. You just got back, can we please just enjoy that? Can we enjoy that you're ok and back home for once?" You had the car keys in your hand, you were ready to head out to grab what you needed but he wouldn't leave it alone.

He snatched the keys from your hand and pushed you to the side.

"Why should we? I can't even trust you when you're alone and now you think you can go do it now?" He slammed the front door as he walked out.

The silence was deafening and relieving. He was gone.

You cried. You used to do it often when he would leave for a new assignment or when he would go without contacting you for months on end. But this was different. He was here. He was home. This should be the happiest time for you. Instead, it was painful. You wished he wasn't here. You wanted him to go away again.

You knew that he was nicer, calmer, and more understanding with his colleagues than he was to you. You knew this because of how he would talk about his coworkers. They were his family, his anchor. You wanted to be that support for him, to be his anchor that removed him from all of the gore and violence of his world.

But you weren't that person for him. You were his punching bag. His toy to fuck and use. He wasn't always rude but it was normal for him to be. You wanted him back, the man you fell for, the one who held you and told you that he adored you. You craved Simon back but it seemed that all that remained was his facade. His mask.

You didn't want to do this again when. he got back from the store. You didn't want to argue anymore with the person you thought you were committed to. He had problems and you weren't going to blame him for it but he wasn't the man you loved. This was not the person you met all those months ago.

You packed a bag with the essentials and started clearing up some of the mess that had started to appear since last night. You took everything you thought you might need for at least a few nights at a motel. You were tired, your body begging you to take a moment to breathe and relax but your heart was pounding in your chest and the. tears began to flow out.

When Simon got back, he noticed that the lights inside your guy's home were off. He stepped into the home, toeing his shoes off because he knew how much you hated cleaning the floor. He called out for you, he walked around the first floor of your home before placing the groceries on the table. He had bought some flowers and your favorite snack because he saw that you were low on them. He also felt like an ass for having been rude in the morning. He shouldn't have been mean to you. You were just trying to accommodate him. He did a around the house, calling your name.

The house was empty.

All of a sudden the space was too big and too small all at the same time. He was suffocating in his own skin, the air too hot for him. He ran up the stairs and barged into the bedroom. Some of your clothes and your suitcase were gone, and so was your toothbrush. But everything else was there, it looked like home. Yet, the picture you kept framed of the two of you that was on the nightstand was faced down and your keys were gone too.

He called your phone repeatedly. Message after message was sent to you and after a while, they stopped going through. He put on his shoes and ran out the door to see if he could find you in the general area but you were nowhere to be found.

You vanished into thin air and he was left to go back to an empty home just as he would have you do.

[dailydemonspotlight]

Wild Hunt - Day 127

Race: Night

Alignment: Neutral-Chaos

Evolves into Abaddon [SMT IV, Level 58]

October 15th, 2024

While we've already talked about Dormarth, we haven't touched upon where this hound comes from- that being the Wild Hunt, a common mythological staple in many European mythologies. Of course, the hunt appears in Celtic myth, but it also appears all the same in many other areas, including Slavic areas, Norse myth, and much more; The concept is ultimately timeless, with constant references, and is intrinsically linked to Halloween in many European places- after all, as the time of spirits draws near, the ghosts shall come out for one last hunt, even until the end of time. I wonder if they know the next hunt is scheduled for next year.

The Wild Hunt, as said above, is a common motif throughout many different European mythologies and religions, not just the Norse ones that most people are familiar with. While it does roughly share similar origins in most retellings, as the Scandanavian term for it calls it 'Odin's hunt,' the Wild Hunt does vary greatly across regions in forms of its leaders and popular figures. Our first source for the Wild Hunt's existence is actually one of the earliest pieces of Anglo-Saxon literature we know of, called the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle. Dating back to the 1100's AD, the text mentions the Wild Hunt, though only scantly- however, it points to the fact that this concept has existed for thousands of years! It may even date earlier than that, as a matter of fact- as purported by Jacob Grimm (a man... rather famous for his unreliability, granted, but it is an interesting theory,) the idea of the Wild Hunt may have its roots in pre-Christian Norse mythology, and could have been connected to a darker side of Odin.

But, I hear you asking, what even is the Wild Hunt? While the specifics change from story to story, the general concept is the same- on a specific date range, typically around Autumn or Winter, a group of spirits would emerge from the underworld (changing based on the mythology, of course,) to perform a great hunt, becoming a massive wind of ghosts that would sweep up anybody unlucky enough to be outside at the time and would end up bringing them to an early grave (or just someplace else) to join the hunt again. This was primarily inspired by the howling winds of late night Autumn, with the cause now attributed to this supernatural event.

Interestingly, the common leader of this phenomenon was typically a God- most of the time, a deity in charge of the hunt would be leading the metaphorical (and literal) pack, such as Odin or, in the case of the Welsh version of this myth that we went over in the Dormarth analysis, Gwyn ap Nudd, the Lord of the Dead. It could also be led by some less deific figures, of course, but it was mostly deities and characters with high relevance and power in the mythos. A great hunting party does need a great leader, after all. Possibly the funniest version of this, though, is recounted in Grimm's paper on it, wherein a hunter known as Hans von Hackelnberg led the hunt- a man who died to, and I shit you not, accidentally stabbing himself on a boar's tusk and dying from the sickness it caused. Somehow, his passion for hunting was so great that, even in death, he refused to go to heaven, instead moving to create the Wild Hunt.

Now, in terms of design in SMT, the Wild Hunt is about as accurate as you can get- a howling wind of several ghosts accompanied by horses and dogs. Funny enough, the dog might actually be a reference to Dormarth? The fact you can have a Wild Hunt and a Dormarth in the same party might indicate that there's two, but I dunno, I'm just talking out of my ass. Still, it's a fun and effective design that captures its essence perfectly. I have no idea why it evolves into Abaddon, though.

[adarkrainbow]

Nobody seems to care about poor Frau Holle... But it won't stop me from posting about her :p I started exploring an article about the fairytale and the character here ; there's another set of information within the article I want to share with you. It is about the various analysises that can be performed about the heroine-girl's action.

If you don't recall, when the girl falls down the well into the world of Frau Holle, she encounters a talking oven which asks her to remove its bread before it will burn, and then a talking apple-tree which asks her to pick its ripe apples before they will rot. It is concluded by the girl encountering Frau Holle who tasks her with keeping up the house clan and shaking the pillows out of the window to cause the snow to form.

As the article points out, this entire passage is a "formation" passage, an "initiation" journey. The girl falls down the well into a mysterious land of abundance, eternal summer and talking inanimate objects: this is a traditional "entrance to the Otherworld" story. But the fall down the well also has a dual symbolism. The most famous one, very often reused, is the symbolism of death: falling down the well usually kills a person, it is also a descent into the underground, the original text of the Grimm implied that the fall might have been a form of suicide (more about this later), wells are traditionally associated with ghosts, and finally Frau Holle herself and her house have been analyzed as symbols of death. But that's just one reading - the other, closely associated to the first since remember Death and Sleep are twins, proposes to read the journey to Frau Holle as a dream. Falling down the well could represent someone literaly "falling asleep", or falling into the sleep ; especially since the bed is such a strong focus in this magical place where seasons are mixed and the up and down don't mean anything anymore. The return to the world of the humans would then mean the girl "waking up".

But what is even more interesting is to look at the specific tasks the girl undergoes. Yes, of course, we can just look at this as just "Oh it's the typical trope of the girl helping poor people in need"... But there's more to that.

The most obvious and highlighted symbolism of those tasks is what the article calls a "social moral". By performing these tasks, the girl isn't just helping random things in need: she is obeying to figures of authority giving her orders, she acts as an assistant and a servant, and thus "learns her place" within the world. This is especially obvious when you consider that the tasks the girl performs are... domestic chores. Not just any domestic chores: they are the jobs typically devoluted to girls and women in the rigidly-gendered society of the 19th century. The girl learns what all "good girls" must learn: taking care of the bread in the oven, picking up the apples in the orchard, cleaning the house, preparing the beds. Cleaning and cooking. This symbolism was probably insisted by the brothers Grimm themselves since we know they purposefully modified their fairytales so that they would be more "fit" for the education of young people...

But this is just one reading and one level of symbolism of the fairytale. If fairytales only meant one thing, they wouldn't be fairytales - and there's always deeper meaning beyond the obvious ones. In the case of Frau Holle, the article takes back ideas developed by Euge Drewermann: if we decide to look at the heroine's actions as made out of altruism rather than obediance, we fall back onto the traditional trope "the good hero helps those in need"... But we can dig deeper than that.

The girl isn't just helping people or performing social tasks... The girl answers necessities. She answers to pressing need linked to the way the world works. She removes the bread, because if the bread is not removed the fire will burn it - there is a pressing need to avoid that. The apples are to be picked because they are ripe and it is time: they are under threat of rotting away. And the pillows need to be shaken because snow needs to fall... There is a "cosmic need" at work here, tied to the very elements (fire, snow) and to a race against a force of nature or flow of time that cannot be stopped (the apples that will rot for example). As such Drewermann decided to highlight an opposition in the tale between Frau Holle and the wicked stepmother. Frau Holle is in this dichotomy, "Mother Nature" and the stepmother a "Mother Society": because the stepmother embodies by her cruelty and favoritism all the forms of unbalance, injustice and problems caused by the social life, and by a human society where greed, selfishness and personal gain rule - this is the bad "Mother Society". Frau Holle meanwhile is the "Mother Nature", of the natural world, as a goddess of the seasons, but as such she also embodies as a form of balance and harmony: as a spirit of cycles and elements, she also represents a form of cosmic justice and natural order, opposed to the disorder of a human society. As such, the heroine's kindness and altruism is actually part of a greater system where humanity is in cohesion with nature and the world around it - the girl answers to the cosmic and biological order, and is thus rewarded by it. We can almost go into a philosophical reading of the tale which teaches us that we will be rewarded if we simply approach the world under a benevolent angle and with an accepting mindset, and if we do our best to serve and help the universe around us. We might become submit to the whims and needs of other inhuman powers beyond our own consideration (such as a talking oven and a talking tree), but by doing so we actually not only get rewarded - we become able to literaly "go beyond despair", the same way the girl went beyond the well (symbol of her suffering and her family's cruelty) into the peaceful and heavenly realm of Frau Holle where everything is in balance and perfect.

This reading could almost be read as a form of ecology before its time - and as such, many modern retellings of the fairytale insist on this "ecological" aspect of the legend, of how the story of Frau Holle can be read not just as a girl learning to be a girl in a patriarchal society, but as someone learning how to respect and serve nature, and an illustration of the self-destruction that will be caused by those who disrespect or neglect nature and its needs.

[ghoooooooooooooooost]

i only shared it w a friend before but can i tell you all my death mark 2 au/rewrite... here (spoilers obvi, also body horror + insects warning)

(edited so theres more details smile)

most things r the same except for the departed (and no naked girl cgs OFCOURSE)

making it so that the departed pretends to be daimon instead of the two high school girls

normal daimon is around but he’ll gradually get sick n every now n then something weeeeird happens (as in yashiki accidentally talks to fake daimon. also maybe you see the weird bug ghost that hovers above everyone near endgame with him first)

crowbar scene happens w fake daimon while real daimon is actually passed out somewhere. mashita comforts yashiki n then they both realize its a fake

(that's what these doodles were referencing)

my dearest friend chip suggested the departed could also be konoe so n that would make sense n make him more present in the plot so byeah

we both agreed that they didn't push the bug + mold horror theme far enough so i tried my hand at it. mold can be really gross irl ewwww

my design for departed daimon is actually toned down from the og tho, just bc i thought the weird spider face was more goofy than scary. personally bugs are scary to me when they're crawling on you n burrowing into your skin n making holes n laying eggs in there - like the bees in death mark 1. there was some real-stories tv show abt that specific thing happening that aired when i was a kid n it freaked me out a lot

why was hime's mold just ourple swirls boooriiiiiiiiiiiing

/

edit july 15th 2024 adding this into the main og post since wonderful chippard linked it (basically a neater rewrite of everything i just said + what i said in the reblog addition. i rewrote it for a solo zine hence the proper capitalization lol)

Instead of Himeko and Michiho being The Departed, it’s Daimon and Konoe. Normal Daimon is still there but every now and then he’ll start acting strange or feeling sick due to The Departed’s possession. The “love” aspect would be shown through Daimon specifically too so Doctor Duo ship is canon in this. Konoe basically uses Daimon to try to get to his Dear Husband. In place of going into a coma like in the original, his behavior intensifies and condition worsens until he suddenly runs to the bathroom. When he comes back… dun dun dun… that’s The Departed – Yashiki doesn’t know…! Crowbar scene ensues. But!? After Yashiki tells Mashita, they see Daimon perfectly alive in the infirmary. Yasuoka found him collapsed in the hallway at some point.

The plot would play out basically the same with some changes (no fanservice girl cgs; more Konoe screen-time; Michiho + Himeko act differently; Saki or Abe partner? more school-related ghosts...).

Maybe the game could be longer to give the new characters more time to shine while not removing the returning ones. Not sure how that would work exactly… One possible solution would be to have day segments where we get to play as Yashiki while he's actively teaching (which would also address the "why'd they even pick a school setting" problem bc damn they barely did any school specific plot shit outside of Hanako & Kashima). Would be awesome and in-line with how the first game brought up war if they kept addressing problems with the education system. Also I think I wouldn’t have any unavoidable human casualties after Hanako’s chapter? All the unavoidable deaths made my friends confused about if they were doing something wrong or not and it honestly felt off to me too. It would be compelling if after failing to protect the first student(s), Yashiki actually successfully protects the rest of them in the good route. Making him feel like he’s become more steadfast after the first game and staying true to his word. Especially if Naomi survives in my opinion - ‘she almost dies but is spared if you make the right choices’ or something like that. She could even be in the room when Yashiki sings the school song.

Not sure how I'd make The Departed feel even more connected to the school... Maybe there's a romantic superstition popular among the students that's based off their "wedding ceremony" -- but it's innocent enough to not give away how they died.