⛧ 𝑶𝑷𝑼𝑺 𝑬𝑷𝑶𝑵𝒀𝑴𝑶𝑼𝑺 ⛧

⸸ 𝔖𝔢𝔩𝔢𝔠𝔱𝔢𝔡 𝔥𝔢𝔦𝔯, 𝔪𝔞𝔠𝔥𝔦𝔫𝔢𝔯𝔶 𝔦𝔫𝔰𝔢𝔠𝔱 𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔟𝔩𝔬𝔬𝔡𝔩𝔦𝔫𝔢 𝔬𝔣 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔡𝔞𝔯𝔨 𝔞𝔯𝔠𝔥𝔦𝔱𝔢𝔠𝔱 𝔗𝔬𝔵𝔦𝔠 𝔟𝔩𝔬𝔬𝔡 𝔬𝔣 𝔫𝔬𝔱 𝔨𝔫𝔬𝔴𝔫 𝔟𝔦𝔯𝔱𝔥 𝔄𝔫𝔱𝔦𝔠𝔥𝔯𝔦𝔰𝔱 𝔴𝔦𝔩𝔩 𝔴𝔞𝔩𝔨 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔢𝔞𝔯𝔱𝔥 ⸸

⛧ Ghost multi - Featuring Papa Emeritus I, II, III, & IV independent + selective + private. Written by BRE. crossovers encouraged. ⛧

For 𝔄𝔷𝔬𝔱𝔥 / 𝔐𝔢𝔯𝔠𝔲𝔯𝔶 𝔊𝔥𝔬𝔲𝔩 ;

To describe his eldest son as misanthropic was insufficient. A creature with a dual nature, neither entirely ghoul, nor entirely human, his aversion to humanity and human emotions represented more than antipathy; it approximated a complete vacuum of knowledge when it came to the human condition. Humans and ghouls alike were irrational, were subject to impulsivity and orneriness, succumbing to their animal appetites rather than navigating life guided by their rationality and moral integrity. Vittorio, it seemed, had inherited both the indifference of ghoul and the cold and calculating mind of an ascetic or a mathematician; it another life he would have made a lethal predator. He speaks but little, but the Mercury ghoul’s ears are the first to prick up when he summons a deep breath:

The frost-flaked bag of frozen peas drops into the sink with a crunch, and the ghoul rotates slowly to face him, his tail tucked between his legs like a beaten dog. “What did you say?” He rasps, voice ripped at the edges, courtesy of the shouting match he’d had with Ben in the hospital waiting room. “I must have misheard you…” The ghoul feels along his fractured cheekbone with tentative fingers, inspecting his swollen eye socket, his skin mottled several shades of red, purple and dark blue. “Because I know the son I raised would never say such a thing…” Cursed the acute hearing of a bat, there was no way on Satan’s barren Earth he had misheard.

“You are entitled to your anger. You are entitled to your pain,” he recites, trying to restore diplomacy. “But please, don’t make this harder than this already is.” Downtrodden and fatigued, Azoth isn’t sure he’ll survive another lambasting from an Emeritus as he teeters on the edge of yet another tearful interlude. “Save your anger. Bottle your rage. Set it aside for another day. Right now, your brother needs us.” Here he was, hypocrite in chief, preaching from his pulpit, his knuckles still throbbing from throttling the antipope half to death. “Both of them do.” He’s calm and collected, but the thinness of his voice and his shallow, stuttering breaths give him away; he’s in agony, and he’s a hair’s breadth from falling apart. “Pain isn’t the answer, believe me. What we need, right now, is love.”

⛧  Vittorio  approaches  the  kitchen,  defiled  with  sweat,  and  making  his  steps  heard.  Often,  the  eldest  floats  through  the  Abbey  like  a  mist,  catching  most  unawares.  This  will  not  do.  The  ghoul  is  on  the  offensive...or  perhaps  defensive...depending  on  your  view.  A  surprise  will  gain  nothing  but  a  lunge  from  the  creature,  and  Primo  doesn’t  wish  to  brawl  with  his  surrogate  father.  Someone  else  perhaps,  but  not  Azoth.  It  is  unusual,  that  his  muscles  tighten  and  his  brows  lower,  not  in  thought,  but  in  rage.  Tonight  is  a  night  of  pain.  A  night  of  violence.  He  is  no  exception  to  this  trend.  

                                It  is  the  truth.  Benjamin  deserves  to  be  punished.  Who  can  refute  this?  

Vittorio’s  eyes  flit  to  the  sound  as  the  bag  smacks  against  the  metal  basin  of  the  sink,  but  they  don’t  remain  long,  moving  back  to  the  face  of  the  hellish  creature.  He  looks  as  broken  as  he  projects.  Primo  does  not  judge.  Is  it  not  he  himself  who  still  wears  his  brother’s  brother’s  bile?  Neglecting  to  change  his  shirt  as  if  to  do  so  would  contaminate  damning  evidence?  

                                          “Another  son  you  raised,  perhaps  a  better  son,  is  lying  in  a  hospital  bed  fighting  to  regain  consciousness.”  Primo  responds  quickly,  his  voice  tight,  throat  threatening  to  cut  off  air  supply  and  replace  his  throat  with  his  own  vomit.  “If  you  will  not  do  what  needs  to  be  done,  I  will.”  

                                          The  eldest  does  not  threaten.  He  does  not  promise.  He  only  acts.  

Patiently,  Vittorio  waits  as  the  ghoul  quivers  through  something  of  a  parental  speech,  giving  him  the  opportunity  to  steady  himself  with  it.  “My  brother  needs  a  father  who⸺”  His  patience  has,  surprisingly,  ran  out.  He  cuts  himself  off  with  a  deep  breath,  eyes  falling  shut.  “It  is  not  your  fault.”  The  eldest  thinks  aloud,  a  rare  glimpse  into  the  mind  of  mystery.  

Simple sketches for today!

acts  that  could  be  aggressive   //   or  a  little  bit  sexy   //   or  both.                     send  a  symbol  from  your  muse  to  mine.  feel  free  to  combine  actions  or  add  specifics  even  when  it  doesn’t  ask  for  it   !     can  send  non - sexually  as  well.

THREATENING

🔪   //   put  a  knife  to  my  muse’s  throat .

🖐️   //   put  a  hand  around  my  muse’s  throat .

👕   //   slide  a  weapon  up  under  my  muse’s  shirt     (   can  specify   ) .

👔   //   grab  my  muse  by  the  collar   &   pull  them  closer .

🔒   //   lock  my  muse  in  a  room  alone  with  your  muse .

🗩   //   verbally  threaten  my  muse     (   please  specify   ) .

PINNING

🔙   //   push  my  muse  against  a  wall .

📌   //   pin  my  muse’s  wrists  above  their  head .

🔵   //   grab  my  muse  hard  enough  to  leave  a  bruise .

🔑   //   handcuff  my  muse .

➰   //   tie  my  muse  to  a  chair .

⭕   //   restrain  my  muse  with  an  item  of  clothing     (   please  specify   ) .

🚨   //   push  my  muse  to  the  ground   &   straddle  them .

📢   //   tell  my  muse   ‘  stop  squirming   !  ’ .

🔗   //   otherwise  restrain  my  muse     (   please  specify   ) .

LIGHTER

👀   //   grab  my  muse’s  jaw   &   direct  their  gaze  towards  yours .

⚡   //   tug  my  muse’s  hair .

⚠️   //   bite  my  muse     (   can  specify  where   ) .

😏   //   give  my  muse  a  hickey .

✂️   //   run  fingernails  over  my  muse’s  skin   &   scratch  them .

💦   //   cover  my  muse’s  mouth .

DARKER

💋   //   give  my  muse  a  kiss  that  draws  blood .

🗡️   //   cut  my  muse  with  a  knife     (   can  specify  where   ) .

💀   //   kidnap  my  muse .

😶   //   put  a  hand  over  my  muse’s  nose   &   mouth .

𝕴𝖙    𝖆𝖎𝖓'𝖙    𝖆𝖑𝖜𝖆𝖞𝖘    𝖜𝖍𝖆𝖙    𝖎𝖙    𝖘𝖊𝖊𝖒𝖘  𝕿𝖍𝖆𝖙    𝖌𝖑𝖎𝖙𝖙𝖊𝖗    𝖜𝖆𝖘𝖓'𝖙    𝖌𝖔𝖑𝖉  𝕬𝖘    𝖔𝖕𝖕𝖔𝖘𝖊𝖉    𝖙𝖔    𝖜𝖍𝖆𝖙    𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖞    𝖙𝖔𝖑𝖉    𝖞𝖔𝖚  𝕭𝖚𝖙    𝖍𝖊'𝖘    𝖙𝖍𝖊    𝖌𝖚𝖞    𝖞𝖔𝖚    𝖜𝖆𝖓𝖓𝖆    𝖉𝖔  𝕬𝖓𝖉    𝖞𝖔𝖚    𝖐𝖓𝖔𝖜    𝖙𝖍𝖆𝖙    𝖎𝖙    𝖙𝖆𝖐𝖊𝖘    𝖙𝖜𝖔  𝕷𝖚𝖈𝖐𝖎𝖑𝖞    𝖍𝖊    𝖜𝖆𝖓𝖙𝖘    𝖙𝖔    𝖉𝖔    𝖞𝖔𝖚    𝖙𝖔𝖔

Severe  pupils  shift  over  the  face  of  the  speaker,  measuring  each  eye  individually.  It  is  true,  Primo  tends  to  agree.  His  body  has  always  represented,  to  a  degree,  a  fleshy  prison  of  imperfection...of  limited  capacity.  How  is  he  to  be  useful  this  way?  With  skin  so  thin  and  blood  waiting  to  spill?

But  then,  there  are  possibilities...

                                                                            "~For  most."

To  be  made  of  flesh  is  to  be  vulnerable.  To  be  made  of  flesh  is  to  walk  this  Earth.  The  skin  of  his  brother  is  just  as  thin  as  his  own.  Everyone  is  malleable.  "Am  I  to  assume  you  feel  humiliated?" The  question  serves  more  purpose  than  it  presents.  Always.  

❝  You have more of a reputation than you might think.  ❞ - @firstemeritus

"Oh? You wouldn't happen to know what that reputation might be, would you, orchidea?" There's a smirk planted firmly on the siren's morning fresh face, eyes roaming the beauty of the first's personal paradise, rather than seeking answers in his expression. There would be no hint there, regardless. "Mark me intrigued."

Still  as  the  flora  he  surrounds  himself  with,  Primo  listens  as  his  vecchia  amica,  speaks.  Her  voice  brings  song  to  the  greenhouse  where  it  is  certainly  needed.  Vittorio  rarely  speaks  before  the  plants,  preferring  to  blend  with  nature,  thanking  it  in  his  own  way.  

“—of  course.  I  am  not  blind  to  the  happenings  within  the  congregation.”  His  eyes  do  not  fixate  on  his  subject  of  conversation,  roaming  to  the  sepal  of  the  flower  she  has  chosen  as  his  name.  Orchids  are  fickle.  In  fact,  as  a  boy,  he  killed  one.  He  has  not  made  the  mistake  since.  

                                “Or  perhaps  you  are  entirely  aware?”  Of  her  reputation,  that  is.  He  would  not  be  entirely  shocked,  but  the  doubt  still  remains.  She  is  far  more  sought  after  than  she  knows.  

clothing style.

before - bed routine. 

eating habits.

concept of home and family. 

hobbies. 

fighting style.

what calms your muse down after a bad day?

talk about one person your muse loves.

ways your muse says i love you.

describe your muse’s laugh. 

what items can be found in your muse’s pockets? 

talk about your muse’s most prized possession(s).

describe your muse’s walk. 

talk about your muse’s accent.

describe your muse’s smile. 

how often does your muse get sick?

does your muse know when to rest, or do they push themselves?

does your muse snore? sleeptalk? sleepwalk?

the thing(s) your muse thinks about before falling asleep.

is your muse a fitful or a quiet sleeper?

your muse’s thoughts on cops and other authority figures.

skills and special talents. 

disabilities or illnesses. 

habits and mannerisms.

introvert or extrovert.

religious or non - religious.

verbal or non - verbal communication.

something your muse could never forgive.

something that makes your muse smile.

something that scares your muse.

something that gives your muse hope.

how your muse responds to being helped / taken care of.

how your muse responds to unconditional love.

how your muse responds to danger.

how your muse responds to stress.  

how your muse responds to anger.