#CHRISTIAN YOU LUCKY BASTARD | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

flwersgarden · 2 years

Note

Imagine actor reader has to kiss their co-star while yandere elvis is behind the scenes trying to keep his cool👀 I MEAN-

note: ANON YOUR MIND— I LOVE THIS SM IM GOING INSANE OK BUT hope you like it!!! 💖

one of the things elvis promised you was that he was going to support you in your dreams as an actress.

but now he wishes he can break promises without any kind of consequence.

now as he reads the script you excitedly showed him in the middle of the living room while you were fixing your hair.

“ it's amazing! ” you exclaim with your hands in the air, closing your eyes as you thank whoever it's up there for this opportunity.

“ yeah... ” elvis muttered as his hand, that wasn't holding the script, tightened into the expensive suit he was wearing. “ when does this start shooting? ” he asks, turning slightly to see you.

you were now fixing your makeup. “ next week. ”

elvis hums, turning to the script. the fucking kiss scene staring right back at him. “ i'm gonna go with you. ” he throws the script to the coffee table.

“ okay. ” you answer, clearly not noticing how frustrated elvis looked, too focused on the success you could have if this turns right.

yes, you liked the attention but you also wanted to buy things with your own money. you felt like a gold digger whenever elvis buys you things, even if he says it's okay.

“ but aren't you going to record some stuff? ” you asked suddenly remembering elvis mentioning that.

“ doesn't matter, i can move that to next month. ”

️️ ️️️️️️️️️

on the way to the studio, elvis just looked at the window, the vegas' lights shining.

you were next to him, reading the script again.

after a few minutes of silence, elvis turned to you.

“ who is your co-star? ” he asked, his eyes focused on the leather seat, his fingers playing with his pants as a child asking their parents for a toy.

“ hm, don't know. ” you shrugged, leaving the script in your lap to look at him. “ probably some minor actor. sorry it's not marlon or someone like that. ” you jokingly asked the last.

elvis thanks god that wasn't the case because the news outlet screaming how elvis hurted one of the biggest movie stars wasn't what he wanted right now.

“ elvis? ” your soft voice wakes him up.

“ sorry, baby, what? ”

“ his name is christian, look, they added his name and mine. ”

you pointed at the first page of the script and there with bold black letters was your beautiful full name (with the presley surname, mind you) and that other name.

elvis clenched his jaw.

️️ ️️️️️️️️️

you were now sitting in a makeup chair, slight brushes softly hitting your skin as you read the lines with the fear of forgetting them. this was the last scene to shoot so you were quite relieved too.

elvis was behind you, his arms crossed, with his sunglasses on so no one would ask him why was he staring at christian with so many hatred.

fucking bastard.

the sound of you getting up alerted him, making him take a step closer to you.

“ thank you. ” you said while giggling, kissing the makeup artist in the cheek while taking elvis' hand so you both could walk to the set together.

take that, christian.

“ i'm so excited to finish this! ” you jumped a bit, a smile decorating your face with the script on a hand.

elvis chuckled. “ 'm glad. ” he whispered, not really sure if he meant that because of your excitement or because this was the last scene, kissing the crown of your head before letting you walk closer to the part of the set where the scene was going to take place.

you were ecstatic, listening to the director's idea of the scene, nodding every minute just to show you were listening.

meanwhile elvis was trying not to get a mental breakdown.

“ beautiful, isn't she? ” a voice asked behind him.

he turned around, raising an eyebrow at the height difference.

“ yeah. ” elvis shortly answered, turning to you again.

“ man, am i lucky. ” the voice said before taking a breath and walking to you.

oh, elvis was going to beat his ass.

“ fucking-. ”

“ SILENCE ON SET! ”

elvis took a deep breath before regaining his posture, his hands on his waist.

he couldn't listen very well to the dialogue, too focused on the way the eyes of that co-star of yours traveled a lot for elvis' liking. how his hands were almost stretching out to meet yours, even if that wasn't on the scene. how elvis could even feel the way your presence did things to him.

and then it happened. the kiss.

your hands were in his cheeks while he held your waist with enough strength to make you slightly whimper.

elvis could feel his hands almost ripping his own clothes to shreds. he could rip him to shreds.

“ CUT! ”

the director didn't even finish that word before elvis was dragging you out of the set.

“ elvis, what-? ” you asked confused at his sudden attitude. he didn't answer, he just whistled for the car to come around as the both of you were now outside the place.

he opened the car door. “ get in. ” he, surprisingly, softly said.

you just nodded but before you kissed his nose. elvis could feel his anger dissipating a bit after that small act of affection. god, you were really his feet on earth.

he walked to the set, ignoring your still confused look.

everyone was just wrapping up, some people already left but the few that remained watched speechless what happened next.

he grabbed christian by the shirt when he was close enough, punching him straight in the face, the sound of bones crushing made the people around cringe.

“ look how lucky you are. ” he mockingly said throwing him to the floor, missing for inches the dangerously close end of the table, fixing his suit and sunglasses before looking around and catching the director's gaze.

he smiled. “ thank you for the opportunity you gave to my baby. ” he took off his sunglasses before walking slowly to him. the director tried to take a step back but his chair prevented him from doing so. elvis pointed at his chest with the hand that held his sunglasses. his smile gone. “ but next time, you better hire me with her. ” he smiled again for a few seconds before putting his sunglasses on.

“ it will make you more money too. ” he whispered before walking out, a few people already crouching next to the sobbing co-star that was still on the floor.

️️ ️️️️️️️️️

elvis sat on the car, clearing his throat. “ to Graceland, please. ” the chauffeur nodded, driving to the destination.

“ what happened? ” you asked, tilting your head to the side.

you are so cute.

“ nothing, baby. ” he grabbed your hand, kissing your knuckles. “ just went to congratulate everyone, they all worked so hard- not like you, obviously. ”

you giggled, cuddling to him with one hand on his chest and the other one holding his, ignoring his knuckles who were painted with a slight tint of red.

“ you are my biggest star. ” he muttered, kissing your head as he closed his eyes.

#request 🤍#yandere austin!elvis #austin!elvis fic #austin!elvis #austin!elvis x reader #yandere austin!elvis x reader #elvis 2022

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buck-yyyy · 1 year

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hi yes hello everyone get ready to read about my one-way ticket to hell, ie. me comparing stranger things to christianity

thanks to @aemiron-main's post for giving me Thoughts about henry and also the holy trinity

WARNING!!! this is incredibly biased because i'm very much agnostic and have very specific ideas about religion, so. if you're very religious you may not want to read this-

for anyone who wasn't raised around christianity (you lucky bastards), the holy trinity is the father, the son, and the holy spirit- the father being god, the son being jesus, and the holy spirit being,,,,,, something. i don't actually know what's up with the holy spirit. essentially, they're separate entities, but inherently one and the same, simply the embodiment of god.

but aemiron talking about how there's all these names for henry and what he is/does, whether it be vecna or the mindflayer or whatever, really got me thinking about how so much of theology and religion is about perception. henry isn't vecna, or the mindflayer- henry is henry. these names are simply dnd characters that have been attributed to him by kids attempting to understand the seemingly impossible- very common trope in eldritch horror.

but that also goes along with a common line of thought about religion- that it was formed as a way to cope with day to day life, to create an understanding for the unexplainable. very similar, eh?

i suppose my idea is based around the thought that henry is the father, or paralleled (for lack of a better word) to god- he's the one who started it all, he is the mindflayer and 001 and vecna and all of these things.

the mindflayer would be the son, or jesus- born of henry, henry's own creation, and yet it's simply a representation of who henry is and what he stands for. the mindflayer is a tool used for the “salvation” (ie. murder) of humanity in order to fit into his ideals, because humanity's current routine (eat, sleep, work, reproduce, and die) he views as a sin that needs to be corrected and he uses the mindflayer as the way to do that, similar to how god sent jesus to earth as a way to aid humanity in the forgiving of their sins. (i think. it's been a hot second since i've dove into theology, please correct be if i'm wrong about something).

and thus, wouldn't vecna be the holy spirit? when you look up what the holy spirit is, google tells you that "The Holy Spirit is the power of God at work on the Earth."

vecna is the very physical amalgamation to henry's plans. while the mindflayer set it all in action in seasons two and three, vecna is the version of henry that gets it DONE. vecna opens the gates, vecna kills the four kids, vecna is who the kids see as the man at the helm of it all.

again, consulting google: "It is through the power and workings of the Holy Spirit that God is known today, and how Christians can know what God wants them to do." VECNA is the only reason that the kids understand what henry's end goal is. VECNA is how they'll find a way to beat him. VECNA is the beginning of the end.

i dunno. maybe this is just a big stretch and i'm making connections where there are none, because honestly i don't know what any of this means, but i thought it was quite interesting just how perfectly it fits in, so- thoughts?

(@wibble-wobbegong- feel free to ignore this, but i remember you talking about researching the saints in the russian church, so i was curious of your opinion lol-)

#stranger things #stranger things theory #vecna/henry/001 #henry creel

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beardedmrbean · 2 months

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Hey, I hope your dad doing well

But remember that shitty good times sequel cartoon where the daughter is the black military archetype? Which the proud family revival did

Okay, so people want to know why Huey Freeman worked?

Well Aaron Mcgruder remembers the later half of Malcom X life. So Huey got calmer over the seasons as he realize at the end of the day he just a kid and still have much to learn

Yes yes Malcom believe that Yakub shit

Until he went to Mecca to preach it… and when your seemingly higher than the Hassassins to Muslims…

He got a bitch slap of reality and converted to Sunni Islam

Random, I saw a YouTuber complain how forest grump made fun of the black panthers because they created due to systemic oppression

Just like Khemer rouge with French colonization. Because us black people loved the BP party-

Wait we actually hated them because they were racist af like the kkk? Also they have several domestic abusers in them?

I mean where are they now?…seriously why the kkk still around vs them? Or is blm a new front?

Also I love how they keep saying “they” aka white people out the guns and drugs into our community

It’s the fucking government, they used anything to keep their pets on plantation.

Here a thing I noticing

Black Activists: white people putting the drugs into our communities since the 80’s and killed MLK!

Me: Fascinating, oh should we analyze why our community 75% bastards right after the civil rights movement after primary upper middle boomer feminists projectbcasual sex and other primary upper middle class or elite hendoist behaviors onto the working class?

BA: Nah I like sleeping around

M: Oh that black boys being sexually abused by older girls or women is skyrocketing high

Sorry, yes it effect both genders, but on black twitter, the amount of times black men said they got lucky loosing their “virginity” at fucking 5. It feel like, we need to tell them they were raped

Yes it affects all races, thanks feminism for treating little boys like grown men while female pedos like toddlers.

But if the rampant CSA among black American kids caught wind in mainstream.

The fallout is going to be nasty, sorry just UGH

You guys hate what white people did to us but cling onto the sex revolution like a turkey leg

Hey, I hope your dad doing well

Just got home a little bit ago, he's home and as good as one can be after heart surgery.

But remember that shitty good times sequel cartoon where the daughter is the black military archetype? Which the proud family revival did Okay, so people want to know why Huey Freeman worked?

Huey worked because he called everyone out for their bs, wasn't giving people a pass for their skin colour, at least that's one reason imho.

Asshole but honest iirc.

Well Aaron Mcgruder remembers the later half of Malcom X life. So Huey got calmer over the seasons as he realize at the end of the day he just a kid and still have much to learn Yes yes Malcom believe that Yakub shit

He did chill ya, Wed night we were doing stuff in Genesis at church asked the pastor if Jacob had invented white people by this point in history yet, it got a chuckle, since both Islam and nation of islam have managed to lay claim to some of the Jewish patriarchs, Christians too but we don't claim them or deviate from the Jewish scriptures about them.

Until he went to Mecca to preach it… and when your seemingly higher than the Hassassins to Muslims… He got a bitch slap of reality and converted to Sunni Islam

Ya he managed to be a lot less hateful towards the end, probably why farrakhan (likely) had him assassinated.

Random, I saw a YouTuber complain how forest grump made fun of the black panthers because they created due to systemic oppression

OG BPP did a lot of good, also managed to help get several gun control laws passed in the state of CA because of a wrong turn, Huey Newton and Eldridge Cleavar and a bunch of the rest of them too, were well versed in gun laws at the time and followed them to the letter.

At that point in CA you could observe law enforcement in their actions, from a reasonable distance, 8-10 feet or so, with a shotgun sitting on your shoulder, legally.

Managed to keep some "roughhousing" we'll call it, from the cops happening, as well as making sure they followed the law, they were the cellphone cameras of their time, but far more intimidating.

(When you hear people say that gun laws have racism at their core, this is one of the reasons people say that)

But they had food banks and neighborhood programs to keep kids out of trouble and they did a lot of good, some bad too, but ya they were those uppity N* that wound up being part of the reason the FBI flooded the streets with crack.

You want to see something crazy though, you can learn what the "establishment" actually fears and why they've decided to let racism come back the way they have.

This is Chicago history here, that they likely left out of the books (Article Link here) This is what they fear, Hillbilly Harlem boys can do this, we might get some class solidarity and leave race behind us.

If you look at the timing of everything, what was just before the current wave of new racism was the occupy movement, and they did the whole thing again with that.

Got the NBBP now, they don't go for class solidarity anymore.

I do love to see Americans exercising their 2A rights though, may not like your politics but I support your right to self defense anyhow.

Good back and forth there

That is one of the things they don't really talk about and I don't recall how I managed to get read in to the big secret about everyone's favourite auntie in the neighborhood.

They ain't making a man out of you, like you said it's rape.

Yes it affects all races, thanks feminism for treating little boys like grown men while female pedos like toddlers. But if the rampant CSA among black American kids caught wind in mainstream. The fallout is going to be nasty, sorry just UGH

I feel like it's eeked out here and there, but someone big needs to do a thing about it, bigger than when L&O SVU had Ice-T throw the whole "on the down low" thing out there.

Which that's only gonna be a scandal in the black community, pointing out that there's a designated first lay for the boys in the neighborhood that parents send their kid to, well those that aren't aware of it might make enough noise to do something.

That or get called racist for calling it out for what it is.

You're one of the first people I've seen on here not speak about that in code and whispers.

You guys hate what white people did to us but cling onto the sex revolution like a turkey leg

It's weird the feminists scream about patriarchy and all that stuff but turn a blind eye to child rape that's got the express purpose of "making a man" out of the child that should be allowed to remain a child.

Probably to avoid being called racist, you see how they fail to address child marriage and such in developing countries in favor of things like sexist air conditioning here in the US

It's set that cold because men are expected to wear a suit coat and tie at work, you can wear a sweater they can't remove any more layers of clothing, if anything it's the dress code that's sexist but then you'd need to admit that sexism against men is possible.

Sorry that one has driven me crazy for nearly a decade.

I did say we got my dad home and he's catching up on his papers and all I think, if not he is and that's why this has taken 22 hours to get out, not enough time last night and busy all day.

Hopefully it was worth the wait

#zoomer huey anon

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nagy-bari · 2 months

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standards

aph hungary and romania have a little chat about a future project regarding an archeological find.

no human names used -if i did it right no country names used either.

cussing and swearing and the most awkward tension ever.

cause i still fall back to write semi-personal rants using these two horrid little portraits, and cause i should really focus more on my uni but it was kinda inspired by uni.

The small kitchen with the two chairs filled with old times, smoke and dust reminiscence of a battle or a wine cellar. The two figures in it looked more akin to a painting waiting for restauration or half way saved from the teeth of time dulling their colors. One sitting at the table, the other next to the counter, glass in hand looking out the window.

The lazy afternoon basked them in warm, familiar almost kind hues, soothing out the acid in their tone.

‘ so he’s back. And you invited him back.’

‘not exactly. He found out I found where he stored his precious little favourite toy for 42 days and now he wants a guest room for him there.’

‘that’s… and you’re gonna set up that guest room?’

‘yep.’ The woman took a gulp of her glass. ‘what would you do?’

‘not tell him in the first place?’

‘as if that was ever an option.’

‘yeah it is. You found something you don’t say shit, end of problem.’

‘even Mr. ‘Murika found out before I could finish the search, there was no chance in hell he wouldn’t find out about it.’

‘so you’re just gonna set up a guest room for him to march back whenever he feels like it.’

‘yep.’ Another gulp. ’politics don’t really care about historical sentiment.’

‘ya crazy? That’s all it cares about, how else do you think people gonna vote?’

‘to be honest I’m still hoping people will be so fed up at one point they just don’t go to vote. Like any of them.’

‘dream on.’

‘but you know the same shit as me, forgiveness is our cultural corner stone, and if I’m half a good a Christian as my government makes me out to be, I should really be happy to be in the position to set up that guest room – as a sign of good faith and forgiveness and cultural friendship.’

The other snorted an ugly laugh.

‘and you believe that bullshit?’

‘as much as you do.’

The two figures raised their glasses at each other and took a swig. The one standing reached for the bottle to pour another round. The wine looked amber gold in this light, the sour taste mixed with the smoke from outside still reminder of old times that were never quite there.

‘so what now?’

‘hm?’

‘you’re done with your little speech, I can go I assume?’ She smiles, a crooked smile.

‘thought you would love to ridicule the shit out of this clusterfuck.’

‘it really is just sad if anything.’

‘I’m trying to re-learn a bit of comedic sense here.’

‘by rolling over for an abusive ex?’

‘might as well get used to being the punchline.’

She’s laughing. He’s just looking somewhere with hooded eyes.

‘and why do you think I give a crap?’

‘I know you don’t. it’s the best practice.’

Silence. She shrugs and looks out the window enjoying the last rays hitting the building and he studies her from behind his glass. Then he takes a gulp, sits down his glass on the counter and rolls his shoulders.

‘you know this is exactly what fucks you up more right?’

She hums and turns with a smile, question in her movements.

‘and you know that this fucks me up as well.’

‘and?’

‘and I was never a good enough enemy to be such a supportive boxing bag. I don’t wanna deal with your bullshit of choices.’

‘I don’t want you to.’

‘you told me about it.’

‘yeah so you get the whole story and can laugh more.’

There’s real mirth in her eyes when she smiles, the ones he last only saw under the soviets. The absolute nonchalant acceptance of a grotesque reality. It makes him all the more angry.

‘what sort of heartless monster do you take me for?’

‘a lucky enough bastard to still have a better image in grand total globally.’

‘so you do want me to suffer.’

‘i thought you don’t care enough about me to have any kind of effect on you.’

‘you told me this whole thing.’

‘you can always leave.’

‘don’t pull that shit on me.’

She’s all smiles and he hates how serious he sounds. As if he cares. As if they are actually friends binding over past trauma.

‘why aren’t you telling this to your precious little phoenix friend? He would actually care.’

She looks at her glass.

‘he was more on the trading side of the Ottomans. I was more on the get fucked part.’

‘so what, this whole thing here is just a get fucked pity party?’

She looks out the window again.

‘like you’re actually want to get a fuck out of this or some shit?’

The neighborhood is still painted in soft glow of the afternoon but their building is already in the shadows.

‘no, I’m not gonna let you use me in some twisted self-depricating spiral, no. Jesus woman get a grip.’

‘this is me getting a grip.’

‘no, this is some toxic shit you’re too gone to notice and too sado-mazo to not enjoy.’

‘as if you don’t get a kick out of it.’

‘again, what kind of monster do you take me for.’

‘the same.’

‘the same what?’

She glances at him and smirks and he hates how it gets him to hyperfocus again on her lips and eyes and how actually this is ridiculously working for him too.

‘as me?’

And it’s gone. The light behind her is faded, the colors are an ugly gray her face is tired and wrinkled, her hands are calloused and her nails have seen better days. Her lips are chapped, her eyes are sunk in and her hair is just a bunch of brown strings knotted in the mother of all nests.

And it’s still working. Cause those tired eyes have some remnants from a by-gone time where they hid together in the market, a little time for themselves between errands. She looked way better then. Being forced into the palace and the garden did wonders for her look. The subtle smell of flowers and that wild fire in her eyes worked wonders all around. But her harsh humor stayed. And he got them in trouble and she got them in trouble and it was way back and they were maybe just kids, maybe never adults and maybe it doesn’t count this time as it didn’t count then cause who keeps records anyway. They can enjoy the stolen moments and still hate each other.

It's always been like this. They got each other in hell – if all fails, this remains.

‘so what, you want me to use that guestroom too? Are you inviting me over to be your next ex-tocix shitty partner?’

‘would you? Or am I beneath your standards?’

He straightens up, crossing his arms anger boiling all memories into nightmares.

‘you’re not gonna drag me into your fucked up pity party.’

‘okay.’

She smiles and turns back to her glass, turns back to the window, giving him a way out, giving him time to collect all he needs from the kitchen and leave. He knows. This is his chance. To stick to what he’s saying and remain clean from her mess. Saving himself weeks of headache and self-doubt, a migrane a-

He sits down across of her, hands laced over eyes piercing this mess of a woman across him.

‘I still hate you, and I love to see you suffer but you need to get some help. Some serious help.’

‘if you look at it this way it can be a little art-therapy. Cultural things are art in every form, if I can make that room pretty enough it might work out.’

She’s talking to herself and he accepts for now, it’s better than to have her eyes on him daring him to leave her or jump her. Her profile is still carrying something from her golden days centuries if a millennia ago. It’s not fair how good she looks exhausted. How she has something from those classical romantic paintings’ sadness, that melancholy etched into her lines, her form. She spares him the dilemma of saying anything as she rambles on.

‘maybe this way I can finally get some kind of closure as well. Naïve I know. But I hate how good it feels to be a woman and know that I can thank him for learning that. I hate how much stuff I adore in beauty he loves too. I hate how he still think we’re good friends enough to just ask me to set up a guest room. I hate how I have to forgive and he doesn’t even think there are things he should maybe ask for forgiveness. I hate how if I act upon my part of the story I’m a moody bitch who cannot ever give another chance to anyone and the tackles idiot who can’t appreciate culture. I hate-‘

He reminds himself to breath as her voice trails off, slight tremors, a telltale sign of tears to come but she’s just smiles sharper at the window, her eyes creaking with spiteful cheeriness as she marches on.

‘ cause I know it’s pointless. Cause even if I make a nice enough guestroom and all the media covers it as some archeological historical great point cause ‘oh my Gosh that sultan was buried HERE, in the middle of fucking nowhere for HOW many DAYS, why yes of course you have to make a whole ass museum to talk about that culture’ and not about the ACTUAL fuckin CULTURE that it destroyed and damaged on the way, the actual living fuckin planecrash of a clown culture still kickin and screemin in my own fuckin language hogy a jó büdős kibebaszott élet kurná szét az egészet, mert tényleg felesleges. Az egész. Annyira. Felesleges. De jól mutat.’

Her voice gets quiet at the end. She retorted back to her own language and he hates how he gets the swears but not the end. She chuckles with centuries of resentment and it sounds nice when it’s not aimed at him but he squashes out that thought. He waits to see if she’s done. If he can leave. If he still has a way out of this.

‘don’t you love to watch a trainwreck fumble around parading as some super railjet?’

He lost. She’s looking at him through bitter smile, and he wants to snarl back, to behave cool and collected to correct her, to drag her to shore cause this is fucked up, cause she cannot be right all the fuckin time, cause he got better, he stopped this nonsense why does she have to drag him down again-

‘you need help.’

‘yeah. But no one’s gonna go out of their way to do it.’

She laughs

‘and honestly I get it. Everyone has their plate full. Wars and genocide all around and here I am crying about a fuckin museum for a 5 hundred dead skeleton who’s not even here.’

‘you need help from professionals not fuckups like me.’

‘now, don’t say that. You’re dealing with this waaay better.’

‘you trying to be positive is the most horrifying thing I’ve seen. Don’t do it.’

‘afraid your perfect little hate-able image will get morphed?’

She’s riling him up cause she’s desperate for a simulation, anything to voice out the self hate he knows all too well.

‘if anything it made it permanent.’

‘don’t you find it funny how we give up everything for the empires.’

The tonal whiplash hurts more with her eyes back to the window. He lost his chance to leave. He still could just get up and walk out but it’s too late, she wormed herself into his thoughts and he hates how much he wants to act. How he has this urge to do anything to shake her out of this. How he knows the next steps in this little dance.

‘the once ruling wonders built on our blood and cries upkept by never-dying-myths of grandure and culture we made reality. And yet. And yet…’

She burries her fingers into her hair, hiding behind her arms, folding in on herself.

‘it’s so fucked up to search any solace in a culture you were taught to hate on principle, something that did and didn’t do any lasting damage and change on you, something you find wonderful and horrifying, alien and oh so familiar. It’s so fuckin wicked to celebrate the man and the culture that destroyed your own. Yet…’

She looks at him again, her eyes burning in a haste, a carnal hurry and he’s afraid it’ll scorch him beyond repair.

‘yet, if you cannot appreciate the true value of all of this you’re the stupidest of all to live.’

Her voice is soft again, her eyes holding him in place for a moment before his lips betray him.

‘just poison him.’

She blinks in surprise.

‘when he comes over to the guestroom and you get down again just poison him.’

‘in this economy?’ she barks a laugh.

‘if you hate this so much do something. Refuse. Twist it. You’re the woman, you know how to be oh so better than us, just kill him in his sleep.’

‘but still get in his bed. Is what you say.’

He stops, she looks at him with sharp unbearable smile.

‘you do agree that I should just endure this whole and be what I am. A whore.’

He ruffles his hair in frustration. She keeps the paper thin smile pointed at his neck like a poison blade.

‘cause that’s how it looks no matter what I do. It’s pointless. No matter how much personal growth and therapy I sneak into that room to help me, it’ll always be just a glorified holding cell for a bed to fuck me in.’

‘you talking like this is not helping you in any way. And you know it. I know you know it.’

‘What? It’s the 21th fuckin century, strong independent woman can’t talk about how she’s a sex worker in the same room as lawyers about paid healthcare and social benefits?’

She was riling him up again.

‘How has this anything to do with the museum and all?’

‘Don’t tell me you think now that whore is a diminutive thing to call a woman? You loved to call me a bitch. Still do.’

‘You calling yourself that too?’

This finally shuts her up a bit. But hey eyes are liquid acid and he hates how it thrills him.

‘I thought you don’t care.’

‘does it look like I don’t care? Does this whole conversation sound to you like I don’t give a fuck?’

‘well, do you give a fuck?’

He stops himself from just grabbing a shaking her. To just shout at her to finally tell him what to do, how to help right now, not on the long run, not throughout the horrid journey of healing but right now, in this cursed moment where she wants to hit rock bottom, what on earth does she want him to do in this damned scene.

‘will you make that guestroom?’

‘not my decision. Government wants it, looks good for the media, for diplomacy, for culture.’

He’s off the hook for now, her eyes averted back to her glass.

‘so just make it about you. Tell your side of the story.’

She looks up with genuine laughter hiding in her crushed eyes. She gave up long ago.

‘do what you’re doing to me with style. Make it art. Sell it. Make it more alluring than that dead man.’

‘how could one conquered part of an empire ever be more interesting than the man who created it.’

‘you killed him didn’t you? Maybe that’s the spice. The place that cost the empire its greatest.’

‘and what did I get out of that kill? Wasn’t even me, it was old age and sorrow and my suffering only started then. It was only the beginning.’

‘you are still here. With your own language, own land, own history, make it about survival, make it about how empires fall yet some things remain.’

‘the hate. That remains. The disdain, the miscommunication, the different narratives. The complexity of it all never trully explained, that’s what remains.’

‘you are clever enough to leave all the breadcrumbs for others to find.’

She looks at him amusement mixed with the acid that drips from all deliberate wrong choice in life.

‘isn’t it naïve to think people will have the attention to even look for the crumbs?’

‘they will.’ He doubles down, hoping his voice comes across as determined and unvavering and not hungry. He licks his lips. Tossing a coin and jumping in without the result. ’after all, who doesn’t love a good mystery.’

Her eyes turn two shades darker, the same hunger echoing in them. Neither of them move. Old memories flash in, with the descending shadows, the outside slowly turning from gray to black with fizzling oranges and yellows splattered in it. Neither of them move to flick on the light.

It might be the last stop before the fall. The last moment to steer back the conversation, to even continue the conversation in any way. The next would be only actions. So the kitchen remains in dark, cause movement is an action.

It goes like this.

The only light in the small kitchen comes from under the door and through the window. Two set of eyes stare at each other centuries old dares echoing in them.

To see who moves first. Or who looks away. Who breaks the rules to create the exception.

The window paints her in muted gold and murky greys, her dark circles all the more prominent. She parts her lips a bit, maybe trying to say something, maybe to just get some air, cause it’s a stalemate, and the kitchen is filled with dust like a wine cellar long abandoned. She decided long ago where this was going. Yet-

His eyes are like fire, twinkling embers turning to charred ash, if she wasn’t already burning from the rot inside, he would scorch her. She tries to bat away his voice from the beginning, the raw worry in it spoils her determination. She wanted to feel like shit, he would make her feel like shit, the sky was blue the grass is green, these things should never differ…

A part of her appreciates the irony of the situation. She wants to believe so hard in how things are complex and if given enough time people can understand, better yet accept those complexities, and here she is, clinging with all her claws into such childish rules set up by oh so many variables.

She doesn’t want to hear the worry in his voice, doesn’t dare to think about the what ifs, the meaning of her own words on forgiveness and Christian compassion. She wants to feel like shit. How she thinks she should.

All these slow stops and ways out freeze her. The shadows helped so far yet now she hesitates. If she goes for it, just simply does what she wants she’s no better than the problem she talked about.

But she was always a problem. So now what?

He closes his eyes with a sigh, taking a deep breath. One of his hands come up to smooth over his face blinking back at her again. Shoulders slumped, exhausted.

The stalemate is broken. The tension – no. the moment is gone.

She blinks as well, still burning from the rot festering inside but biting back on the stench. He warned her multiple times, he wouldn’t do it. She’s almost proud for him. If she was anymore collected she would say it to him. Now all she does is reminding herself to blink, to quiet the fires, to get a grip.

He moves to stand up, taking her glass to move it to the sink.

‘you up for some hot chocolate?’

She shrugs, looking out the window, trying to focus on anything besides the rapidly approaching disappointment. Cause she’s gonna vomit all that bitter acid on to him. She’s gonna be that bitch who never appreciates a good deed. She just wanna feel like shit in a different way.

Hah. Ain’t she needy to boot.

He’s trying to busy himself with the process of heating up milk and dissolve the cocoa in it.

‘sweet or salty?’

‘bland.’

‘you mean bitter.’

She doesn’t trust herself with an answer. She’s looking out the window, he’s turned towards the counter. After some clinking with a spoon his voice is hesitant.

‘you need help. Not from me, not from the eu, not from the higher ups. Not politically or culturally. You need – fuck, it were so much easier if we were just humans – but you need simple humanitarian help. Like with compassion and shit. And I’m the last person you want this from but right now a simple hug and a real cry-out would help you more than you getting me to fuck you raw.’

He doesn’t turn towards her as he puts the two cups into the micro to bake the chocolate a little bit. Her voice is as dusty as the air.

‘Humanitarian help is what needed in Ukrain and Gaza and all those other places no news station can reach.’

‘yeah but you also gotta live. You made it this far. Would be a pretty miserable joke to give up now. It’s just a museum. You had worse.’

‘I have worse.’

She sighs, finally letting a tiny bit of tension out of her shoulders, hand trying to rake through her locks. She lays down on her folded hands over the table, still looking out.

So far the nicest rejection she got from him. Another one for the exceptions.

‘look what I try to mumble is that you deserve help. Isn’t that also in that ridiculous bible of ours?’

She closes her eyes muttering some half assed retort. The darkness is familiar behind her eyes, the quiet beeping of the micro is the next thing she focuses on cause if she let her emotions check in she will cry. And that would be just annoying at this point.

He places the mug down the table, slightly nudging her crossed arms as he sits down across, taking a sip. She doesn’t move. He feels like he ran a marathon and managed to knock over a blind kids sandcastle at the last step. He doesn’t know if he’s okay, if he can walk out now and he fears he’ll ramble something stupid so he tries to concentrate on the sweet warm drink in his mug. Not sure if it helps with anything. He tries not look at her crumpled form on the table basked in the lights from outside. Too much, too heavy, too… simple.

The air is still dusty and smells like old times, the silence almost domestic and her mug slowly stops steaming.

His voice is gentle if a bit croacked.

‘it’s gonna go cold.’

She finally moves to cup it in her hands, her head like a sad soggy sack of potatoes hung low as she gazes into the mug, not trusting herself to look at him. He clears his throat.

‘should I call a friend over?’

Her head moves a tiny bit, before a sullen shake tells him no. He takes another sip, trying to let the warmth of the drink solve this gordian knot.

She finally takes her first sip of the drink. Shoulders dropping, a sigh mumbled into the mug and he pretends to not see the tears and the snot on her nose.

‘thanks.’

‘yeah… just… just get help.’

‘you’re kind. Too kind.’

He ignores the acid around the words, how he knows it could have also played out and takes a sip again.

‘when the guestroom is ready you’re also welcome. To test if my little art-therapy worked.’

He cannot fight off the smirk.

‘you want to piss him off?’

She chuckles, her voice hoarse and crooked.

‘within survival reasons.’

He dares to look at her again and she has her eyes closed, a wobbly smile on her lips.

‘you’re gonna be okay.’ He tells her, surprised at how warm his voice is but chalks it up for the exceptions. ‘mixing high culture and history with passive aggressive narrative sounds like a fun task.’

‘yeah.’ She doesn’t open her eyes, just clutches her mug closer, sniffing as quietly as she can.

He imagines kissing her forehead for a moment but doesn’t move. They are too far apart, and anything like that would drag him dangerously close to just give into her despite his resolve. Instead when he’s done with his mug he searches for a napkin. Washing his own mug, putting the napkin next to her he stands, one hand on the doorhandle. He’s hesitant.

She blows her nose and it’s eerily soundless but she sighs again, a bit more straightened up and glances at him. His hand find the back of his neck, unsure what to say.

She cracks one of the saddest smiles he seen, nodding with her head.

‘run along, you outdid yourself tonight.’

‘you sure you don’t want a friend around?’

‘what, just cause you rejected to have sex with me and made me a pity choco we are friends now? How cheep do you think I am?’ the snark in her voice is shacky but back, her head held a little higher. ‘I’m quite picky with my friends, unlike my hookups.’

She’s finally smirking at him and there’s an itch to just march back and kiss her senseless cause she wanted this so bad, he’ll show how he’s above a cheep hookup but stops and just laughs a little snort.

‘well unlike you, I have standards for my friends and hook ups. But don’t worry, there’s always time to raise them some more.’

‘like only hookin up in a place dedicated to memorate a long gone empire you were partially slave of?’

‘sounds like a date.’

He winks and opens the door, seeing her wave an uncertain hand after him.

#aph hungary #aph romania #fanfic #semi-personal rant woven into a fanfic #rohun adjacent stuff #cause it's still my favorite toxic couple but i never let them get it on?#like they are too proud to give into stuff? kinda?#hetalia fanfic vaguely mentioning real history #i'm really bad at tagging.#also this was supposed to be the work that pushed me out of the procastination freeze i have for weeks now #not sure if it did it's job

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obsidiangx · 3 months

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christianity is always an inspiring thing to me for storytelling because i have to spend my entire life unpacking the emotional abuse it inflicted on me as a child and teen and live with the way it influences the abusive regime i live under as an adult and i also do want to fuck people with wings coming out of their back, people with a forty eyes all staring into my soul, i am excited by the majesty of the leviathan, the thought of dwelling in a huge fish's stomach, the tragedy of watching everyone you ever knew drown in a seemingly endless storm.

i know so much was stolen by christianity, so many beautiful cultures consumed and turned to something worse, spread across the globe like a pandemic that kills unceasingly and makes ill those who are lucky enough to survive. to be inspired by this is to tell a story of something hateful and beautiful, an intoxicating thief that comes in the peace of the midday sun to burn your crops and hang your people, that paints its feathers a coat of many colors even as smog billows from its beak.

at its core, christianity is at fault for nothing. an excuse used by bastards who didn't need one that shares a name with the love so many others feel. and yet here i see a name for hatred, a label for abuse. the cross is a symbol of my people, just as much as the stars and stripes i yearn to cast into forever burning fire. i can reject what it stands for, the suffering that has been exacted on me and the people I love. but i was carved in its shape. it is a part of me.

#christianity #colonialism

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moviemunchies · 5 months

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Okay, so this is an older one, but I saw it recently and I thought it’d be fun to do a review on.

So! Captain from Castile!

Based on the novel by Samuel Shellabarger, Captain from Castile tells the story of Pedro de Vargas, a young Spanish nobleman, who decides to help an escaped slave from the New World, Coatl, in getting away from his abusive master. Said master has powerful friends in the Inquisition, and frames the de Vargas family for heresy. After saving what remains of his family, Pedro has to escape to the New World to avoid the Inquisition’s wrath, and he joins the Cortes Expedition, becoming Cortes’s right-hand man, and one of the conquistadors who helps to conquer Mexico.

Alright, we should talk about that Cortes thing, yeah? I kept wondering what we’re supposed to think of Cortes in this movie. At times, the movie seemed to act like joining this conquest was a noble endeavor. Our heroes sign up for the expedition not only to escape the authorities chasing them, but also because it’s presented as a grand adventure with a chance for wealth and great fun.

And yet, at other times, it’s clear that that film knows that the Spanish conquest of Mexico wasn’t really a good thing. The priest on the expedition keeps trying to get Cortes to prioritize spreading Christianity and is bothered by how much they emphasize gold and land instead. One of the indigenous characters points out that the Spanish are invading, slaughtering, and enslaving people who have done nothing to them in return. The film’s depiction of Cortes is also an interesting, ambiguous figure, who is happy to help our heroes; other times, he’s obviously in it for himself.

Side note: an astonishing number of the characters in the movie are based off of real people The main character and his family? No. But Cortes’s expedition? The named characters are real people.

I’m not against this, actually–I’m rather for it, in fact. People are complex! Cortes is very good to the people who help him get what he wants, and that doesn’t change that he’s a greedy, conniving bastard. The movie isn’t spoon feeding you what you’re supposed to think about historical events and figures, even if it does dramatize many of them. I’m not saying it’s an accurate depiction of those things, and given how little actual violence there is on-screen, I can’t say that it’s not whitewashing what happened; only that I appreciate it’s not holding the audience’s hand, or trying to make these people out to be spotless, completely noble people.

The movie does have this problem, too, of forgetting about some of its characters. Pedro’s family is more or less forgotten when he leaves Spain, when protecting them is a large part of his character in the first part of the film. Yes, they’re theoretically safe in Italy, so I guess they’re okay? Pedro’s original would-be fiance doesn’t have it so lucky. She’s almost completely forgotten, and has no more scenes, which felt egregious because she actually wanted to help Pedro when he was framed by the Inquisition. Then there’s Coatl–he DOES reappear later in the movie, then does something significant, and is never mentioned again. From context, he’s most likely dead, but no one sheds a tear or even brings him up despite how important he was to the story’s resolution.

Pedro has a love interest named ‘Catana’, pronounced like most people pronounce the Japanese sword, which is downright weird for a name? I’ve never seen it before, and I spent a significant portion of my watching experience wondering if I’d misheard. Nope. Her love story with Pedro isn’t too bad, though I think Pedro jumps into it too quickly; as a former nobleman, he’d have some trouble accepting that he would be in a relationship with a former kitchen maid, I think.

There’s an undercurrent, especially in the film’s conclusion, about how this is the NEW WORLD, and it should leave the intolerances and classism of the Old World behind (and also be a noble, Christian country of equality, because this is a 1947 movie, after all). It’s a noble sentiment, sure; at the same time, with that speech at the end I couldn’t help but respond with, “Yeah, we’ll see how that goes.” Because we know how the conquest of Mexico is going to go down. It’s not pretty.

It’s a good adventure movie, I think, and one with more nuance than I’d really expect from this era and this setting. It makes me think I should go pick up the book to see how it handles the material. And it makes me wish that I’d seen this movie earlier. If you’re into old movies, go ahead and give it a try.

#Movie Munchies #Captain from Castile #Tyrone Power

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zee-the-tree-cat · 2 years

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Things about Connecticut and the Northeast because I'm brainrotting over this bastard goblin of a man:

He's shorter than everyone else in the northeast aside from Rhode and Dela.

This is canon, but I'm building on it: In his Table Intro, he threatened to stick his boat shoe up Florida's a--. This would imply he's both a boatman and wears boat shoes. I'd like to think he owns many pairs but the ones he wears most are Sperry Winter Boat Boots.

I've already mentioned the hemophilia headcanon but there are a few more layers to that.

He's treated like the baby of the Northeast despite not even being the youngest.

We don't see him fighting much with the rest of the NE and that's a product of that.

Even historically he didn't contribute lots to the founding of the country war-wise! I think he didn't fight in the war because the rest of the NE fought tooth and nail for him to stay in with the philosophers. (You bet he snuck out anyway.)

The Connecticut Compromise is one of the only large things contributed to the government by Connie and I think that makes him pissed.

His handwriting is actually pretty good, and he has excellent cursive, but nowadays he just uses a messy sailor's scrawl and that's that. Gov mourns the days when his handwriting was legible.

SayBrooks and New Haven were his older and younger brothers respectively. They died so he could live. He was insistent they back down and become part of his colony, but now he regrets it.

He's somewhat Episcopalian, mainly staying in the congregation due to routine, familiarity, and the connection to the afterlife Christianity provided. He's still very much mourning his brothers and isn't entirely ready to admit he's not that religious anymore.

His brothers still have rooms in his house. Doors that lead to walls with their names scratched messily on the wooden doorframe.

He became a pirate and sailor as retaliation for being pushed back during the first half of the revolution. Though it was dangerous, he loved it, and Rhode went with him for a long time.

He still has some beef with North Carolina over Blackbeard.

He has a black lab puppy named Archibald. Sometimes when he can't find a dogsitter he brings him to meetings with him.

His house is somewhat small to the external eye, with the only large part being the bedroom hallway indoors. The outside is stone brick, and the roof is dark. The inside is cozy, similar to a cottage, with most of the interior keeping the old design features with the newer ones still in place. For example, he has electric lights but still keeps mounted oil lamps hanging on the walls. The interior's main colour scheme is light turquoise.

He dances!! A lot!! Folk, polka, square, line, you name it!

He was so pleased when the sea shanty thing happened in 2020. It gave him an excuse to be humming the nostalgic songs.

Sometimes the Northeast all go on boating trips together. It's the only time you can see them get along- if you're lucky enough to catch them.

If the northeast have to stand in a line, Connie will always stand between New York and Mass. He's the designated "Make sure they don't rip each other's throats out" guy. He hates it but everyone else picked up on it too. If they don't already have a person/people between them Gov can and will stick Connie in as a divider.

A lot of the Connecticut accent is slurring letters together, so sometimes when he's talking to someone in the west or south he has to repeat himself a lot. It's funny until it gets annoying.

He has a job outside of government work, and it's being a maritime photographer. He likes to share his pictures with Maine, Maryland, Rhode, and sometimes California and Florida.

Sometimes when he curses he slips into older terms and such which is hilarious to some of the other states. Florida likes to call him Shakespeare and Oregon sometimes joins in and begs him to come to his Shakespeare festival or a Renaissance Fair. He turns him down almost every time.

BONUS HC:

His house holds personifications of several of his cities.

He thinks New Haven and Saybrook are both dead but they just became Old Saybrook and New Haven.

The reason he hasn't connected the dots yet is he didn't meet New Haven the city until 1784 and Old Saybrook the city 1738. He thought the similarities were just his mind playing tricks on him. Everyone else in the NE has figured it out but they don't have the heart to tell him.

I'll probably write more or something but,,,, hyperfixation fun Enjoy Goblin man Just gonna slide him up in the favorites category next to Texas and Cali. Nothing to see here.

#wttt #wttsh #welcome to the statehouse #welcome to the table #wttt connecticut #wttt ct #my headcanons

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brokenmusicboxwolfe · 1 year

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I’m dreading going to the Herring Festival today. It’s the only thing that ever happens in my teeny, tiny, almost not there town, but the Trump indictment might make it extra stessful.

To explain: This is “Trump country”. Oh, NO WAY does everyone support him, but a sizable percentage of the white population do. Especially the locally local, been here for generations ones. It’s a mixed race community, but the LOUD ones are the white ones.

Actually, being from Jamesville seems to encourage loudness. Back in the day when we would watch The Today Show in the morning I once heard it the crowd outside shouting for the camera, and from the other room I grumbled it sounded like Jamesville. This caused my parents and I to laugh a few minutes later when we saw a group of VERY familiar faces waving frantically to the camera. I can apparently recognize Jamesville folk even from inarticulate shouting!

Anyway, the Herring Festival. And the one day I get to see my neighbors. The trouble is, the white ones that didn’t ostracize my family just assumed we were “like them”.

By the way, I have discovered lots of people do that. If someone seems “nice” they just assume the person is actually just like them. Every single year my classmates would forget I wasn’t a Christian. Then something would come up so they would notice (like my refusal to not say “Under God” during the Pledge of Allegiance would be noticed by someone) and I’d be shunned for a week or so. Then they would forget, because I wasn’t like they had been taught non-believers all. In other words, I was “nice” instead of “evil”.

So at the Herring Festival there will be a lot of folks that know me. I’ve lived here all my life and I am white, so they will assume they know how I think. They will be upset about Trump, will assume I am too, and want to chat about it.

**sigh**

Of course, I have no problem telling someone “I do NOT agree with you”. I’ve had do it since I was a child. Going with “Look, we are NOT going to agree on this, so we can talk about something else” often works, but I’ve discovered it doesn’t work with Trump. They just can’t shut up about him and the “injustice” done to the scumbag.

Up until now it’s been individual encounters. Individual rifts, caused during private conversations. The nice couple that helped me out that stopped talking to me because I told them not only do I not like HIM, I loath the bastard**, that sort of thing. Today it’s going to be crowds and the opportunity to come into conflict with many at once.

Maybe I will be lucky and I’ll slip by the conversations, facing just waves as folks talk to their friends/family. I’ll just have to hear them ranting away. Oh joy….

**I tried hard to not get into it. I begged the lady to PLEASE stop, and her trying to convince me to love him wasn’t going to work, but she just kept at it. I didn’t start out calling him a “bastard”, since profanity alone would shock the lady. I moved to it to make it absolutely clear how I felt.

#my day #nc herring festival #politics #rural living

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myfriendthecouch · 2 years

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I fought to get Saturday’s off from work. My new manager says to me “yeah wouldn’t it be nice? Who doesn’t want Saturday off?” as I explain religious obligation, knowing that my schedule will not allow me to attend shul unless I show up late, covered in dirt, grime and sweat. Knowing that once the days grows shorter I will be working come the early hours of Shabbat.

I get my saturday’s off, but not without the “how did you get Saturday off?”’s from the co-workers. My manager still doesn’t understand. I tell him I’m a Jew. He is puzzled. I explain that Saturday is Shabbat, but call it sabbath because he will not know what a Shabbat is. He cocks his head like a confused puppy and I explain Saturday is a Jewish day of rest. He then smokes and chuckles, “good thing you got Saturday off!”

He thinks it’s just a lucky coincidence. He thinks I just wanted a weekend, not understanding I took Saturday off because I am a Jew. Not understanding that I’d rather work the Sunday we all have off rather than the Saturday only I have off.

I work Rosh Hashanah, because I know I will need to use my absences wisely. Because I have to pick and choose which holidays are more important than others. Which holidays I want to observe while sacrificing my sick days. I do this because no company has ever respected my religion. No company has never respected the religion that their own stemmed from. No company respects the religion of their own Messiah.

Imagine that!

I take Yom Kippur off, as it is the most important holiday. At least that’s how I see it. The others I will work and I’ll be given Christian holidays off. I take Yom Kippur off and I’m handed a piece of paper that says “sign here” as me recognizing that I missed work. That my most important holiday isn’t a good enough excuse to miss work. That my religion is less important than their money they make off my sweat and labor. That one more person shoving one more box in a filthy warehouse is more important than my spiritual cleansing.

They would be furious if they didn’t get to spend their Christmas with family. Their holiday that had been bastardize to be about reindeer and materialism. Their holiday that wasn’t theirs to begin with.

And now these people continue to impose their religious beliefs over mine. America is the country of the free. My ancestors as well as millions of others had left their native homelands to find better life. To find better freedom. And now those lands have more freedom than the people in the United States. I loved this country. I grew up in a family of patriots who now hate this country. I had lost the freedoms people like my grandmother fought for. I may lose even more.

The Christofascism of this country has always imposed itself onto those with other beliefs. It’s always dominated this country. There’s a reason why even the Christian forefathers wanted a separation of church and state. Now the same church that has always forced its beliefs and practices onto the country is now ruling the country. And it is ruling the country free of taxes. We pay it for them.

Once again, Christians have violated my First Amendment right. Once again, they have stripped me and so many others of our right to practice Judaism. And now it’s beyond just risking my job. Now it’s beyond backlash and idiocy at work. Now it has become life and death.

This country is becoming a mockery of what it was meant to be. And all I can do is cry and weep. I cry and weep as I watch the weapons that have killed people like me now become even more protected than me as a human. I weep as I pass the security guard that stands outside the doors of my small synagogue who is armed with his own weapon. Because I know the country bated people like me. Because I know the world has always hated people like me.

I tremble in fear knowing that the Supreme Court doesn’t want to end there. It’s hungry for more. It doesn’t just want to punish us for having a uterus, it also wants to punish all of us for wanting to practice safe sex and it wants to strip us of our privacy and it wants to strip us of our constitutional right to marry whomever we love! More Christian beliefs being imposed onto me as a Jew, more Christian beliefs being imposed onto other non-Christians, and more Christian beliefs being imposed onto other Christians who share a different set of beliefs.

As a woman living in the land of the free, I have less rights than my own dog. As a Jew living I the land of the free, I have less rights than the guns that shoot us down. As a lesbian, I have less respect than a dog or a gun. A gun isn’t even living or breathing. I have to fight to get my own holidays off, all the while hearing about how gays should be lined up and executed in a manner so horrific that even our corrupt legal system has deemed too inhuman for even the most atrocious criminals.

I know it is selfish of me to only look at it from my eyes, but I can only truly speak for myself. And the things I’ve mentioned aren’t even close to being the end of it. You can tell me it’s worse in other countries, and I’ll believe you to an extent, but even then it just seems like a pros and cons list, where at the end of the day the Land of the Free barely rivals the places deemed worse.

I’m sick and tired of Christofascism controlling my life and the lives of others. Im sick and tired of being told I am worthless and better off dead. I hate knowing my dead body has more rights and religious freedom than I do alive. I hate knowing that my dog has more reproductive rights than I do. I hate knowing that inanimate objects have more rights than I do. I hate that this “pro-life” movement loves to pick and choose which lives are worth more than others.

I hate that this government gets to pick and choose which lives are worth saving and which lives are not.

So many people lost their lives for this piece of land. So many innocent people had their bloodshed so this land could be free. It’s like none of that matters now. Has it ever?

I’ll still keep fighting to have Saturday off as my managers scratch their graying heads cluelessly. I’ll continue to be punished for being Jewish. I’ll continue to be punished for being gay. Others will continue to be punished and persecuted for who they are as well.

I will keep fighting until the day I take my last breath.

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darkestprompts · 2 years

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The Penitent Heart AU - Part 2

or “Reynauld invents Charismatic Christianity to cope with widowhood”

Continuation of Part 1

Cut because this got longer than expected

So Reynauld emerges from the Cloister, tells the people outside to gather all the Hamlet (that’s when he finds out the Heir is dead) and, hopefully, goes take a shower while he thinks of what he’s going to say. People are anxious. Reynauld’s expedition was meant to be the last mission, the end of the evil plaguing the land. They want an explanation and for someone to say what next. He has to bring them truth, leadership and hope.

One important thing to remember is that Reynauld is a soldier, but he’s also very likely one of the most charismatic people in the Hamlet. Not in that he’s necessarily one of the most likeable, but he can sure as hell inspire people and get them to do what he wants. Most of his camping skills are about encouraging others through speeches or his own presence, and he even gets a battle skill to rally others and keep them from breaking. Tin man talk good.

So he goes out and tells them everything, about the Heart of Darkness, about the Ancestor’s betrayal, about the battle and their friends’s noble sacrifice. But all throughout he’s also weaving a narrative that tells them: yes, you were lied to, yes, the evil is not gone, but that doesn’t mean your pain was meaningless. The work is simply not over, not yet. That’s where his budding worship of Dismas finds his way into his speech. Because the story he’s already constructed about Dismas’ death and sacrifice gives *him* hope, he uses it to try to spread that hope to others. He’s, after all, a man of faith.

So, how does that pan out?

The audience may be primarily of the Hamlet’s so called heroes, but they aren’t an uniform crowd. They have their own beliefs, biases, and most importantly, their own relationships with the ones that died in the Darkest Dungeon.

First of all, I think there’s a real risk of offending those close to the two other characters that perished in the fight. By emphasizing Dismas he may come off as diminishing the role of the others. Not that he’s trying to do that, and he’s sure to sing their praises too, but comparisons are a big part of our sense of justice. They may feel the need to put their own spin on the story to “set it right” as it spreads.

The other group is those half a dozen that actually knew Dismas well, and are probably at least familiar with Reynauld and how he works, and see what is happening. Because while the idea that Dismas is a hero at heart and would do everything to save his friends if given the choice is not strange at all to those who knew him, what Reynauld is making out of him *is*. Dismas isn’t some saint or prophet or god of redemption that bestowed the holy word to Reynauld. They realize this is coping, however, it’s likely they don’t know how to approach him to get this crazy idea out of his head. He’s a stubborn bastard when he wants to be.

Then there are those that are more or less neutral. Those are the ones who have a chance to be swept away by Reynauld’s rethoric. I think that, except for very few, they don’t buy the full story as told. But that’s not the important part. The important part is that the seed is planted, and even a little bit of supersticious thiking can make it sprout.

Imagine this: many of the heroes scatter, be it because they are #done with this eldritch bullshit, because they are following the trail of the monsters, or because they want to protect the places they came from. And they tell stories of this far away Estate, all they have seen and what little they know about why the things are as they are now. They even met the people who killed the evil cultist god that wanted to destroy the world! That’s the sort of thing you brag about. And maybe, influenced by Reynauld’s words, they pour one out for Dismas when they drink, or they flick a lucky coin at the crossroads or hold a day of rememberance. This unwittingly starts a Dismas-as-folk-hero tradition that gets seamlessly integrated with local folklore and beliefs.

On his front, though, Reynauld’s got a new crusade to lead. Convinced or not, he’s probably the last halfway legitimate authority at the Hamlet (who else they are going to ask, the Caretaker?) capable of continuing the fight against the cult and its monsters. My idea here is that the world is transitioning into a DD2 hellscape, but perhaps not as quickly. So the willing heroes gather around for an actual war outside of the dungeons. They got to protect the surrounding settlements, reinforce some kind of base (the Hamlet could barely survive Vvulf!), prepare for the worst that’s yet to come. They need recruits, contacts in other towns, all sorts of help.

That’s when Reynauld’s words really start to catch on. Because:

1. the world is falling apart and this guy who’s doing something about it, who stabbed an evil god in the face, tells me I should be grateful to this man/entity(?) that it’s not a lot worse.

2. reinforced hierarchy is a great way to ensure superior’s beliefs are respected and reproduced

3. an advancing army makes sure your words are impossible for the wider world to ignore while protecting you from being burned at the stake for heresy

There are other factors that make a potential theology where Dismas survived and defeated the Heart of Darkness from within appealing:

1. Obvious “devil” figure to fight against and a defined enemy in the cultists. The enemy is powerful but, in a sense, already laid low.

2. The central figure is human and relatable. As the ascended penitent thief, Dismas is a lot more accessible than the abstract Light. (Compare to how the cult of the Virgin Mary exploded in Christianity, partially because a human mother who suffered in life is more approachable than God the Father)

3. Focus on immediate action. People are lost, Reynauld teaches them they must fight back, that humans have the power to overthrow cosmic horrors, that they are not helpless against them.

4. It’s easy for light worshippers to graft his new beliefs into old Church of Light tradition to the degree they are comfortable with. This will blend well if there are places who are already getting familiar with the idea of Dismas-as-folk-hero. Absolute rejection gets less common as the belief becomes widespread and acceptable, it becomes more of a matter of what spin and interpretation you want to give to it.

The Church of Light will surely strike back against this massive heresy, but let’s be real, can they afford to open another front with the cultists around? I can see some staunch traditionalists thinking that Reynauld’s movement is an worse threat than the Cult because it has the potential to affect the Church from the inside, but how much will this influence anyone with the arms to take a stand? Reynauld is still a crusader, who’s to say he won’t provide a much more inspiring leadership to other crusading veterans? And if pretty much anyone can say “wait, I’m a faithful of the Church, we just think the Dismas guy was allright and hold a vigil in his memory” how hard is it to root out heresy?

My point is, if Reynauld can’t win against the Cultists, neither can the Light win against Reynauld.

#darkest dungeon #the penitent heart au #dd reynauld #dd crusader #darkest dungeon ending spoilers #dd highwayman #dd dismas #should I detail this further?#feedback appreciated

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