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foreficfandom · 3 months

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POV: You Are Actually MUCH More Powerful Than Alastor (ch. 2 - "Flashbacks")

(Alastor x Reader, g/n, queerplatonic/sex and romance favorable, fan theories, God!Reader) (AO3)

Alastor was always a man who craved control and attention. Ninety-odd years of being a demon has long since mutated his mortal desires into a festering appetite. While he was alive, it was a very mundane longing for the spotlight. Being the sought-after host of his own radio show was as close as being his own boss he could realistically hope for. The masses could listen and fawn over his charisma and humor while ignorant of his champagne hue.

If he wanted more, he would have to turn to drastic measures.

Young Alastor had made the station affluent, so they could afford to get their hands on any show recording they wished. One autumn, they aired The Witch’s Tale, a trailblazer for being the first horror-themed show on the radio. It garnered controversy from the conservative crowd, but ratings didn’t lie. New Orleans loved the series.

Alastor relayed the local news in his typical rapid-fire speech, a fashionable showman’s chatter made even faster thanks to his Creole blood, and as he speed-read his script in real time, he recited a quick advertisement for Madame Jones’ Hot Comb Oil before running the magnetic carbon ribbons of The Witch’s Tale. Voices of the actors took over the air. He drew a breath from a cigarette and leaned back on his chair. Alastor’s voice was now due for a rest until the current tape ran dry.

This was his first time hearing the show as well. Short horror tales were narrated by a fictional character named Old Nancy, one of the witches from Salem. The first tale was of a Venus statue come to life to slay the son of its sculptor, the second adapted from the real life confessions of the convicted Scottish witch Isobel Gowdie, the third clearly ripped off from Stevenson’s The Bottle Imp, and so on. After each tape, Alastor came back on the air for more news, advertisements, and the occasional social commentary. A quick joke about the Nipponese making waves on the West coast, a little update on McKinley’s first year back in office.

If he were to be candid, each episode of The Witch’s Tale was a gamble of hit or miss. Some were near contrived. But a few were quite satisfactory.

Most interesting was the narrator. After each tale, Old Nancy would reveal a bit more of her backstory. She never married. She grew her own food and earned her own money selling poultices. She may or may not have slept with both men and women. Her cat was a demon familiar. Her house was constructed partly from the bones of her victims.

Alastor found himself lost in thought. A young maiden, a pregnant mother, and an old widow swam through his mind. But the fourth woman … standing apart from the others, free from the grasp of a husband’s heavy greedy fist, proudly dangerous. A woman alone, but free. The maiden, matron, and crone, and now the witch.

Suddenly, Alastor saw himself repeated four times in place of the women. He was the scrawny teenage boy, then his current self, then a wizened old man, and in place of the witch was this enchanting visage of his long-lived personal fantasy, chest thrust upwards and smile brazen.

He tapped his fingers against his stomach as a strange thought overtook him. Could one become the witch?

Could Alastor be truly free from the Man’s grasp?

Hidden deep in the winding alleyways of New Orleans, voodoo was still going strong despite the coppers’ efforts. When mother was still alive, she would buy dry goods and miscellaneous wares from a small negro outlet run by Haitian immigrants, and locals knew that the shop’s upstairs hid a small voodoo church, an open secret amongst those uninterested in contacting police for any reason, even if they themselves weren’t practitioners.

Alastor knew nothing of voodoo. Mother was Lutheran, father had apparently been a loose Catholic. Church Sundays had tapered off by the time Alastor was nine, as did house praying aside from Christmas eve, and mother was near illiterate so there was no Bible reading. He never asked her if she was still faithful after dropping the more superfluous habits. Alastor’s heart ached at the thought of mother barred from the gates of Heaven.

He heard the horror stories of this dread voodoo religion. He, himself, has recited many sensational reports of sacrificial rituals and cannibalistic orgies, almost certainly all fear-mongering bullshit, but plenty enough believed that voodoo witches and warlocks used a black magic. Cursing good Christian families to die of plague, using living shadows to ensnare children away, poppets with needles, sigils that glow, that sort of malarkey.

If I could curse people, or control a tangible shadow, it would be a right gasser, he thought to himself.

A steady list of potential victims formed in his mind. Number one, the man who abandoned his wife and child to a stricken life of poverty. Just harmless daydreaming. Maybe.

Alastor used to say to himself, ‘thank God’ that mother was such a genius, otherwise they’d never have survived.

He wonders if he would soon be swearing different oaths.

—

To your nose, virginity didn’t have a strong smell or energy, but innocence did. The first time the two of you met, you had sensed Alastor’s putrid, gore-soaked body roaming the hotel long before he could sense you approaching the front door, although you allowed him to believe he had the upper hand. Murderers, especially those who lusted, were very blatant. A subtle pang told you that Alastor didn’t lust for flesh like many men did. His body smelled virgin, but more telling, his powers would not be affected should that come to change. After all, only someone uncaring of an aspiration would not evolve from achieving it.

Alastor was not innocent. Not like princess Charlie. Not like the children sinner souls.

He may not have a clue what Angel Dust meant by wearing a “special sort of ring ”, but hunger had many forms.

Flesh, blood, and bone were common sacrifices made to manifest power. A human’s physiology cultivated some of its greatest energy from fats and protein, so it made sense why Alastor’s curse would force him to fuel by consuming meat. But if he were in kinder circumstances, he might have instead been encouraged to eat any other sort of matter, or not fuel himself through food at all.

Clearly, Alastor’s debtors wanted to corrupt the man beyond what murder would do to his mind and soul. The more Alastor killed, the more he ate, the more powerful he grew, and the more he’d need to eat. He became a slave to his appetite.

You wondered if it was because they couldn’t affect him through his loins, so they chose the closest alternative.

In any case, Alastor did resent his need for nourishment, just not nearly as much as he resented the actual chains. It helped that he has always found fulfillment in creating, eating, and sharing food, and there was a very good place in Hell for that kind of attitude.

Cannibal Town didn’t become a proper, distinct district until Overlord Rosie’s rise to status. The industrial revolution had created a great epidemic of poverty, and many struggling in the developing American frontier had turned to cannibalizing the dead to survive, from the children to the elderly, only tapering off when a successful ‘20’s economy rose to the rescue. Rosie turned the predominant Edwardian-era population into its current image. Walking through Cannibal Town’s streets of petticoats and boater hats, it was like stepping back into one of your past lifetimes as a New Yorker under Taft, watching Florence Lawrence in picture shows and seeing oreo cookies on the shelves for the first time.

In fact, ‘oreo’ biscuits were sold in Cannibal Town, imitating their original tin box packaging, but they were made with rendered human fat rather than pork tallow. Rosie wanted her people to embrace their partaking, rather than languish in their past sins, or hide their undying appetite. Human flesh wasn’t an addictive substance, but cannibalism certainly was. It was as habit forming as any other ritual gesture, like how Vaggie wakes up in the morning to tie her hair ribbon right-over-left, or how Husk always arranges the bar’s bottle storage just so, or how Alastor uses an old pewter pot to boil his coffee over the stove fire. Many of these antiquated cannibals treat their slaying, butchering, and eating with the same love they used to have for the Eucharist.

Alastor’s affinity for Cannibal Town wasn’t quite because he felt kinship between their cannibalism. Fondness for Rosie aside, it was the best source of properly prepared human meat for sale, trimmed and bled as thoroughly as venison chuck. Passionate cook he may be, but he never had the patience for true butchering. Especially whilst mortal, and in Hell, a victim could easily be ten feet tall with several limbs. Who aside from the butcher had time to set aside eight hours for that?

No, Alastor’s reasons and fondness for partaking wasn’t commonly shared amongst the Cannibal Town locals. Most likened it to a sexual gratification. Many saw it as an alternative way to rape the weak. Some saw it as their only outlet for frustration. Some just wanted to fit in.

And to them, cannibalism was a very social hobby. Proper ladies found great sisterhood in tearing into a corpse like starving wolves, respectable men could now exercise their libido amongst other men by delving deep into flesh as a group. But whilst Alastor, too, socialized through food, eating mortal flesh was his curse, not his indulgence.

You knew for a fact that ever since the inception of his deal, Alastor's clause for cannibalism would quickly morph into an honest taste for it, but Alastor could only hypothesize if that was the case, or he just simply lost his mind sometime after his fourth killing.

Alastor shook himself out of his reverie as he approached the door to his favorite Cannibal Town grocer, you following close behind. He had been finding himself lost in his own thoughts more and more often, lately. No doubt due to your influence.

He could have shut down in complete bewilderment, but he was Alastor, damn it all, so he will garner the bravery to take the next step forward, then the step after that, and so on.

Towards a brighter future, he dared to hope.

He opened the door for you, and the two of you entered the little store. Like all grocers before the ‘50’s, the wares weren’t self-serve. Alastor summoned a paper list, and read off what he wanted to purchase. The mustached shopkeeper brought forward each item onto the counter before ringing them up on the register, using an old exertion scale for the fresh goods. A pound of dried red beans, a rasher of salted belly, a loaf of sugar, three pounds worth of scrap shin bones, and four red capsicums. You noticed that the capsicums - the bell peppers - were the smaller, pointier variety sold during Alastor’s lifetime, before cultivation increased their size and yield. Likewise, the sugar loaf was compressed into an old-fashioned triangular cone, wrapped in paper, not a pure white but a light flaxy yellow from its residue molasses. All the manufacturer’s labels were a parody of their living equivalents. The burlap sack of Camellia-brand kidney beans was of a bloody heart with green, thorny vines named “Carnillia”, instead of the original round flower.

The shopkeeper wrapped the raw meats into their own smaller bag. It went unsaid, but they were obviously human remains. You reached forwards to carry the groceries whilst Alastor was occupied with paying, but then said to you, “Nonsense, dear,” and reclaimed the load in a gentlemanly manner. A polite, but largely useless gesture, as it’d take monolithic mass to truly test your physical prowess, and Alastor had his own increased strength as an Overlord.

In fact, the last time you struggled to carry an object with all your true power, it had created a black hole where it fell.

Part of Alastor’s original deal for power was certainly to improve his meager physical ability, as he was like many young men who pictured their ideal self boasting some petal to the metal. His lean muscles did not swell, and he couldn’t bench-press an automobile, but he did find a great force behind his punches, and his running speed, and even when he twisted open a pickle jar. It had been a relatively mundane boon compared to his showier magic, but the knowledge that you couldn’t be physically overtaken was intoxicatingly empowering. Alastor finally understood why burly brutes acted so brazen, even if his silhouette didn’t display it.

Yes, his original deal was as righteous as any young person’s plea for bravery. But whilst some may only ask for a sword, he had asked for a legion.

And by mother’s grave, he got it.

Father had been his original sacrifice. He tracked down the drunkard squatting in a Chalmette hobo jungle, and knifed him in the belly until the wretch’s blood flow slowed to a crawl. He spent all night dragging the corpse across town and to the lake, right where the most notorious of voodoo orgies were said to take place, and mimicked the manbo’s ceremony, finger painting vèvè before shouting - begging, screaming, really - for anybody or anything to answer him.

He always tries to avoid remembering what came next.

Mother hadn’t passed, yet, but she was on her deathbed. She had been fighting scarlet fever for weeks, and pneumonia had developed. Alastor himself had a brief sick spell due to contamination, but he refused to move out of the house. If his mother was about to leave this world, he wanted to be there.

Mother’s pauper’s burial was baptized in Alastor’s second killing. A eugenic small-time politician one neighborhood over, who would have never achieved his meager position if it wasn’t for connections, thanks to the scandal of marrying his fourteen-year-old niece. For this attack, Alastor let his new powers bloom freely, but his inexperience left the corpse a complete mangled mess. Indeed, the shocking state of the body was what first sparked rumors of the Butcher Of New Orleans. Named so because of the man’s conspicuously missing flesh and organs, leading the police to rightly profile the suspect as a cannibal.

Life went on. Alastor’s mind and mood matured, and he hit his stride. He grew from radio host to radio star. He made plenty of honest friendships. He found innocent fun, and also learned to refine his not-so-innocent ones. By age 37, Alastor had a celebrity career, a Cadillac automobile, a sparkling reputation, and a total body count of twenty-eight men.

A month before he would turn 38, he found himself in hell. He remembered that his first action was to look around, expecting to see his father as if the man would, by chance, be standing on the nearby street corner. He looked up, and saw the glowing celestial body that must be heaven, high above and unreachable.

He wondered if mother was simultaneously looking down. Or was she still waiting for her dutiful son to show up and join her? Alastor had made great effort to ensure that mother never knew of how much of a monster her son really was.

Slowly coming back to the present, Alastor found himself wistfully looking at the morning sky as the two of you waited for traffic to halt. The haloed planisphere was partially hidden by daytime cloud cover, but one could spot the ever present gateway to heaven just about visible.

You followed Alastor’s gaze to the skies above. As remote as heaven may seem to the eye, you knew that it wasn’t a matter of distance. After all, heaven and hell weren’t places. They were states of being. You told him so last night, since he was under the impression that with just enough power, he could track down his debtor.

Unfortunately, if a suitably powerful being didn’t want to be found, no amount of searching would work.

He had bristled at that, fur on his ears standing, and paced away.

Then spun around with renewed, fake bravado, and said he would lure them here.

“How?” you asked.

He had no idea, but just twirled his cane into both hands with a closed eye grin. Apparently, he’d think of something.

Before the night concluded, he told you that all these earth-shattering revelations would have to be mulled over a hefty serving of his favorite comfort food, so you and him would dine privately a stew of baked beans. An especially fatty and. Well. Cannibalistic recipe of his.

So it came to be that the two of you left the hotel early next morning for some shopping, which of course caught the eye of nearby Niffty, who would most certainly be relaying the latest gossip to everyone else.

Let them talk. Alastor loved being the hottest gossip topic, and the friendships you choose to keep are yours alone.

Of course, most of them suspected that there was more than friendship involved. Not the wording you’d choose, but perhaps it wasn’t inaccurate.

There was divinity between the two of you, now. Every time you’ve muddled in mortal affairs, great cosmic connections formed between your souls. Inevitable, considering who you were, but they often had great repercussions. You considered every one of them worth the trouble.

That afternoon, the two of you entered the kitchen once more, but this time you stood by and watched as Alastor prepared a kettle to hang over his fireplace. Per his request (demands), you arrived to his room at eight on the dot to his little table set with sliced bread and a decanter of whiskey. The pocket swamp beyond was darkened and dotted with lazy fireflies. A radio station played, but not from the two sat on his bookshelf, nor emitting from Alastor himself, just directionless in the air as if the room itself breathed radio.

“Please, come on in,” he bowed, just a tad overweening. Say what you will about the man, he bounces back from existential despair pretty gracefully.

One of the seats slid out on its own accord. You sat obligingly to the tantalizing smell of spice, partially masking your ability to detect the human remains in the stew. As Alastor sat across from you, the disembodied radio chatter in the air twitched frequencies to instead play a wordless ballad.

“I took the liberty of choosing tonight’s choice of drink,” he said, pouring whiskey for the both of you. “I know it’s a bit early in the evening for the mule, but indulge this pitiful sinner.”

“It’s your meal, after all.” And true enough, Alastor stood no ceremony in digging a spoon deep into his bowl. Alcohol had its particular effects on you, so you reversed the fermentation of your whiskey into a poof of evaporated ethanol and a wet pile of sugar, mostly to amuse yourself, also to sneak a pinch of malt into your bow to cut some of the fat. Alastor had made the stew so rich, you could probably alchemize a toddler from the lipids.

You watched as Alastor relished deeply in his first spoonful. Fats, you remembered, was sometimes a more affordable grocery than sugar or flour, depending on the slaughter season. A poor Alastor would have grown up being treated to cheap, streaky bacon more often than beignets or hot cocoa.

“Just as mother made it,” he sighed wistfully, as if reading your mind. Far from the first time he’s mentioned his mother aloud, but before it had always been a set up for a jape, his comedian nature never at rest, and not unfiltered sentimentality. He must know that it was useless to hide secrets from you.

You forwent the malt sugar to taste the dish as it was intended. Surprisingly, it was shockingly laced with pure intentions that caressed your tongue and made tears well up behind your eyes. You didn’t think Alastor was capable of it.

It tasted like love.

Maybe he had more of a chance than you first thought.

—

Supper continued throughout the night. Alastor downed one, two, and was working on his third bowl before the conversation turned to the elephant in the room.

“- and when I kill the wretches souls who’ve clipped me like a duckling, I’ll -”

“Cool the jets, Alastor. We’d have to find them, first.” You stepped in before he could wind himself up.

“See, I’ve been thinking,” he took a hearty swig from his third glass of whiskey, "take it from a man with a couple of his own eggs in the basket. You know what makes a debtor knock on the front door faster than a twinkle?”

“What?”

He grinned angrily. “If he thinks there’s more debt to be had. You spot a way to keep your favorite minion closer to your chest for longer, you take it before someone else can.”

With a twist of his wrist, he downed his glass and slammed it none too quietly on the table. His eyes no longer meeting yours and burning holes into the wall over your elbow. “So! You help me advertise my devilish self as desperate for another deal, or perhaps just a clever amendment clause or two, and I promise you, they’ll show up.”

“And then what’ll we do?”

“End their wretched lives! What else?”

“Life began millions of years ago, and it hasn’t stopped since. Your jailer has long since learned to take advantage of that.” You calmly lounged with loosely crossed legs and arms, while Alastor was beginning to hover over the table like an angry ape. “There’s no way to ‘end their life’ in a manner you’d care about.”

With his face so close, you could smell the whiskey on his tongue along with an unfortunate whiff of antiquated dental hygiene standards. He wasn’t quite yet drunk, but was certainly not sober.

Your words gave him pause, but a radio star never let dead air stagnate. “Well, perhaps it was never a matter of killing them. No proper creditor makes their debtor more powerful than he.”

You said, “Your leash has its share of loopholes and weakness, like all contracts do. There’s never a way to fully avoid them, so most make additions that forbid them.”

Green stitches all along his maw. In one blink, you saw Alastor in his full pitiful glory, glowing neon-bright inverted hues, rotted body held together haphazardly with unforgiving threads. In another blink, Alastor was his normal outward self.

Back and forth you flipped your vision, trying to find any clues or conclusions. Snipping the threads would just make him fall apart. There must be a gentler conclusion.

Suddenly, you remembered what he said. “Alastor, how many debtors do you own?”

“Oh, I can’t remember the exact number. Ninety years is a long time. The answer’s somewhere in my ledger, I’m sure,” he waved a hand.

“Lend me a look. Please,” you added when Alastor’s glare turned vicious, “it’s important. You can trust me.”

“Now, how in the world would my own roster matter to my predicament?”

You leaned forward, meeting Alastor’s couched posture in the middle. “I made a promise, didn’t I? I promised you true liberty. If you want my help, then let me help.” You kept your voice low as if whispering a secret, even though no one was around to overhear. No one Alastor could see, anyways.

A heartbeat passed, then another. Then, with a great crackling of old vertebrae like he had suddenly aged decades, Alastor reigned in his defenses.

Has he ever yielded so completely since granted his powers? No wonder it felt so dreadful, like shaking off a carpet of cobwebs.

Never let it be known that Alastor was a chap who couldn’t learn something new, you heard him think bitterly. A dry exhale aired throughout the room as elongated shadows retreated, electric bulbs shone brighter, and the fireplace changed from eye-searing blacklight back to its natural warm glow.

Nonchalant smile back on his face, Alastor wiped his hands with a napkin and stood.

“Ah well. No time like the present, then?”

#alastor #alastor the radio demon #hazbin alastor #alastor x reader #hazbin hotel

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lulu2992 · 1 month

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Exploration of the now-offline Far Cry 5 official websites

Part 14: Jerome Jeffries

Recovered content

On the American website, Jerome was introduced on or before July 13th, 2017:

THE PASTOR JEROME JEFFRIES After serving in the Gulf War, Jerome returned to Montana to serve as the county’s Catholic parish priest. But with the influx of Project at Eden’s Gate, he lost his church and some blood along the way. Now, armed with the Good Book and a good gun, he’s ready to lead his congregation from the pulpit once again.

There was a link to this video:

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In an article titled “Meet Far Cry 5's Characters” posted on May 26th, 2017, on the same website, this is what we could read about Jerome:

THE PASTOR, JEROME JEFFRIES Jerome was Hope County's parish priest for more than 15 years, and was one of the first in the community to befriend Joseph Seed, the founder of The Project at Eden's Gate. Before long, Jerome's flock left to follow Joseph, and Jerome tried to take it in stride – until Eden's Gate locked down the county. Not only did Jerome lose his church, but he was beaten and left for dead in the woods. Jerome survived and vowed to protect the cult's intended victims, and as a Gulf War vet, he's got the training and experience to lead Hope County back to the light.

On or before February 9th, 2018, on the page dedicated to the characters, his description was modified:

THE PASTOR JEROME JEFFRIES Pastor Jerome Jeffries is God’s hammer. He served in the first Gulf War and saw combat up close, then returned to Montana and has been the region’s pastor for over 15 years. When Joseph Seed arrived 10 years ago, Pastor Jerome Jeffries was one of the first to befriend him. It wasn’t long before many of the pastor’s congregation broke away and joined Joseph, calling him Father. Pastor Jerome Jeffries became uncomfortable with Joseph’s unorthodox worship, but conceded that people must choose their own path to God. Then came the lockdown. The Pastor was beaten, tossed in the woods, and left to die. He clawed his way back to life and headed back to Fall’s End to protect those in need with the Good Book in one hand and a gun in the other.

And on March 27th, 2018, while the text and the linked video remained the same, the presentation slightly changed:

On the European website, from March 10th, 2018 (or earlier), to at least February 7th, 2020, he was described as follows:

JEROME JEFFRIES THE PASTOR After serving in the Gulf War, Jerome returned to Montana to serve as the county’s Catholic parish priest. But with the influx of Project at Eden’s Gate, he lost his church and some blood along the way. Now, armed with the Good Book and a good gun, he’s ready to lead his congregation from the pulpit once again.

The video was the same as the American one, but uploaded on the Ubisoft UK YouTube channel:

youtube

Commentary

Jerome does say he once was “a pawn in an oil war” in Far Cry 5, and Mary May, that “he fought in Iraq one or two”, so the part about him serving in the first Gulf War (like Jacob) seems canon. Because of the (cut) description of the Lamb of God Church, I assumed he was Lutheran and not Catholic, so either I’m wrong or they changed their mind and that explains why the word “Catholic” then disappeared from the description.

He also talks about having been kidnapped by John, who managed to make him say things he’s apparently ashamed he said, then “beaten, tossed in the woods, and left to die”, after which he considered leaving but decided against it and to protect the people of Fall’s End instead when he found a copy of the Bible. Although that dialog is still in the game, it always bothered me in terms of the timeline because Jerome says the incident happened before the Deputy arrived, but the Reaping (so the cult locking down Hope County and capturing Fall’s End) only began after Joseph’s failed arrest...

As for the part about him befriending Joseph, it’s never mentioned in the game, but we can imagine Jerome did welcome the Seed family when they arrived. However, it’s reminiscent of the live-action trailer The Baptism, in which we also get a glimpse of Joseph dragging an unconscious Jerome. Several elements of the video, the most important and mysterious one being the little girl, were never explained and/or are inconsistent with the current story of Far Cry 5... but maybe not with early versions of it.

I don’t know how canon this description still is, but I think it’s yet another proof that the story in general and the cult’s methods in particular went through several changes during the development of the game and that, at one point, the locked-down county and the constant terror caused by Eden’s Gate were not new; they had been going on for weeks, maybe months or even years before the Deputy’s arrival, and Jerome had been fighting against them the whole time.

Under the cut are all the available source files, saved directly from the website, of the images you see in the screenshots:

#far cry 5 #jerome jeffries #joseph seed #john seed #mary may fairgrave

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crossdreamers · 1 year

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Rebekah, “The Scary Transgender Person”, is still a girl. Of course she is!

This tweet by @WhereTrueLoveIs caused transhobes to cisplain that trans kids cannot possibly know what they want, wanting to play with Barbie dolls does not mean that you should live as a girl etc.etc.

The transphobes also seemed incapable of understanding that young kids are not given HRT and surgery. At most they get hormone blockers, and the effects of them are reversible.

But here’s the clincher. The same week Rebekah Bruesehoff (that is the girl in the picture above) posted the following tweet:

No regrets there. With one selfie she shot down every transphobic argument.

By the way:

Rebekah is a sixteen-year-old transgender activist, spreading her message of hope for trans and LGBTQ youth internationally through public speaking, television appearances, and social media. She’s testified before the NJ state legislature, spoken at rallies in NY and NJ, and this past summer shared her hopes for the church with 31,000 youth and adults at the Lutheran Youth Gathering in Houston, TX.

You should definitely watch this video about her and her supportive family!

youtube

Read also: How the daughter of a pastor became an accidental advocate for the trans community

More about Rebekah here.

#transgender #trans #mtf #queer #lgbt #lgbtqa #lgbt+#transphobia #transgender kids #trans youth

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sobeautifullyobsessed · 4 months

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[excerpt from an upcoming Stephen Strange x Hope Collins fic]

🎄Wrapped Up In Christmas Memories🎄

(Indulge me, if you will? Not sure if I'll be able to complete this story by Christmas, let alone the New Year ~ but the need to write this part is strong upon me, while my loves for Stephen and for Story compell me...)

genre: angst, catharsis, healing...and above all, love ❤️

characters: Stephen Strange, Hope Collins (OFC); established relationship

word count: 1.2k-ish

...Beverly Strange had been a music teacher before she ever became a farmer's wife. And for most of her life--despite how stony her husband grew over the years, grimly implacable in the face of what he found to be frivolous--she had done her best to fill their household with music. It was no fluke that Stephen developed such a great love for music that his prodigious intellect maintained a mental catalog of music trivia encompassing multiple genres.

Beverly had given private piano lessons as much for fulfillment as for the extra money the family had needed in lean years on the farm. Until the birth of Stephen's younger brother Victor, she had volunteered as Choir Director at the community's small Lutheran church. Stephen could remember spending many an afternoon in the weeks leading up to Christmas and Easter in the choir loft, coloring quietly and humming along while Beverly conducted practice. Once her youngest child, Donna, had been old enough to sit in a church pew under Stephen's supervision (for their father rarely attended weekly services) Beverly had resumed a place in the choir and was often featured as a soloist during the holidays. Stephen had been damn proud watching his mother sing her favorite carol, 'Oh, Holy Night'; how straight she had stood, free of his father's angry shadow, and of how flawlessly (to him, anyway) her notes had risen--in his child's mind he had been sure they had reached Heaven itself.

Most of all, though, he had always been proud to see when some parishioner or another was moved to tears by the purity of her rendition. Decades later, he could easily recall that feeling if he allowed himself to remember, could hear her in his mind--but the pain of Donna's death and the toll it wreaked upon his mother usually precluded him from indulging in such sentimental recall. Beverly's music had fallen mute the day his sister had drowned; she had never sung in church again, nor had Stephen ever heard her sing in their own home in the too short years that followed before her grief prematurely aged her into an early grave.

Stephen himself had adopted a stoic mien in the wake of losing Donna, internalizing the blame he felt for failing to save her, and by extension, their mother. Nearly two decades later, it still hurt too damn much to remember the first--and very rare--people who had loved him unconditionally, as both had been lost to him well before their time. And as his most vibrant memories of them included Christmastimes, he had turned his back on all but the most superficial of holiday celebrations.

He kept his painful thoughts and memories buried deep and had only confessed them to Christine (whom he realized in retrospect was the third soul to have loved him unconditionally) one sloppy, drunken night two months after his accident. She had given him what solace she could, gently urging him to not be so hard on himself, reminding him that both Donna and Beverly would wish for him to seek some healing, and staying with him until he drifted into a dreamless sleep. When she returned to check on him the next day, he had closed himself off again, rejecting her concern as unnecessary. Brushing off the incident as impertinent to his current life and goals.

But now...oh now! A wee bit at a time, Hope--who loved him as unconditionally as his past dear ones--had been chipping away at that wall. Reintroducing Christmas into his life by osmosis, without a hint of pressure for him to embrace the season. As she'd promised four weeks ago, she'd gone about her Christmasing without the sort of fuss that might bother him. With each little Yuletide advance she had made in the Sanctum, he had found himself relaxing and accepting, smiling in concession, happy to play witness to her happiness in the season.

Christmas was still a week away, and Stephen had begun contemplating what sort of gift he might manage for his own Who-girl. He hoped to find a gift that spoke his heart clearly, but each idea that came to him fell flat soon after he thought it up.

Settled comfortably in his study this evening, he was delving into a freshly discovered manuscript that appeared to have been penned by The Ancient One when she had been apprenticed to Merlin, during his tenure as the Londinium Sanctum Master. Though it should have been a fascinating read, Stephen found himself distracted by the question of what to give Hope--and by the carols she was playing in the living room portion of his quarters. Celtic Woman, he told himself with no effort to recall the facts; released October 2006, peak chart position number one on Billboard for US Worldwide Albums. The trilling of the all female group was pleasant enough, but not at all conducive to the study he was attempting.

Meaning to simply ask Hope to lower the volume so he could concentrate, Stephen removed his reading glasses, leaving them to rest atop the open manuscript and then headed the short way to the main room of his suite. The fragrances of cranberry and evergreen greeted him as he drew near, for she'd made a substantial investment in candles for the season, and they were clearly alight as she wrapped presents. Hope was deep in her element and happy to be so.

The music paused between tracks, and when it resumed, it stopped Stephen in his. The opening strains of 'O, Holy Night' filled the air, and in a heartbeat they landed upon him, sending him back to his youth, well before he had known loss and heartbreak. To those crisp, cold Nebraska evenings when his heart had swelled with love and pride to see his mother sing. Unprepared as he was for those powerful images and sounds to fill his senses, Stephen backed away, his eyes prickling with tears of mixed grief and recollection. Tears he'd put off for far too long in his quest to avoid the pain. And yet he knew that just several feet around the corner was the very soul who had given him the exact comfort, love, and strength he'd needed to complete the dreadful journey he had undertaken to save this Universe from Thanos--and that she'd be only too glad to learn this part of his past and help him find healing.

By some remarkable coincidence, or as if she'd heard his thoughts, Hope's answer came unbidden, her voice blending in as though it had been meant to be a message for his ears alone.

'Sweet hymns of joy, in grateful chorus raise we..., ' she sang as his heart seemed to crack open in bittersweet relief. 'Fall on your knees, O hear the angels voices...' Stephen wrapped his arms across his chest while he wept to remember the love and warmth that had been his in the little church and in every moment spent in his mother's company. How had he made himself ignore such a miraculous gift? Surely the joy of it far outweighed the sorrow. How foolish to have gone so long without allowing himself such comfort.

The carol now drew swiftly to it's close, and still his Hope sang sweetly, following the notes faithfully, unaware that she had reawakened a dormant part of his heart. 'O night,' she crooned, in happy harmony with those recorded singers, 'O night divine!' He swiped his tears away with both his palms, deciding he must tell her this part of his story. His reasons for divorcing Christmas from his life. And that he understood at last that every day of this beautiful season, she'd been patiently showing him that love was stronger than even grief...

[to be completed - once I finish the beginning as well!]

tagging: @aeterna-auroral-avenger @strangelock221b @stewardofningishzida @icytrickster17 @ben-locked @lorelei-lee @mousedetective @darsynia @bakerstreethound @hithertoundreamtof23 @rmoonstoner @mckiwi @doctorstrangeaskblog

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lino-nyangi · 5 months

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The child in the rubble, a (possible) reinterpretation of the Nativity Scene. Christmas preparations in Christ Lutheran Church in Bethlehem, occupied Palestine.

"Christmas in Palestine this year. The Child under the rubble. Immanuel God is with us in our pain and suffering. God in solidarity with the oppressed. The child of Bethlehem is our hope. For the children of Gaza and all victims of wars."

– Munther Isaac, Palestinian Pastor.

#palestine #free palestine #Bethlehem #west bank

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miss-mossball · 3 months

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Just curious if you are new and now learning about the princess rose canon how would you describe the world of princess rose in broad strokes?

An excellent question :> I'd be happy to share

In the fictional land of Herz, the newest generation of the royal Hearte family are made of of three siblings: Zephyr, the next king. Haze, the scholar. And Rose, the princess. Their stories all have to do with having a legacy of trauma and how they cope with it - if they break the cycle or succumb to it. So obviously, it's a very heavy and very personal story for me, because all the details of Herz are inspired by my own

The land of Herz is one set heavily in tradition and keeps itself closed off out of fear and hatred of the magic that runs the rest of the world. As a result they're less technologically advanced and kind of stuck in times that don't match with the rest of the world around them. In all the countries, Herz is generally looked down upon or pitied. Rightfully so, the laws in place to destroy all magic has resulted in destroying their corner of the world, whether they understand that or not.

The Hearte family being the heart of Herz is very fitting. A long history of abuse and secrecy surrounds the seemingly perfect family. Everyone is crumbling under the weight of the previous kings' sorrows and hatred, and as much as there have been attempts to not be like their forefathers, the pressure from running a hateful, angry country eventually snuffs out any attempts to make it better. I wouldn't bother mentioning it in any other story, but the abuse story is the central thing I focus on because that's what I made Herz for.

Princess Rose is a seemingly unimportant character in the grand scheme of things - Zephyr will rule and change Herz for the better. Haze will fall in love and bring unity with the Glacie. And Rose... Has no idea what she's going to do, how she could do anything as she married off to one of their own. Nevermind the horrors she doesn't yet understand that chase her. She's just a princess in a tower, really, but the dragons keeping her are more man than monster

In the broadest, most obvious strokes, the land of Herz is the Lutheran church, and the Hearte family is the pastor's family I grew up with. It's a sad story that's full of a lot of pain, but also a lot of hope and recovery. It's one I put a lot of love into, and also something I'm still pretty private about some of the details of, so unfortunately there's not any one comic or piece of writing to guide you on what all is happening here. But I hope this helps a little bit though :)

There are also multiple variations on the same story, like the bad ending where Haze ends up being a cult leader. And the good endings where Rose is still alive and living her life no longer being a princess. My ideas shift a little day by day and I doodle for all of them, so there's nothing super cohesive you have to keep in mind.

There's also the modern AU where the kingdom of Herz is long forgotten and reintegrated back into Cygni, but the Hearte family lives on with a high social standing in the city of Blumenstrand

Anyway, I hope this helped some! If you have any other questions, my inbox is always open!

#doodle heaven #my ocs #princess rose #prince haze #king zephyr #herz kingdom #drabble heaven #' x ' <(#rose is most certainly My Main Character tm because I draw her all the time but I'm thinking of the rps with Rou where Haze is more main #also thank you so much for asking!!!!! I really liked this ask so I took special time to make the art for it

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morbidology · 8 months

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19-year-old Susan Swedell sang in the choir and played hand bells at Christ Lutheran Church in Lake Elmo, Minnesota. She spoke Spanish, studied psychology and worked two jobs, one of which was at the Kmart in Oak Park Heights.

On the night of the 19th of January, 1988, a blizzard had fallen over Lake Elmo. Susan was finishing up her shift in Kmart at approximately 9PM and was heading home. Before leaving, she pulled on a short skirt. A couple of miles down the road, she pulled into a gas station and asked the attendant if she could leave her car there overnight as it had overheated. As the attendant peered through the snow covered window, he saw her climb into a car with a man. She hasn’t been seen since.

A subsequent investigation of her car found that the radiator’s “petcock” - a plug on the bottom - had been removed, draining the radiator of fluid. The gas station attendant told police that when Susan pulled in to the station that night, she was followed by a “light-coloured older-model car with sport wheels that was in good shape, but dirty.” It was this car that Susan then climbed into after abandoning her own car. A composite sketch of the man in the car was drawn up. He was described as being 6 feet to 6 feet 2 fall with long sandy-brown hair and three to four day bear growth. He was wearing a leather jacket.

The gas station attendant as well Susan’s manager recalled that she was wearing a short skirt and no coat - they noted she was dressed inappropriately given the harsh weather conditions. Her mother, Kathy, believes that she may have been planning on meeting somebody after work who would bring her back home. They noted that Susan was afraid of storms and didn’t like to drive in bad conditions. During the blizzard, over seven inches of snow fell. The main theory is that somebody tampered with Susan’s car and then followed her, waiting for it to break down.

In the run up to her disappearance, Susan had raked up an expensive phone bill by using chat lines to talk to boys. Those who worked at Kmart told police that she frequently received calls from somebody called “Dale.” While evidence pointed towards foul play, police still considered Susan a runaway.

In fact, a week after her disappearance, Susan’s sister, Christine, came home and couldn’t find the key to unlock their front door. It was kept on a shelf next to the door but it was missing. When she finally found it hidden under a box, she went inside and found dirty dishes that weren’t there earlier. She noticed that the house smelt of marijuana although nobody in her family smoked it. Even more alarming, she later found the outfit that Susan wore to work on the day she disappeared stuffed under her bed. Police never even came to check for fingerprints even though her family were adamant that whoever was involved in Susan’s disappearance had been at their house that afternoon.

There wasn’t much activity in the case until 2006, when police told Susan’s mother, Kathy, that there had been activity on her social security number. In 2018, a cold-case unit to investigate Susan’s disappearance was formed. Led by Washington County sheriff’s office commander, Andy Ellickson, the unit is re-looking at everything from day one in the hopes that they can shed some light into what happened to Susan.

#true crime #unsolved #cold case #mystery

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ihaveasmutaddictionsblog · 1 year

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Carlisle/Bella

Summary:

Carlisle is stitching Bella's arm after the paper-cut at her birthday party, things get spicy.....

"You know my father was a clergyman," he mused as he cleaned the table carefully, rubbing everything down with wet gauze, and then doing it again. The smell of alcohol burned in my nose. "He had a rather harsh view of the world, which I was already beginning to question before the time that I changed." Carlisle put all the dirty gauze and the glass slivers into an empty crystal bowl. I didn't understand what he was doing, even when he lit the match. Then he threw it onto the alcohol-soaked fibers, and the sudden blaze made me jump.

"Sorry," he apologized. "That ought to do it. So I didn't agree with my father's particular brand of faith. But never, in the nearly four hundred years now since I was born, have I ever seen anything to make me doubt whether God exists in some form or the other. Not even the reflection in the mirror."

I pretended to examine the dressing on my arm to hide my surprise at the direction our conversation had taken. Religion was the last thing I expected, all things considered. My own life was fairly devoid of belief. Charlie considered himself a Lutheran, because that's what his parents had been, but Sundays he worshipped by the river with a fishing pole in his hand. Renee tried out a church now and then, but, much like her brief affairs with tennis, pottery, yoga, and French classes, she moved on by the time I was aware of her newest fad.

"I'm sure all this sounds a little bizarre, coming from a vampire."

He grinned and took my hand in his, knowing how their casual use of that word never failed to shock me. "But I'm hoping that there is still a point to this life, even for us. It's a long shot, I'll admit," he continued in an offhand voice staring at the lingering flames. "By all accounts, we're damned regardless. But I hope, maybe foolishly, that we'll get some measure of credit for trying."

"I don't think that's foolish," I whispered.

His eyes found mine at my admission while his thumb gently traced circles on the top of my hand. I hadn’t realised how close the two of us had become while he bandaged my arm.

I couldn't imagine anyone, deity included, who wouldn't be impressed by Carlisle.

I felt his fingers slowly begin to trail up my arm until they finally came to rest at the nape of my neck, while his thumb continued the gentle strokes across my cheek.

He was beautiful.

I’d never really appreciated the sight of him. The bright gold of his eyes was the same as Edward’s, yet they were framed by thick, dark lashes making them pop against the rest of his fair features. He leaned his head in close to my neck, inhaling softly.

“You’re the very first one to agree with me,” he replied, his breath tickling my skin.

“I am?” I asked speculatively.

He pulled back slightly to hold my gaze again, but then his eyes flickered to my lips, darkening as they met mine once more. His lips were so close I was scared to breathe, afraid to break the moment.

“Yes,” he said letting his lips brush over mine.

I couldn’t resist any more. I inclined my head meeting his lips delicately. They were cold against my own, but the heat in his gaze chased away any discomfort.

The kiss was gentle at first, but it soon turned hungry as he squeezed my neck, taking my bottom lip between his teeth and biting down hard.

I gasped, tasting a drop of my own blood. Carlisle smirked and repositioned his thigh to be between my legs so that I straddled it while still perched on his desk. I arched my back allowing my clit to grind against him as his lips found mine once more. He pushed me back on the desk, causing multiple items to crash to the floor, before he was back pressed against me trailing kisses down my neck. His hand grabbed my leg, trailing higher up my thigh until he hitched my dress to my hip. That’s when I felt the hard length of him push against my throbbing clit, straining to get out.

I rolled my hips impatiently. Yet he pulled abruptly away.

I let out a little whine. I wanted him now!

“Not so fast,” he teased.

Before I could even comprehend what was happening, Carlisle ripped my dress clean down the middle faster than my eyes could see. It left me only in my black lacy thong, which didn’t leave much to the imagination.

Sprawled out in front of him, he eyed me hungrily, causing my nipples to peak in anticipation.

He let a single finger trace a lazy circle around each of them before continuing down, past my navel to my most sensitive spot, pausing when he felt the wetness there. His smile then was full of male arrogance.

“Please…” I moaned, “I need...”

“Need what?” Carlisle tormented me by slipping a single finger in my entrance.

“More.” I whispered.

“Sorry, I didn’t hear you. What do you need?” he mocked.

“MORE!” I said, nearly yelling with my impatience.

He pinched one of my nipples in response, sending shock waves through me and continuing to do so while undoing the top button of his black slacks.

His cock finally sprung free.

My mouth nearly watered at the sight of his thick size already dripping with precum. Palming himself, he guided the tip over my clit sliding up and down in a slow but deliberate manner.

“Is this what you want?” he murmured in my ear.

The hand which was pinching my nipple moved to encircle my neck, lightly squeezing.

A whimper was my only response.

Carlisle let out a feral snarl, thrusting into me in one hard motion. I’ve never felt so full in my life. I clenched around him, trying to adjust to the sudden size, but just as soon as he was buried inside of me, he removed himself pausing for just a moment before slamming back into me forcing a cry from my mouth.

He squeezed my throat in response, cutting the blood flow to my head. My vision blurred, all I could focus on was Carlisle’s brutal pace and the building pressure between my thighs. He lifted one of my legs to rest on his shoulder allowing him to push even deeper, my eyes watered. But he didn’t slow down.

His fingers began rubbing slow circles over my clit.

“That’s a good girl,” he sighed, “Are you going to come for me?”

I climbed higher and higher, the pressure in my core becoming nearly unbearable while my tears spilled and ran down my cheeks.

He released the hand around my throat, and I exploded. My orgasm shattered through me. He took hold of both my legs, gripping my knees as he continued to pound into me, feeling my walls clench around him as I rode out the orgasm. Carlisle’s movements became erratic until he let out a roar of pleasure as he finally found release, collapsing on top of my naked chest.

My breaths were heavy, yet my heart began to slow. Carlisle lifted his head planting a soft kiss on my lips and then my forehead.

“Good girl,” he said softly, before he removed himself entirely, passed me a spare jacket and walked swiftly from the room, leaving me lying on the desk contemplating whether or not I’d be capable of walking myself.

#one shot #smut #twilight #carlisle cullen #bella swan #carlisle x bella #spicy books #vampire

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