#The Heretical Liberal

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

By: The Heretical Liberal

Published: Jun 18, 2024

Lots of responses to this post I made the other day laying out the case for why trans activism is homophobic, most of them supportive. For the few that weren't, here's a thread where I brought the receipts. If my earlier post was opening arguments, consider this the full case: 🧵

First up, the charities, such as Stonewall and GLAAD. These are the groups that were originally set up as gay rights advocates, but were retooled around 2015 into trans rights advocates, and - since trans activism seeks to erase homosexuality - promptly began to do exactly that

With the anti-gay activists now in charge and setting the tone, media now takes the reins and begins subtly erasing the very notion of same-sex attraction, suggesting that lesbians who don't want to date ppl with penises, and gay men not interested in vaginas are hateful bigots

And more of the same nonsense:

With the activists dictating, and the media following their lead, the homophobia inevitably trickles down. This manifests in different forms, but one of them is the psychological torture of homosexuals, some of whom have come to believe their innate orientation means they're bigots

But mostly the biggest effect is in the trans community itself, who have increasingly internalized the idea that same-sex attraction doesn't exist, and thus, any ppl who claim to be exclusively same-sex attracted are actually just transphobic bigots who can be abused at will

The rest is just gonna be a firehose of hate, as I try to dispel the idea that this homophobia is "just a few bad apples" instead of the truth: it's a core component underpinning the entire ideology transgenderism, as are the violent threats that often accompany it:

I could go on and on, but I think the point here is made. Homophobia doesn't just exist in the trans community, it's RIFE in it. It's a feature, not a bug, the erasure of sex (and by extension, homosexuals) is a core goal of trans activism. Hopefully this has opened some eyes /end

--

Threadreader:

==

Firstly, if you're shocked by this, then you haven't been paying attention.

This is what it looks like when the mentally ill use academic gobbledygook to pathologize the normal and normalize the pathological.

You're not crazy: same sex attraction and opposite sex attraction are real things and completely normal. You may have either or both (bisexual). Their stupid buzzwords don't - and can't - change that. Nor turn it into a "genital preference."

If you take away nothing else, know that an accusation of being "transphobic" is a predator trying to emotionally manipulate and blackmail you into allowing access by the predator beyond your boundaries. Whether that be sexual boundaries, to simply how you address others, and anything and everything in between.

You never have to justify your boundaries. Someone who tries to make you, or who tells you that you need to "rethink" your boundaries, or particularly who acts morally superior about their purported higher evolved absence of boundaries is a full-blown predator. No, I'm not being hyperbolic. When I say "predator," I mean they're a predator. You're talking to someone who is dangerous and not to be trusted, because they see your boundaries as something to be overcome, circumvented or "fixed." They do not respect you and they feel entitled to what they want from you. They are dangerous. They are a predator. By definition.

In the very definition of an abusive relationship, these virulently anti-gay fanatics also won't let LGB operate without them. Because they'll lose their human shields and their stolen valor they've misappropriated from the gay rights movements. Which is the point in the movie where the abuser shouts, "without me, you're nothing! I won't let you leave! If I can't have you, no one will!" And then something horrible happens.

[faithless-faithful]

Welcome, sibling! 🙏🏻❤️

My name is E, I use they/it/he/she pronouns, and I am 25 years old! I'm a current art history major at university, and I have a special interest in religion!

I am always a spiritual seeker and have been pagan for ~9 years now. I am interested in eclectic and syncrectic faiths, especially Christopagan and Ozark folk practices.

I do have a set of non-negotiable beliefs: I am an omnist/pluralist (all paths are equally valid and ultimately lead to God), a panentheist, and universalist. I am very much going down a heterodox/heretical path, as I am interested in Christianity from a polytheistic perspective! I also have interests in process and liberation theology, as well as queer theology.

DNI: TERFs/radfems and debate-bros or proselytizers. I'm not here to debate my religion or my existence, I'm here to worship my God/s and learn. I'm pro-autonomy all the way - people can make their own decisions on what is best for them and I respect that, and I expect others to do the same.

[alchemisoul]

Shit I was saying / Ideas I was juxtaposting on Facebook on this day in 2021

The Beautiful Heresies of Howard Zinn (quote above) and Robert Anton Wilsom are never not relevant - and I felt this particular juxtaposting, this heresynthesis, was too ripe not too share again.

[msclaritea]

Remember that Man-faced male rapist they let into female prison because he claimed to be a woman and promised prison authorities he wouldn't hurt any female inmates, and then predictably raped two female prisoners?

Just in case that story didn't infuriate you enough and leave you scratching your head in righteous indignation, peep this: when his victim was able to find the courage to report her rape, this 6 ft, 220 lb man made a counter accusation of rape and it was deemed CREDIBLE (!!!) by prison officials and worthy of further investigation 😳🤬 The investigation included segregating the victim from the general population, strip-searched, humiliated and treated by officials as if SHE was the predator.

I've always rolled my eyes at the term "woke mind virus" but how else.can you explain how f***ing degenerate and immoral this ideology makes any person or institution that becomes infected by it?

What a perfect example of how this ideology has created an "untouchable class", or "Sacred Caste" of men than this story: Here you have prison officials with brains so scrambled that they would treat rape accusations of a 6 ft, 220 lb rapist as credible just because he claimed to be trans (and as such, must always be believed and whose motives can never be questioned)......and yet there are still idiots who will ask "but WHY would a male predator pretend to be trans just to seek out female victims?"

Like, really? You don't know why? The fact that any man instantly becomes a saint almost incapable of wrongdoing , and whose accusations will always be given the utmost of credibility (no matter how obviously bullshit) isn't enough of a motivation for these creeps?

How the fck did my fellow progressives get so mind-numbingly stupid? How the fck can any person who claims to care about women not see how wrong this is?

FUCK RAPIST Tremaine Carroll

FUCK Gavin Newsom

FUCK Governor Pritzker

FUCK Vice President Kamala Harris

Like I said, I'll vote for President Joe Biden but she can go to hell, for giving into pressure from a group pushing a fraudulent condition on Women, everywhere! Kamala Harris will never be president. NOR Pete Buttigeig, their backdoor option.

[rosemariecawkwell]

TBR Pile Review: Gender Heretics - Evangelicals, Feminists and the Alliance Against Trans Liberation, by Rebecca Jane Morgan

Format: 208 pages, PaperbackPublished: September 20, 2023 by Pluto PressISBN:9780745349015 (ISBN10: 0745349013) Blurb For decades, conservative evangelicals and Trans-Exclusionary Radical Feminists (TERFs) have worked hand-in-hand to oppose trans liberation. But how did this alliance come about? What makes it tick? And how can trans people and allies respond? This book, written by a…

[tamamita]

how is isis different from hamas?

Gonna make it easy and comprehensible:

ISIS or DA'ISH is a transnational terror organization consisting of Iraqi Baathists, former Syrian rebels or moderates, recruited fighters from all over the world, former US captives in Iraq, and oppressed and disenfranchised Sunnis. Wahhabi in nature, ISIS subscribes to the literalist tradition of Islam, based on a strict adherence to Tawhid (Islamic monotheism), rejecting the concept of intercession and saint venerations, seeing them as an act of idolatry. Their religious verdicts are based on the literal interpretation of the Qur'an and Sunnah, rejecting metaphorical exegesis. They aim to establish a global caliphate, seeking to eliminate anyone who opposses it regardless of religious or ideological differences. They see their cause as a hastening of various Islamic end time prophecies in their interpretation of Islamic eschatology. Like many Salafis, they reject Taqlid, which is to conform to one of the four schools of thought in Sunni Islam. On top of that, they reject religious innovations (Bid'ah), which is the idea that anything introduced to the religion without any religious basis is heresy. Whether it be practical or theological, they deem any Muslim who engage in Bid'ah to be an apostate or heretic. They are notorious for their intolerance of non-Muslims and application of Takfirism (excommunication) on Muslims, whether Sunni or Shi'a. Christians had to pay the Jizya (poll tax) in their territories, while in other cases, they were murdered, expelled and had their churches destroyed or converted. They have no tolerance for Shi'a Muslims and will kill them on the spot (see: Speicher Massacre), and have often targeted them with IEDs or suicide bombers. Non-Muslims, like the Ezidis or Ahlul Haqq, were often subjected to execution whereas their women and children were either married away, converted or used as sex slaves. DAESH is not interested in national liberation, seeing it as a blasphemous innovation. DAESH does not consider Hamas to be Muslims due to struggle for national liberation which is supported by Iran and various Shi'i proxies.

Hamas is a political and military resistance group that consists of Palestinians. After the failures of the Oslo accord, Hamas broke away from PLO and formed their own political party. They either subscribe to the Shafi'i school of thought or some form of Ikhwani Salafism (Salafism as envisioned by the Muslim Brotherhood). They're a semi-governmental power in Gaza and are responsible for upholding the social and civil institutions, such as hospitals, schools and etc. Hamas' specific aim is localized and seeks to destroy the Zionist entity in order to form a one-state solution under an Islamic emirate or Islamic democracy. Their only enemy is Israel and any of its allies. As of the Hamas charter of 2017, they do not have an intolerance for non-Muslims or people of different religious and ideological comportments, as seen by them holding ties with both Shi'a and Socialist militias, such as Hezbollah and the PFLP/DFLP. Hamas is concerned with the national liberation of Palestine and the Palestinians. Being an entirely localized resistance group, they do not engage in global jihadism like ISIS nor do they carry out attacks internationally.

[t4t4t]

The Liberal is always INNOCENT; he has nothing to do with anything; he never acts:

“God forbid! I didn’t send for the Police! I didn’t intend any VIOLENCE! I just didn’t want an Unobjective Person in My Department. If he was jailed or shot by the Police, THAT’S NOT MY CONCERN; I’M COMPLETELY INNOCENT! I DIDN’T HAVE ANYTHING TO DO WITH THAT, and in any case, that merely shows what kind of person HE really was.”

The Liberal’s project is to exclude the radical from society, but he does not take responsibility for the project; he realizes his project in stages, but he is only responsible for the “innocent” first stage. OTHERS DO THE REST. The Liberal merely initiates the process, and is not responsible for what the others do.

The Reactionary hits the radical directly; the Liberal does not do his own hitting. The Liberal merely PROVOKES the radical until he responds to the provocation, and when he responds, THE COPS GET THE RADICAL. The Liberal maintains his good conscience: HE didn’t act--the radical acted; HE didn’t repress the radical--the cops did. THE LIBERAL IS ALWAYS INNOCENT; his only desire is peace and quiet.

The Reactionary throws out a radical and then has him arrested for Loitering or Conspiracy or outside Agitation if the radical returns to fight; the Reactionary “eggs on” and harasses until the radical is provoked to hit back, and then has him arrested for Assault and Battery; the Reactionary tries to exclude the radical from any sources of income in order to have him locked up as a thief. To the Reactionary, the radical is ALREADY A CRIMINAL WHEN HE EXPRESSES HIS THOUGHTS.

The Liberal knows just as well as the Reactionary that “The cops’ll get ‘im”; HE COUNTS ON THE COPS TO PROTECT HIS PEACE AND QUIET; but, as Rafferty repeatedly observed, THE LIBERAL DOESN’T WANT TO SEE THE COPS WHO PROTECT HIM.

The Liberal can be compared to the Medieval Church. The Church excommunicated a heretic, but did not itself put the heretic to death. The Civil Authority, the Secular Authority, took charge of the heretic’s body. The Church was innocent; the Civil Authorities and the Executioner were the ones responsible for physical extermination. The excommunicators of the Church maintained clean consciences.

Thus also the Liberal: All he does is to excommunicate the radical, to exclude him “spiritually”; the Civil Authorities do the rest. At every single step he applies systematic terror and violence, and at every single step he manages to maintain his clean conscience.

The Liberal ALREADY KNOWS that when his “Leftist Colleague” is an unemployed radical he will do something for which it will be legitimate to throw him in jail, but the Liberal doesn’t want to be aware that HIS PEACE AND QUIET ARE MAINTAINED THROUGH TERRORISM AND VIOLENCE. In other words, the Liberal’s weapons are the same as the reactionary’s; the only difference between them is that the Liberal doesn’t look, and has a good conscience. He’s “tolerant,” he “reads radical literature,” he’s the “only one who talks to radicals,” he’s MORAL in every single way; he goes out of his way to “help radicals”; he’ll do everything for radicals which will help him keep his good conscience WHILE HE CONTINUES TO RELY ON TERROR AND VIOLENCE.

Liberal professors and students whose situations can only be maintained through terror and violence, through systematic psychological and physical murder, advertise “Make Love Not War.” Liberal students who have ALREADY CHOSEN to help maintain the dominant project when their time comes, are busy “accumulating” large “stocks” of good conscience while they can, while their “new styles of life” do not yet conflict with their future “responsibilities.”

Liberals are not “moderate.” That’s their own self-image. They’re extremists, but unlike reactionaries, THEY’RE EXTREMISTS WITH GOOD CONSCIENCES. Their instruments are not “ideas”; their instruments are TERROR and VIOLENCE. But unlike lynchers, THE LIBERALS TURN THEIR EYES AWAY to maintain their innocence.

People are EXCLUDED; thousands of people are OUTSIDERS; yet the Liberals who forced them out are TOTALLY GUILTLESS, and have the illusion that they are the ones who are “sympathetic” to the Radical Students, the Emotionally What-Have-You Students, the Hippie Students. The Liberal who is the first to move WHENEVER SOMEONE CROSSES ONE OF HIS LINES at the same time “contributes generously” to “Left-wing organizations” and “is against the war in Vietnam.” He is a supporter of all GOOD THINGS; he is a GOOD PERSON; he’s the BEST PERSON IN THE WORLD. He is able to accept physical and psychological TERROR and VIOLENCE WITH A GOOD CONSCIENCE AND CHRISTIAN MORALS.

Kalamazoo, February 1969

I Accuse This Liberal University of Terror and Violence, Fredy Perlman

[magicspeedwagon7]

i don't think transandrophobia is motivated by a passionate hatred for trans men, especially not the kind we see in queer/feminists spaces. i just think our existence disturbs the foundations of radical feminist framework (i.e. patriarchy defined as class warfare of all men against all women) a bit too much. within this paradigm, "woman" is the exact synonym for "marginalised gender" and thus "men being oppressed by patriarchy" sounds heretical.

therefore not only transandrophobia doesn't and most importantly shouldn't exist.

so, it's easier to come to the conclusion that trans men are the collateral damages of "something else" (cf general transphobia, misdirected misogyny etc) and you cannot expect more from TIRFs and all the people who will never question the core tenets of their feminism

a change of paradigm is imperative because you'll never achieve "trans liberation" if you need to actively ignore roughly one half of the trans community (if you don't care about trans liberation that's a whole other issue lol)

[rockingbytheseaside]

I just read 'a boy named heretic' and it was really great cuz I can see little zandik being obsessed of his favourite researchers. And Imagine after creating his segments, little segments being so obsessed with you that they start their days with reading your researchs or treating your researchs like a religious book maybe even the older segments still do that. they would have memorised everything by now and that would be so funny like little segments make a mistake when they are talking about your researchs and older ones go like 'no no it goes like this and this' I can definitely see that happening.

Thank you for reading my brainrot over your fic and even though i just discovered you I love your writing style and your art is amazing so thank you for blessing us

Thank you so much! I try to write fics and tropes because I also struggle with Harbinger brainrot. Sometimes I draw and sometimes I gotta write. So I hope I won't disappoint with this one (｡•́︿•̀｡)

✦ You learn that Dottore taught his little segment about your old research too

(tw: none, pure fluff)

In the days of old, a young boy named Zandik was infatuated by you.

You were there, in the photos of the Akademiya’s best, A brilliant alumna. Meanwhile, he was still a mere student, looking up at you with eager ruby eyes. The distance between you two, not just in seniority, but in intellect and knowledge looked like an insurmountable ocean for little Zandik. 

He read all your published works, theses, or even miscellaneous essays. You were one of the few who dared to explore risque topics, often researching the fallen technology of your homeland, Khaenri’ah. Your works became his mantra, as the young trainee Dastur frequently stayed at night reading and memorizing your written words. 

How he longed to stand by your side. To bask in the glow of your wisdom, and hopefully, one day stand beside you in these photos of The Akademiya’s best. The thought of being your equal on that wall is a fantasy that once consumed him during many sleepless nights. 

But alas, his name was not in the records beside you. Instead, it was in the records of exiled students. 

The expulsion was a bitter pill to swallow for Zandik, yet it became a blessing in disguise. It allowed him to break free from the constraints of the Akademiya and truly delve into the depths of his research; to walk where you walked. With this liberating and newfound freedom, The Fatui heightened his abilities. They provided him with the resources and tools, and in return, he shared the fruits of his labor with them. But the Fatui were not the focus of his pursuits - you were. 

The little boy who once admired you from afar is no more. Now, a Fatui Harbinger stood before you, a man who has grown and shaped himself in your shadow. So here you were, in Dottore’s lab quietly musing. That was the story of your unceremonious reunion with The Doctor, whom you didn’t even know was after you. However, you didn’t mind it. You even met one of his many segments. 

What you didn’t expect is… a little child in his lab. 

A boy, looking awfully similar to little Zandik, no older than 8 years old. He gawked back at you, with his ruby-red eyes and you felt a sense of deja vu. You kneeled in front of him, catching a glimpse of a book in the child’s arms: 

“Um, hello, little one. What is that book you’re reading?”

The child cast his gaze to the floor timidly, revealing the worn-out book he was concealing behind his back. He held it tightly with his little hands, speaking in a small but avid voice:

“It’s your work… Your name is right here!” 

You blinked in surprise. It indeed had your name on it. The title was one of your research papers that you honestly forgot about. But what was even more surprising is why would an 8-year-old child read some old academic papers. 

“Oh, it is? But isn’t it a little… boring or difficult for you to read?” 

“No, I love it! I can even recite it if you want!” 

When Prime Dottore entered and spotted you talking to the eager younger clone he smirked. It seems you finally met his youngest segment, and your bafflement was expected. 

Dottore assured you that his segments, especially the younger Zandik, cannot contain their excitement at the mere mention of your name. They speak of you with a reverence that borders on idolatry, and they often ask Dottore about any copies of your published studies. 

It seems even the segments have inherited his admiration for you.

And the youngest segment, the 8-year-old child? They are absolutely enamored with your work. Every day, they ask about you and patiently anticipate any new information about your next visit to the lab. They even have a small collection of your books on their shelf, reading them diligently and trying to understand the complexity of your ideas. It was a bewildering sight, but the youngest segment enjoyed your academic essays as his bedtime stories.

“Dottore, listen. Did you make this boy memorize my thesis instead of reading fairy tales or something? Isn’t this a little… complicated for a child?” - you asked, picking up the little segment into your arms. 

“Nonsense my dear. Instead of fairy tales and nursery rhymes, a prodigy must start early by instilling a desire for knowledge. You can test it for yourself.” - Dottore explained, turning to the young child - “Recite the passage about energy infusion, paragraph 2.” 

“Okay! Ahem… ‘In the realm of Khaenri'ahn technology, we find a profound example of the interconnectedness between opposites. The use of advanced energy systems combines the power of light and electricity and as according to the data numbers of…”

Oh boy. These are big words for an 8-year-old. You don’t even remember the exact words of your 400-year-old thesis; that thing is ancient! You didn’t have the heart to tell them both that this thesis was written during an all-nighter rush. You did not feel nostalgic remembering your stress over deadlines. 

“Little one?” - You smiled at the boy in your arms and pointed at Dottore “Promise you won’t grow up like this big meanie here. He's annoying” 

“Heehee, okay!” - The tiny Zandik gently hugged your neck. The clone's innocent presence contrasts starkly with Il Dottore's imposing frown. What you failed to notice, however, was the young segment sticking his tongue out at Dottore's jealousy while you hugged the child unawarely. 

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

Reminder: these are the definitions promoted by the newest generation of virulently anti-gay organizations.

[jewish-sideblog]

Honestly we should stop calling them leftists. They’re rebranding conservative evangelical christianity as a neo-liberal evangelical atheism. They have created a cult of performative activism. The Revolution is their rapture, always to be anticipated but never to be truly worked towards. A public declaration of dedication to Jesus has been replaced with posting a tiktok with a filter for the newest cause.

Their gospel is propaganda, and blind faith is mandatory— G-d help you if you check the source on a Twitter post. Anyone who does not post for the Righteous Cause must be working against it, because you can either be with them or against them. They refuse to read and engage with leftist theory, political science, or even the basics of sociology, though they treat the misinterpretation of those texts and tenants as something sacred. The destruction of designated enemies, heretics, and non-believers is the only result actually worth fighting for. Destruction is more valuable to them than peace, voting, or true solutions to problems.

What is leftist about any of that? What is leftist about hate criming Jews and desecrating Holocaust memorials? They could be volunteering at homeless shelters or needle exchanges or libraries. What is leftist about valuing child murderers and disinformation when you could easily value peace and shared self-determination for native peoples?

We should call them what they are. They are evangelicals, forcing the gospel of a new age down the throats of everyone they come across. They are making a poor attempt at cosplaying leftism, the same as “Messianic Jews” hosting “Christian Seders” make a poor attempt at cosplaying real Jewish people.

[the-artist-grimm]

Crimson Angel AU - The Three Crown Bearers

(Text updated as of Nov 8th, 2024)

More Crimson Angel Lore! This time thinking about some of the previous/current vessels.

(credit to @/waokevale for the inspo! Its from their posts head-cannoning Forneus as a former crown bearer where I got the idea to have her in the lineup!)

Over the course of 1000 years Narinder had in total 13 vessels who bore the red crown, and each were chosen upon their deaths for displaying potential upon arrival into the Gateway. Though the prophecy stated that a lamb would be the final bearer, Narinder did not want to sit idle, and had hoped that others could clear a quicker path for the chosen liberator while he waited. 

Currently named bearers (featuring my SYMBOLISM obsession, deaths/numbers are somewhat related to the character as closely as I manage) 

Forneus - #7 (Lady Luck)

The 7th bearer of the Red Crown, and bared it approximately 300 years ago. Captured by heretics after drawing their attention away from a family in trouble whilst on the road, Forneus caught Narinder’s attention for both her fighting prowess and fierce sense of justice, and proved to be one of his more efficient vessels. Quick-witted and clever, she was a seemingly kind leader to her cult, but a ruthless warrior to all others, with her mission being to decimate the Bishops’ higher-ranking witnesses as opposed to taking them on personally. She also appeared to possess a remarkable amount of luck, hardly ever dying whilst on crusades. Yet despite that her term as vessel only lasted approximately 80 years, whereupon finding herself pregnant via one of her lovers, she willingly relinquished the crown so that she could raise her children in peace, not wanting to put them at risk.

Narinder, though somewhat irked, accepted her choice, as she’d managed to kill enough witnesses to set the Bishops internal hierarchies back by several decades of experience. Unbeknownst to him, however, the very children Forneus relinquished the crown for would join him not long after, with the cat herself being bestowed a golden skull and an open promise of reunion with her children in the distant future by the God of Wisdom and War. 

Forneus died of her heart-in saving those sheep, her heart was cut out during her sacrifice 

7 is considered a lucky number

The Chariot is the 7th Tarot Card, representing triumph through determination, self-control, and overcoming obstacles.

Became vessel at approximately age 20, is now over 400 years old

Ratau- #12 (The Shepherd)

The 12th bearer of the Red Crown, and bared it approximately over 40 years ago. Killed by heretics after refusing to acknowledge the threat they posed to all within the Lands of the Old Faith. Hailing from a village that willfully ignored the lambs and their warnings of slaughter, it was not until heretics arrived to razed the place to the ground that Ratau realized their threat, yet by then it was too late to act as he was slain. Upon his arrival in the gateway Narinder initially had no plans to make him a vessel, yet the rat’s anger towards both himself and the Bishops appeared to make him an easily manipulated enough target to try. And with the dwindling lamb’s population heralding the final liberator’s rise, the death god was desperate to have a vessel prepared to take on the role of mentor. 

Though a remarkably fast learner, Ratau proved inadequate in regards to his ruthlessness, unwilling to push his followers or himself to their limits. And upon being forced to sacrifice a follower following an incident with a mysterious fox, the resulting guilt led to Ratau relinquishing the crown within only a decade, much to Narinder’s frustration. He left the grounds with his disciples and isolated himself to a self-imposed solitude within the woods, only ever visiting his friends from time to time and trying to put his previous cult-life behind him. 

Yet as fate would have it, twenty years later Ratau would chance across a young, newly orphaned lamb within the woods, and though aware of the prophesied fate ahead of them, decided to take the little one in. Fourteen years later, that little lamb would rise as the final vessel.

Ratau died for turning a blind eye to the world around him, and thus, lost his left eye in turn. It was a slash and a stab through which killed him 

12 is considered a number of stability and order, fitting for a mentor

The Hanged Man is the 12th Tarot Card, representing ultimate surrender, sacrifice, and patience.

Became a vessel at age 25, is currently in his mid 60s.

Anthea- #13 (The Lamb/Unlucky Thirteen)

The 13th and final bearer of the Red Crown. Anthea was killed by heretics upon sacrificing herself to save the life of her guardian, Ratau, and had been a willing sacrifice due to a belief that she already lived on borrowed time. Of all prior vessels Anthea was the only one to have worshiped The One Who Waits prior to resurrection and vesselship, and proved to not only be highly devoted, but also far more empathetic and aware of his situation beyond those who came before them. When it came to their interactions with the god, Anthea often expressed a kindness to not just him but his typically overlooked disciples as well, bring them gifts and befriending the three to try and ease their imprisonments. Though coming from a genuine place of care, it was also born from Anthea’s own lack of self, with the lamb preferring to put everyone but themself first. 

It was through aiding The One Who Waits that Anthea’s perspective of self began to change, as Narinder slowly began to challenge their self-sacrificial tendencies the more he got to know them, with the two growing closer and eventually falling in love. Yet it was right before Anthea planned to confess her feelings that The One Who Waits seemingly betrayed them, ordering them to sacrifice themself just as they finally started wanting to live. 

Anthea died for being unable to express their own will beyond giving themself up for others, sticking their neck out so long as it mean someone else benefited from it. Their death was via beheading. 

13 is considered a number of bad luck, yet also of the ending of one cycle and the beginning of another, a transformation 

Death is the 13th Tarot Card, and represents the ending of one phase of a life and the start of another, change, and new beginnings.

Became vessel at age 26, and finished slaying all the bishops in 3 years, making them 29

Trying to go through and whip the game’s admittedly open-ended-ish/slightly vague lore into something more fleshed-out is really fun lol. Might make more vessels but thus far the only three who remain are 7, 12, and 13-which Narinder doesn't even realize that Forneus is till kicking about.

Also Weapons notes!

Forneus gets a hammer because it in a way represents justice (see a court gavel) and though it hits slow it hits HARD. In an RPG its the tank who usually gets it within the party.

Ratau I gave a staff since he's implied to be somewhat cowardly, or at least appears to not like killing to an extent with how he gave up the crown after sacrificing a follower, and since he gives us the curses in-game (yeah they're on Nari's orders but Ratau's the one handing them out), essentially making him a mage seemed fitting-plus in fantasy the mage is usually a mentor. He also has a staff in-game so it maintains that silhouette, albeit I made this one look more like a shepherd's hook considering it's meant to be his weapon as a cult leader.

Anthea, the Lamb, I gave a sword since it's the weapon of a knight in shinning armor, since their personality is that of someone always saving others after all.

And lastly a little doodle of everyone's death scars!

(Also if anyone wants to send asks about the AU or to the characters go ahead hehehe, this AU is taking over my life :3 )

Boarders are by @lambouillet

[gatheringbones]

they were her property: white women as slave owners in the american south, by stephanie e. jones-rogers

the trouble with white women: a counterhistory of feminism, by kyra schuller

gender heretics: evangelicals, feminists, and the alliance against trans liberation, by rebecca jane morgan

memoir of a race traitor: fighting racism in the american south by mab segrest

yours in struggle: three feminist perspectives on anti-semitism and racism, by elly bulkin, barbara smith, and minnie bruce pratt

this has always been a war: the radicalization of a working class queer, by lori fox

[dottores]

ROMANTIC HOMICIDE | IL DOTTORE

pairing: dottore x reader; implications of future tartaglia x reader

summary: in which you’re with dottore’s youngest segment when he makes the deal with the dendro archon.

warnings: heavy angst, character death (dottore’s segments), very heavily implied breakup but it’s not made explicit, dottore does not know how to deal with emotions, the youngest segment (referred to as iota segment) was literally like reader’s son, was very liberal with what little we know of dottore’s lore/background.

notes: wow this was the most emotionally intense thing i’ve written in a hot minute. ever since i learned that dottore had a 10 y.o. segment i’ve been distraught—he is my son #real keeping dottore in character for his pov was honestly a rlly big writing challenge n i had a lot of fun w it. i think i did pretty well. as always, rbs for boost are appreciated! praying that this stays in the tags n it’s only the tighnari tags glitching again

wordcount: 7.3k

“Good morning, sleepy head,” you murmured, a small smile pulling to your lips as you watched a familiar pair of eyes flutter open, still heavy with sleep and exhaustion. Dottore’s Iota segment only let out a noise of complaint as he rolled onto his side, burying his face into the pillow. You hummed quietly, running your fingers through the soft curls as his expression slowly went lax again, drifting back off to sleep. “You have to wake up sooner or later, I told you not to stay up all night reading that book.”

“I choose later,” his voice was muffled by the pillow, thick with sleep and you tried to bite back a laugh, not wanting to encourage his behavior. Instead, you leaned down to press your lips against his temple. 

“I made you breakfast,” you tempted, watching as one of his eyes immediately peeked open, watching you curiously. “Strawberry crepes,” a recipe you had learned to make during the few months you had been stationed in northern Fontaine, on the Snezhnayan border, a recipe that Dottore and his segments particularly enjoyed even if the Iota Segment was the only one that was obvious about it. Their fondness of sweets was something they liked to keep hidden.

“... Fine,” he finally agreed, pushing the blankets off and sitting up. You watched, a fond smile pulling at your lips as he stretched, yawning and rubbing at one of his eyes until he froze mid-yawn, catching sight of you watching him. “Don’t look at me like that,” his voice was sharp but he was flustered, cheeks pink as he turned away from you.

You rose to your feet, holding a hand out toward him and you turned away before he could catch your smile as he reached out and took your hand, small fingers curling around yours as you led him from the bedroom. 

Your relationship with Dottore’s segments varied widely--from the Theta Segment, who could barely stand to look at you but would still throw himself in front of danger for you if it came down to it, to the older segments, Beta, Gamma and Delta, who were as adoring and obsessive as Dottore himself was. You liked to think that you didn’t play favorites, but you knew it was a lie--how could you not have favorites when the Iota Segment was just right there. 

The youngest of all of Dottore’s segments, the Iota Segment was frozen in time at the age of ten, why Dottore had felt it necessary to create a segment this young was a question in itself. But you were not one to cut your blessings short, so instead you took advantage of the situation, being able to dote over a far younger and more vulnerable Dottore, before he had become cold and sharp and cruel. 

No one was born evil, you liked to believe, and the Iota Segment of Dottore was surely proof enough of that. Dottore never told you much of his past, but you knew enough to figure out exactly when this one had been made--the scar crossing over his nose and the top of his face was fresh, so he had to have been frozen in time right after he had been run out from his village, hailed a monster and heretic and scarred by his parents the night they chased him out. 

Sometimes, you wondered what Dottore’s life would have been like had he not been shunned and kicked to the streets by the people that were supposed to love him. You spent enough time with the Iota Segment to know that his interests back then were nothing like the older Dottore’s. But Dottore had been from a devout and traditional village down south in Sumeru, so the moment that he had sparked interest in ruin guards and comparing humans to archons, it had been his downfall.

It was only after the first rejection in his hometown, from the people that were meant to love him unconditionally, did Dottore’s mindset begin to spiral into the one he had in the present day--uncaring of human life, ruthlessly ambitious in pursuit of his goals, sadistic and cruel and tunnel-visioned onto his research. 

But the Iota Segment had yet to be cemented in that mindset--and maybe that was why Dottore had created one so young. He was still hurt and stand-offish after the events in his hometown, reluctant to get close to people but he was not cruel or sadistic, he was young enough to still be able to see the aranara of Sumeru but old enough that he could still devote himself and focus on research.

Curious and clumsy, the Iota Segment usually was found following after the older segments like a lost duckling, with them watching over him to make sure he didn’t find himself in trouble, as he usually did. But the older segments were all busy these days, with three down south with Dottore himself in Sumeru, overseeing the God Creation project, the Theta Segment continuing Dottore’s research into Irminsul until he could take back over, and the rest scattered throughout Teyvat still trying to advance the Archon residue project after the setback from two years back. 

So it was up to you to keep an eye on the Iota Segment, and as much as you loved the boy, you swore you were on the verge of pulling your hair out. The amount of times you had to go out in the freezing winters of Snezhnaya to go searching for him, having to warm the both of you up with fire and blankets and hot cocoa, was too many to count. 

It was both a blessing and a curse that Tartaglia had come back to Snezhnaya because he was willing to keep you company while you watched over the boy but the Iota Segment despised Tartaglia, and you couldn’t help but wonder if it was because the older segments were whispering in his ear about the fellow Harbinger. It was very much common knowledge that there was no love lost between the older segments of Dottore and the Eleventh Harbinger. 

“Do you think Master Dottore will let me work with live ruin guards when he gets back?” the Iota Segment asked as he sat down at the counter to shovel the crepes into his mouth. Your stomach lurched at the question, very much aware of the dangers that came along with working with live ruin guards. Dottore had been hesitant to let the Iota Segment anywhere near the live ruin guards. He didn’t like to restrict the curiosity of his segments but he was young and there was little reward and too much risk if something were to happen to him.

But the Iota segment had been working overtime while all of the other segments were gone, studying all of Dottore’s notes, reading over the research papers that Epsilon wrote on ruin guards and ruin hunters--if there was a piece of research on it, the Iota segment had read it to the point where he could recite it word for word if asked. 

“With all your studying?” you smiled, nudging him gently with your shoulder as you passed by him. “How could he not?” 

“He never stops the other segments from doing what they want,” he complained, and you watched as he twisted his food around with his fork, resting his chin on his palm. “Only me.”

“Mmm, that’s not true,” you said off-handedly, not even really processing it before you spoke, thinking back to the many times Dottore had put a stop to the Beta and Delta segment trying to get it on with you when they thought he wasn’t around.

“Yeah? Well what did they get stopped from doing?” he demanded, turning to face you and you froze, realizing what you had said.

“You know I don’t care to listen when they prattle on about their experiments,” you tried to blow off the question. “I don’t remember exactly what it was.”

But your chest tugged when you watched his shoulders slump over again, a frown pulling at his lips. You pouted softly, moving to stand closer to him, you cupped his cheeks in your hands and lifted his face so he was looking at you and you hated how frustrated and upset he was. “You’re young, s-”

“And I’ll never get older,” he snapped, trying to look away from you but you only smoothed your fingers over his cheekbones, tracing the lower half of his scar. “I don’t even know why he made me. I’m useless compared to the rest of the segments.”

You leaned down, pressing your lips to his forehead before letting out a soft sigh, “You are not useless,” you said, smiling as he huffed, hiding his face in your shoulder. “In fact, I think you’re the most useful of them all.”

“Now you’re just lying,” his voice was muffled into your shirt but you could hear the way it cracked. 

“I would never lie to you,” and it was the truth, not that he would ever believe it, having been burned too many times by the people that were supposed to love him.

He made a noise, barely even acknowledging your words before he tilted his face up, and you forced yourself not to coo, catching the way he blinked up at you through his lashes, cheek still pressed to your shoulder, red eyes wide and searching your face.

“You’re so strange,” he murmured, and you raised your eyebrows, not sure if you should be offended or not. You could feel him shrug. “You just are. Nobody chooses us.”

You swallowed thickly, playing with one of the thick curls laying against his ear. “I’ll always choose you.”

“I just don't understand,” he finally spoke louder, pulling away from you, staring down at the plate, and you cocked your head to the side as you waited for him to continue. “I’m not stupid, you know? I know the Jester has been coming here, offering you a high ranking position in the Fatui—why do you keep turning him down?” 

And you smiled, cupping his cheeks and tilting his face up, pressing your lips to his temple once, then twice, and then a third time. “Now why would I ever want to become a Harbinger when I can simply spend my days with you, silly boy? I told you, I’ll always pick you.” 

Your smile softened when you noticed that his red eyes had welled with tears—and it really was a reminder that the segments were stuck in the mental state Dottore created them at. No matter how many times you told the Iota segment how much you cared for him and that you would never leave him, he would never believe you or understand it—too stuck in the betrayal of his mother and father. “Do you mean that?” he asked, voice wavering. 

“Of course I do.”

His bottom lip trembled and you hummed quietly, reaching out to pull him to your chest. He flung thin arms around you, pressing his face against your skin and you could feel his shoulders shaking and you could feel the way he was desperately trying to blink away tears. The words that had slipped out when you had woken him up from a particularly bad nightmare rang through your head:

“Father said I’m not allowed to cry.”

“S’okay,” you said softly, cupping the back of his head and holding him close, remembering how he had been shaking, terrified at the prospect of crying that night because of what he thought waited for him after. “You can cry.”

The noise that escaped his lips was caught between a sob and a wheeze, you could feel his hands clutching at the back of your shirt, blunt nails digging into your back. You did your best to soothe him, running your fingers through his hair and rubbing soft circles against his back--he was reaching the end of the cycle again, where he fought back all of his emotions until they exploded. It was something that every version of Dottore dealt with--the Theta segment was prone to bouts of rage at the end of his cycle, Epsilon and Delta tended to close themselves off, and Dottore himself got cold and sharp, to the point where it was hard for you to convince yourself that he didn’t mean some of the particularly harsh words he spoke. 

You could hear the muffled apologies against you as he tried to calm himself down. The Iota segment had yet to compartmentalize and funnel his emotions in the way the older segments did, so instead of being able to force the emotions into one that was easier to handle--like cold or hot anger, which was how Dottore frequently described it--he was forced to deal with tears that only made him more anxious and frustrated, a spiral that he couldn’t control.

“Hey, look at me,” you said, waiting for him to look up at you, and he did--lashes wet, eyes rimmed red and bottom lip wobbly. 

“Come,” you said, holding out your hand for him. “How about you come tell me about the research you stayed up reading last night? So you can get ready to show Dottore how much you have learned while he was gone. He’ll be impressed if you’ve taught me some, that’s a feat that not even he’s been able to achieve yet.”

His eyes were still welled up with tears even as he perked up, taking your hand and all but dragging you in the direction of the library. He was already waving his free hand around, voice still cracking as he explained something about cores and autonomy that made little sense to you, but he seemed to be pulling himself out of the spiral before it could worsen, and you supposed that was worth the headache that was bound to come from trying to understand what he was talking about.

---

“You need to bathe, why must this always be an argument?” you were exasperated calling him for the hundredth time, hands on your hips as you paced up and down the hall. This was the third time this week that he refused to interrupt his studying for basic necessities and you were tired of chasing him around to haul him into the tub or force feed him. 

“I will in a minute!” he shouted back from down the hall, locked in his room. “I just need to finish this page.”

“You said that twenty minutes ago,” you told him loudly.

“I did not! It was five minutes,” he argued.

“Check the clock then.” You could practically see the way his brows were furrowed, searching for the clock in his room, and you couldn’t help but notice that he did not, in fact, talk back this time. “Well?”

“... it was nineteen minutes ago,” he said, rather petulantly before going quiet again. “Just this last page, I mean it this time.”

You sighed heavily. “The water is running. Get in there before it goes cold. I’ll be in the other room.”

You turned on your heel to walk back down the hall toward the library, intent on curling up on the sofa and reading that book that Dottore had left behind for you, claiming you would enjoy it. You hadn’t got the chance to look at it since he left, too caught up in handling little Iota--but you knew if you didn’t at least get through a good portion of it before he got back, he would be disappointed. Not that he would ever show it outwardly, but his gaze would linger on the unmoved book in a way that you knew was him second guessing himself if the way his fingers tapping steadily against his thigh had anything to say about it.

And you didn’t want him to think that. Dottore was never the best with verbal or physical displays of affection but he was phenomenal when it came to things like that---thinking of you and things you might enjoy, and bringing them for you to appreciate. He was observant and attentive unlike anyone you had ever met before when it came to figuring out what you like and don’t like. 

He had been hesitant about it during the beginning of your relationship, but as the years went on, he became more and more comfortable bringing you stuff. But Dottore, as much as he would deny it, was rather sensitive when it came to his emotions. Or maybe sensitive wasn’t the right word--he was closely-guarded, and one little thing like you brushing aside something he had gone out of his way to bring you because he thought you would enjoy it could set him back quite the distance.

You smiled softly, shaking your head as you looked down at the ground as you reached the end of the hall. You didn’t even get a step into the library before you heard the Iota segment’s door slam open.

Familiar footsteps dashed toward you and alarm began to shoot through you, turning around just as he barreled into you. You let out an oof, stumbling backward as you wrapped your arms around him, cupping the back of his head. Panicked, you lifted his head, turning his face up toward you so you could search it, make sure he was okay.

“What’s wrong?” you asked, throat closing up at the way his red eyes were glassy with tears and you worried if something set off the spiral again--anxiety eating at your stomach because you thought you had averted it and couldn’t think of anything that would have sparked it again. He buried his face into your stomach. You stroked his hair as soothingly as you could, trying to calm him down and keep your own voice steady. “Are you okay? Talk to me. What’s going on?”

“He’s getting rid of us,” he cried, voice catching on a sob. “He’s getting rid of us, he’s killing us for the gnosis.”

Your world stilled and shattered at once, hand freezing midstroke against his head, “What?”

“He’s getting rid of us,” he was repeating it over and over again but you simply could not comprehend what he was saying because it just couldn’t make sense to you.

Why would Dottore ever do that? The segments were difficult, nigh-impossible to make now that some of the resources were all but inaccessible and Dottore was strong, obscenely strong, he was the strongest man you knew and you knew that the Dendro Archon stood no chance against him, why would he not just take it by force?

You wanted to assume that the Iota segment was wrong, that he had just misheard something, but the way he was clinging to your shirt tightened and his weight went dead in your arms.

“I can’t feel my legs,” he gasped. “I can’t feel them, I can’t move my legs.”

You eased the two of you down to the floor, arms shaking, barely able to process what was happening as you cradled the boy in your arms holding him to your chest. “It’s going to be okay,” you said, trying to stop your voice from shaking, pressing your lips to his forehead, “It’s okay, everything is going to be okay.”

“I don’t want to die,” his voice cracked. It was happening too fast. You felt sick to your stomach, nauseous as you noticed how his fingers were no longer clutching at your shirt, arms limp next to him. “He’s going to regret this, he will, I don’t want to die. I can’t feel my legs or my arms anymore, I can’t-I’m scared-”

“It’s okay,” your vision was blurred, and this time you couldn’t stop the way your voice wavered as your arms tightened around him, as you buried your face into the top of his head holding him tight. “Everything’s going to be okay. Don’t be scared, I’ve got you, Zandik.”

“I don’t want to die,” he repeated, more desperately this time, voice shrill. “I don’t understand, I don’t understand, why is he doing this? He’s going to regret this, he’s-”

The following silence was louder than his cries. You stared at the wall in front of you, praying, begging, for him to speak up again but he didn’t and you could barely even process what had happened. Not even two minutes had passed since you told him to get in the tub before the water ran cold and now-

Now, he was limp in your arms, the weight felt obscenely heavy compared to the amount of times you had carried him around when he got himself hurt--it was a different sort of weight, you couldn’t feel him toying with your hair as you propped him up on your hip, you couldn’t feel him squirming in your arms as you held him bridal style, you couldn’t feel his chin resting on the top of your head as you carried him on your back around the house while he was immersed in whatever book he was reading. 

It was deadweight in your arms now, and it crushed everything within you all at once. You wondered how the night had turned so fast--how you had been chasing him through house as he screeched at you to leave him be to him using his last moments to rush into your arms; how he had been excited at the prospect of actually being able to study live ruin guards to crying against your chest afraid to die. 

You wanted to cry but everything felt cold and empty and numb and you thought, just for a moment, that you might hate Dottore. 

---

He half thought that he would come back to the estate and you would still be sitting there holding the youngest segment’s body. You were not. And he wasn’t sure if he should be relieved or worried that he came home to an eerily empty and cold house. 

His throat had been tight when he had first arrived, the book he had left you untouched in the library and the halls of the estate absurdly uncomfortable when he realized you weren’t there. A bit of anxiety pooled in his stomach at the thought of you leaving without a word but your clothes were still in your shared room. There were still mementos on your dresser that you wouldn’t leave behind, so he figured you were just busy doing something else.

A grave had been dug, was the last thing he had noticed looking out the window of his bedroom, before Pierro had called him to the Zapolyarny Palace for a status update on what had happened down in Sumeru. The soil was still fresh, and Dottore considered, just for a moment, digging up the grave and trying to scavenge whatever materials he could from the segment’s remains--it wouldn’t be enough to create a new one, but it would be a start at least. 

He ended up deciding against it as he twirled the familiar blue earring inside of his pocket--you had left it on the dresser for him to see as soon as he had noticed the grave. An offering, he supposed, asking him not to disturb it. He figured that he could acquiesce to that much at least. 

The more time he had alone to think about it, the more perplexed he became--he had been certain that he would come home and you’d still be there, clutching the Iota segment to your chest. He had been prepared for the tears, he had been prepared for the anger; he steeled himself for the sharp words and shoves against his chest when he tried to draw close. He had expected it and it didn’t happen, and all of the walls he had built up to brace against the aggression crumbled in confusion.

Dottore didn’t like being wrong. It threw him off when he was prepared for something to happen and then it did not, in fact, happen. His mind was running at the speed of light, bouncing around all of the other options as to what might happen next. You didn’t leave, you weren’t there to yell at him, you weren’t there crying, so where were you? Were you planning something sneakier? Revenge?

No, he shook his head, revenge wasn’t your way. 

He paused, or maybe it was, you had always been cold and spiteful, just never to him. 

Would him killing the segments really change that?

He didn’t like that he couldn’t be confident in his answer. 

Dottore inhaled slowly, keeping his gaze trained forward and his lips pressed tight, fingers tapping steadily against the side of his thigh, a tactic he had learned while at the Akademiya to keep himself calm and thinking straight when he found himself in a predicament that had him second guessing himself. 

It was something he had to worry about later. For now, he had to get to the debrief before he had to waste time listening to Pierro make snide comments about him being late again, as he had the dozens of times he or one of his segments had gotten caught up in research before a meeting. 

He tried to push you out of his mind--a difficult task, he realized as he approached the meeting room and you just would not leave the forefront of his mind. Questions and options raced behind his eyes as he tried to figure out where you were, what you were doing, and what he should expect when he inevitably ran into you. 

He did not have to wonder for long.

He entered the room while Pierro was talking with one jab in his direction at his lateness, as he predicted, but the words didn’t fully process through his head. Dottore could hear him but Pierro’s voice sounded distant and muted even standing next to him. He couldn’t focus on his words--not on what he was asking, not on what he was explaining, not even when he was being addressed directly because he was too focused on you.

You, who was standing right between Pulcinella and Sandrone, eyes iced over and unfriendly in a way that Dottore had never expected you to direct toward him. 

You were angry over the segment, that much he could put together from the cold fury in your eyes trained solely on him. He knew you would be angry. He expected that. But what were you doing here? In the meeting with the Harbingers?

Pierro had mentioned bringing people up to replace Signora and now, he supposed, they would have to replace Scaramouche too, but-

But you? 

Shouldn’t this have been something mentioned to him? At least in passing? When was this even discussed? How long had Pierro been trying to get you to join--why hadn’t you said anything to him? 

What was going on? 

“Dottore,” the voice was harsh and sharp, Dottore’s eyes dragged from you to land on Pierro, who was watching him with a frustrated expression. Rather absently, Dottore noticed that all of the Harbingers were looking at him, and he played back the last few minutes in his head trying to figure out what he had missed. 

Ah. The debrief on the events in Sumeru. 

His voice sounded empty and robotic even to his own ears as he recounted what had happened down in Sumeru from the beginning of the God Creation Project, to the arrival of the Traveler, to Scaramouche’s developments and progress in the experimentation, to the interference from the Traveler and that group, to the meeting with the Dendro Archon and the two deals that were made with her.

He couldn’t help but notice the way Tartaglia’s eyes had drawn toward you when Dottore mentioned his segments, the way his body had twitched to move toward you. What was that? He was still looking at you, even though Dottore knew that Tartaglia knew he was staring right at him. Tartaglia’s brows were knit together in concern, and instead of meeting Dottore’s gaze, you looked at him. Tartaglia. A silent conversation that Dottore couldn’t understand—something green and ugly tugged at his chest, he forced it away. 

Pierro wasn’t pleased with the loss of Dottore’s segments or the information he had offered up to the Dendro Archon, but he was more focused on the successful attainment of the two gnoses so Dottore was able to redirect his attention toward you.

You weren’t looking at him anymore, gaze trained on Pierro as he delved out orders to the rest of the Harbingers. He was angry--well, it was more than anger, but he couldn’t place what the second emotion was yet. He didn’t understand why you hadn’t consulted him about Pierro’s offer before taking him up on it, he didn’t understand why you hadn’t even mentioned it to him, and he did not like the way that Tartaglia was watching you, completely tuning out all of the discussion around him. 

Hot anger. Dottore liked to differentiate different types of anger between hot and cold, it was easier for him to digest and figure out how to handle that way. Hot anger needed coolness, otherwise it would blow up into an explosion. Cold anger needed warmness, otherwise you would freeze each other out. Dottore was more adept with handling hot anger as he himself was rather cold.

And with him, you had always been hot anger, like his younger segment--Theta. You had been hot anger, he had been cold. A messy situation for when the two of you got into arguments, but not as messy as it could have been otherwise—you worked well with each other even when arguing. Why were you cold now? Where was the shouting and the aggression? The pushing at his chest and telling him to leave? 

Dottore did not know how to handle your cold anger. He needed your warmth to balance out his cold. Once again, he felt anxiety yanking at him. He pushed it away. He had until the end of the meeting to figure out how to approach you and fix this mess before it escalated too far. 

But the end of the meeting came too fast for him to process. Logically, he knew it had been a decent amount of time, but it had only felt like seconds had passed between him giving the rundown of what had happened and Pierro dismissing everyone. You were going to Fontaine with Arlecchino, that’s what Pierro had said right before ending the meeting. Fontaine, not to the outskirts but instead deep into the court of the Hydro Archon who hated the Fatui and everything they stood for. 

Another unfamiliar emotion--more intense this time. He couldn’t push it away. 

He didn’t have to ask you to stay. As all of the others left, you lingered. You were looking at him again but Dottore was more focused now on Tartaglia, who hadn’t left, and was staring at you, hesitantly. Rage. He funneled the unfamiliar emotion into rage as he turned his head to the lowest-ranked Harbinger, who had the audacity to raise his chin and meet Dottore’s gaze head on--or meet his gaze as best as he could, at least, with his mask on.

“Ajax,” it was your voice that drew him from the anger, but only momentarily. The familiarity that you spoke Tartaglia’s name had Dottore’s blood boiling, his delusion rattling against its mold. Since when- “Go.”

Since when was Tartaglia, ‘Ajax’? It had taken Dottore months to finally tell you what his real name was—an act that had been one of the most difficult decisions of his life considering it meant reviving a part of him that he had killed off years before.

It had taken him months to tell you and it had taken you months to get used to it—how were you saying Tartaglia’s real name so casually and fondly like that?

Tartaglia only listened to you when you looked at him, nodding once before turning and walking out of the room. He didn’t go far, Dottore noticed, he was lingering outside, ready to step in as if Dottore would do something to hurt you. As if he would ever, Dottore thought, trying to bite back the rising anger. And even if he did, it wasn’t like Tartaglia could hope to stop him. 

“What was that about?” Dottore asked, voice tenser than he intended for it to be.

“What business is it of yours?” your voice was sharp, icy in a way that it hadn’t been with Tartaglia. That green feeling returned, ugly and intense, along with something else—something that had his chest feeling heavy. 

“What business is it of mine?” Dottore questioned, tone laced in disbelief as he stared at you. “You’re my-”

“I’m your what?” 

He didn’t like how you cut him off, how you were waiting for him to say something. He had heard you take that tone with associates of the Fatui before--associates who had gone back on their word and you were often the one sent to whittle the answers out of them before one of the Harbingers, usually a segment of Dottore, was sent to remove them. This was the tone you took when you had won, waiting for them to deliver the sentence that would damn them. 

Dottore stayed quiet, only for a moment. Instead of answering the question, he asked another, “When did you and Tartaglia become so close?”

“He has been around the past three months. You have not.”

Dottore especially did not like that. He stared forward, mind whirring as he tried to process what you had said and the implications of it. Dottore had never made anything explicitly clear between the two of you but he had figured-

“Not like that, Dottore.”

Any other thought he might have had was gone, mind focusing on how you had addressed him. By his Harbinger title, you had never addressed him by that. It was always Zandik, you were the only one allowed to call him that, you were the only person he would revive that part of himself for. The name was dead to everybody else in the world except you. 

“Why did you call me that?” Dottore asked before he could stop himself. The coldness, the way you addressed him, your familiarity with Tartaglia, Dottore didn’t know what was going on. It couldn’t just be anger over the lost segment--it was just a segment, a piece of him but he was still there, there had to be more that he was missing.

“Because Zandik is dead,” you said, and yet again, Dottore was grateful for his mask because his brow was furrowing and his eyes were squinted as he tried to figure out what you meant. “You killed him.”

Were you referring to the segment?

Dottore’s lips parted, he shut his eyes briefly as he shook his head, trying to clear his mind before speaking. “I am Zandik,” he spoke a sentence that he hadn’t spoken in years, and the forced acceptance ripped open a part of him that had long since been sealed away. Dottore tried to keep his breath steady, trying to split his attention between clearing up whatever this misunderstanding with you was and trying to close the reopened wound before it could cause serious damage. 

“No, you’re not.” It was like you weren’t even listening to him and Dottore could feel the frustration seeping onto his face. 

“I am,” Dottore snapped, but his anger would only fuel yours--he knew that from experience--so he tried to calm himself down. “I am Zandik,” he said it again. The wound ripped open more, too much for him to try to put back together while at the same time trying to figure out what he was missing. He would fix this with you, and then he would fix the wreck that had become his mental state. “What is going on? Why-”

“You killed him!” Your hands slammed down against the table, your voice a shout so loud that it echoed across the chamber the two of you stood in--outside the room, he heard Tartaglia draw closer to the door, alert. Dottore paused, staring at you--there was the anger, the hot anger that Dottore had expected from you, but he couldn’t find himself relieved at it. Instead, he only found himself even more stressed.

“You are talking about the segment,” he realized quietly, and your eyes flared at his words, angrier. But Dottore was lost because he expected you to be angry but he didn’t expect it to be like this. He didn’t expect it to-

“You killed him, Dottore,” your voice cracked over your words, and Dottore tried to step around the table toward you but you drew back as soon as he started to move. His throat felt tight at the rejection but he tried to ignore it--impossible, the wound tore more, gaping and open.

Dottore shook his head again, slowly this time, as he tried to figure out what to say to calm you down. “The segment was me,” he tried to keep his voice soft, but Dottore was not a soft man. “I’m still here. He was just me, but younger, and-”

“He was not-”

“He was-” His voice rose, anger and frustration, and maybe just a hint of desperation to get you to listen to him as he realized what exactly the issue was. You had never considered the segments as extensions of him. They had been individuals, separate people. He should have realized it from the way you spoke about some of them but he was never around enough when you were talking to the segments to have the pieces to put it together and he was so set in his own mindset that they were simply extensions to realize you felt differently. “He was me. I’m him. Let’s-”

“He was you before you turned into this,” your words were sharp and venomous, acid dripping into the open wound. Dottore drew back, not speaking for a moment as he watched you, waiting for you to elaborate on what you meant. 

You did not, chest heaving and eyes welled with tears as you stared at him. If Dottore wanted an explanation, he would have to ask but he didn’t even know if he wanted an explanation.

“And what is ‘this’?” Dottore couldn’t stop himself from asking, time seemed still around the two of you as he waited for an answer. 

“Look at what you’ve turned into, Zandik. All of these odd experiments and heretical ideas, you’ve become a-”

“A monster.”

Dottore stared at you and internally he was scrambling, trying to get control of all of the unwelcome emotions before they could become visible on his face. The wound that had been opened had torn past the point of being able to close back up, it had torn through all of the other closed wounds and ripped all of them open too, leaving him bare and vulnerable and bleeding out and there was nothing he could do. He had to leave, or he had to get you to leave so he could get himself under control.

“I see,” he said, his voice was colder than he intended for it to be, maybe that was for the best. “I never should have let you get attached to them.”

Logically, he could rationalize it—how you had managed to get so attached, that is. Parts of Dottore had died over the years, the parts of him that had been softer and vulnerable. Or he supposed they hadn’t died if the reopened wounds he was struggling to patch back up had anything to say about it, but they had been locked away so deep that they might as well have been dead.

Segments like the Iota segment, and even the Zeta and Theta segment, to some extent, did not have the same high walls that the older segments of Dottore had. You were able to access a part of him through those segments that you wouldn’t ordinarily be able to through himself. Dottore had been hesitant about the idea at first but it had kept him from having to open up his own old wounds so he figured it was for the best. 

Logically, he could rationalize it but he simply could not understand it. Because if it was just a matter of being able to access that part of him, Dottore would figure it out. He would, for you, if it meant this argument would end. 

But it didn’t seem as if it was just a matter of being able to access that part of him. It was deeper. It was the segment itself, not its connection to Dottore. And Dottore couldn’t understand how an artificially made clone of his younger self was causing this to happen. He didn’t understand why you had gotten so attached to it when he was right there.

Right there? His mind flew back to all of the times he had left you with the Iota segment, or the Theta or Zeta segments. Separate bodies, almost completely different personalities from him—you didn’t have the same mental connection that he had with his segments, was it really so hard to believe that you started to view them as individuals rather than extensions of himself?

You scoffed almost instantly at his words, drawing him back to the conversation at hand, and he knew he had spoken wrong but he was already overwhelmed piecing together just how much he had misunderstood between you and your relationships with his segments that he couldn’t bring himself to acknowledge the mistake. 

Dottore was not a master of deciphering emotions, he was far from it in fact. But he remembered the nights he’d come home late from the labs to find the Iota segment curled up asleep in your arms, how you would dote on him in a way no one in Dottore’s life had ever done before. 

The pieces had been laid out for him but Dottore just hadn’t realized it.

“I can think of a lot of things you shouldn’t have done,” snide and derisive, Dottore’s jaw tightened at your words, and you were watching him. You were searching for something but Dottore didn’t know what it was--Dottore had never been the best at reading people, but he was usually able to make up for it just by using sheer logic. This would not be the case here with you. He didn’t know what you were looking for, and he didn’t know how to make this better--not for himself, and not for you, or the two of you together.

Evidently, you did not find whatever you were looking for and Dottore’s lips finally parted from the thin line he had them pressed in as you shook your head and walked away without another word. He tried to force the words past his lips but they got caught in the back of his throat.

Dottore had always been a prideful and arrogant man but he thought he’d be able to set it aside for you, just this once. But maybe it wasn’t a matter of pride or arrogance, he realized, because his heart was erratic in his chest as you walked away, eyes wide beneath his mask. It was a matter of not knowing what to say. 

Dottore had never been someone who found himself at a loss for words. One way or another, he would always be able to talk his way out of a situation—but now, staring at your back as you made your way out of the room, not even bothering to shut the door behind you, his mind was blank. Numb.

He felt numb. 

Your words mixed with his parents, his parents mixed with the other villagers in his old town, the villagers mixed with the students at the Akademiya and the students mixed with the scholars. And then it was your voice again, loud, damning, finally calling him for what he was after all of the years you had spent with him. 

He was not Il Dottore in that moment, he was Zandik--the child that was run from his hometown and scarred by his own parents for showing interests that were considered heretical to the traditional village elders; the student at the Akademiya who had tried, at first, before giving up and throwing himself into his research when he was faced with the same rejection again and again and again and again; the student who had decided if he couldn’t be accepted, then he might as well go to whatever lengths necessary to at least be successful.

He watched as Tartaglia peeled off the wall to walk with you, he watched as his fingers grazed your back--a sort of reassuring gesture that seemed too natural to be of any comfort to Dottore, and he watched as you turned your head to the side to look at Tartaglia, speaking quietly before the two of disappeared down a different hallway. You didn’t look back once. 

And when he finally looked away from where you had left, eyes falling on the dark window that led to the palace courtyard, Dottore swore that it was his youngest-self staring back at him, vindictive and satisfied, his last words echoing in Dottore’s head louder than all of the rest of them. 

[queersatanic]

Queer Satanic is dead; long live Queer Satanic

It’s official and it’s final: We won.

If The Satanic Temple were going to appeal its loss against the defendants it called “Queer Satanic”, the notice of appeal was due in King County Superior Court by 4:30 p.m. today. We have received no electronic notice of a filing, so we are very pleased to say that the case is finally concluded.

The nontheistic religious organization used its for-profit corporation “United Federation of Churches LLC d/b/a ‘The Satanic Temple’ ” to sue four former members of its Washington State chapter from April 2020 till September 2024. They sued us in federal court, the Ninth Circuit Court, dragged us into giving depositions for the Southern District of New York, and sued us in King County Superior Court, but TST has lost everywhere it went. The claims that we always maintained were frivolous and without merit have been found so in every court TST made those claims by every judge who has looked at them. Now, a month after TST’s most recent loss, the deadline for the Temple’s appeal has come and gone, and so we’re done.

Years ago in dark times where it seemed like there would be no end to this and The Satanic Temple and its owners would never stop being vexatious litigants against us, we wrote the bottom section. The website’s administrator was supposed to add some sort of explainer and then publish it, keeping the site up and running for as long as that was feasible for them since we would be in no position to be involved anymore.

What it talks about has not come to pass — but in other ways, it certainly has. This was not sustainable indefinitely. The machine was breaking down for a long time, grinding metal on metal without pause, but it can be turned off now. “Non serviam” — until further notice, this machine is out of service.

Certainly, there is still research to be done and still other articles to be written about The Satanic Temple, its owners, and how they actually operate in contrast to how they present themselves. But to be done by us? That’s less clear.

We don’t plan to completely disappear, and there is still some tidying up to do, but mostly, there’s some much needed rest. Just as likely, there will be other fights that now we can focus on, given the way the world is going. In either case, this sabbatical may be indefinite.

“Queer Satanic” was never an organization, never a hierarchy, only a vibe. We were Heretical Satanists, heretics of heretics, so in the midst of defending ourselves from a lawsuit, we tried to put forward positive ideas and examples about what a more useful Satanism might look like; we tried to show a radical and rebellious way of approaching and acting in the world beyond just aesthetics of painting it black or upside-down Christianity slapped on bog-standard reactionary and liberal politics.

We didn’t do enough of it, and there is still so much more to be done.

For now at least, we leave you to it.

If you’re reading this, it means we lost.

Maybe a judge ruled against us. More likely, we ran out of money to keep paying for our own legal defense and had to capitulate. Or, after more than two years — and the devil only knows how much more if you’re reading this — of assault in and outside of the courtroom, we wore down and could not find resilience between us all to go on.

For whatever reason, if you’re reading this, we lost. And we’re sorry. For whatever reason, we were not strong enough and good enough to win this fight. Maybe we weren’t even good enough to see it through to the end.

And yet the work continues. We will not be able to continue it, or at least not all of us, but the work is the work, and it never depended solely on us anyway. The Satanic Temple is a horrid, abusive organization. If we say something otherwise because we can no longer defend ourselves to prevent it, it should be obvious this was a statement made under duress. Fuck our future selves for what they say, but have compassion for them as well. Literally years and tens of thousands of dollars must separate us from each other; bravery is much easier on this side of the chasm of time.

The work continues, and you’ll have to do it. Yes, you. No one else can build what you want to see. Certainly not us anymore.

You are Queer Satanic just as you always have been.

A queer satanic antifascist is someone who detests and opposes fascism, white supremacy, cishetropatriarchy, clericalism, and capitalism. A queer satanic antifascist looks on all forms of domination and hierarchy and chooses to oppose them — actually — even if it seems the structures they oppose are omnipotent.

Lucifer fought all of heaven; can you not fight an egregore of capitalism?

Find people who want the same things you do. Work with those people to create the world you want around you. Sometimes, that is petty resistance to hegemony — vandalism, graffiti, a heckle. Sometimes it’s filling potholes or cleaning pots after a free feeding. Sometimes it’s open carrying at a queer protest. Sometimes it’s things not to be talked about digitally at all.

Be the insurrection you want to see. Be Lucifer the Light-Bringer, rebelling against ineffable tyranny at all costs.

Push grifters like the The Satanic Temple out of radical spaces with your teeth bared, call out their leaders for abuses everywhere so no one is fooled. Feed people. Shelter people. Protect people. Do it actually, not just for clout or to funnel money up a pyramid.

Use any symbol or meme or paragraph of ours that’s ever inspired you. Make your own new things to inspire others.

We are done. If you’re reading this, we lost.

But if you continue to do the work we did, we will never, ever lose.

Hail Satan! — the work continues.

Ave Satanas! — so do you.

[chelledoggo]

hot take: Christians should not hold the American flag (or any national flag for that matter) in the regard of being "sacred."

the Pledge of Allegiance is inherently a prayer to a dead idol - a scrap of cloth that represents a clump of unfeeling soil.

His kingdom is not of this world.

...but what do i know? i'm just a filthy purple-haired liberal heretic, right?