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barren-heart · 1 year ago

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From Panera Bread You Came, To Panera Bread You Shall Return.

Guillermo's been working at Panera Bread for about a week now. Luckily, his old manager agreed to give him his old job back.

A Nandermo first kiss one-shot

Blood and violence. Hurt/comfort. Somewhat Christmas-themed. No death. Post-s5. Nandor/Guillermo.

Author’s note: I wanted to write in script format, but got too lazy tbh and I also wanted to keep some of the thoughts and feelings of the characters. Canon compliant for the most part.

Bright lights flicker in a near-empty Panera. The lampposts outside are lit, as snow drifts towards the ground in thick piles.

In the lobby, Guillermo mops the floor. He’s focusing on a spill of broccoli cheddar soup that accidentally fell off the table as he was cleaning. He sees the cameras and waves them in.

“So, yeah,” Guillermo says. He sits at a table, camera facing. His title reads, Former Familiar and Bodyguard. Panera Bread Employee. “You can probably tell that I’m no longer working for Nandor and the vampires. I moved out about a week ago, I guess.”

A flashback to Guillermo cleaning up his room at the Vampire Residence. He takes his suitcases and the vampire portrait of him and Nandor. The room is just as empty as when he moved in.

“It was just getting a bit, you know, sad,” Guillermo continues. “Not being a vampire anymore, I just didn’t really feel like I could go back to being a familiar. So,” he pauses, “I left.”

A cut back to Guillermo looking at Nandor’s closed coffin as he lays a letter on the table. A moment later, a cut to Nandor picking up the letter as his face grows solemn.

“I’m trying to find my purpose in this world now.” Guillermo smiles. “There’s so…so many possibilities of who I can be. I have my whole life ahead of me. But, searching for your next passion doesn’t really pay the bills. So, in the meantime, I got my old job back at Panera. So that’s…that’s good.”

The documentary crew flashes edits of Guillermo performing various duties inside of Panera. Kids run into tables, knocking food onto the floor. Loud customers shout at him as Guillermo tries to remain calm.

When the camera cuts back to Guillermo’s talking head, his smile fades. “Can’t believe this time, last week I was mopping up blood in the Fancy Room, and now I’m mopping up soup.” He laughs. “Crazy how things could change so quickly.”

“Guillermo?” A man behind the counter says. “Do you mind taking the trash out?”

Guillermo stands, ending the talking head segment. “Yeah. I can do that. Sorry.”

“Oh no, take your time,” The man says smiling to the cameras. “I’m sorry, did I come off as a bit aggressive there? I’ve been working on not sounding too demanding, you know? I learned that from the Being a Better Boss self-help book I read last summer.”

“You’re good, Chris.” Guillermo laughs to himself. His boss has no idea the orders he was given as a familiar. “I’ll take it out now.”

“Okay, be careful out there,” Chris says. “It’s looking like a blizzard. Haven’t seen snow like this since when I was a kid in Vermont.”

The camera follows Guillermo as he grabs his coat and scarf. The cold is much harsher with the wind.

He drags the rather heavy bags of trash out the back door. He can barely see as he lifts the trash bags into the dumpster. It was nothing like the human bodies he would bag daily for the vampires. Come to think of it, taking a whiff outside, maybe there is rotten flesh in there?

“Guillermo, is that you?” A voice calls out.

Guillermo immediately recognizes the voice. It’s his master, or ex-master now? He left the vampire residence so suddenly that he wasn’t really sure anymore.

Out of the shadows, Nandor appears. His hair disheveled and cape covered in snow. Almost like he’d been there for hours.

Guillermo meets him under a streetlight. “Have you been waiting here for me?”

“Yes. Not long, though. Maybe two…or three hours?”

“Three-three hours?”

“I didn’t want to disturb you while you worked,” Nandor says. “So, I waited here until you were done.” Nandor points to a body slumped against the wall of the building. “I had a light snack while I waited.”

“That would explain the rotten corpse smell…” Guillermo whispers to the camera.

"I like what you've done with the place." Nandor observes the scenery. "Very twinkly lights."

“Oh, no that’s the…you know…” Guillermo stops, knowing well he shouldn’t say Christmas in front of Nandor. His voice lowers to a whisper, “Holiday lights.”

“Your roommates must be so festive. So very human and not vampires at all.” There’s a smile on Nandor’s face, but it’s absent of joy. If Nandor could tell the truth, it’s painful that Guillermo left again, this time to be with humans.

“Uh, yeah. They…they are human.” Guillermo says. "Do you think I live here?"

"Well, now that you don't live with us anymore, I thought you would move in where you work."

"Actually," Guillermo says, his eyes on the snowy ground beneath him. "I live with my mom now."

"Oh, Silvia?" Nandor genuinely smiles. He enjoyed Guillermo's mothers’ company the last time he saw her. So kind and full of energy. And so many photos of Guillermo. "How is she?"

"She's doing-" Guillermo begins to say. “Wait. How did you find me? I never said I was going to work here.”

“I thought you would return to something familiar. Just seemed like something all humans do. I flew around to all the Paneras in the area, until I saw you in the window. I came to congratulate you on your new job.”

Guillermo smiles to himself. “Oh, I thought you’d be upset that I left.”

“I’m not upset. I actually think that it’s okay.”

A cut to talking heads of Nandor in his room. “Am I happy with Guillermo for leaving? Of course not. But, I’m not upset. Little rascal is probably thinking about apologizing right now. He’s probably on his way home. What, it’s been, like, just a few days?”

Someone talks offscreen.

“A week?” Nandor says.“Really? Oh. Maybe I should try and find him, then?”

When the camera cuts back, Nandor says, “I know you were looking to find some greater purpose and you’ve found it here at…The Panera Bread.”

Nandor gives a quick look to the camera.

“Uh, yeah,” Guillermo says. “Well, it’s-it’s temporary. I, uh, don’t really have much of a work history with 14 years working as a familiar. Uh, my old boss is actually still working here and got me my job back.”

“That asshole?” Nandor says, remembering the guy was such a dick. “Yes, I remember. Fucking guy.”

“He’s actually pretty cool now. Mellowed out a lot.”

“Oh?” Nandor says. “That’s-that’s great that you have such a mellow boss. Really…cool.”

A moment of silence passes between them.

“How’s the gang?” Guillermo says, wistful. “I miss them.”

“They’re, you know. Moving on. Doing lots of things. With stuff. Vampire stuff.”

Guillermo feels a pang in his heart. He shouldn’t expect a heartfelt plea to come back, especially with how sudden he left. It still feels like it was the right thing to do in the moment.

The sound of a door opens behind them. It’s Guillermo’s manager, Chris.

“Hey, just checking to see if you died.” He sniffs around. “Almost smells like someone died.”

Chris takes in the dead body. “Hey, what the fuck is that?!”

Nandor approaches Chris. “You will not remember seeing the dead body on the ground and will go back inside and finish your duties for the night.”

Before finishing his hypnosis, Nandor adds, “And you will give Guillermo a raise in pay.”

“Yeah, everything looks good,” Chris says, leaving. “I’ll see you inside. And hey, you’re getting a raise on your next check there, buddy.”

Once Chris is inside, Guillermo says, “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I kinda did, though. Didn’t want him to remember the dead body there,” Nandor says whispering as if someone could overhear.

“I meant the raise part,” Guillermo says.

“Oh.” Nandor continues in a normal tone, “You deserve it. I know how hard you work. And how important it is to tell someone that you appreciate what they do for you. I want to wish you well in your new position. And I’m sure you will do just great.”

“Thank you, mast-” Guillermo stops. “Um, Nandor.”

Nandor doesn’t comment on the change of title. “Of course.”

“I should probably get back inside,” Guillermo says. “Fly safe. It’s really snowy out here.”

“Yes, thank you.”

Guillermo turns towards the camera, away from Nandor. A few tears well up in his eyes.

“Oh, Guillermo?” Nandor says. “One last thing.”

Guillermo faces him again, sniffing his tears back. “Yeah?”

Nandor steps closer. He reaches inside his cape, and pulls out a dozen of flattened red roses. “I forgot to give you these.”

“Flowers?” Guillermo sniffs them. A few are wilted, and some petals fall to the ground.

“Sorry. They were alive when I picked them.”

“Wait. You picked them? It’s the middle of winter.”

“Yes. I picked them from a nice grave I found while flying.”

“A grave?” Guillermo eyes go wide.

“Yes,” Nandor continues earnestly. “I saw them lying there and I thought of you.”

“You did?”

Nandor continues, “And I wanted to tell you that…I’ve missed you.”

“Really?” Guillermo swallows. “I’ve missed you, too. I’m sorry for leaving. I didn’t want to leave. I wanted to stay. I really wanted to stay. I just don’t know if I belong there anymore.”

“You do belong there, Guillermo. You were more than just my familiar, but my greatest companion. I don’t know what I would do without you.”

Marwa’s wedding scene plays and then we cut back to Guillermo. The camera zooms in on his face. He grins, now realizing. “Maybe you don’t have to think about that.”

“What do you-“ But Nandor doesn’t finish as he notices Guillermo leaning in towards him. Nandor mimics him, leaning in as their lips finally meet. His hand brushes along Guillermo’s neck and down his coat. He wraps his arms around Guillermo’s waist.

A familiar feeling of heat creeps up Guillermo’s chest and into his throat. The hairs on his arms raise as he wraps his hands around Nandor’s shoulders.

A voice stirring breaks them apart.

“What was that?” Guillermo says.

The body against the wall moves. “Ughh. Is there anyone there?”

Guillermo eyes Nandor. “I thought you said he was dead?”

“Yeah, I thought so,” Nandor says. “I just had a little snack. I don’t think I drained him enough.”

“Hey there,” Guillermo says approaching the body. “I can help you. Are you okay?”

The man, probably in his 40’s, slowly stands while gripping onto the wall. “Yeah, I think-” He slips on a puddle of his own blood, his head hitting against the wall as he falls with a thud to the ground. He doesn’t move.

Guillermo covers his mouth in shock.

“I think he’s dead now,” Nandor says. He kneels beside him. “Little man, are you alive?”

Nothing.

Nandor rolls him over. “Maybe we let the snow cover him up?”

Guillermo sighs. “I’ll get a trash bag.”

When Guillermo comes back, they both toss the man into the dumpster.

“If it makes you feel any better,” Nandor starts, “that was the guy yelling at you earlier. I could see it through the window. He said some bad things about you as he left.”

Guillermo smiles to both Nandor and the cameras. “I think we should leave before any cops show up.”

“Good idea.” Nandor reaches his hand out to Guillermo. “Can I fly you home? I’m sure Silvia is worried about you.”

Guillermo puts his hand in Nandor’s. “How about our place instead?”

#a quick holiday ish inspired one shot #I know I know I’m a bit late for Christmas #I’ve never worked at Panera so don’t hate my inaccuracies #😭#what we do in the shadows #WWDITS #nandor the relentless #guillermo de la cruz #nandermo #wwdits fic

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sagealphapapabear · 20 days ago

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Bloodlines, Bibles, and the Forceful Rejection of Whiteness: How I Found My Calling at the Intersection of Queerness, Class, and Kinship.

🖼️ Title: Evening Watch – Allison Hill , 2001

✍️ Caption:

A richly detailed digital painting rendered in the style of traditional portrait oil painting, this image captures a contemplative moment on a porch in Harrisburg's Allison Hill neighborhood. The subject—a middle-aged man with long, gossamer auburn-gray hair and a streaked beard—sits with quiet resolve, flanked by family photos, a worn Bible, and the whispered presence of his ancestors. One figure, bearing the familiar look of an old Quaker patriarch, evokes the layered inheritance of faith, silence, and self-definition.

Above them, dusk begins its hymn, softening the houses, deepening the sky, and hinting at a rainbow barely visible in the fading light.

Rendered by ChatGPT (OpenAI), 2025 , based on an original narrative written and curated by the subject himself. Style chosen to reflect sacred memory, queer reflection, and the reverence of everyday ritual.

🧹 A Bit of Housekeeping Before We Begin

Let’s start with a little housekeeping, shall we?

Before diving into the heart of this post, I want to take a moment to speak directly to the inevitable critics—the ones who wander in uninvited, full of opinions no one asked for, ready to tell this Gay Gentleman what he should and shouldn’t say about his own lived experience.

To be blunt: I’m tired. Tired of unsolicited nonsense from small-minded people who seem deeply threatened by thoughtfulness, tenderness, and truth.

And yes, I’m well aware that the internet has a surplus of trolls—many of them loudly overcompensating for shortcomings of both moral and, let’s say, biological proportions.

So in the spirit of efficiency (and the hope that they simply move along), I offer the following prebuttal to whatever weak rhetoric may be brewing in their shadowy corners of the web.

✨ A Note for the Critics (Before You Get Loud in My Mentions)

Let’s just get a few things out of the way before your pearls get clutched or your monocles fog up:

No, I don’t hate white people. I’m formally what most would call “White Bread American—100% of European ancestry, if you go back 100-405 years ago.. I simply reject the label of “White”—and yes, it’s just a label. I see it as toxic, fake and a fabricated construct of “Whiteness” that’s been used to oppress everyone—including pale people like me who refuse to weaponize their melanin.

Yes, I’m a gay man talking about sex, spirit, and social justice all in the same breath. If that makes you uncomfortable, good. Maybe it’s time someone did.

No, this isn’t reverse racism. Reverse racism is like reverse gravity. It’s not a thing. Look it up—preferably in something thicker than a tweet.

Yes, I talk about the Divine Spirit. Yes, I still love Jesus. And no, She doesn’t mind that I say “fuck” when the situation calls for it. My God has range.

No, my marriage isn’t broken because it’s open. It’s open because it’s secure. We trust each other, support each other, and still share the last slice of cake like good husbands do.

Yes, I refer to younger queer Black and brown men as ‘baby boy’ sometimes. Because for many of them, it’s the first time they’ve been cherished in a way that’s safe, respectful, and free of expectation. If that bothers you, unpack your baggage. Mine’s already been sorted and blessed.

No, I’m not grooming anyone—all of the men I’m referring to are above age 30. Consenting adults, that is all. I’m mentoring, listening, affirming, and occasionally canoodling. All with consent, clarity, and mutual care. If that threatens you, ask why.

Yes, I talk about my ancestors. No, I’m not clout-chasing the Mayflower.

First of all, I only discovered that connection in 2023.

Second? That and $11.45 will get me breakfast at the local Roy Rogers—and they’ll still throw in packets of Mayo and other condiments, even as I once again asked them not to.

I’m not flaunting a pedigree. I’m showing how history winds its way through our lives—sometimes sacred, sometimes redemptive.

Even when it shows up wrapped in lace cuffs and dripping with hypocrisy.

No, this post isn’t for everyone.

It wasn’t meant to be. It’s for my people. For the ones who see themselves in these words—or see someone they love. Or want to learn how.

And if that bothers you, take it up with my 14th-great-grandfather. He’s in no position to care.

And finally…

You don’t have to be here.

This is my space, and you are free to scroll, click away, or rage-comment into the void.

But know this: Your approval is neither requested, required, nor relevant. It is however welcome from allies and friends. If you feel compelled to argue, I invite you to first ask yourself: “Why?” Because I argue in good faith, with no agenda beyond sharing truth from my lived experience.

Well… one agenda item:

Rendered by ChatGPT, 2025

Pet the cat. Her house. Her rules. She bunts and that claims ownership of everything here. I can't.

Now that the air is clear, the door is open. Come in, take your shoes off, and bring your whole self. There's cobbler on the stove and stories to tell. . 🕊️🐾

Opening: Plymouth Surprise Edition

It all started when I was between jobs, poking around for new opportunities. I found a posting with the Cherokee Nation in the DC area and remembered something my mom once mentioned—she thought my father might have had Cherokee ancestry.

I never got the chance to know him, and he died when I was just 20 years old. Nearly 40 years have passed since then and I’m the lone survivor of that family now. I have no kids and certainly won’t at this point. But something about that moment made me wonder: “Is there a way to confirm it?”

That question sent me to Ancestry.com. Just to look. Just to see. Turns out he didn’t have Cherokee, but rather had ancestors who were largely from Germanic nations, but also Russian on his mom’s side—something I never knew. But that’s apparently where my high cheekbones, full head of hair and other features in me came from .

One quiet afternoon in 2023, I opened a genealogy site without much expectation—first to trace my own tree, then Tigre’s, and eventually my best friend’s. What began as casual curiosity turned into something remarkable.

Because what I discovered in the DNA of myself, my husband, and my best friend—three queer souls bound not by blood but by choice—was this:

American history lives in us.

And not just in fragments. I’m talking castles and colonies, old gods and new lands—a lineage stretching all the way back to the 14th century, weaving through places both close and far, familiar and sacred.

My bestie's roots? They reach deep into the soil of this continent, through the noblest families of nearly every First Nation along the East Coast. Their legacy is just as well documented as any British landed gentry—every name preserved, every bloodline honored.

🖼️ Title: She Who Stood Between Worlds Rendered by ChatGPT, 2025

📝 Notes:

Believed to represent a Mohawk matriarch of the 17th century, this image honors a woman who served not only as a queen within her people, but also as a diplomat and cultural bridge during the earliest collisions between Indigenous nations and European settlers. Her influence reached from longhouse to colonial court, wielding power not through conquest—but through presence, poise, and unshakable purpose.

The Matriarch and the Reckoning

The Mohawk Queen in her lineage wasn't just royalty—She was a diplomat. A bridge between her people and the Dutch who founded New Amsterdam…And the English who renamed it New York.

Yes, that New York. The Big Apple.

She was fierce, historic, and deeply respected. And she is also the 14th great-grandmother of my dearest friend.

That same friend is now a matriarch herself—

Raising a beautiful blended family with a husband whose ancestors were once enslaved on Virginia plantations, mostly in the central part of the state. The same state where some of her direct ancestors owned different plantations, with different slaves—and the same evil mindset that sets her teeth on edge as much as it does mine.

The very system my ancestors fought against was found in her ancestry—And when I had to gently break the news of what the ancestral records revealed, it nearly broke her.

She wept and felt so utterly ashamed. I hugged her and then told her gently:

“My dear, even though none of my people held slaves, we all still benefitted from slavery. That legacy angers me—and it angered them too. But it’s a painful truth we don’t get to opt out of.

Those people lived and died long before our time,

and now? We’re left to walk through the wreckage and try to heal what we can.”

Then I reminded her of something just as true:

“Look at your family. You are living proof that love is the fiercest rejection of what they built.

You turned generational violence into a legacy of joy. And that, my dear… is beautiful beyond words.”

An unexpected treasure trove of Native American history is in her ancestral tree.

As I examined that rich and complex history of her Native American Ancestors, I saw they weren’t faceless names on a page. Some had drawings. Others, stories. And through those, I felt like I could see them—not as distant ancestors of my friends, but as real people. Whole, proud, dignified.

They weren’t forgotten. Not in this house. Not ever.

We’d met by pure chance 21 years ago at the same workplace and became instant soul siblings. Neither of us could’ve known that her Mohawk ancestors and my English ancestors—actual lords and ladies—would’ve crossed paths centuries ago.

🖼️ Title:

“Coming Back Home from Visiting My Best Friend’s Ancestors for a Nice Dinner , April 1640”

✍️ Caption:

An homage to a day in the life of the Howland family , early settlers in Plymouth Colony. Rendered in the style of early 17th-century colonial portraiture, this moment captures the family of John J. Howland II and Elizabeth Tilley around 1640, 20 years after their arrival on the Mayflower

At the center is Elizabeth, matriarch and quiet powerhouse. A woman whose resilience built the foundation for generations to come. Their daughter, Abigail Howland —my direct ancestor—is in the middle, inviting us to join their extended family.

The family is bathed in light and warmth, their expressions lively and full of spirit. To the side, three glowering Puritans lurk, sour as a half-turned apple—ever judging, never dancing. Their God demanded punishment; the Howlands' faith celebrated presence, purpose, and grace.

This image honors not just ancestry, but the choice to live joyfully. Because as it turns out, my family didn’t come here to frown.

Art rendered by ChatGPT, 2025, in loving tribute to a life well-claimed.

Why? Because in 1620, my people boarded the Mayflower. They gave up privilege, land, and comfort in England to help found Plymouth.

Now, anyone with even a hint of American education knows that boat name: The Mayflower. It’s shorthand for Thanksgiving stories, buckled hats, and a mythology too thick with whitewashing to see clearly through.

But here’s the real twist: My ancestors weren’t Puritans. They were Quakers.

And that makes all the difference.

Where the Puritans judged harshly—especially themselves— The Quakers loved openly. Where the Puritans condemned, the Quakers welcomed. They didn’t wield religion as a weapon. They offered it like bread.

And knowing that? That I came from them—from people who led with conviction and compassion—meant everything.

Especially when I learned that Plymouth had fewer than 600 settlers in its earliest days. The odds that my ancestors knew hers, broke bread with them, maybe even saw one another as kin despite the vast cultural divide… are high.

And now? Thirteen generations later?

We found each other again. And just like back then—we break bread, we share stories, and we see each other as family.

That’s not coincidence. That’s homecoming.

What I found ended up reconfiguring everything I thought I knew—about my ancestry, my queerness, and the role I was born to play in this moment we’re all living through.

Part I: The Forgotten Matriarch and the Hidden Line

Growing up, our family history was held in fragments—scraps of stories, names that floated through holiday dinners, and a few yellowing photos tucked into family Bibles.

My maternal grandmother was our primary storyteller. She didn’t have the full picture, but she gave me just enough to trace things forward. What she didn’t know was that through her father’s line, I descend directly from a rather distinguished family—one of the few whose names appear in history books. A family I’d read about but never imagined any connection to—let alone a genetic one, spanning 14 generations from them to me.

One of the middle daughters, Abigail Howland, is my 13th great-grandmother. She set in motion a lineage of abolitionists, farmers, and beautifully stubborn souls who made it their mission to mind their own damn business and treat people right.

Her parents, John J. Howland II and Elizabeth Tilley, were passengers aboard the Mayflower in 1620. Elizabeth was just a teenager when she made the journey with her parents, while John came as a servant—but both would survive, fall in love, and build a legacy that helped shape the early fabric of this nation.

That line runs straight through me—where, in the biological sense, it ends. I never had children of my own. But I became a godfather. A mentor. A steady hand in the lives of the children of my friends, who I’ve loved and guided like nieces and nephews.

And until I went looking, all of this was nearly lost.

Part II: Old America, Real Roots

I am fiercely proud of this heritage.

Because it reflects a legacy that rejected Whiteness and all its manufactured cruelty—not just in theory, but in action. My people knew it was wrong. They stood against it, and some paid the Ultimate Price to defeat slavery and preserve our Democratic Republic.

That defiance lives in me.

I descend from some of the first European settlers of what became the United States—and not one of them was an enslaver. My ancestors were working-class, grounded, and real. They lived simply, worshipped humbly, and treated others with dignity. They didn’t believe in hierarchy; they believed in humanity.

Meanwhile, my husband Tigre’s family helped build Puerto Rico from its earliest Spanish-speaking settlements. My best friend? She descends from a Mohawk queen who married into one of the founding families of Plymouth—the very same settlement my ancestors helped establish.

All three of us are connected to America’s First Families. Some show up on maps. Others in ledgers. A few even have portraits in museums. But most? Just names in ancestral records now.

Names I now carry forward—with open eyes, open hands, and a spine made of ancestral steel.

I am fiercely proud of this heritage.

This is NOT AI generated, but rather a REAL Photo of one of my Ancestors.

Pictured is Samuel Galbreath (Maternal 3rd Great Grandfather, center front) with his friends, taken on the morning after completing their US Army basic training at Camp Curtin, Harrisburg PA was completed in 1861. He was killed in action on 20 Dec 1861 at Dranesville, Fairfax, Virginia, USA. Gallant men going to fight against Slavery, putting their very lives at grave risk.

That defiance lives in me, as I come from the mightiest ancestors imaginable.

All three of us are connected to America’s First Families. Some show up on maps. Others in ledgers. A few even have portraits in museums. But most? Just names in ancestral records now.

Names I now carry forward—with open eyes, open hands, and a spine made of ancestral steel.

I am fiercely proud of this heritage.

Because it reflects a legacy that rejected Whiteness and all its manufactured cruelty—not just in theory, but in action. My people knew it was wrong. They stood against it and some paid the Ultimate Price to defeat Slavery and preserve our Democratic Republic. And that defiance lives in me.

NOTE: AI rendered images include typographical errors in text as a sort of "Watermark" to signal to the viewer it's not rendered by any person. The bottom line was supposed to read "These labels were never mine to carry."

Why I Reject the Label of “Whiteness”

Let’s talk about Whiteness—that label I’ve never accepted and never claimed.

“White” was never a word that felt like it fit.

I’m taupe with a hint of pink, thank you very much. I don’t blend into a white wall. And white clothes? They actually make me look surprisingly tan— an inheritance from my maternal grandfather, a Croatian-Hungarian immigrant whose family came to the U.S. just before he was born in the early 1900s.

And according to the standards set for categorizing Immigrants of that time? He wasn’t considered “White.” He was labeled Slavic—a classification that, while not enslaved or colonized like others, still marked him as inferior. Not quite white. Not quite welcome. Not quite worthy.

The same was true for my Scots-Irish ancestors, who’d arrived decades earlier. They weren’t “White” either—listed as Celtic or some other variation, and treated with equal suspicion by the ruling Anglo elite. They were free, yes—but not full. Not in society’s eyes.

Let that sink in.

The U.S. government—just a century ago—maintained official racial classifications that assigned social value to a person based on ancestry. These were applied to everyone who came through places like Ellis Island in New York and Philadelphia PA, the two main ports where all of my ancestors first touched the soil of North America. It was measured, charted, codified—as if human worth could be graphed like rainfall.

These charts existed. I’ve seen them. And though I’ve tried in vain to locate them again, their legacy lives on in the architecture of American systems—legal, social, and cultural. My ancestors—now casually grouped under “White”—were once explicitly excluded from that label.

So when I say I reject Whiteness as a concept, it's not out of rebellion. It's out of historical accuracy . It was never mine to claim.

📎 Notes & Citations for the above referenced history:

🔎 Curious about these racial classifications? You're not imagining things. Scholars like David Roediger (Working Toward Whiteness) and Matthew Frye Jacobson (Whiteness of a Different Color) offer deep dives into how groups like Slavs, Italians, Jews, Irish, and Greeks were once considered racially distinct from "White Anglo-Saxon" Americans—often tracked in census data and treated as second-class immigrants.

🧠 Explore More: • Jacobson via Harvard Press: https://www.hup.harvard.edu/catalog.php?isbn=9780674004726 • Roediger via Basic Books: https://www.basicbooks.com/titles/david-r-roediger/working-toward-whiteness/9780465090205 • PBS – Race: The Power of an Illusion: https://www.pbs.org/race

✨ If you're new to this history, I encourage you to explore it. Because when you understand how Whiteness was invented, you begin to see how powerful it is to live outside of it.

Or, in my case—walk away from it entirely. That's why I reject “Whiteness.”

🖼️ Title: Rejecting The Filing Cabinet of Whiteness Rendered by ChatGPT, 2025

✍️ Artist's Note:

This image serves as a metaphor for the artificial construction of racial identity in the U.S.—a musty filing cabinet long forgotten, yet still shaping lives. Its partially opened drawers and aged metal texture evoke the bureaucratic roots of Whiteness: invented, archived, and selectively applied. Damp, outdated, and impersonal—just like the concept itself.

What was once weaponized classification is now just… paperwork, rusting in history’s shadows.

Because it rejected my people until the 1950s—within living memory of my mom and grandparents.

Skin tone aside, the whole concept has always felt… Gross. Inaccurate. Empty. Like something damp and musty, pulled from a filing cabinet no one's dared open for 70 years or more.

And yet, somehow, it still lives—just rebranded. Today it’s not on paper, but it’s baked into algorithms. The sorting and valuation continues… only now it’s done by code instead of clipboard.

How they sorted my ancestors and created a “mixed race” person in me—who is now labeled White, and hates it for being so incredibly stupid.

This country didn’t just label my people—it engineered us. Invented categories, assigned values, and handed out privileges like ration cards. They took culture, kinship, and story... and turned them into census boxes and boarding passes to power.

And yet here I am, product of that system—and holy hell, have I got things to say about it.

It wasn’t just that my Slavic and Scots-Irish ancestors were seen as “less than”—they weren’t even always called White.

Slavs and Celts in the early 1900s were often seen as racialized subgroups. Their names didn’t appear under “White” in official Immigration tables. They were tracked by national origin—Slavic, Celtic, Italian and so on—and ranked socially and politically as partial Americans. Not with literal fractions like the Three-Fifths Compromise applied to enslaved Africans, but with functionally dehumanizing math all the same.

So, when I say “Whiteness felt gross and inaccurate,” I’m not being poetic. I’m being precise.

Roughly a third of my ancestors weren’t considered “White” until long after they and their children fought, worked, and bled for this country. And by the time the government decided to grant them Whiteness? They were already Americans in every way that mattered.

So, I choose them. The rebels. The outliers. The ones who said no when everyone else said yes. The allies who stood their ground—and stood with others. Not the Whiteness that once rejected them.

For the record and to be clear: no—I’m not “White.” I’m a descendant of the almost-but-not-quite.

That infamous 3/5 formula? It may have legally applied only to enslaved Africans, but it culturally applied to at least two sets of my great-grandparents—and to over a third of my family tree.

They came from almost every corner of Europe, bearing names that were once too foreign, too swarthy, too Scottish, Irish, Hungarian or Croatian—Celtic or Slavic—to be accepted.

And while I may now carry the label “White” on forms and drop-down menus, I reject it every chance I get.

🖼️ An homage to the Patriarch--"Pap-Pap", as the grandkids dubbed him years after this moment.

An AI-rendered homage to my maternal grandfather, based on a real photograph of him during World War II—likely around age 33. This is how I pictured him growing up, shaped by the stories of those who loved him. I was named after him, and now, later in life, I bear more than a passing resemblance.

He never made it to 60, but lived a life that most men of his generation would have envied—graceful, magnetic, and full of quiet strength.

You might see a “White man” here.

But just 100 years ago, he and his family weren’t viewed that way. They were Other—Slavic, to be exact. Too foreign. Too Catholic. Too different.

He and my grandmother were both beautiful people—inside and out—and the world only caught up to that truth far too late.

Call me Ecru. Call me Taupe. Call me Light Tan with a splash of Croatian Olive like my Grandfather's in old color photos.

But don’t call me “White.” Not when that term was forced onto people who never asked for it, never needed it, and never wanted what came with it.

So, no thanks. I didn’t order this identity. Please send it back to hell where it came from—thankyouverymuch.

Oh, and about that italicized phrase? I don’t watch much in the way of passive viewing, but when I do, it’s BritBox—and their shows are where I picked it up from. Those 4 words strung together as one? Another way of saying “We’re done here, you can show yourself out.”

“What Whiteness Feels Like to Me”

Whiteness—at least as I've known it—feels like this:

Sitting on a hard, metal folding chair at a cookout where no one dances. The sky is gray, the air is damp and heavy— hot, humid, and lifeless . No breeze, no fans, just the smell of overcooked meat and the stagnant weight of silence. Where love isn't really in the air and certainly didn't go into the cooking of what happens for food around here.

Muzak pouring over stolen rhythm like paint over stained glass—stripping it of soul, spirit, and swing. An instrumental version of something once beautiful, now boiled soft. Volume too loud for conversation. Convenient, really—because the hosts don't want to talk. I've always asked the questions they fear most. Gently, but pointedly. And their answers? Sometimes they shocked me more than I ever want to admit. I still carry some of those silences.

Empty beer cans stuffed with cigarette butts balanced on every flat surface. A sun-warmed tray of egg salad and deviled eggs that's begun to turn. They get drunk. The jokes get cruel. Laughter rings out from mouths twisted with spite— vulgarity parading as wit. And I sit there, again, remembered why this has never been my culture.

That sad little vignette? Real memories from my childhood and teenage years, as rendered by AI taking these words and making them art. That's about how warm and welcomed I felt because they weren't my people.

It is a nearly perfect snapshot of most family gatherings with my stepfather’s so-called “Redneck” relatives—their word, not mine. How they felt and how they looked, generalized in one image.

And yes, they were every bit as stereotypical as you're probably imagining. Only worse. So much worse. In ways that still haunt me—ghosts in tube socks and trucker hats, trailing the scent of domestic beer and casual bigotry.

They’re mostly just specters now—faded memories from a part of my life I didn’t choose, and thank the Divine, no longer have to revisit. I left that table long ago.

I survived those occasions by arriving armed with thick novels—usually Stephen King— a silent signal that said: "You are not my people. I am here against my will. Kindly leave me the hell alone."

But these days? Put me at a Black or Brown queer cookout— honey , I'm home. In the corner, peach cobbler in hand, sweet tea on deck, watching joy unfold like a Sunday service with no sermon—just spirit.

And not a single deviled egg floating in beet juice infused vinegar nearby. Bless.

Part III: The Invention of Whiteness (and Why I Rejected It)

From a young age, I knew better. I knew that skin tone was, for the most part, irrelevant—a superficial variation, now proven to be just a tiny tweak in one tiny strand of DNA. So small, in fact, that scientists call it biologically unremarkable.

And yet... look at what the world built on it.

I didn’t need science to prove it—my experiences did. I remember reading the most quoted parts of Dr. King’s “I Have a Dream” speech on a poster in my friend Willie’s house. We were six. He was dark-skinned and had a smile that lit up the room. That kid could make me laugh so hard I couldn’t breathe. That day, those words made perfect sense. They still do.

“White” was never a real identity. It was a mask. A wedge. A tool. Created by the powerful to divide the working classes at all income levels. To keep Black, brown, and pale folks too suspicious of each other to rise up and take back what was stolen from all of us.

Ai rendered visualization of the following text:

So, here's what I know: My people aren't “White”…and I'm not, either. I'm Alabaster or Tan perhaps, but not White.

My people are the ones who stood in fields, in pews, in kitchens and sanctuaries—and said, “We're not doing this anymore.”

They're the Quakers who walked side by side with those labeled “Colored” and called them equals. The same folks who showed up to mark with them for civil rights, as steady allies and full-throated supporters. Working together on a shared cause, a work we're still doing even now. They are my ancestors and I stand in their place, and on their shoulders today.

They’re the Black and Brown queer men who message me now with admiration in their eyes and softness in their voices. Rendered by ChatGPT, 2025

And they're the baby boys no one hugged long enough . The queer kids who left church just to survive. The ones who didn't know love could come in a form that sees all of them —and stays.

Part IV: Why I'm Writing This Now

I've spent the last six weeks watching the Divine rearrange the furniture of my soul.

I've stepped into a new season—one of Gay/Queer mentorship and sacred flirtation—mostly through spaces like the DaddyHunt App. There, to my quiet astonishment, young caramel and chocolate-skinned men began reaching out.

Not just with desire. But with curiosity. With reverence. With hope.

And in time, I realized: They weren’t just looking for a hookup. They were looking for a place to land. For someone to say: “You are enough, baby boy.”

That’s when it hit me. This wasn’t just connection. It was ministry.

It was dinner and deep conversation. If the chemistry was right, it might be followed by naked canoodling—then dessert. Not just flesh meeting flesh, but two queer souls opening to one another in the way only we know how to: with bodies entwined, yes— but spirits, too.

A listening ear. A tender word. A safe lap to rest a tired head.

And the Divine made one thing clear:

“You are the vessel. I will work through you.”

Even if it’s just one night of comfort. One meal. One message. One moment where a hurting soul feels seen. The Divine Spirit—how I see God—will work through me and love on these men in the way they need, organically and naturally. In the right time, and in the most reverential manner possible.

This work has rewired me. It’s reawakened parts of myself that were waiting for this kind of calling—and I will not apologize for it.

I don't care who scoffs. This is sacred. And those who don't get it can kindly fuck in the direction of off , thank you very much.

🖼️ Title: "A Dream They Dared Not Speak, Now Spoken Freely" Rendered by ChatGPT, 2025

✍️ Caption:

In an imagined Washington D.C. where 1910 embraced what history tried to erase, this portrait captures a moment of dignity and possibility. A gracious host introduces two young men at a gathering not unlike a cotillion—except this one honors queer love, cultural pride, and the quiet work of legacy.

Here, elders arrange introductions with purpose, offering blessing rather than judgment. The house is grand, the air warm with music and conversation, and every glance carries layers of meaning.

This is the world the ancestors hoped for—even if they never saw it. This is the dream they whispered. And finally, it is being lived.

Part V: The Legacy I Choose

I may wear jeans and untucked button-downs instead of robes. I may say Baby Boy and Papa instead of Beloved and Blessed. But make no mistake: this is pastoral work.

I didn’t build a church. I am the church.

The sanctuary lives in me. It walks beside me in the grocery store, the train platform, the bedroom, the chat thread. And it reminds me that I may be called upon to offer grace anywhere.

Sometimes that's buying someone a hot meal. Sometimes it's holding a hurting man in my arms and letting him weep out the grief on my shoulder, as I tell him It's Ok, I got you. So does the Divine, who works through me. They hold us close now. Just rest, it will be OK Sometimes it's simply saying, “You matter.”

And always, I hear the whisper of my Quaker ancestors:

🖼️ Title:

“The Church I Carry”

✍️ Caption:

Rendered by ChatGPT, 2025 An imagined oil painting that captures the quiet sacredness of chosen purpose. Here, a modern-day spiritual guide stands in still reflection—not behind a pulpit, but beneath open skies. No steeple. No altar. Just the presence of grace, walking with him through the ordinary and the divine.

This is not a church made of stone and doctrine. This is a church made of presence. Of listening. Of witness. Of love.

Because he didn’t build a sanctuary. He became one.

"Be still. Be kind. Be a witness."

Closing Blessing

I’m not here to shout over anyone. I’m just here to speak the truth as I’ve lived it.

If you’ve read this far, maybe you’re one of the ones I was meant to reach. If not? That’s okay, too. I’ll keep writing anyway.

Because silence was never going to save us. And storytelling always did.

Peace be with you. Walk in loving grace. See the face of the Divine in every person who crosses your path. And remember: we are all distant cousins, members of the same family— the Human Race.

All other labels? Can—and should—be rejected without hesitation.

This is how I see the world. And it’s how I choose to live.

Because I've found that holding these values makes life on this broken, beautiful planet... a little less hellish. And a whole lot more heavenly.

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skullgrind · 1 year ago

Video

LORD DYING: Starting off the show with the only album art that isn't in black and white this week (though it is monochrome). It's DOOM/SLUDGE METAL from this Portland, OR 4-piece with vocals that might make you go WAHHH? But we're just setting the miserable stage for this show this week folks. OKAY?

KNOLL: …is back in your hole. Brand new stuff from the twisted Tennessee tribe with "makes you feel bad" music at it's finest. DEATH METAL/SLUDGE sounds they like to call "FUNERAL GRIND" and that's as descriptive as anything I am gonna come up with right now.

For time will begrave moil And will shall bleed upon itself When wrath forsakes us, There is but woe

DOOM BEACH: Heavy sounds from this Connecticut 2-piece that will really get you in the mood for some self degradation and/or body disposal. Just the kind of filth I feel in the mood for. This is the title track from the album of the same name. I think they got some new stuff coming out this year too?

GRAVESEND: Next up we have BLACKENED GRIND from NYC on 20 Buck Spin. A love letter to the city from the gutter and music that will have you second guessing your next trip to the big apple.

PURULENCY: Alright this right here is probably my favorite track this week. DEATH METAL demo from Tenessee that just came out on cassette this year. Think CONVULSE or old GRAVE and you're in the ball park. Horrid vocals that make me feel oh so good. Fantastic OSDM cover art by Luxi Lahtinen.

PENNY COFFIN: Going out with a bang with this DEATH/BLACK METAL from Scotland, UK. Recorded in TORMENTED CONFINEMENT with mastering by James Plotkin this is that heavy shit you need to get you through until next week. Cover art by P.L.A.G.U.E?

MULL: Surprise! Bonus filth track by this band from Germany. Who is in it? Who plays what? I don't know but it's some vile heavy DEATH GRIND and it's all you get until next week!

THANKS FOR READING/LISTENING/SUPPORTING THE GRIND

youtube

THE GRIND - 2/2/24 MIX (MORALE QUARREL)

Feel bad tunes to kick off FEBRURAY this FRIDAY 8PM EST

#skullgrind #the grind #mixtape #metal #death metal #doom metal #sludge metal #grindcore #Bandcamp

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victoria-daydreams · 3 years ago

Text

The Hare and The Tower

Chapter One: Of Butterflies & Sketches

AN: I am very happy to see that I am not the only one crushing on the schemer that is Otto Hightower. Thank you to everyone who liked and reblogged this story! I swear to god this app hated me while writing this chapter because it was constantly crashing on me. Also, I finally decided on House Clarick’s sigil, it’s a hare, hence the title. I am attempting a semi-slow burn pray for me.

Trigger warnings: age gap

Word Count: 1.5k

Taglist: @riviaborns @newandykes

Summary: Jesmyn discovers that personal happiness often comes with a cost.

Chapter Two: Heart’s Desire

113 AC, Westeros

Within three short months, Lord Hightower had requested the pleasure of Jesmyn’s company one day a week at sunset for a stroll, unless his responsibilities as Hand called him elsewhere. At first, Jesmyn had been nervous, uncertain, even. That was until, weeks turned into a month, and then into three. Surprisingly, Jesmyn found herself and Lord Hightower had grown to become close companions. Their long walks around the palace gardens had been a welcome escape from the unpredictable world they lived in.

Jesmyn took pleasure in spending time with Lord Hightower, more than she thought she possible. Before, she only exchanged pleasantries with him due to being friends with his daughter, Alicent. Other than those interactions, she rarely paid him any attention. Now, she held a genuine affection for Lord Hightower, a man full of wisdom and complexity all wrapped in one. With every day that passed, Jesmyn found herself hanging on his every word. It was a little surprising to her that she had as much of an interest in him as she did. For it was quite obvious how big of an age difference there was between them. Still, she could not deny the feelings that stirred in heart because of the older man.

Dusk had soon become Jesmyn’s favorite part of the day. It was during this time, she could speak her mind freely without disapproving looks and patronizing tones when it came to serious matters that plagued the realm. On some issues, Lord Hightower would disagree with a few of her progressive views, his mind still firmly holding onto more traditional ideas. However, he still respected her intellectual mind. They could talk with each other till the sun retreated below the horizon and the stars began to sparkle dimly in the sky.

On one particular evening, Jesmyn and Lord Hightower walked side by side through the maze of the palace gardens before he challenged her to a friendly game of cyvasse under the arbor.

“Lady Jesmyn, do you paint portraits?” Lord Hightower asked, moving a piece on the cyvasse board.

“Not often my lord,” Jesmyn answered, contemplating her next move. “I’ve always found myself gravitating to landscapes,” she explained, moving her own cyvasse's piece as sensible as she believed to be. “Did you have someone in mind, Lord Hightower?” she wondered, looking up from the board.

“You,”

Jesmyn’s breath hitched as her eyes widened, surely she was dreaming. Heat seared underneath her face, and suddenly Jesmyn felt unbelievably warm in the lightweight material of her dress. She was glad that Lord Hightower couldn't see just how flustered he had made her. Bashfully, she tucked her chin into her neck, avoiding his stare.

“Please, don’t be cruel Lord Hightower,” Jesmyn said, shaking her head. “I do not wish for you to be subjected to viewing my shoddy work of an attempted self portrait. It would ruin your opinion of me,” she jested, belting out a breathy laugh.

“Stop that,” he demanded softly, which made Jesmyn lift her eyes to meet his. There was a tenderness in his tone which was new to her. “I have without a doubt, your splendor will be equally reflected on canvas,” he added, gazing intently at her and rekindling the warmth in her cheeks.

Her mouth curved upwards, a gracious smile on her face, “Then, it shall be done Lord Hightower,” she agreed, with a nod. “Your kind words inspire me with confidence,” Jesmyn informed.

~~~x~~~

A week later

“My mother will have my head once she gets a whiff of me,” Jesmyn complained, tugging off her gloves.

Riding Syrax with Rhaenyra was an exhilarating experience for Jesmyn, however she couldn’t be happier to have her feet solidly back on the ground of the dragon pit.

“What for?” Rhaenyra asked, mirroring her movements. “You did tell her what we were doing, right?” she remarked, with an amused huff.

“I told my mother that the Princess invited me to go riding with her,” Jesmyn replied, shoving her gloves into the belt of her tunic “I didn’t specify what manner of creature it would be,” she explained, a half smirk on her lips.

“Being crafty are you?” Rhaenyra teased, as they entered inside the Red Keep.

The two of them strode through the winding and large corridors of the castle, both of their coats flowing behind him. Servants left and right lowered themselves close to the floor and bending their heads to Rhaenyra as she passed them in the wide hall. Acknowledging the servants with an appreciative smile, the two girls continued on their way to Jesmyn’s quarters, the sun gleaming through the pillars of the castle every step of the way. Just as Jesmyn went to turn down the hall where her quarters were, Rhaenyra gently grabbed her arm and stopped her.

“Jesmyn, before you go,” Rhaenyra began hesitantly. “There’s something I wish to discuss with you,” she said, her cheery attitude inexplicably gone.

Jesmyn’s brows furrowed at the change of demeanor from her friend, “Of course Rhaenyra,” she answered readily.

Without resistance, Jesmyn let herself be escorted to the balconies. Rhaenyra dropped down onto the bench against the wall in an unladylike fashion, resting her head against the wall. While Jesmyn opted to stand, leaning on the balcony railing.

“What troubles your mind Princess?” Jesmyn questioned.

“Is it true what they say?” Rhaenyra asked bluntly.

“Is what true?” Jesmyn repeated, feeling a frown form again.

“There have been whispers about you and Lord Hightower,” she stated, her stare unflinching. “It seems you both have been enjoying each other’s company as of late,” she said, with an undercurrent of disgust.

Jesmyn's eyes darted to the row of arches open to the of inner courtyard which overlooked it. The bustle of the castle below was abuzz as the occupants went about their day on the warm sunny afternoon.

“Princess Rhaenyra, I didn’t take you as a gossiper,” Jesmyn said evasively.

“Except, it’s not just frivolous court gossip, is it? Not if Lady Redwyne has anything to say about it,” she commented, and Jesmyn could envision her rolling her eyes.

Slowly, Jesmyn looked back at Rhaenyra, “It is true,” she admitted. “We have walks in the garden and we converse with each other, but it’s harmless,” she said unconvincingly.

“Harmless?” Rhaenyra repeated, a bitter laugh leaving her. “The King’s Hand is anything but harmless!” she snapped, her glare intensifying.

“I know you have your reservations about Lord Hightower, but he’s a brilliant man Rhaenyra,” Jesmyn assured, turning away from her to look down into the courtyard, her head leaning against the arch. “He is wise, clever, and…” she trailed off dreamily, her eyes zeroing in on the Small Council walking through courtyard and speaking amongst themselves.

Immediately, Jesmyn recognized Lord Hightower’s figure engaged in conversation with Lord Strong. The conversation between the two men was abruptly short when another member of the council pulled the Master of Laws away to discuss another matter. Lord Hightower’s eyes happened to flit upwards to the balconies where she was standing.

Jesmyn felt her heart stutter as brown eyes met deep blue ones, his face shifted in a blink from fierce concentration to vaguely relaxed. Lord Hightower gazed at her, not smiling, however his eyes softened as they held her stare. He gave her a slight nod in acknowledgement and a warm smile adorned her face.

“And what?” Rhaenyra asked impatiently, startling Jesmyn from her reverie.

She glanced off to the side, finding it was increasingly harder to divide her attention from Lord Hightower to Rhaenyra.

Jesmyn reared around, “And, he takes an honest interest into my hobbies and my thoughts. He respects me,” she finished, placing her hand against her chest.

“Harmless, you said?” Rhaenyra repeated sardonically. “I think you’re more fond of him than you realize,” Rhaenyra said, with a small scoff.

“Would it be that bad if I were, Rhaenyra?” Jesmyn asked curiously, tilting her head. “Soon, I will be eight and ten,” she reminded. “My father has been a patient man, but he made abundantly it clear to me. He will have me married off come next spring,” she stated, moving away from the balcony.

“And so you chose him?”

“I didn’t choose him, it was happenstance,”

“Does she know?” Rhaenyra questioned, and Jesmyn knew exactly who the ‘she’ in question was.

“I am not sure,” Jesmyn replied honestly. “I have to assume she has, if you’re hearing whispers then surely she has too,” Jesmyn reasoned, interlocking her hands behind her back. “Although, she hasn’t confronted me about it. Then again, she was never one for confrontation. The worst that could happen would be her forbidding me to see her father, she is The Queen after all,” she joked, making Rhaenyra’s scowl deeper. “My apologies, I shouldn’t have been so flippant. It’s understandably still a sore subject for you,” Jesmyn said quickly.

Rhaenyra rose from the bench, gripping her riding gloves tightly.

“Best head to your bath, Lady Jesmyn,” she suggested. “I wouldn’t want the smell of dragon to spoil your walk with The Hand,” she remarked coldly, brushing past her.

“Rhaenyra, don’t be like this,” Jesmyn pleaded softly.

The Princess came to a stop and turned on her heel.

“Lord Hightower is courting you, I do not know why you deny it to my face,”

“What would it accomplish, Rhaenyra!” Jesmyn said exasperatedly. “Your disdain for him is evident,” she commented. “You are my friend,” she stated, taking a hold of the younger girl’s hands. “And I need you to understand, if Lord Hightower pursues his courtship with me, it would change everything for me, for my family,” Jesmyn explained. “House Clarick would finally have standing in this court—”

Rhaenyra snatched her hands from Jesmyn’s, a mixture of betrayal and disgust painted on her face.

“Of course, that’s all you care about,” she said, shaking her head. “It’s what everyone cares about in this damned court,” she accused, backing away from her.

“No, Rhaenyra that’s not what I meant!” Jesmyn said, reaching out for her.

It was too late though, Rhaenyra had already took off running.

#house of the dragon x reader #game of thrones x reader #otto hightower x reader #black!reader #black!oc #game of thrones imagine #house of the dragon imagine #game of thrones oc #house of the dragon fanfiction #game of thrones fanfiction #otto hightower x oc #house of the dragon #game of thrones #got x reader #hotd x reader

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the-broken-truth · 4 years ago

Note

I hope it is alright for a request. Dimitrescu family with male artist? 👨‍🦱 🖌️ Your writing brings smile to my face. 🥰

Broken Truth: Artist, huh? This is going to be interesting. Let the words weave together!!

[In The Village - Lord [L/N]'s Paint Shop]

He was known as the Lord of the Brush - he could paint almost anything, either from memory, from an image, or from a model. Almost all the villagers knew Lord [L/N]'s name - while he didn't approve of the title, everyone called him that because he was kind and compassionate, just like a just ruler. [Y/N] [L/N] hailed from a small family in the village, he was the only son and the pride of the family; from a young age - the Romanian boy had a talent for the arts, mainly in painting. At age 13, he painted his first self-portrait of his family and was able to insert himself into the painting without fail. As he grew older, more and more people asked for his work - he became so well known that The Second Lord - Lady Donna Beneviento - commissioned him to paint herself and her doll companion, as well as purchased a few paintings that he had laying around; those paintings were given to Alcina Dimitrescu who loved the artwork very much...but didn't know who the artist was...

That is...until today.

The bell above the door jingled, making the artist raise his head to see the woman walking through it - or rather, ducking through it. When she rose and locked eyes with the man, he didn't look afraid, just smiled at her; he bowed his head before speaking.

"Greetings, Lady Dimitrescu. Welcome to my shop." He said.

"You know who I am, man-thing?" Alcina asked with a raised eyebrow and her arms folded.

"Yes, My Lady - The Crest of Castle Dimitrescu hangs from the pearl around your nice. I've heard a good number of things from the village when you are being discussed - The Dragon of Dimitrescu is one of the many things I hear you referred as, others are not as...pleasant as they should be. Now, what can I do for you, Honored Lady?" [Y/N] asked as he gathered a pen and paper from the drawer beside him.

"My Younger Sister - Lady Donna Beneviento - informed me that you are the one who painted her portrait and I would like to commission you to paint a portrait of my daughters and I." Alcina said.

"Of course, My Lady. I would be honored to paint your portrait. When would you like it done?" He asked.

"How long would it take you to finish it?" Alcina countered his question with her own.

"It would depend on the size you desire the painting to be. I assume you want the largest size I have." He said.

"What makes you say that? Is it because of my height?" Alcina glared at him, her claws ready to come out.

"No, my lady. I would sit on my porch and look up at the grand stature that is Castle Dimitrescu; everything in that castle must be grand so I don't think you would want a puny painting to hold the image of yourself or your daughters." He explained with a calmness in his voice. She raised her eyebrow at him - he was...different, unlike any other man-thing she's met before.

And his eyes...

Something about them was... enchanting.

[The Next Day - Castle Dimitrescu - Foyer]

"Wait here, Lord [L/N]. I shall get the lady and her daughters for you." The Head Maiden bowed before walking off.

"Please, don't call me a Lord; I am not of Noble Blood!" He begged behind her but she didn't listen to him. He stood there with his paint supplies and the largest canvas he had and listened to the cracking of the fireplace and...

Was that buzzing?

"Look, Sisters - A Man-Thing is in our home." A female voice called out. He turned around and saw 3 groups of flies float before him before gathering together and formed the Daughters of Castle Dimitrescu.

He just looked at them before smiling.

"A pleasure to meet you all, My Ladies." He said with a bow - this confused the daughters.

Did he not see the sickles in their hands?

Did he not know that he was about to be drained of his blood and served on a platter?

The daughter that boar the blonde hair narrowed her eyes at him before stepping forward.

"Why are you not screaming, Man-Thing?" She asked.

"Why would I scream?" He asked in confusion.

"Because you are about to die." The middle daughter said.

"But...How shall I paint the portrait if I am dead?" He asked.

"Portrait?" The youngest asked before her eyes widened. "That's right! Mother said we were going to have our portrait painted today! He must be the painter!" She said.

"The Painter?! Forgive us, we thought you were an intruder." The Eldest apologized before clearing her though and looked at him, "My name is Bela, these are my sisters - Cassandra and Daniela."

"So...The Devourer." He pointed at Bela, "The one who shines or excels over men." he pointed to Cassandra, "And -The one judged by God." He ended by pointing at Dani - they looked at him confused before he spoke again, "Those are the meanings of your names."

"Oh..." The Daughters said at once.

[Moments Later]

"Forgive me for taking so long, I..." Alcina stopped talking as she saw her daughters talking to the painter as he sketched something in a drawing pad in his lap, and...they were smiling, "What is going on here?" She asked, making everyone look at her.

"Ah, The Strong-Willed Queen has arrived." He smiled.

"Strong-Willed Queen?" Alcina blushed.

"It is the meaning of your name, My Queen; a fitting name, I must say." He said with a smile.

"I...I am not a queen." She turned her blushing face away from the painter and her daughters.

"Mother, do you know that [Y/N] is the one who painted the painting Aunt Donna gave us?!" Dani asked.

"Is that so?" Alcina looked at him with a raised eyebrow and he nodded with a smile.

"Yes, my lady; I'm glad to know you like my work." He said.

"Indeed...Painter. Now, let's get in position, Daughters." Alcina said and they gathered around the large chair.

[One Hour Later]

"You may rise now, my ladies - the sketch is complete." He said as he placed the pencil back in his case. The girls swarmed around him and their eyes lit up at the sketch upon the canvas - even Alcina was in awe.

"This is...perfect." Alcina said.

"I'm glad you approve. Now, I'll take it back to my shop and finish it there." He said.

"No!" All the Dimitrescu's said.

"Huh?" said the confused man.

"I...I mean...Until the painting is complete - you shall stay in Castle Dimitrescu; we shall set up a room for you." Alcina said.

"But...that would be a week or two, My Lady." He said.

"All the better, Little Artist." Alcina smiled.

[End]

#resident evil 8 #alcina dimitrescu #alcina dimitrescu x male reader

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yazthebookish · 4 years ago

Text

Title: Portrait of a Scotsman (A League of Extraordinary Women Book #3)

Genre: historical fiction, romance, adult.

Rating: 5/5⭐️

(Link to Goodreads Review)

Review:

FIVE STUNNING STARS⭐️

“I shall now forever live with the knowledge that without you in it, the world would be a strange place, and I should never be at home in it again.”

I can't even find the words to describe how much I adored Portrait of a Scotsman! It's probably my favorite book of the series thus far.

This book is BRILLIANT. I doubt my review will do it justice but I will try.

Although this book is not advertised as a retelling, but I can sense a tinge of inspiration by Beauty and the Beast.

This book has so many facets, it is by no means a light book due to the social issues it picks up on, nonetheless it gave me what I wanted it in a historical romance and more.

I must applaud Evie Dunmore for walking away from London's dazzling ballrooms to create a rich and complex tapestry on feminism and workers' rights that is intricately woven into fiction.

We are not told of these social issues, we are transported to settings where women's lack of rights and the workers poor conditions felt tangible.

It also highlighted the power imbalance between a husband and a wife and we explore this through the main couple. By no means does Lucian excercise these rights on Hattie but it is still an advantage he has over her simply for being a woman and seen as a property by society.

I won't get into details about their arranged marriage, but I liked how the book makes a note of how if a woman made a teeny tiny mistake of being seen in close proximity with a stranger, they'll thrust her into an arranged marriage for carnal indecencies because a fleeting kiss is such a terrible sin that must be repent through wedlock.

But before we pick up on that, let's introduce the main couple:

Lady Hattie Greenfield is the daughter of Julien Greenfield, patriarch of Britain's largest family-owned bank. Impressively enough for a woman of a high social standing, she is an Oxford scholar and a reputable blue-stocking. Hattie desired three things in life:

1. Acclaim as an artist

2. A noble cause.

3. Marriage to a young lord who puts the gentle in gentleman.

Although it is not further explored, but also Hattie has difficult reading written words which points to Dyslexia, so I appreciate the disability representation in this book.

A fleeting kiss pulls Hattie to an altar where she must make her vows to Lucian Blackstone of all people.

Lucian is one of the wealthiest businessmen in England with a reputable ruthlessness that casts fear in the hearts of London's peerage. He is what one would call a lowly born self-made man who is also a Scot to the teeth.

Lucian's corrupting influence draws Hattie closer to unholy pleasures and to the scarred man underneath.

“She had introduced a hitherto unknown complexity to his life: he found he was holding multiple contradictory thoughts—or worse, feelings—at the same time. Her mistrust, her sniping, the sullen, petulant curve of her mouth, bedeviled him very effectively, and yet he still wanted to lean across the narrow table and kiss that mouth.”

I must remind you that romance is still the central element of this book and to my delight, it combines many popular tropes that I must list each:

• Arranged marriage.

• A tender but strong heroine and a dark tortured hero.

• One bed.

• Forced proximity.

• Beauty and the Beast.

• A hero that lacks experience in romance and wooing.

• A heroine that does not falls head over heels for love at first.

• A high-born heroine and a low-born hero.

The sexual tension and passion between Hattie and Lucian was swoonworthy and sizzling! There was this delicious push-and-pull between them until both of them surrendered to the passion they ignited.

I also liked that there were issues and complications in their relationship. They were polar opposites and had to work around their differences though it wasn't a smooth process. It was all perfectly executed, for the culmination of their feelings felt rewarding.

The writing was superb and I was easily immersed into the book. I actually devoured this book and dreaded the ending because I did not want to let these characters go.

I absolutely love it! Definitely one of my favorite reads of 2021!

#portrait of a scotsman #evie dunmore #a league of extraordinary women #historical romance #book recommendations #book review #bookish #book community #booklr

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marty101sblog · 4 years ago

Text

17-year-old Brian Moore had only a short time to write something for a

class. The subject was what Heaven was like. "I wowed 'em," he later told

his father, Bruce. "It's a killer. It's the bomb. It's the best thing I ever

wrote.." It also was the last.

Brian Moore died May 27, 1997, the day after Memorial Day. He was driving

home from a friend's house when his car went off Bulen Pierce Road in

Pickaway County and struck a utility pole. He emerged from the wreck

unharmed but stepped on a downed power line and was electrocuted.

The Moores framed a copy of Brian's essay and hung it among the family

portraits in the living room. "I think God used him to make a point. I think

we were meant to find it and make something out of it," Mrs. Moore said of

the essay. She and her husband want to share their son's vision of life

after death. "I'm happy for Brian. I know he's in heaven. I know I'll see

him."

Brian's Essay: The Room...

In that place between wakefulness and dreams, I found myself in the room.

There were no distinguishing features except for the one wall covered with

small index card files. They were like the ones in libraries that list

titles by author or subject in alphabetical order. But these files, which

stretched from floor to ceiling and seemingly endless in either direction,

had very different headings. As I drew near the wall of files, the first to

catch my attention was one that read "Girls I have liked." I opened it and

began flipping through the cards. I quickly shut it, shocked to realize that

I recognized the names written on each one. And then without being told, I

knew exactly where I was.

This lifeless room with its small files was a crude catalog system for my

life. Here were written the actions of my every moment, big and small, in a

detail my memory couldn't match. A sense of wonder and curiosity, coupled

with horror, stirred within me as I began randomly opening files and

exploring their content. Some brought joy and sweet memories; others a sense

of shame and regret so intense that I would look over my shoulder to see if

anyone was watching.

A file named "Friends" was next to one marked "Friends I have betrayed." The

titles ranged from the mundane to the outright weird "Books I Have Read,"

"Lies I Have Told," "Comfort I have Given," "Jokes I Have Laughed at ." Some

were almost hilarious in their exactness: "Things I've yelled at my

brothers." Others I couldn't laugh at: "Things I Have Done in My Anger",

"Things I Have Muttered Under My Breath at My Parents." I never ceased to be

surprised by the contents.

Often there were many more cards than I expected. Sometimes fewer than I

hoped. I was overwhelmed by the sheer volume of the life I had lived. Could

it be possible that I had the time in my years to fill each of these

thousands or even millions of cards? But each card confirmed this truth.

Each was written in my own handwriting. Each signed with my signature.

When I pulled out the file marked "TV Shows I have watched", I realized the

files grew to contain their contents. The cards were packed tightly and yet

after two or three yards, I hadn't found the end of the file. I shut it,

shamed, not so much by the quality of shows but more by the vast time I knew

that file represented.

When I came to a file marked "Lustful Thoughts," I felt a chill run through

my body. I pulled the file out only an inch, not willing to test its size

and drew out a card. I shuddered at its detailed content.

I felt sick to think that such a moment had been recorded. An almost animal

rage broke on me. One thought dominated my mind: No one must ever see these

cards! No one must ever see this room! I have to destroy them!" In insane

frenzy I yanked the file out. Its size didn't matter now. I had to empty it

and burn the cards. But as I took it at one end and began pounding it on the

floor, I could not dislodge a single card. I became desperate and pulled out

a card, only to find it as strong as steel when I tried to tear it.

Defeated and utterly helpless, I returned the file to its slot. Leaning my

forehead against the wall, I let out a long, self-pitying sigh.

And then I saw it... The title bore "People I Have Shared the Gospel with."

The handle was brighter than those around it, seemed newer, almost unused. I

pulled on its handle and a small box not more than three inches long fell

into my hands. I could count the cards it contained on one hand.

And then the tears came. I began to weep. Sobs so deep that they hurt. They

started in my stomach and shook through me. I fell on my knees and cried. I

cried out of shame, from the overwhelming shame of it all. The rows of file

shelves swirled in my tear-filled eyes. No one must ever, ever know of this

room. I must lock it up and hide the key. But then as I pushed away the

tears, I saw Him.

No, please not Him. Not here. Oh, anyone but Jesus. I watched helplessly as

He began to open the files and read the cards. I couldn't bear to watch His

response. And in the moments I could bring myself to look at His face, I saw

a sorrow deeper than my own.

He seemed to intuitively go to the worst boxes. Why did He have to read

every one? Finally He turned and looked at me from across the room. He

looked at me with pity in His eyes. But this was a pity that didn't anger

me. I dropped my head, covered my face with my hands and began to cry again.

He walked over and put His arm around me. He could have said so many things.

But He didn't say a word. He just cried with me.

Then He got up and walked back to the wall of files. Starting at one end of

the room, He took out a file and, one by one, began to sign His name over

mine on each card. "No!" I shouted rushing to Him. All I could find to say

was "No, no," as I pulled the card from Him. His name shouldn't be on these

cards. But there it was, written in red so rich, so dark, and so alive. The

name of Jesus covered mine. It was written with His blood. He gently took

the card back. He smiled a sad smile and began to sign the cards. I don't

think I'll ever understand how He did it so quickly, but the next instant it

seemed I heard Him close the last file and walk back to my side.

He placed His hand on my shoulder and said, "It is finished." I stood up,

and He led me out of the room. There was no lock on its door. There were

still cards to be written.

"I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me."-Phil. 4:13 "For God

so loved the world that He gave His only son, that whoever believes in Him

shall not perish but have eternal life." If you feel the same way forward it

so the love of Jesus will touch their lives also. My "People I shared the

gospel with" file just got bigger, how about yours?

You don't have to share this with anybody, no one will know whether you did

or not, but what do you feel in your heart? .....I pulled this from my other page. Please feel free to share this❤

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electronicdelusionstarlight · 4 years ago

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Anyway, the Crimson Cult

Legends of Runeterra is a card game based on League of Legends Lore. It’s pretty cool, and has some interesting characters adapted as cards.

The most interesting ones are probably the 4 members of the Crimson Cult.

The Crimson Cult is the private cult of big old vampire Vladimir, an actual LOL Champion.

Anyway, Vladimir is this, like... eminence in shadow figure, waits in his big old mansion in Noxus for centuries till something big is about to happen so he can show up and go “my job here is done” while everyone else wonders what exactly did he do at all, only to then get back in his mansion and become a shut in for another couple centuries or so.

That said, when Vladimir gets back into society and stops being a gross Hikikomori obsessed with bloodplay and having creepy portraits of himself commissioned like he’s the world most self centered furry, he becomes kind of a party animal and starts setting up some sort of cult of personality over him, based around the spooky forbidden knowledge he can offer over blood magic or some shit.

Most members of the cult just smile and nod along as they use this as a chance to get high.

Anyway, LoR introduced 4 Crimson Cult Characters, and much like cards like Tyari or Cytria, they all tell a story, so to speak.

They are also particularly interesting since their 4 collective lore blurbs are all interconnected conversations they have with each other over the course of their meetings.

Anyway, we have:

The Disciple.

Her name is Clara. Social Status Uncertain but probably of lower birth (If such a thing ever mattered in Trifariax Noxus). She’s an hedonist and has a good relationship with all other members. She claims, and I quote, that “(She)'ll try anyone once” but most importantly will go from awkwardly flirt with Ophelia when they are paired together (”I like your stile” “I like your face...”) to outright “dating” her in the flavor text (Kinda). A balancing act between being constantly Horny and being constantly High. She also seems to have a long standing friendship with Edvin and knew him from before the cult.

Given how her effects has her take damage to activate it, and some of her most suggestive lines, she’s definitely a bottom and a sub. The collar is also a big tell.

Vladimir will refer to her as “Supper” when meeting her, but will also reprimand her for her carefree way to handle blood magic.

Bad Bi Rep? Maybe, but she’s an evil bisexual hedonist in a freaky blood cult in the most sexually permissive country on the planet, what did you expect?

Her Flavor Text is, like everyone’s else, a mess to navigate through, so I’ll try to present it in order via numbers and makes with the other 3 Flavor Texts.

1) "Edvin! There you are, handsome. I was just thinking of you!" (Responding to Edvin’s 1, responded by Edvin 2)

2) "Each of us can go, now…" (Responding to Edvin’s 3, Responded by Edvin’s 4)

3) "Escort me. I'll make it fun." (Responding to Ophelia’s 2, Responded by Ophelia’s 3)

4) "Or nothing at all?" (Responding to Ophelia’s 3, Responded by Edvin’s 5)

The Aristocrat.

The other female member of the gang. Her name has been revealed to be Ophelia but is never mentioned as such in the game. As the artwork suggests she’s WLW (hence the artwork being censored in the Chinese release by removing the lesbian subtext in the art and coloring the blood purple), but also has a fairly friendly relationship with Edvin, referring to him as “finally, someone with style”). She’s a member of the aristocracy, as her title suggests, and it seems her parents are also kind of homophobic and disproving of her lifestyle, which is kind of weird in Noxus but then again they are Aristocrats so they are probably still following the Pre-Trifariax Mindset. While she isn’t exactly unbothered by it, she also doesn’t want to be disowned out of their fortune. She is incredibly arrogant and will be catty toward everyone but Edvin and Clara, with Kye being a sort of middle ground (Her: “You’re Late.” Him. “Mhm, Knew you’d wait”).

Her effect deals damage to someone to empower it, making her a Top and, potentially, a Domme.

She has no interactions with Vladimir.

As for her Flavor Text:

1) "Ah, you too? To the Reveler's B--" (Responding to Edvin’s 2, Responded by Edvin’s 3)

2) "How am I to tolerate mine?" (Responding to Edvin’s 4, Responded by Clara’s 3)

3) "Respectfully, my dear, my father would disown me. ...perhaps we should wear matching dresses." (Responding to Clara’s 3, Responded by Clara’s 4).

The Curator.

Edvin. He is the richest member of the gang, and their unofficial weed dealer. His blood potions bring all the boys to the yard, so to speak, but he seems to have acquired all his wealth by himself. He seems to not have an affluent family such as Ophelia, and in fact seems to value the gang, his new family (His Bloodkin, as he calls them) more, making this an ACTUAL, FOUND FAMILY SCENARIO. He has great relationships with the other three members of the Gang, and will in fact lament more losing his friends than actually dying when his card, well, dies (”But... My Friends...).

Shaped like a friend, and his ability, while triggered by taking damage, actually allows him to call forth the gang by drawing them in hand.

Vladimir will comment on the richness of his blood.

Has the longest Flavour Text:

1) "Beloved companions!" (Starting Line in the exchange, Responded by Clara’s 1)

2) "Were you? Well I received an invitation." (Responding to Clara’s 1, Responded by Ophelia’s 2)

3) "--Reveler's Ball! Yes!" (Responding to Ophelia’s 2, Responded by Clara’s 2)

4) "Then we must! I shall present my family." (Responding to Clara’s 2, Responded by Ophelia’s 3)

5) "Starters before dessert, my dear. And you, Kye? Will you attend?" (Responding to Clara’s 4, Responded by Kye’s 1).

The Awakener.

Kye. He’s the eldest of the gang, and the one with the most experience with the cult. She is your classical aloof loner in anime who pretends not to care about his so called friends when in fact he cares way too much. He will appear constantly bored and disillusioned with everything, even when meeting Vladimir, but will still have positive interactions with his friends (Teasing Ophelia, having some best bros talk with Edvin, and reminiscing about their lessons together with Clara). Probably the most stoner coded of the gang.

His ability has him deal damage to all friendly creatures in play as a additional cost to be played, thus triggering Edvin’s and Clara’s abilities, both of whom he spent expensive time teaching Blood Magic, and just annoying the top Ophelia, as he does.

Vladimir reminds him about the importance of manners, and is implied he was taught blood magic by him, just like he in turn has taught it to his friends.

That would make the Crimson Cult Runeterra first Weed Smoking Polycule based Pyramid Scheme.

He has only one interaction in the whole flavor text conversation with his friends, cementing the fact he prefers to hang in the sidelines of the gang despite his supposed role as leader.

1) "Even if I said 'no', you'd drag me along. So... sure." (Responding to Edvin’s 5, concluding the conversation).

With this we can reconstruct the full conversation as:

Edvin: "Beloved companions!"

Clara: "Edvin! There you are, handsome. I was just thinking of you!"

Edvin: "Were you? Well I received an invitation."

Ophelia: "Ah, you too? To the Reveler's B--"

Edvin: "--Reveler's Ball! Yes!"

Clara: "Each of us can go, now…"

Edvin: "Then we must! I shall present my family."

Ophelia: "How am I to tolerate mine?"

Clara: "Escort me. I'll make it fun."

Ophelia: "Respectfully, my dear, my father would disown me. ...perhaps we should wear matching dresses."

Clara: "Or nothing at all?"

Edvin: "Starters before dessert, my dear. And you, Kye? Will you attend?"

Kye: "Even if I said 'no', you'd drag me along. So... sure."

There is then a secret, last Flavor Text, coming from Vladimir’s upgraded art, about him probably overhearing some of his guests at the Reveler’s Ball from his creepy dark corner somewhere in his creepy dark vampire mansion and going, probably as a direct response to either Kye’s lack of enthusiasm or Ophelia’s arrogance:

Vladimir: “Do you find my little fête banal, darling? Then let me give you a real show!”

Anyway, this was the Crimson Cult. A found family story hidden in a card game depicting a gang of hedonist stoners who also happen to be fairly LGBT friendly.

#crimson cult #legends of runeterra #long post #league of legends #vladimir lol #vladimir lor

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jcs-study · 3 years ago

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Judas' Tormentors

Hey, everybody! I mentioned in my last message that I had a couple of posts from a directorial perspective knocking around my noggin that I couldn't wait to share with you, and this is one of 'em.

So, to explain... I'll periodically dissect common directorial concepts from early productions. A few have been retired, but some persist, in big or small ways, or have played significant roles in the history of Jesus Christ Superstar, and it's important to unpack that now and then, to see what could be revisited and what needs to stay buried.

We'll start with the case of Judas' Tormentors. Hit the jump for an illustrated glimpse at this piece of JCS history.

Introduction

If you visit Concord Theatricals' page for JCS and click "Cast List," or ALW Show Licensing's parallel page and click "Cast / Vocal Requirements," you'll see a list of characters from the show, both the usual suspects and folks you've never heard of.

Some are self-explanatory -- for example, "Merchants," "Temple Ladies," "Lepers," and "Cured Lepers" are all clearly part of the temple scene (while those last may not always be distinctly characterized in a director's particular vision, their presence makes sense on paper), "Reporters" usually hound Jesus with questions after his arrest, "Soldiers" can pop up pretty much wherever appropriate, and the "Soul Girls" back Judas up in "Superstar."

But then there are "Judas'(s) Tormentors." And you might well ask, who the hell are they? As you may have guessed from the title of this post, I shall endeavor to explain in as much detail as I possibly can.

Origin

Early productions of JCS, as one might imagine, struggled with the balance between humanizing Judas and avoiding pissing off the staunchly Christian part of their audience. As minister Dennis Miller of Calvary Baptist Church said at the time, representing the fundamentalist viewpoint, "The play represents a confused and commercial portrait of Christ -- a Christ that does not rise from the dead. Of course, the Christ the authors present would not have risen from the dead. They are not men of faith, and their statements only serve to undermine the scriptures." (Of course, he followed that up by saying, "I have not seen the show, and my objections are based on what friends who have seen it tell me," so take that opinion with a grain of salt.)

A balancing act is quite an apt metaphor. If the lyrics to the songs themselves aren't enough to make somewhat plain the inner machinations of the betrayer's mind, what will suffice to demonstrate that he is not corrupt, that -- be he innocent or paranoid -- Judas is as much a pawn of fate as everyone else in the story?

For the original Broadway production, director Tom O'Horgan chose to address this by literally personifying his motivation; he conceived of "Tormentors" who represented Judas' conscience. In Rock Opera, an exhaustive account of the show's early history, Ellis Nassour says "they hounded him rather like furies," often "carried him about the playing area," drove him to betray Jesus, and formed the noose for his untimely end. They looked... interesting... as costume designer Randy Barceló's sketch below (courtesy of the Randy Barceló Collection, University of Miami -- Library -- Cuban Heritage Collection) demonstrates.

In fact, there are several shots of the Tormentors in action having an effect on Judas, such as this one, which I presume to be from "Heaven On Their Minds"...

...and other photos which suggest they weren't strictly limited to influencing Judas, such as this view of the thirty-nine lashes where they appear to be directly involved in torturing Jesus...

(Believe me, this is some of the least weird stuff from that production. I'm saving the maximum weirdness for a future post.)

As neat as they are, photos alone aren't quite enough to demonstrate the function(s) that Judas' Tormentors filled. Luckily, we have another source.

When JCS finally reached the amateur licensing market after its first flush of success, it was licensed in the U.S. first by Music Theatre International (in fact, I still have an old MTI catalog somewhere that lists JCS and some of Andrew Lloyd Webber's other shows), then by Rodgers & Hammerstein Theatricals, and finally at the turn of 2020 -- after some twists along the way -- by Lloyd Webber's own ALW Show Licensing, Concord Theatricals, and a handful of international affiliates.

But before ALW began the process of taking direct control of licensing his shows and which version of them was licensed (i.e., standardizing them to reflect "definitive" changes for later productions), there were earlier materials for some of his shows floating around, and JCS was one.

Both MTI and R&H licensed a much earlier version, prepared following Broadway and used for early national tours. And, at least at one point in its existence at MTI, the materials provided included an actual honest-to-God, not-just-a-lyric-sheet script. The stage directions in said script suggest its origin lay in a production based, to some extent, on Tom O'Horgan's staging (many '70s companies, especially in the States, had certain visual elements in common with O'Horgan's without being a direct copy; given the authors' ultimate dislike for his production, it's hardly surprising that the script is fronted with a cautious foreword which seems to refuse to commit to this version being the standard as far as the show was concerned).

Most notably, there is a sizable role for Judas' Tormentors:

They enter with Judas, to whom the apostles are drawn momentarily, during the Overture (specifically when the thirty-nine lashes theme kicks in, which will prove to be foreshadowing), and "make a circle of arms imprisoning Judas" when Jesus enters.

They shadow him during "Heaven On Their Minds."

They force Judas to look up at Caiaphas and then drag him off during the intro to "Simon Zealotes" (apparently planting the specific notion of betrayal in his head for the first time).

There's even some interpretive dance involved in the intro to "Damned For All Time":

(I don't know about you, but to me, this suggests, if you interpret their actions metaphorically and not as the work of corporeal beings, that Judas was already suicidal, a factor which might inform his actions -- towards both Jesus and himself -- considerably. If not quite so literal, it's safe to assume they represent his being cornered by destiny, as Judas' next bit of choreography has him "leap about like a fish caught on a hook.")

They next appear, predictably enough given the photographs and description previously provided, menacing Judas in his death scene, and administering the thirty-nine lashes to Jesus.

In any case, they seemed to be, quite literally, a physical embodiment of the inescapable forces of fate. A very avant-garde, off-the-wall notion, but one that, so it would seem, had some serious legs...

Later Variations

Other productions followed suit in personifying Judas' conscience, especially the Ted Neeley / Carl Anderson Nineties reunion tour, which was more explicit as to what role they filled and whose team they were on.

In that production, the characters -- at times implied to be voices in Judas' head -- were credited as "Temptresses," and took the form of three female non-singing dancers clad in red who seemingly cast a spell on Judas during the Overture. Aside from directly evil identification, they otherwise served a similar function to the traditional Tormentors; these were distinguished from the Soul Girls, separate figures entirely who banished them from the stage upon Judas' return during "Superstar."

Boston Rock Opera, whose initial productions of JCS were more punky and irreverent than fully realized theatrical stagings, took a turn toward the intellectual with their 1996 and 2000 renditions, and did something similar but with a less biased push, casting their non-singing dancers as the Three Fates (Lachesis, Clotho, and Atropos) from Greek mythology; they appeared throughout the piece, handing Judas the noose and Pilate the bowl in which he washed his hands, among other things. An interesting through-line, to be sure, albeit one probably easily lost on their resident audience up to that point, which consisted of a series of Boston music scene hangers-on, musicians, noisemakers, and fans.

Of late, with the success of such films as Mel Gibson's The Passion of the Christ rearing its head, the Tormentors' hounding of Judas leading up to the betrayal and his suicide has once again begun being sprinkled liberally throughout many regional productions. Some go a step further and, like the aforementioned A.D. Tour, use "Superstar" to affirm that he wasn't damned at all, since, as a pawn in the grand scheme, he never had much of a choice in his actions, going so far as to have him return to the stage in a white tuxedo rather than his old garment, with a choir of angels in gospel robes behind him. A little "on the nose," at least in my opinion, and if anything it serves to massage the show into little more than a slight twist on the original story, at best, rather than being iconoclastic.

Influence on Contemporary Musical Theatre

If all this sounds rather like "The Bullet" as a personification of fate in Hamilton, you're not wrong. As discussed above, depending on the production the Tormentors played a slightly more passive role, but it's very similar.

Despite how many people have knocked Tom O'Horgan's work over the years, a lot of what we see on Broadway today, especially in musicals like Rent, Spring Awakening, and arguably Hamilton, wouldn't have been possible without O'Horgan "walking so they could run" on shows like Hair and JCS.

I see moments and thoughts ripped straight from his playbook all the time, even though history has more or less written him off as a one-trick pony. If he was, all I can say is, what a trick he wrought!

Use It or Lose It? (+ How I Would)

For what it's worth, on balance, I prefer BRO's interpretation when it comes to food for thought: if one includes the Tormentors, let them symbolize the unseen forces -- or motivations -- that led these characters to do what they did, without a specifically religious angle.

And I followed that instinct when I began playing with what I'd do in my ideal JCS production, a sandbox I've frequently hung out in over the years. Inspired by lots and lots of reading, including sources as esoteric as Robert Graves' King Jesus and Ashwin Sanghi's The Rozabal Line, I actually came up with quite an interesting notion, geared to working with a specific group of singers local to my area, a gospel choir called RPM Voices of Rhode Island. (Tremendous source of talent, highly recommend catching one of their shows if you're in town; you don't have to be religious to enjoy the music.) This choir boasts three older female singers with unusually extensive ranges, and their talent got me thinking.

I'd already entertained a notion regarding "Superstar." The immensely vital pleasure of this rock number has long outweighed the message of the lyric, namely the insistence of the demand that Jesus declares himself. This is a snide, sarcastic, angry, "I-Told-You-So" song in which a delirious Jesus is taunted by a hallucination of Judas asking how he could let everything get so out of hand and whether he really is who he says he is. It represents Judas' point of view, the idea that Jesus became a shallow, hyped personality whose superstardom and baggage became more important than the philosophical message he wanted to convey. This song became a rallying cry for youth all over America and Europe because it asked the same questions they had about religion; it probed answers and made comparisons. Bearing that in mind, I wanted to make the Soul Girls' lines diegetic to the scene, with those singing them representing those who mocked and doubted Christ on the road to Golgotha, as recorded in tradition, and I thought these older singers fit the profile.

But then it occurred to me that, in addition to singing high enough to be the Soul Girls, they could also sing low enough to play the three high priests who appear with Caiaphas and Annas; we could costume them as matronly "meddling church lady" types, the old-fashioned crowd that isn't down with the new kid and his ideas, and the "priests" could also take the Soul Girls' lines. After all, Jesus is delirious from being beaten; his detractors are mocking him as he goes to meet his maker... of course he'd hallucinate Judas singing an I-told-you-so song! It'd make "Superstar" feel less like it comes from nowhere, as it sometimes seems to do.

Doubling the priests with the Soul Girls was strange enough, but then my brain went even further. Well, they're already playing dual roles... what if I just put them throughout the show, á la BRO? They'd be credited as Judas' Tormentors / Priests / Soul Girls (character list still includes Tormentors so within the letter of the contract), but directorially, without changing anything, they'd move through the show, filling specific roles in certain scenes, and it'd be left to the audience whether they're actual characters in the room or represent something deeper like the Fates. If nothing else, it's unusual, and, in my opinion, the best productions of JCS always have something unusual about them.

But what do you think? Tormentors? No Tormentors? Let's hear it!

#ideas

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frmartinshomiliesandreflections · 3 years ago

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1st November >> Fr. Martin’s Gospel Reflections / Homilies on Matthew 5:1-12a for the Feast of All Saints: ‘How happy are the poor in spirit’.

Feast of All Saints

Gospel (Except USA)

Matthew 5:1-12a

How happy are the poor in spirit.

Seeing the crowds, Jesus went up the hill. There he sat down and was joined by his disciples. Then he began to speak. This is what he taught them:

‘How happy are the poor in spirit; theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Happy the gentle: they shall have the earth for their heritage. Happy those who mourn: they shall be comforted. Happy those who hunger and thirst for what is right: they shall be satisfied. Happy the merciful: they shall have mercy shown them. Happy the pure in heart: they shall see God. Happy the peacemakers: they shall be called sons of God. Happy those who are persecuted in the cause of right: theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

‘Happy are you when people abuse you and persecute you and speak all kinds of calumny against you on my account. Rejoice and be glad, for your reward will be great in heaven.’

Gospel

Matthew 5:1-12a

Rejoice and be glad, for your reward will be great in heaven.

When Jesus saw the crowds, he went up the mountain, and after he had sat down, his disciples came to him. He began to teach them, saying:

“Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the Kingdom of heaven. Blessed are they who mourn, for they will be comforted. Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the land. Blessed are they who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be satisfied. Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy. Blessed are the clean of heart, for they will see God. Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God. Blessed are they who are persecuted for the sake of righteousness, for theirs is the Kingdom of heaven. Blessed are you when they insult you and persecute you and utter every kind of evil against you falsely because of me. Rejoice and be glad, for your reward will be great in heaven.”

Reflections (5)

(i) Feast of All Saints

In the beatitudes, Jesus is giving us a portrait of the saint we are all called to become. The different beatitudes could be understood as like the different pieces of coloured glass that make up a stained glass window. In one sense, Jesus is giving us a self-portrait. He is uniquely the person that is portrayed in those beatitudes. Yet, he was also showing us the kind of person that he calls us all to be, and can empower us to be through his Spirit. Whereas the beatitudes as a whole portray the disciple of Jesus, each individual beatitude is itself a way of following the Lord. Some ways of following the Lord will come more naturally to us than others. We might find ourselves drawn to some of the beatitudes more than to others. If we give expression in our lives to any one of the beatitudes, it can easily lead to the living out of all the others. Some people may be drawn to the beatitude, ‘Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for what is right’, for the coming of God’s kingdom on earth. Such people will also tend to inhabit the beatitude, ‘Blessed are those who mourn’, because they will mourn over the presence of sin, the absence of goodness, love and justice, in their own lives and in the lives of others and in our world; they mourn that the kingdom of heaven is not yet a reality on earth. Such people will tend to be merciful, showing merciful love to those who cry out for it; they will be peacemakers, working to reconcile those who are divided. Some people might be drawn to the beatitude, ‘Blessed are the pure in heart’. The pure in heart are those whose heart is given over to God before all else. They seek what God wants in all things. Such people will invariably be poor in spirit; they will recognize their complete dependence on God for everything. They will tend to be gentle, in the sense of not arrogantly insisting on their own way but always seeking God’s way. One beatitude always leads to others, and, eventually, they all lead into each other. They are all of a piece; they belong together, like the pieces of a stained glass image, or like a diamond which looks differently from different angles.

Jesus declares that the people who live out of the attitudes and values expressed in the beatitudes are truly blessed. They will know the Lord’s joy in this life and in eternity. In the beatitudes, Jesus is putting before us a whole way of life that is worth striving for. We won’t always give expression to the beatitudes fully. We will always fall short of this vision for human living that the Lord puts before us. All the Lord expects is that, having asked his forgiveness, we keep journeying on, pressing on towards this goal, with the help of the Holy Spirit. The Lord calls all of us to be saints, even though he knows we are also sinners. Saint Paul in his letters refers to all the baptized as saints. He addresses his letters to the saints of God in a particular city, all the members of the church. Paul is reminding us that we are already saints, in the sense that the Holy Spirit has been poured into our lives from the moment of our baptism. Through the Spirit, we have come to share in Jesus’ own relationship with God, calling God, ‘Abba, Father’. Saint John in today’s second reading calls on us to ‘think of the love that the Father has lavished on us by letting us be called children of God’, and it goes on, ‘we are already the children of God’, already sons and daughters of God. God has already done and continues to do a good work, a holy work, in our lives. Our calling is to keep opening ourselves up ever more fully to what God is doing in our lives, by keeping the path of the beatitudes always in view. At the end of our earthly journey, we will come to that eternal moment when, in the words of the second reading, ‘we shall become like God, because we shall see him as he really is’. Then, we will finally and fully be the person of the beatitudes, we will be holy as God is holy, as loving as God is loving, and we will join that ‘huge number, impossible to count’, referred to in the first reading.

And/Or

(ii) Feast of All Saints

A lot of people do not like large gatherings. They work on the principle that small is beautiful. They find big crowds exhausting and long for space where they can be alone or perhaps with one or two chosen others. Today’s feast, however, is precisely about crowds of people. The first reading expresses it well, ‘a huge number, impossible to count, of people from every nation, race, tribe and language’. Today is the feast not just of a few chosen saints, but of all saints. It is not even the feast of all the saints who get a mention in the church’s calendar of saints. Today we honour all the saints, those who are canonized and those who are not, those who get a mention in the prayers of the church and those who are never mentioned by name in any liturgy anywhere.

Villains are generally considered more newsworthy than saints. If our vision of humanity is shaped exclusively by the media we might be tempted to think that there are a lot more villains out there than saints. It is reassuring to be reminded by today’s feast that there exists a huge number of saints, impossible to count. In the words of the letter to the Hebrews, we are surrounded by a ‘great cloud of witnesses’. None of us can live as the Lord wants us to live by our own efforts alone. We need the good example of others to inspire us and to show us what is possible. Today’s feast declares that we are surrounded by an abundance of role models, if only we could recognize them. Some of these people have already passed beyond us and are now ‘standing in front of the throne of the Lamb’, in the words of today’s first reading. Many of them, however, are our companions on the journey of life. They are mothers and fathers, single people and celibates, men and women, young and not so young; they are from every nation, race, tribe and language. They do not look at all like the statues in our churches. They are very ordinary and, yet, they are also very special. They are fully alive and, in virtue in that, they give glory to God. We are grateful for having met them and having been around them.

The feast of All Saints encourages us to believe that any one of us could be part of that huge number impossible to count. In that sense, today’s feast is not just about a great crowd of people out there; it is about every one of us. John, in today’s second reading, is speaking about all of us when he declares that, ‘we are already the children of God’, and that, in the future, ‘we shall be like’ God. We are all destined for sainthood. God intends that all of us would be conformed to the image of God’s Son. For most of us, that will only come to pass fully beyond this life when, in the words of St Paul, the Lord will ‘transform the body of our humiliation that it may be conformed to the body of his glory’. Yet, because we are already sons and daughters of God, through baptism, we are called to be growing now towards that wonderful transformation that awaits us. The road to sainthood begins here, wherever we happen to find ourselves.

In today’s gospel reading, Jesus shows us what that road to sainthood looks like. In the beatitudes, Jesus painted a portrait of himself, the living saint par excellence. He was also painting a portrait of the person that we are all called to become. The beatitudes give us different facets of the person of Jesus, while at the same time showing us different ways in which we might reflect the person of Jesus. We might find ourselves strongly drawn to one of the beatitudes rather than to another. If so, that is perhaps where we should focus, because it is through that particular beatitude that we will probably find our own particular path to sainthood. One beatitude we can all make our own is, ‘happy those who hunger and thirst for what is right’ or ‘for what God wants’. We can all find our home somewhere in the beatitudes because we are all on the way to being conformed fully to the image and likeness of Christ.

And/Or

(iii) Feast of All Saints

A lot of people do not like large gatherings. They find big crowds exhausting and long for space where they can be alone or perhaps with one or two chosen others. Today’s feast, however, is precisely about crowds of people. The first reading expresses it well, ‘a huge number, impossible to count, of people from every nation, race, tribe and language’. Today is the feast not just of a few chosen saints, but of all saints. It is not even the feast of all the saints who get a mention in the church’s calendar of saints. Today we honour all the saints, those who are canonized and those who are not.

I heard a story of someone who asked the children in the local primary school who the saints were. One of them, thinking of the stained glass windows in her church, said that a saint was someone who let the light in. She said more than she realized. Saints are, indeed, those who allow the light of Christ’s presence to shine through them.

Today we remember all those through whose lives the light of Christ’s love streamed into our world. We will all have known such people. They have lived and continue to live among us. They are the people whose lives have blessed and graced us in a whole variety of ways. When we think of them, we thank God for them. When we have been in their company, we feel the better for it. They somehow brought out the best in us and helped us to become all that God was calling us to be.

In today’s gospel reading Jesus paints a portrait of what it means to be a disciple of his. It is a portrait of a saint, what someone who lets God’s light in looks like. Fundamentally, this is Jesus’ own self-portrait. There is a sense in which he alone fully fits the portrayal he puts before us. Yet, this is also an image of the person we are all called to be. We can easily think of the beatitudes as describing a variety of types of people – the poor in spirit, the gentle etc. Jesus is really putting before us one type, which can be looked at from various perspectives, like a diamond that appears differently as you look at it from a variety of angles. The elements in Jesus’ portrait are of a piece. It is only the poor in spirit, those who acknowledge their dependence on God for everything, who can be true peacemakers. It is only the gentle, those who do not insist on their own way to the detriment of God’s way, who can hunger and thirst for what is right, for what God wants. It is only the pure in heart, those who are single-minded in their focus on God and on what God wants, who can be merciful as God is merciful. In speaking the beatitudes, Jesus calls on us to identify with the person he portrays. He wants us to come away from them saying to ourselves, ‘This is the person I want to be. This is the life I want to live. Here are shoes that are worth stepping into’.

Today’s feast is an opportunity to give thanks for all those people in our own lives who embodied the beatitudes for us; it is also a moment to renew our own desire to become the person the Lord portrays in the beatitudes. In painting that picture, the Lord is not holding out something to us that is beyond us, teasing us with what will always be out of reach. He knows that with his help we can grow into the person of the beatitudes. Here is a life that is attainable, a truly human life, a life that is worthy of those who have been made in the image and likeness of God. We appreciate people who take us seriously, who give us a task that corresponds to what we are capable of. The Lord takes us more seriously than any other human being possibly could. He points beyond who we are to the person that we could be, and he invites us to keep setting out on a journey towards that goal. As he does so, he promises to travel that journey with us. In calling, he also empowers, as Paul writes at the end of his first letter to the Thessalonians, ‘The one who calls you is faithful, and he will do this’.

The life of the beatitudes is not a higher calling that is given to some special group of people within the church. We are all called to be saints. This evening’s second reading calls on us to ‘think of the love that the Father has lavished on us by letting us be called God’s children’. God has poured the Spirit of his Son into our hearts crying, ‘Abba, Father’. We have been brought into the same relationship with God that Jesus himself has. That is our starting point of our journey. The finishing point of our journey comes when, in the words of that same reading, ‘we shall be like God, because we shall see him as he really is’. Between such a wonderful starting point and such an unimaginable finishing point, the beatitudes are given to us as our road map.

And/Or

(iv) Feast of All Saints

The word ‘all’ in the title of today’s feast is important. Today we celebrate not just the canonized saints but all those who lived holy lives and are now with God in heaven, most of whom have not received any formal recognition from the church. This is what is referred to in today’s first reading as a ‘huge number, impossible to count, of people from every nation, race, tribe and language’. What distinguishes this vast crowd is that they opened themselves to the presence of the Lord and allowed the Lord to live in and through them. All of them, in different ways, reflected something of the portrait that Jesus paints for us in the beatitudes. They were poor in spirit, humble people who recognized their complete dependence on God for everything. They possessed something of the gentleness of Christ, who spoke of himself as humble and gentle in heart. Like him, they mourned and wept because the world was not yet all that God wanted it to be. They hungered and thirsted for what is right, for a more abundant life for everyone. Like Jesus, they were merciful, extending God’s forgiveness to those who needed it, and being a life-giving presence to those who were broken in mind, spirit or body. They were pure in heart in that their hearts were focused on God’s purpose for our lives, after the example of Jesus whose heart was given over completely to God. They were people who tried to bring peace where there was conflict, who worked for harmony in communities after the example of the Prince of Peace whose gift was a peace the world cannot give. Today we celebrate and give thanks for all those men and women who revealed the Lord to us in some of these ways. These were people who remained faithful to the values of the gospel by keeping their eyes on the Lord. Many people we know belong among this great multitude. They were our teachers, godparents, friends, co-workers, family and acquaintances. They encourage us to be what we are all called to be, what God dreams us to be, saints.

Today’s feast reminds us that we are all called to belong among all the saints. The second reading tells us that here and now we are already the children of God. We already share in Jesus’ own relationship with God, because of our baptism. That is our basis for sanctity. Holiness is not just something far beyond us that we have to strain towards. Rather, the fundamental movement is one of entering more completely into what we already are in virtue of our baptism, allowing the Lord who dwells within us to live out his life more fully in and through us. The end of that second reading declares that in the next life we shall be like God because we shall see God face to face. That process of becoming like God can happen for us here and now in this life, in so far as we allow the Lord to live out his life in us so that we become holy as he is holy, loving as he is loving.

We are helped on that path to holiness by each other. When we try to enter more fully into our baptismal identity we make it easier for others to do the same. We journey as members of the one body of Christ, interdependent on each other. We support each other and the Lord supports us all. He is constantly at work in our lives through the Holy Spirit inspiring us, moving us, to live the beatitudes. We are also helped by the saints who have gone before us and who stand before the throne of God, in the words of today’s first reading. Those who are already home are waiting for us, praying for us and hoping that we will do great things for all God’s children in our own time and place. We journey together among this great crowd of witnesses, who are in communion with us, urging us onward toward our final reunion with God and with them.

And/Or

(v) Feast of All Saints

I always think of today’s feast as the feast of holiness, the feast of goodness. ‘All saints’ are all those holy, good, loving people who graced our world and are now with the Lord. There is a great number of such people. Today’s first reading speaks about a ‘huge number, impossible to count’, standing in front of God’s throne and before the Lamb of God. The letter to the Hebrews speaks of a ‘great cloud of witnesses’.

Pope Francis has recently written an apostolic letter on ‘the call to holiness in today’s world’, entitled ‘Rejoice and Be Glad’. I would like to reflect a little with you on what he says in the opening chapter of this letter. At the beginning of this letter, speaking of this ‘great crowd of witnesses’, the Pope says that ‘these witnesses may include our own mothers, grandmothers or loved ones. Their lives’, he says, ‘may not always have been perfect, yet even amid their faults and failings they kept moving forward and proved pleasing to God’. He goes on to say that these ‘saints now in God’s presence preserve their bonds of love and communion with us’. They remain with us on our own faith journey to support us. As the Pope says, ‘I do not have to carry alone what, in truth, I could never carry alone. All the saints of God are there to protect me, to sustain me and to carry me’. Today we remember ‘all the saints of God’ who will never be formally canonized by the church. We can all put names and faces on such people. They graced our lives in ways that we will never fully understand on this side of eternity. They revealed something of the Lord to us, and we were greatly blessed because of their loving presence to us.

Pope Francis is very keen to stress in his letter that if we look around us we will see such people today. He speaks about a holiness found in our next-door neighbours, those who, living in our midst, reflect God’s presence. He mentions parents who raise their children with immense love, those men and women who work hard to support their families, the sick, elderly religious who never lose their smile. We can all make our own list of such people from our experience. Pope Francis invites us to ‘be spurred on by the signs of holiness that the Lord shows us through the humblest members of’ God’s people. We need those living signs of holiness to help us on our journey. We need each other’s holiness, goodness, loving nature, on the journey of life. We cannot reach our ultimate destiny alone, as isolated individuals. Rather, God draws us to himself in and through the witness of others. When any one of us responds to the Lord’s call to be holy as he is holy, good as he is good, loving as he is loving, we make it easier for everyone around us to answer that same call.

The Pope in his letter is very strong on this personal call to holiness which each one of us receives. He says at the beginning of his letter, ‘I would like to insist primarily on the call to holiness that the Lord addresses… personally, to you’. He goes on to say that we shouldn’t become discouraged before examples of holiness that appear unattainable. We are not asked to travel someone else’s path to holiness. Pope Francis says ‘the important thing is that each believer discern his or her own path, that they bring out the very best of themselves, the most personal gifts God has placed in their hearts, rather than hopelessly trying to imitate something not meant for them’. There is that old saying in the Church’s tradition, ‘grace builds on nature’. We all share a human nature, but each of us also has a nature that is unique to each one of us. It is that very personal nature that the Lord, through the Holy Spirit, wants to enhance, so that it becomes a unique reflection of the Lord’s own nature. ‘We are all called to be holy, each in our own way, by living our lives with love and by bearing witness to the Lord in everything we do, wherever we find ourselves’.

Pope Francis goes on to remind us that in the end, holiness, a loving life, the kind of life that is outlined in the Beatitudes of today’s gospel reading, is the fruit of the Holy Spirit. It is much more the work of the Holy Spirit in our lives than our work, and the Holy Spirit never ceases to work in our lives. In the light of this, Pope Francis goes on to say, in his very down-to-earth way, ‘When you feel the temptation to dwell on your own weakness, raise your eyes to Christ crucified and say: “Lord, I am a poor sinner, but you can work the miracle of making me a little bit better”’. This Spirit-inspired growth in holiness does not normally show itself in heroic deeds. The Pope says that ‘the holiness to which the Lord calls you will grow through small gestures’. Sometimes, he says, ‘we need only find a more perfect way of doing what we are already doing’. If we allow the Spirit to shape our lives in these small ways, we are being faithful to our deepest self. As Pope Francis says, ‘holiness does not make you less human, since it is an encounter between your weakness and the power of God’s grace’.

Fr. Martin Hogan.

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mjjicons · 4 years ago

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apparently i’m an attorney right now

hey guys

this bitch right here

@deborahdeshoftim5779 i can’t even write her username without copying and pasting it but there we go

she’s trying you guyssss she’s really trying to come for michael

maybe inside her basement......no bathing for days... we know quarantine right.. people get crazy

so here i am responding to the “EVIDENCE THAT MICHAEL JACKSON MOLESTED CHILDREN” because.... i don’t know why tho

but this bitch challenged me and virgos love a challenge

we do love a challenge.. so

RESPONDING TO DEBORAH BLAH BLAH BLAH ABOUT HER BULLSHIT AND MICHAEL JACKSON OBSESSION

Michael Jackson slept in bed with other people’s children. Everyone, including @mjjicons, knows this is inappropriate and unacceptable. The majority of sexual abuse accusations against Michael Jackson have stemmed from the fact that he slept in bed with other people’s children. This is one of the clear reasons why parents do not allow their children to sleep in bed with adult strangers, and @mjjicons knows this very well.

this one is actually so shitty that i can’t even lol i highlighted the most important part on this.. this is actually not true

with a simple google search we can type in like “michael jackson accusations timeline” (i don’t have to do that because i actually know every single one of them but for proof purposes)

safechuck said he met michael in 1986 in a pepsi commercial set and of course, he said that michael asked him to sleep with him as seen in here:

alright! let’s do some research then

1986... what a year you guys! what a year!

here we have a great year review on the detail. (a youtube channel that i love so so so so so so so so much). and as we all know, 1986 was really important for michael jackson’s career overall, because that was the year when he wrote his (amazing) record called BAD!! kinda reclused. and of course he had the time to be the humanitarian he was:

also i can refute your “evidence number two” that michael only cared about pre-pubescent boys.. here’s our girl donna having a blast with my baby and bubbles.

also, safechuck said that he gave him the thriller jacket in the meeting.......but that’s actually a lie

because that jacket is with..... lady gaga! because it never was in safechuck’s hands. it was sold for her in a auction.

let’s go forward, shall we?

back to 86. allegations say that michael asked safechuck to sleep with him in the same bed in a trip to hawaii! of course if michael jackson was in hawaii in 1986 we would have some candids.

let’s do our research once again. he was never in hawaii in 86.... 87... no... here we go, 88, with safechuck and his family:

this was in february 1, 1988, at the kahala hilton hotel - hawaii. found it. also, this was the day of “moonwalk - the autobiography” release!

here he is with everyone! and our buddy alan light actually met him at the time:

as alan said, his team was with him too, of course. digging more information we can see it was a business trip and he brought his “friends” with him (fake bitchessss) as always. the first accusations, however, were made to the LAPD in 1993. james was with his whole family in there, fans around, team around, everyone. the only evidence is safechuck’s word, that as we saw before we can’t trust that much. i will explain why in a bit. michael had no time to bullshit in 1988, because this was the year of his american leg of the bad tour, and of course, shooting every single video from the bad era. iconic! he was in japan also in january-february as seen on his year review.

unfortunately i don’t have his hotel files from this time to see how many rooms he booked, but as a fan i can say that when michael did stay in hotels, it was common for him to book the whole hallway. (please read j. randy taraborrelli’s book if interested). same bed huh.......i don’t think so too

michael was diagnosed with vitiligo at the time, and his self-esteem wasn’t 100% (for his whole life actually) so i doubt he would let anyone in his room. also, his addiction to medication was also at the beggining. he was working so much as you can see. wait a minute. i have to eat my breakfast.

back at it.

about sleeping with children in the same bed in other occasions:

with the allegations made firstly in 1993, michael had to explain himself about every situation envolving himself and kids around him. he wasn’t a men of interviews, but on the topic, michael always said he never was alone with little boys in a bedroom. there always was someone when he did watch movies with his friends, including liz taylor, in any room (neverland had a whole movie theater there) and if falling asleep was the case, he mostly laid down on the floor. and he didn’t sleep a lot either. he couldn’t.

about sharing a bed tho, it happened! i’m not saying this never happened, brett barnes said it happened, in opposite sides, no touching. it happened, yes, and this is something not common between you and someone that isn’t your own kid. but it doesn’t mean that michael took off his clothes and had sex with a minor. not only a minor, but small boys. when someone is accused of pedophilia this is obviously a red flag, but those red flags were investigated by the FBI and local police (LAPD). if michael did it with a little boy, his DNA, sperm, skin would be all over them. the abuse would be clear. a kid doesn’t have body structure to handle abuse and heal fast enough. those are little kids. the brain development and body development aren’t enough to hide such a thing. if michael did it, he would be arrested FOR LIFE. oh yes he would. because no one besides his fans were there for him when shit got bad. people wanted his head in a plate with a tomato in his mouth.

on a side note i don’t know why people think michael was someone that always had time to keep little boys around him and sleeping around with them...........he worked his ass off EVERY SINGLE YEAR OF HIS ACTIVE CAREER LIFE. years and years on tour, no privacy, no free time, no real friends, no real family, no one.........

2. The vast majority of “special friends” were pre-pubescent boys, who Jackson dumped once they hit puberty. Joy Robson testified to this in 2005, saying that she told June Chandler this would happen to her son as well. Joy Robson admitted in court that the dumping had a serious mental effect on the boys, as they were no longer the favourite.

this is the biggest lie ever. i can’t even. about “the vast majority of michael’s friends being pre-pubescent boys” i won’t even post pictures of him and little girls because this is actually.........sick.............you are just a google search away... don’t be a lazy bitch.

this dumping thing is so sad to read because it portraits kids as literal objects. and this is actually a lie too. michael mantained contact with people for years, like macaulay, the cascio family (including all the kids), omer, his nephews, tata vega..... so many people, so many children. the female-chandler had jordan and his sister as kids, and in the years that michael related with them he was at family barbecues with the chandlers (and the press even called them his new family) because he was always around EVERYONE.

the 2005 trial was the only one actually dumped in all of this because there was no evidence against michael. and 2005 is actually a really important year for all of us, because it was the year of the innocent veredict. and wade robson was a witness in this trial. ON MICHAEL’S FAVOUR. if joy robson warned june about this in this trial WHY WOULD HER KID TESTIFY IN A ALLEGED PEDOPHILE’S SIDE??????????

this makes no sense. and also, the clownery was way too much. in the book “untouchable” by randall sullivan (i do not know if this is the english title because i am brazilian and here this is the title for the book, i just translated it. but you can find it everywhere) the author describes how the prosecution tried too hard to accuse michael. they were always catching “witnesses” - even a man that said michael molested him in the 80′s, but when asked about the dates, time, what happened, the court found michael wasn’t even in the place the man said he was at the time. but they demanded michael to testify on court anyway - to talk about a child he never met in a day he was at a event - with pictures and shit. a solid alibi. it was ignored. the witch hunt was big and they were ready to put michael in handcuffs WHENEVER THEY COULD. they just needed something. and this something never came.

if you are good enough to get all “your evidence” together, don’t be lazy to check facts. as i said before, it’s a google search away.

about joy robson, this bitch is bipolar or.. idk. because she was thriving in 2013 liking posts about michael and how good he was.

2013 was also the year wade filled his allegations against michael. because wade realized that michael actually did the wrong to him in 2012. before that, as a grown ass man, in the ‘05 trial, he didn’t. but in 2012 oh boy we are here just realizing things.

in 2009, michael’s passing, the estate released the michael jackson opus, a big book of memories and good stuff. wade was there too and made a beautiful statement, as follows:

“Michael Jackson changed the world and, more personally, my life forever. He is the reason I dance, the reason I make music, and one of the main reasons I believe in the pure goodness of human kind.”

and after that, wade wanted to be on charge of all the tributes related to michael in tv shows and awards. that’s pretty big right......to work in the name of your “abuser”.......

now you answer me: how did joy robson warned june chandler about anything if she, herself, said that wade didn’t show a single sign that he was abused by michael? she even said michael coached him to be “a master of deception” and that “wade should have won an oscar for lying that good for her” on court (2013) and that she was lied to so good that she never believed anything.... but warned chandler’s mom about “dumping”? what dumping?

if wade was dumped and really sad about it.....why would he want to lead shit about michael after he died? if your molester died....you should cheer up....

just a side note: joy said in leaving neverland that when michael died she was so relieved and danced around BUT HOW IF HER SON JUST WROTE A WHOLE LOVE LETTER TO MICHAEL JACKSON IN HIS MEMORIAL

is it crack? is it? what you smoke? following up..

3. Michael Jackson’s “special friends” include: Emmanuel Lewis (Brooke Shields said in 1984 that it looked like the pop star was dating the boy, rather than her), Jonathan Spence (Jackson owned a naked photograph of him), James Safechuck, Brett Barnes (Jackson is on video pretending this boy is his cousin), Macaulay Culkin, Wade Robson, Jordan Chandler, Jason Francia, Arnold Schleiter, Sean Lennon (Mark Ronson said that Jackson watched pornography with both of them in a hotel room), Omer Bhatti (whom Jackson met in a Tunisian hotel, and pretended the boy was his son), David Martinez, Gavin Arvizo, Michael Jacobshagen, and his nephews (whom the police suspected him of molesting, and with whom he took an inappropriate photo shoot for Star Magazine).

“brooke shields said in 1984 that blahblagabal” when where WHERE bitch where

i think people don’t actually answer your allegations because it is so DUMB that no one wants to waste their time with you. like......why am i doing this

i am just on #3 and i’m so tired because THERE IS NOTHING ABOUT IT are you wade robson in a fake account? just take off your mask

just

why

if you have this brooke shields line please show me???? i would like to see it

michael didn’t meet omer in a tunisian hotel, he actually met him because he was in a contest for michael jackson impersonators.......and he loves him, and pia, his mom, is so grateful for everything michael done for their family WHY AM I RESPONDING TO THIS i am so frustrated

4. Joy Robson also testified in 2005 that Jackson had called her up in the middle of the night in December 1993, asking that Wade Robson be brought to his bedroom. She admitted that she went back home, after leaving her son with Jackson. For context, Jackson was under investigation for child sexual abuse of Jordan Chandler at the time

she actually didn’t because she wasn’t a witness on court at the time. wade was. she wasn’t. as i showed before. next.

actually i’m tired because all of this is so dumb and i am wasting my time........ let’s just jump to the final shit.

We have good reason to believe that Jackson molested other boys not named above. For example, who was the boy whose semi-nude photograph was found inside Jackson’s bedroom in August 1993?

they never found anything in ‘93 because if they did michael would be arrested...............

Who filed a Restraining Order against Jackson back in the 80′s, and who reported this to the FBI?

no one filed a restraining order against michael back in 80′s. there is no such evidence. the fbi files are public and you can access them and read everything.

Who were the two Mexican boys that Jackson was accused of molesting back in 1985-1986?

michael didn’t have contact with any mexican people between ‘85 and ‘86 as i said before, in his year review, and in ‘85 he was never seen with any mexican boys because he was working in USA for africa, we are the world and captain EO. nothing michael did was away from the public eye.

Who were the other boys that slept in Jackson’s bedroom, according to a security guard? Who were the boys/men whose DNA was found in semen stains on Jackson’s mattress in November 2003? Who was the “Rhonda” who sent Jackson a picture book of naked boys, because she said Jackson might like them? What did Norma Staikos know about Jackson’s predilection for pre-pubescent boys? Who was the boy that Darlene Craviotto saw Jackson alone with in 1991 (reported in her book)?

norma staikos was his personal assistant at the time and wade said she knew about “what was going on” and was someone that arranged all the “sexual meetings” as said on court right here, but this meeting mentioned by wade on court was actually arranged BY HIS OWN MOTHER!

and the book by darlene craviotto never mentioned anything sexual between michael and boys, actually it’s a kind book about how michael helped her with her agoraphobia................

WOW THAT WAS LONG AND I FEEL SO DUMB RIGHT NOW

the rest of your evidence isn’t worth the read or the research because i’m not the one who should be doing this, debora, it should be you. just google it. or show something more credible, maybe actual proof? pictures? videos? audiotapes? where are they?

why am i here tho?

fuck you bitch

#michael jackson #michael #jackson #mjinnocent

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fyexo · 5 years ago

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Writer’s Note: Behind The Self Portrait (Apple Music Special Track)

Hi Apple Music and global EXO-Ls out there, this is SUHO. Hi, this is SUHO. How was my first mini album "Self-Portrait"? I'm gonna tell you my thoughts I tried to put in my album. The title of the album is "Self-Portrait". I love painter Van Gogh. I came up with the album title when I went to see "Self-Portrait as a Painter" by Van Gogh. As I could think of the life and inner side of Van Gogh, I wanted to tell you the things I saw, I listened to and I felt for the past eight years since my debut through this album. And I thought it would be great if each track would complete a painting that can express myself. I put my stories in the album but they’re universal ones that many can empathize with. Now let me talk about the songs in my “Self-Portrait” in more detail. It’s the title track, “Let’s Love”. You might be used to this because I’ve been saying this for nine years. I always shouted this out with my members, but I suddenly feel this word new while working on this album. When we express love, anyone can be clumsy. We can’t come closer and hesitate… We have ‘flaws’ in doing love. Yet, nevertheless, I wanted to express the way I become brave, saying “Let’s Love” because I like you so much. That’s how the title became “Let’s Love”. I made this song the album title track because I thought this is the perfect song to show my heart that I want to tell my family, my members and the fans. Now, shall we talk about the next song? You just hear my favorite part of this song. “O2” has a story that two people with empty hearts meet and become precious to each other. If there’s two of alphabet ‘O’ looking like an empty heart, it becomes oxygen(O2), which is essential to life. Actually, making this album, I thought it would be great if there was a dreamy song like swimming in water and “O2” was the song I met. I loved the comfortable feeling as if we’re flowing. I hope you’ll enjoy it comfortably. “Made In You” is a song I want to give you as a gift who are listening to this audio track. Through the song title and lyrics that I’m made of you and I began from you, I wanted to say that our fans are the ones who made me who I am today. You might empathize well with it, if you have someone who you think a destiny because the person is so precious and special. I really wanted to play this song for EXO-L who have been cheering for me for the past nine years. “Starry Night” is the story after “Curtain” released in 2017. “Curtain” was my first solo track so I wanted to continue the story in my first mini album. I talked about breakup in “Curtain”, and this song has the story after breakup. It’s about time missing someone I loved disconnected from the world. Like you close the blackout curtain in the dark sky, if you think of the image of the lyrics that the memories of the loved one fall like the stars, you can empathize more with it. You just listened to “Self-Portrait”, which is about missing someone I loved. After breakup, we often feel the trace of person you loved in you when you look at yourself. Since we spend time together for a long time, the person already became part of me, and I even look like the person. This is a story about reminiscing about the past by painting over the self-portrait not to let the person’s trace remaining in me fade away. “Before I know I perfectly imagine you of the day And I keep repeating it because I was in it” Like the lyrics. “For You Now” is a song about my determination. I was so indifferent to the people around me. I couldn’t fully express appreciation to those gave warm comfort. I regret not listening to their stories and expressing my love. That’s why I made this song “For You Now”. I included my will to offer comfort first and help them. This is what I want to say to those who’ve always stood by me. And thankfully, Younha joined in making this song. I recommend you appreciating the words of comfort in Younha’s voice. These are stories in my “Self-Portrait”. Actually there were a lot more to say to you, so it took a long time to pick the songs for the six tracks. Since I made a lot of effort to make this album, I hope this is a meaningful album to you as well. Now, enjoy my “Self-Portrait” once again.

#exo #suho #t: other #album: self portrait

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dialovers-translations · 5 years ago

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Diabolik Lovers Zero vol. 9 Carla Tsukinami [Track 4]

Original title: 絵画は最期に笑った

Source: Diabolik Lovers Zero Vol. 9 Carla Tsukinami[CD not owned by me]

Audio: Here ( Huge thank you to @soranokiku for providing me with the audio!! )

Seiyuu: Toshiyuki Morikawa

Translator’s note: As someone who likes to draw myself, I felt for the poor painter who never got any recognition for his artwork. Of course, all I draw is self-indulgent OC/ship art and not actual paintings but still. It sucks when you pour your heart and soul into a piece and nobody even pays attention to it. ;; The plot of this one was somewhat similar to Ruki’s Zero CD, but they put more emphasis on the art itself because Carla is obvious a painting lover. I do like that side of his character a lot. It really does make him seem more ‘human’ even though he’s the King of Founders. I still don’t really see him as ‘boyfriend material’ because he sounds...old lol. His personality is really growing on me though.

This track was requested by an anonymous user! If you would like to request a translation, please contact me through IMs or drop an ask!

Track 1 ll Track 2 ll Track 3 ll Track 4 ll Track 5

Track 4: The Painting Went Out with a Smile

*Rumble rumble*

( ...!? ...What is happening? Tremors...? Is the museum shaking...? )

*Rumble rumble*

*TWINKLE*

( ...What!? Why is the floor lighting up? ...Don’t tell me!? Impossible. Not a single soul has safely made it back after being swallowed by the artwork! )

“...Your point being? ...I am a First Blood! A mighty King!”

*SHATTER*

Carla breaks through the floor.

( Kuh...! )

“...You lowly museum. Please do not assume you can do as you please with a Founder such as myself.”

( Ridiculous...The King of the Founders...? You...!? )

Carla takes a firm standing on the ground.

“Seems like you underestimated your opponent. You counterfeit.”

You cry out.

“Hmph. What a pathetic face. Did you think this much would kill me? Although, it did take me quite some time to break through the dimension I had been warped to. Those wounds on your skin...I shall make it up to you later. My bad.”

You shake your head.

“Hmph. Even now, you decide to worry over me instead of yourself? However, save that for later. Right now...”

Carla turns around.

“...Portrait! Any final words? I shall make sure you are punished for the grave sin of laying your hand on my lover. (1)”

( Keh...Do you really think I will give up this easily? ...If you want this woman, try and take her by force! )

The demon attacks.

“Hmph.”

Carla easily dodges.

( ...!? )

“Based on appearance alone, you have done a fine job at copying me. Your speech and mannerism are a carbon copy of mine. However, unless you capture the inside as well, you are still a work in progress. (2)

Above all, please do not assume you can easily imitate the powers of a Founder.”

Carla fires an attack next, sending the demon flying.

( Uwaaah...!? )

*THUD*

“...Hmph. So his true form is paint. Now that he’s splattered across the place, I assume he can no longer move.”

Carla approaches you.

“I sure took my time, huh?”

You embrace him.

“...! Please do not jump at me like that. I can feel it in my wounds.”

You tell him how worried you were.

“...Hmph. What are you saying? I would never disappear, leaving you behind. I am here. So please, cry no more.”

*Smooch*

“How’s that? Have you calmed down now?”

You nod.

“I see. Very well. I shall go deliver the final blow. Wait here for a bit.”

Carla turns around and steps towards the paint.

“You have not perished just yet, have you? Show yourself!”

The paint starts gathering as the demon revives.

( Ugh... )

“Just as I thought, I did not get rid of you completely. It seems like a body made out of paint has its advantages, capable of regenerating its original form after being blown apart.”

( Shut up...! Do you have any idea what you have done? Any idea what blowing me away with your magic powers accomplished!? You’ve damaged this museum, and the paintings inside of it! )

“I am well aware. However, I simply had no other choice if I wanted to send you flying. Regardless, I would not say that was my true intention. To turn so many masterpieces to dust with my very own hands, that is.”

( ...!? What!? )

“The same could be said about this floor. It was such a wonderful flower field, I have truly done some regrettable.”

( What...nonsense are you spouting...!? Do not speak so nonchalantly! You are a demon, a First Blood, aren’t you? There is no way you would resort to something so very human such as praising paintings...! )

“Do not apply your own prejudices on me.”

Carla steps forward.

“I am more than capable of gazing at a painting and appreciating its beauty. These are definite feelings inside of me. I shall not let anyone deny them. Furthermore, I caught bits and pieces of your conversation from earlier. You sure did not hold back with what you said to her. I am incapable of loving her, because I am a Founder, you claim? What a foolish thought.”

You look over at him.

“She...is the only woman I have ever loved. I do not care who you are, I shall not allow anyone to insult her.”

( ...What? That was not just pure nonsense? A human and a demon...? )

“Seems like we have talked for too long. I simply cannot let you live. With this next one, I shall erase you from this world. “

( ...Guh...Stop! Don’t shoot from that position! Don’t damage the museum...Don’t damage my masterpieces! )

“...What did you just say? Are these by your hand? ...Could it be, are you...? ...It all makes sense now. Spirits...souls wandering around because of the regret they hold in their heart. Furthermore, that large portrait by the entrance. You were...that painter all along, were you not?”

You remember.

( I am surprised you knew who I am just from my self-portrait. Seems like you have an eye for art after all. As the the King of the Founders, that is very much a mismatch. Displayed in this museum are my masterpieces which never got to see the light of day, simply rotting away. At present, art forms such as paintings and music have become highly praised under the influence of a certain eccentric Vampire King, however, those were originally human territory.

Nobody...Not a single soul acknowledged my work...! There were many who looked down on me simply because I painted pictures. However, there was one person who said they liked my art. Because I had her, I was able to go forward without losing all hope!

...However. She too...was killed... )

You seem surprised.

( Leaving me with nothing but anger, sorrow and...desperation. And...only this museum. )

“So that obsession is what drove you this far? A missing painter...I do not know what lead you here, but you arrived at this museum. I assume you most likely settled here without realizing you had set foot inside a monster. Then you put out your own pieces for display. I am not interested in what happened afterwards. However, you most definitely lost your life here. Then even after death, you continued to be bound to be place in an attempt to watch over your own work...I suppose?”

( ...Let your imagination run wild. If this museum disappears, so will my paintings! The proof that we were once alive...all of it will vanish! I simply cannot allow myself to perish without leaving a single trace behind! )

“...Without leaving anything behind, you say? While our situations may be different, I shall not claim I do not understand your point of view. I simply could not allow myself to die either, to ensure a future for my lineage. However, any further struggle will be in vain.”

*Rumble rumble*

( ...!? What was that just now...!? )

“Seems like part of the building has collapsed. ...You must be aware as well, are you not? Sooner or later, this place will fall into ruin.”

( ...T-There is simply no way...it would perish so easily...!! )

“I am speaking as someone who has once been swallowed by this museum. I felt first-hand that the magic of this building is wavering. It is impossible that you would not be able to grasp something which a simple visitor is able to.

( Kuh...!! ...!! ...Yeah. I am aware. This place will not last much longer. ...This museum is alive. Therefore, it is slowly getting closer to its death day by day. No matter what I do, I was unable to stop this process. I thought that maybe - just maybe - if I fed it prey like the two of you...However, it is too late for that now!

King! I beg of you, please use your powers to put an end to both me...and this museum. )

“...What?”

( If it has to come to an end, I at least want a beautiful final moment. I do not wish for both me and the museum to go out ugly and rotten. I want you to deliver the final blow to us! )

“...Very well.”

You tear up.

“What is the matter? Has his story made you emotional? However, there is no reason for you to feel sad. I am unable of saving someone from their inevitable demise. Furthermore, this is something he wishes for himself.”

You make an offer.

“Hm. Well...I see. That is not a bad idea.”

( ...!? What? )

“Painter. What you have done shall not be forgiven. However, I shall applaud you on your pride as an artist. This is the least I can do to pay respect to you. (3)”

Carla walks over to the wall and grabs one of the paintings.

“I promise that I shall display this painting in my castle. It would be a shame for all of your artworks to disappear after all.”

( My...painting...? )

“Although these paintings stay true to life, I realized that your own feelings have been captured in every single one of them. The flower field on the floor was no different. You would not be able to creature such a masterpiece without a strong sentiment. I have a faint suspicion as to where these emotions may come from. ...Painter, was the woman you loved a human, perhaps?”

( ...!! H-How do you...? )

“Hm. ...Because I am the same. In the past, I attempted to grasp mankind through literature. However, I only truly understood, after I decided to keep this woman by my side.”

You smile.

“Us demons are...different from humans. There are very few capable of understanding the complexity and intensity of human emotions. However, right now I understand. the reason why humans play music, paint pictures and tell stories. They want to convey the overflowing feelings inside of them. Hoping they could reach at least someone. Loving someone and wanting to be loved. If I had not met this woman, I would have never come across these emotions.

...Your works are bursting with emotion almost as if they were created by the hand of a human. They are not something anyone could paint. If this is the result of feeling strongly for someone, you have the right to be proud. Even if the world is ignorant to it...your work has worth.”

( ...! Value...? Haha...Hahaha...King of the Founders, you are speaking almost like a low class human. Are you not ashamed? )

“Hmph. Of course not. This is something I have attained through my own power.”

( Hah...I see. Oi, woman. )

You look his way.

( You should treasure the man standing besides you. Amongst demons, someone like him is one in a million. )

You nod.

( ...A human female, huh? When I look at you like this, I am reminded of her. My feelings for her have been poured inside my artwork. If at least one of those remains...I no longer have any reason to stay here. King of Founders... )

“I understand. Your creations have reached me. I promise I shall make sure your legacy stays alive. In the name of the King of the Founders.”

Carla delivers the final blow.

*CRASH*

The whole building gets destroyed alongside the demon.

“...He crumbled away, huh? ...Yes, he disappeared leaving not a single trace behind. Even if he had attempted to stay alive, death was the only thing awaiting him. That man chose to just perish instead. As a painter, embracing death along with your work while they are still beautiful must be a blessing. That choice was up to him though. ...No. I suppose it is a little inconsiderate of me to say that.

Let us engrave this scenery in our memory for a little longer. This sight we will never be able to witness again...The final moments of those paintings.”

ーー TO BE CONTINUED ーー

Translation notes

(1) Carla calls the MC 妃 or ‘kisaki’, which is a term which was often used to refer to the wife of the emperor.

(2) Literally he says ‘you are still unfinished as a painting’, but I decided to shorten it and use the term ‘work in progress’ (WIP) since it seemed very fitting in this art-related context.

(3) The term 手向け or ‘tamuke’ is used specifically in context of someone passing away and dedicating something to them as a final tribute.

#diabolik lovers #dialovers #carla tsukinami #diabolik lovers drama cd #diabolik lovers zero #diabolik lovers translation #drama cd

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gloves94 · 5 years ago

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Kingdom of the Sun [Fire Lord Zuko] 1

Story Warnings: Violence, NSFW, Smut Chapter Warnings: None Rating: M Pairings: Zuko/OC Summary: It has been three years since the end of the war. Fire Lord Zuko has his Empire to reconstruct and multiple assassination attempts to worry about. Across the sea Tsai is occupied with the Restoration Movement in the new Republic of Nations. Together they must: define their relationship, push some boundaries, bring down a dangerous enemy and most importantly work together to restore order and prosperity to this new world. Kingdom of the Sun MASTERLIST Last Airbender MASTERLIST My MASTERLIST

- SEQUEL to: SUNBURN . You don’t have to read Sunburn to enjoy this story, but if you want go ahead. - This story is loosely based on the ATLA comics, so don’t read if you don’t want spoilers. No Korra spoilers since I haven’t watched it myself.

AN: Woo!! We are finally here. I’m really excited about this story (also kind of very nervous, it’s going to be pretty different from Sunburn so let me know how I do!) I’m almost done writing it and it should be about 10 chapters long or so.

xxxxxx

Zuko lay awake in his bed.

It was a cold night despite the spring season that graced the Fire Nation's capital. He let out a miserable long sigh before turning to face the empty side of the bed. It was then that a rustling behind the bedroom’s maroon curtains nearby caught his attention.

Paranoid, he quickly sat up glaring in the direction where he could've sworn, he heard an intruder's movements. His eyes scanned the darkness of the room, heart at his throat as he held his breath waiting for his attacker to show.

It was then that he felt it, the blade pressing tightly across his neck. It seemed the assassin had finally gotten to him. His body was stiff for a moment before relaxing into the knife. He let out a deep breath and allowed the blade to take him…

Xxx

Zuko awoke alone and cold still heaving from his night terror. His eyes danced around the room fearfully scanning every possible nook, cranny and hiding place for an assassin. He sat up and ran a hand through his sweaty bangs pushing them back, catching his shaking breath. It wouldn't be the first time somebody broke into his room and tried to pull a stunt like that…

He exhaled a sharp breath and again collapsed back on his pillow. He couldn't believe he had caved into the assassin's blade like that. It had only been a dream, but still... For a moment he had forgotten his will to exist. After all, did anything matter? Every day was the same over worked routine of a Fire Lord having inherited a monarchy on the verge of a colonial disunion and at the end of a lost war. Not to mention the frequent assassination attempts he had to endure from the New Ozai Society. A group of loyal members of the Fire Nation mainland who were still supportive of his father and wanted to see Zuko dead and off the throne. But worst of all was that he had never felt as alone as he did now… He was cold, alone, unhappy… Did anything really matter?

His eyes turned to look at the painting he had framed next to his bed. It had been the last painting that him and Tsai had gotten. He wore his royal garments and head piece, she sat next to him hugging his arm. It had been painted that day the two saw “Love Amongst the Dragons,” the last time they saw each other...

He missed her. He needed her in his life now more than ever.

He dreaded the morning that was to come. He already knew he had a mountain of work to do, but the worst part about it were the Fire Sages. He did not want to be in the same room with a handful of them and a dozen of elite Fire Nation women who were all considered 'fit' female suitors eligible enough to one day take seat next to him as the Lady of the Throne.

"Will you be making your decision today Fire Lord Zuko?" One of the Sages had inquired hiding its hands in his sleeves. It had been weeks now and all those old crones did was pressure him into seeing these girls.

Traditionally Fire Sage's were the advisors to the crown and all royal marriages were arranged. However, considering there was no former Fire Lord in power to order such decree no such arrangements could be made.

His eyes glazed over the nervously fidgeting dark haired women before him. Some looked awfully nervous, others giggled at the situation hiding their blushing smiles before waving fans.

He was silent, his eyes boring ahead.

"I already know the one for me."

Xxx

"Wake up!" A loud voice shouted.

"Wake uuuup!" The voice repeated in an even louder tone.

Tsai lay exhausted and alone in her bed. She let out a grown and pulled the sheets over her head. "Get out of my room Mecha!" She shouted loudly at her older sibling. However, he had no mercy, he ripped the covers off her waking her up.

She glared at her brother upset.

"You overslept, again." He said with his arms crossed over his chest. The scarred man glared down at her. "This isn't like you," he said frowning slightly.

She ran a hand through her messy hair in hope of taming it down a little. "I was up late last night," she grumbled. "Has there been another bombing? Another protest?" She asked more accustomed to being awoken due to the sporadically protest of the Anti Revolutionary Movement that was against the independence of the Fire Nation’s colonies.

"Oh yeah?" He challenged arching an eyebrow, ignoring her questions. "Doing uber important things like midnight snacking or writing sad poetry about your ex-boyfriend?"

"Out!" She roared throwing her pillow in his direction.

He caught it with ease. "Be ready." He said cooly sounding like their over-bearing mother and throwing it back in her direction with all of his strength making her slightly jerk back.

She sighed hugging the pillow and hunching her shoulders over. It had been three years since the One Hundred Year War was over and since the Fire Nation colonies had been liberated, and lot had happened since then. Ever since, her family had renounced to all of their royal titles, after all the Vice-Royal Colony of Yu Dao was no more. Instead now this territory belonged to the sovereignty of the United Republic of Nations. After losing his position her father had become… She didn't even want to think about it. Thankfully, her mother had forgiven her for everything that she had done during the time of war and her family now focused on running the United Republic of Nation's first newspaper. She did that and also working as an ambassador for the young nation, attempting to solve the thriving nation's issues a strong leader of the post-war restoration movement.

She had also ended her brief relationship with Zuko. You think dating is hard, imagine when your ex-boyfriend is the Fire Lord? She let out an exhausted breath and looked up to see the painted portrait of the two of them that hung on her wall. It was small and simple, her red head and broad cheesy smile standing out as she hugged onto his arm. He wore a smile as well and wore his hair down and wasn't wearing his royal robes. He was like she remembered him, he was simply Zuko, he wasn't his Lordness. She couldn’t even remember when they had gotten that painted. It had been a little more than a year since their breakup and she missed him dearly…

Dating of course had been an option but nobody had come close to filling the void she felt inside when she thought of him. She would never admit it out loud but a part of her was miserable without him in her life.

She missed him.

The memory of their breakup still fresh, she shook her head and clapped her cheeks lightly hoping to smack some sense into herself and push that depressing memory back in the attic of her brain. She didn't want to think about what had happened in the Dragon Catacombs the last time she had been in the Main- in the Fire Nation. She corrected herself.

Xxx

"Aang! Katara!" Tsai stood in what was now the former palace's tearoom as she welcomed her friends. She embraced Aang and then Katara tightly. She had been happy to have kept in contact with them after the war. Katara was usually traveling between the Republic of Nations and the South Pole to visit her family, so they would see each other whenever she was in town. Aang was pretty much the same, except his travels were more worldly, after all, he was the Avatar. The bridge in between all nations as well as humans and the Spirit World. Tsai's mother had arranged for an elaborate tea party for just her children and their two friends. It was very over the top with teas, pastries and decorations, but then again, that was just the type of woman she was.

"It's so great to see two!" She said. Her brother greeted them both with a rough hug and took a seat next to his sister.

Aang was taller, fitter, and looked more mature. However, he was still his same goofy self and wore his nation's symbolic colors of yellow, ochre and orange in traditional robes. Katara had grown to be even more beautiful, her hair was longer, and she still wore her trade mark hair loopies. The two of them had been inseparable and had started dating at the end of the war and were still together. Distance and other factors not str Tsai poured a brewed floral tea and the four made idle talk catching about what the most recent news in town were, trending restaurants, theater, each other travels and what not.

"So, we've come with news!" Aang said excitedly shifting on his seat. He hadn't even touched his tea. Katara smiled at him lovingly and hugged his arm taking his hand in her own. "Shall we tell them together sweetie?"

Tsai arched an eyebrow, she mentally gagged at Katara's pet name for her boyfriend. Yikes, those two were so sappy. She took a sip from her tea to hide her smile.

They spoke loudly in unison. She wasn't sure if she had heard right. She was only aware of the sacred sin she had just committed. She spit out her tea in surprise spraying the couple before her who were overjoyed and simply laughed at her surprised reaction.

"Congrats!" Mecha stood up from his seat and walked around the table to give the couple a congratulatory pat in the back.

Tsai still sat stunned unsure of how to process the news.

AANG AND KATARA WERE GETTING MARRIED? Was Aang a child bride? Sure, he was now past sixteen, the customary marriage age, but really what was the rush? She shifted uncomfortably in her seat before realizing she had to say something to them.

"Congratulations!" She said sincerely excited going around the table and hugging the both of them again. "Katara, let me see your necklace!" She said inquiring about the engagement jewelry that Aang had made for her. It was a traditional Water Tribe necklace that had carved the Air Nomad's symbol in the middle. It was very cute.

"We'll be sending invitations out soon, but we wanted to tell you two in person." Aang explained.

"We were both very moved by your family," Katara began. "I know it's not usual for people to have interracial marriages, but when I saw your family- Your mother being from the Earth Kingdom and your father's side being from the Fire Nation. I saw what my future with Aang would be like." She said once again hugging his arm, he smiled at her and kissed the top of her head.

Both siblings noted how she mentioned her "father's side" and not the monster himself but said nothing.

"We are getting married here in the Republic of Nations. However, Gran Gran is getting a little too old for travel so we're having a ceremony in the Southern Water Tribe and we'd love for you two to come!" Katara beamed.

xxx

"You have to go." Her brother insisted chasing after her as they walked back to the dining room where they would now be joining their mother for dinner. "No. I don't. I have work." She barked back; fists clenched at her sides. "No," he drawled out stepping around her stopping her walk. "I'm staying so you can go. Besides, you already agreed. You can't back out now."

Tsai glared at her older brother; he could be such a pest sometimes. "I only said that to be polite!"

"Come on," She lowered her shoulders her brown eyes meeting her brother's forest green ones. "I look like crap- and well you know he's going to be there."

She said referring to Zuko, a thought that made her stomach twist nervously at the thought of seeing him again.

"So? Are you scared of him?" Her brother scoffed. "What's the worst that can happen?"

She remained silent.

"Who knows," he began moving out of her path. "You know he is married to his work, just like you. Odds are maybe he won't even show," Mecha said optimistically.

'Maybe… Just maybe he was right?'

next: https://gloves94.tumblr.com/post/624849870080131072/kingdom-of-the-sun-firelord-zuko-2

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