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themidnightcrimson · 1 year

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religion ࿏ wm

summary: in which the new reverend at your hometown church wants to give you a lesson on sexual immorality.

words: 5.6K

warnings: pastor!wanda, fem!reader, oral (r giving), fingering (r receiving), slight non-con/dubcon, manipulation, dumbification, degradation, religion, lots of bible verses, rip my religious trauma, spank me with a bible, fuck me with the crucifix, yes lord in wanda's name we pray amen

this post is for 18+ only. minors dni.

masterlist.

A few women in the church had put together a potluck after one Sunday sermon, or a “covered dish supper” as the elders liked to call them. You remembered loving those potlucks as much as you loved church itself when you were a child. As the years went by and your worldview got bigger and your mind opened up to the broader possibilities that this was not what life should be like, you scarcely ever went to church.

Upon moving away for college, the idea of church was a laughable thing to you. You could hardly even remember what the rituals were anymore, or the verses, or the hymns. It wasn’t necessarily a hatred or aversion, but rather a bitter distaste in your mouth when reminded of how indoctrinated you and your whole community were into the church. You just weren’t religious anymore, and you preferred living life that way, though it took years of untying the knots of theological principals and “truths” from your mind.

When you were back in your hometown for a visit, your mother nearly fell over at the sight of the little rainbow bracelet on your wrist. After a very heated conversation where you threw in her face the fact that you had been with multiple women in college, she seemed to give up and leave the conversation alone—until the next morning she asked you to come to church with her.

“Really? You think going to church is going to reverse the way that I was born? You expect me to just pray the gay away?!” you yelled at her, but she was calm. She said that was not her intentions, but rather they were to simply have you come see everyone you grew up around. She said that there was a new pastor there who was younger and could relate better to youth without that kind of feigned wise judgment that the other pastor, a wobbly old man, used.

You fought tooth and nail against your mom in a thirty-minute argument until finally you were just too tired to fight against her anymore. You felt how you did in high school—getting lectured by your mom for skipping church only a single Sunday, being placed under her godly ray of obstinance that so easily drained you until you just couldn’t fight anymore. She forced you to wear one of your church dresses from high school and practically shoved you into the car that Sunday morning. You were just looking forward to the potluck afterward.

As your mom pulled the car into the church’s parking lot, you realized that they had done renovations on the sanctuary since you had been gone. It was bigger now, with huge mosaic windows facing the front and a new pure white cross on top of the spire, making the triangular building look even taller and more pointed than it already was.

“This new pastor a millionaire or something?” you mumbled as you unbuckled your seatbelt.

“No, she’s just so brilliant and amazing that she’s attracted dozens of new parishioners since she came,” she explained. “You’ll see. She really has a way of connecting with young people, especially young women. I couldn’t tell you how many girls your age have joined in the past year!”

Crinkling your eyebrows, you stepped out of the car and took a breath of fresh air. Even in the parking lot, you could pick up that familiar smell of wood and old books. “The pastor is a woman?” you asked, remembering only male pastors. Although your denomination was open towards female pastors, the general misogyny of your small-town Southern community had always favored men, of course.

“Uh huh,” your mother said as she stepped out of the car and fixed her hair in the wind, walking over to you and gently grabbing your arm suddenly. “Y/n, I should probably let you know… I did call Reverend Maximoff last night and told her a little about your…situation.”

Your eyes widened as you stared at her incredulously. “What?!” Had your mother really gone and called the local pastor to tell her that her daughter was gay?

“Look, it’s important for a pastor to know their parishioners’ personal lives in order to truly connect with them. I’m not saying I asked her to… pray the gay away or whatever you said, but I just let her know that you were having some…sexually immoral feelings. She’s helped many young women here with the same problem.”

“Excuse me?!” you exclaimed, jerking your arm away from your hand. An old couple walking by glanced over at you, and you blushed and looked away, speaking quieter. “Why the hell would you tell some woman I don’t even know that I’m having sex with women?!”

“She’s not some woman, she’s an ordained minister of God!” your mother exclaimed. “She’s not going to drag you up in front of the church and hang you, for God’s sake! She was just concerned that you’re not living your life under the guidance of God and would be happy to give you a steering hand, that’s all! She didn’t even say anything about the gay part—just the promiscuity!”

Curse words formed on your lips, but you pursed them together, pushing past your mother and towards the church so you could get this thing over with. “Promiscuity my ass,” you muttered as you burst open the church doors, hit with that familiar old smell. It looked different now that it had been renovated, the ceiling and windows much taller and the carpet redone, but it was the same wooden pews you remembered as a child and the same large altar with a grand piano and steps for the choir.

You looked around at all the familiar townspeople sitting in the pews as the choir, dressed in their robes and holding their hymnals, made their way to the chancel in formation. You realized that your mother was right when she said that the church had grown—all of the pews were jammed full of people, except for a little spot near the front where there was enough room for two people to squeeze in. Feeling aggravated and brash, you stormed to the front and shimmied past the row of people to sit down in the empty spot, your mother scrambling down beside you.

“Please don’t be angry in the house of God,” she began.

You ignored her, looking around and seeing that there were groups of young women your age looking excitedly towards the altar, waiting for the pastor to come out. You assumed maybe the pastor had started a women’s group and was just mentoring the young women.

Reaching forward, you took the hymnal book sitting in the slot behind the pew in front of you, opening up its yellowed pages and flipping through. You could still remember some of the songs, but before you could read one, there was a hushing whisper among the congregation.

Glancing upwards, you saw Reverend Maximoff emanating from behind the altar, glancing out among the ground with a smile as she stepped to the front. You were shocked to see her—she was older than you, but not by too much. She had a youthful smile to her face and twinkling green eyes, her blonde hair cut right to the shoulders of the maroon robe and dark green stole she wore.

“Good morning, everyone,” she announced, her voice loud and confident. The church crowd silenced and gave their full attention to her. “Today we will start by worshiping the Lord our God with our choir’s beautiful voices, as well as your own.” Her Southern accent was feminine and airy with a cheerful tune to it, as if she was already singing by simply speaking. “Please turn to page 304 in your hymnals and stand to worship the Lord with us.”

The sound of people standing and pages turning filled your ears, and you found yourself flipping to the page and standing up along with everyone else, realizing that your muscle memory was still there. It felt odd being in that place again, viewing the solemnity and respect of religion in a community sense.

The choir started, and then the rest of the church joined in, singing the hymn in unison. You didn’t sing at first, until your mother’s elbow stabbed your ribcage, so you quietly mumbled the words.

Glancing up, you watched Reverend Maximoff singing at her stand, face turned towards the choir and grinning at them as the words formed on her lips. You had to admit that for a pastor, she was beautiful and charming. Her smile was nearly mesmerizing as her head slowly turned towards the congregation in appreciation for their singing, eyes casting over the pews of people until they flickered near you. Realizing that you were staring, you quickly glanced down at the book before she could make eye contact with you. Feeling suddenly nervous, you mindlessly stared at the book until you figured she would be looking somewhere else, looking back up only to find that she was looking right at you.

All you could hear were the choral praises of God as the Reverend’s eyes bore into yours. The smile on her face faded a little, her focus zoning in on you through the crowd. You remembered what your mother had told her about you, the thought bringing a sickly blush of shame to your cheeks. Why was she staring at you? Was she judging you? Thinking about what a dirty sinner you were? You couldn’t take it, but you couldn’t look away either.

Finally, the song ended, and she broke eye contact.

“Thank you so much. You may please be seated.”

The crowd sat down and put their hymnals away as the choir did the same, and once everyone was finally still and quiet, the Reverend opened her Bible and started flipping through pages to find notes for her sermon.

“Today, people, we will be talking about the one thing we think about almost all of the time—our bodies.” Your teeth ached as you braced yourself for whatever religious bullshit was about to be shoved down your throat. “Our bodies—whether it be our health, our appearance, the work we can do with them, what we eat, what we drink—our bodies remain a constant thought in our mind.”

She stepped out from behind the stand, walking to the front steps of the altar and peering out at the crowd with her luring eyes like a bird.

“God tells us in His Word that our bodies are a temple for the Holy Spirit. You see, we do not own our flesh and blood. Our body is a sacrament to Him in everything we do with it. Our divine purpose on this Earth is to use our bodies the Lord has given us as a vessel for the Spirit, to spread His Holy Word. If our bodies are unholy, or if we use them to transgress against His Word, we are violating His purpose for them.”

As much as you wanted to dissociate and just block out whatever she was saying, a strange curiosity overcame you that kept your eyes trained on her as she stepped down the altar steps to get even closer to the crowd, holding the Bible in her hands.

“There are many ways that we sin with our bodies every day. When your mouth curses, when your hands do not pray to Him, when your feet lead you to unholy places. One of the most extreme ways that we go against the Holy Spirit within us is when we commit the very sin that seems to have a grasp on the youth today—sexual immorality.”

There it was. You bit the inside of your cheek and took a deep breath, trying to control the anger within you.

“I want y’all to turn to one of my favorite passages in the Word,” she said, turning to walk towards the other side of the pew as she waited for people to turn to the verse. “1 Corinthians 6:13.”

You wouldn’t dare to pick up a Bible. You crossed your arms and ignored your mother’s urging glances as the Reverend started to read.

“You say, food for the stomach and the stomach for the food, and God will destroy them both. The body, however, is not meant for sexual immorality but for the Lord, and the Lord for the body,” she called out, her voice echoing off the walls of the large room. You watched her, her back turned from you, as she paced the other side of the room before turning, walking towards your side of the pew with her eyes trained on the book. “By his power God raised the Lord from the dead, and he will raise us also. Do you not know that your bodies are members of Christ himself? Shall I then take the members of Christ and unite them with a prostitute? Never!”

You rolled your eyes and rubbed your forehead, wishing you could escape this cultish experience. Still, you watched her, the way her lips formed the words, the way her face looked pointed down to the book, eyelashes dancing across her cheeks as she read the words.

“But whoever is united with the Lord is one with him in spirit.” She turned down the center aisle, and as she got closer to your pew, you started to shift uncomfortably in your seat. Suddenly, her eyes lifted from the pages and pierced you sideways. You felt frozen under her stare as she discreetly eyed you, not even having to look at the page to recite, “Flee from sexual immorality. All other sins a person commits are outside the body, but whoever sins sexually, sins against their own body.”

Her voice was lower now, serious and clear. You couldn’t tear your eyes away from hers as she slowly floated past you, her robe wafting around her ankles. You noticed the way her svelte hands held the Bible, a single digit lifting to flick the page. You could’ve sworn you saw a smirk on her lips as she finally looked away from you and kept preaching, walking down the aisle.

Finally, you could breathe. Surprise filled you as you realized that you had started sweating—were you really so demonic that you were sweating in the pews of a church? But why did she look right at you as she read that particular verse? Was she targeting you because of what your mother had said?

You could barely listen to the rest of the sermon as she talked about sexual immorality and fleeing from it by turning your mind and body towards the Lord.

At the potluck, you couldn’t help but find your eyes drifting to wherever Reverend Maximoff was in the room. Potlucks were always held in a building connected to the sanctuary where they had special events and meetings. She drifted around the room chatting with different members of the congregation, her eyes somehow always finding yours right as you were looking at her. You would blush and quickly look away, redirecting your focus on what the old lady was talking to you and your mom about.

You didn’t realize that she was waiting for you to be alone. Finally, you left your mom and the lady to go to the table filled with homemade desserts, browsing around for something chocolate.

A hand on your lower back made you gasp and turn. You were shocked to see Reverend Maximoff standing close beside you, still dressed in her robes. “Y/n,” she greeted you with a pearly smile, her earrings dangling from her ears. “It’s so nice to finally meet you. Your mom has talked about you so much since I’ve been here.”

“Oh,” you said with a polite smile. “Has she?”

“Yes,” she smoothly answered, stepping even closer to you. “I’m very glad you came today. I must tell you that the Lord has speaking to my heart about you quite a lot.”

“Oh yea?” you said disinterestedly, more focused on the way her eyes kept darting down your body, trying to pinpoint why she was ogling you.

She tilted her head and closed her smile, looking thoughtful for a brief moment before saying, “You know, I was hoping you would have a session with me here sometime, before you go back to college. I would love to talk more with you and get to know you. You were at this church long before I was, and I would love to give you some heavenly advice on whatever is pressing at your heart.”

Your eyebrows rose. “Nothing’s pressing at my heart but my ribcage.”

She giggled, and it surprised you. “No, there’s always something for pretty young women like you.” You flushed a little at her choice of words. “God has a plan for you, y/n, but I get the feeling you may need some guidance to get you there.”

“You get these feelings a lot?” you droned, picking up a brownie from the table and taking a bite, keeping eye contact with her. You weren’t going to let this pastor try to get her godly claws in you.

Her eyes flickered to your mouth as you took a bite of the brownie, her irises darkening. “Come see me after the Wednesday night sermon. Maybe…” She reached forward and took the half-eaten brownie from your hand, her fingers grazing yours. “I can teach you to use your mouth to praise the Lord.”

She put the half of the brownie into her mouth and chewed it with a smirk. Frozen and confused, you stared at her as she put her thumb in her mouth to suck off the crumbs, winking and floating away from you. Your entire body went hot as her words folded over in your mind, as well as the sight of her eating the brownie you had just had between your teeth.

Normally, you would’ve declined any invitation to have personal sessions with a Reverend, but the brief interaction you had with Reverend Maximoff had you offput and curious. Your mother almost cried in relief when you told her that you would be going to the Wednesday night sermon as well as staying behind to speak with the Reverend.

Wednesday’s sermon went the same as Sunday’s. There were less people there that night, naturally, and although Wednesday night sermons were usually shorter than Sunday’s, it seemed like Reverend Maximoff was antsy to be finished with it. She spoke faster with less focus, ending the sermon after only an hour. Your mother excitedly hurried away with the rest of the congregation, and you anxiously stayed in the pew as the Reverend talked with some lingering people until finally she ushered them all out, closing and locking the church doors behind the last person.

You turned your head and watched her as she sighed, holding onto the doors for a moment before turning around to look at you, clasping her hands at her front.

“Y/n,” she began lowly, turning her face down slightly as her eyes trained on you, her feet slowly leading her up the aisle towards you. “I was so glad when I saw you here tonight.”

“Well,” you began, fiddling with your thumbs. “I didn’t have anything else to do tonight.”

It was only partially true. You could have caught up with your old friends or went out to dinner or even just stayed home and watched TV, but something lured you into that church that night, and you felt it had something to do with the way she predatorily eyed you as she neared you.

She said nothing as she came closer, sucking her cheeks as you could see words forming in her brain. “Keep watch over yourselves and all the flock of which the Holy Spirit has made you overseers. Be shepherds of the church of God, which he bought with his own blood.” A smirk drew itself on her lips. “Acts 20:28.”

You just raised your eyebrows and nodded impressively. “You have the Bible memorized. Good for you.”

Ignoring your sly comment, she spoke, “It means that, as the Reverend of this church, it is my duty to be a shepherd.”

“That is what the verse says.”

Her eyes narrowed at you, her lips parted at distaste of your attitude. “What did I tell you about your mouth?” she snapped, her voice edged and cutting as it echoed loudly off the walls of the church, reminding you how alone you were with her. You stiffened in the pew.

She neared you, resting a hand on the edge of the pew as she stood before you. “As a shepherd, I must keep watch of my flock. I must be aware of them all the time—their lives, feelings, behaviors, their walk with God.” She paused, her tongue settling over her lower lip as she tilted her head. “Tell me, what path do you walk?”

You blinked, lips opening and closing as you tried to understand what she was asking.

“Do you walk the ways of the wicked? The ways of Satan himself?” Without breaking eye contact, she lowered and sat on the pew beside you. “Does your body sin against the Spirit?”

Looking down, you shook your head and laughed. “I know my mom told you. Believe me when I say I have no inclination to your religion, and I never will. I don’t need to be scrutinized or judged.”

“Your mother was only acting as a shepherd by leading you to me, and I thank her for that,” she remarked, her eyes glancing down at your dress where the ends stopped at your mid-thigh, leaving your legs bare. “I fear you are not treating your body as the temple of God it is. You have tainted it with your sexual proclivities, haven’t you, y/n?”

Your face started to burn at her outright words. “Excuse me?”

“Tell me, how do you prefer to use your body? Like a whore? Like a destitute slut?”

Ears burning at the sound of her husky voice, your face burned even hotter. The shock of her words left you speechless and utterly confused as to how a Reverend would speak to someone that way.

“You can tell me, y/n. Only God is watching us.” She reached forward suddenly, placing her hand on your thigh and sliding it upwards. The touch startled you and made you jump to your feet.

She looked up at you with a twisted smirk as you started to tremble with nervousness. “What kind of a Reverend are you?”

“One who will do anything to guide her people to God,” she lilted, standing up and reaching for you again. You backed away, bumping into the wooden back of the pew and circling around it to get away from her. You jumped up the steps of the altar.

“What are you doing?!”

“So Christ himself gave the apostles,” she began in her pastor voice she used during the sermon, circling the pew to saunter towards you again, stalking like a predator, “the prophets, the evangelists, the pastors and teachers, to equip his people for works of service, so that the body of Christ may be built up.” She took a slow step up the altar, grinning devilishly. “Ephesians 4:11-12.” She lowered her chin. “I can help you restore your body’s temple. I can sanctify you, make you whole again in the eyes of the Lord.”

Your heartbeat fluttered at the way she was seductively eyeing you, sauntering up the steps, the sultry and sensual tone in her voice. You let her come near you and place a hand on your waist that made you shiver all over.

Whispering, she said, “As God’s apostle, I offer you a direct line to worship Him and beg for forgiveness.” Her other hand softly cupped your chin, feeling the blushing skin here. Her thumb grazed over your lower lip, her dilated eyes drinking up your mouth like thick wine, and she recited, “May my prayer be set before you like incense; may the lifting up of my hands be like the evening sacrifice.”

The verse burned in your ears—it was one you had memorized for Sunday school so many years ago and somehow still subconsciously remembered. You whispered, “Psalms 141:2.”

Her grin widened. “Good girl.” She licked her lips, thumb still grazing your own. “From the fruit of their mouth a person’s stomach is filled; with the harvest of their lips they are satisfied. The tongue has the power of life and death, and those who love it will eat its fruit. Proverbs 18:20-21.”

It became hard to breathe when two of her fingers slipped through your lips and sunk slowly over your tongue.

“What goes into someone’s mouth does not defile them, but what comes out of their mouth, that is what defiles them. Matthew 15:11,” she recited, her own lips parting in a sigh as she slid her fingers further into your mouth.

A soft noise escaped your throat as you let her feel your mouth, your legs becoming weak. Her grip on your waist tightened when you flicked your tongue between her fingers and closed your lips, sucking dutifully on them. She jutted her lower teeth in desire, stepping so close to you that there was no room to breathe. Your skin felt hot all over, and you became suddenly aware of the cross hanging at the front of the altar, as if it were burning into your back.

The Reverend licked the back of her teeth, eyes trained on her fingers disappearing into your mouth as she whispered, “Shall you use your tongue to praise the Lord our God?”

A dirty sucking sound escaped your mouth as you sucked her fingers, and you were so under her trance, her beautiful green eyes, the way she was so enamored with your mouth, that you eagerly nodded around her fingers.

A half smile curled on her open lips as she slid her fingers out of your mouth, placing a hand on your shoulder and harshly pushing you down. Your knees hit the velvet red steps of the altar as Reverend Maximoff, standing on the step below you, placed one leg on the upper step and started to lift up her robe. You kneeled, watching in all of God’s glory, with the church’s mosaic windows behind her, as the Reverend lifted up her maroon robes and bunched them with one hand at her hips, exposing her bare pussy. With one foot on the step below your knees, and the other foot beside your knees, she tilted open her thigh and placed a hand on the back of your head.

You shivered at the feeling of her fingers in your hair as she pushed your head towards her, bucking her hips. You were filled with pulsing desire as you placed your hands gently on her hips and let her draw your mouth towards her, opening your lips and finding her slick folds. Your tongue ran over her slit, and you moaned at her taste, at how she was so wet that her juices already covered your lips.

Reverend Maximoff sighed, leaning her head back as you found her clit and started to lap at it. “Oh, God!” she exclaimed, pushing her hips towards your face as you suckled on her clit.

You could hardly keep up with her as she pushed your head and bucked her hips at the same time, forcing her clit onto your tongue. Your mouth involuntarily closed when one particular thrust of your head was too rough, to which she snapped, “Open your mouth! Proverbs 31:26—She speaks with wisdom, and faithful instruction is on her tongue.” Her sentence ended with a piercing moan as you opened your mouth wider for her and let her fuck it as she pleased.

Whining from the force, you furiously tried to pleasure her—as much as you could with the way she was practically pleasuring herself with your mouth like it was a toy. You melted at the sounds of her moans and gasps that echoed in the church, at the way that you were kneeling on the altar with your head between her legs, at the way her hand was tangled in your hair. Her clit tangibly throbbed on your tongue as her hips thrusted harder, her moans rising in pitch.

“Oh, God! Oh, God!” she screamed as she came, grinding her clit against your tongue and grabbing your hair so hard that your scalp ached. You struggled to breathe, eyes tearing up from the pressure on your face, listening to her catch her breath and loosen her grip on your hair. Finally, she moved away from you, dropping her robe back down her ankles. You were panting, lips puffy and red and covered in her wetness, eyes glistening as you stared up at her, drunk with lust. She grinned, biting her lip. “You serve the Lord well. Come.”

She offered out her hands, and you took them, letting her help you to her feet and guide you to the front pew. She sat down, keeping hold of your hands, and pulled you down so you straddled her lap. She sighed, her eyes looking everywhere at you except your face.

Her fingers crawled to the straps of your dress, slowly tugging them down your bare shoulders. She recited, “How beautiful you are and how pleasing, my love, with your delights.” Her voice was quiet in the silent room, burning at your ears as you tried to stay focused with the taste of her still on your lips. Her eyes sunk down your chest as she started to pull the dress down your breasts. “I said, I will climb the palm tree; I will take hold of its fruit.”

She tugged the fabric of your dress over your breasts, exposing them as they bounced over the fabric. Taking a sharp breath, she drew one hand to your tit and squeezed the soft flesh there, earning a gasp from you.

“May your breasts be like clusters of grapes on the vine, the fragrance of your breath like apples, and your mouth like the best wine.” Her eyes, which were trained on your exposed chest in front of her, flickered up to your face, catching the gloss of her cum on her lips. She raised her other hand and spread her fingers over your lips, smearing the wetness across your mouth. “May the wine go straight to my beloved, flowing gently over lips and teeth.”

You started to throb at her touches, at her words, at her inebriated eyes. Her hand that groped your breast fell down to your thighs, urging the end of your dress upwards as it slid up your skin.

“Song of Songs 7:6-9,” she whispered with finality as she danced her fingers up your inner thigh, and you watched her hand disappear under your skirt. “Is your body a temple of God, y/n?” she asked you as she parted your panties with her fingers.

You nodded desperately, so turned on by what she had done to your mouth, so dumbed down by the verses and the touches and the taste of her. She bit her lip and moaned as her fingers touched your slick cunt, grazing over your clit before two of them sunk into your hole.

Head falling back, you grabbed at the shoulders of her robe and whined as she plunged her fingers inside you, your wetness already making a dirty squelching noise as she pumped inside of you.

“I’m not so sure it is,” she husked as she wrapped an arm around your hip to steady your bucking motions. “You’ve been a dirty girl, y/n. You’ve used your body to sin against His Word. My hand of God can only do so much—you need to beg for his forgiveness.” An evil smirk lined her lips.

You could barely hear what she was saying as she fucked her fingers into you, your hips moving up and down in desperate search for more of her. She thumbed at your clit as she waited for you to answer, leaning forward to press wet kisses on your nipples that bounced with your motions.

“Please, God,” you began shakily, “Forgive me.”

“That’s not good enough,” she tutted, suddenly pushing a third finger inside you. Your mouth fell open at the stretch and the burst of sensations that exploded when she curled her fingers inside you. “Beg Him. Beg Him to forgive you for being a dirty whore.”

“Ah!” you exclaimed when she bit your nipple, jamming her fingers into you harshly. “P-Please, God,” you began breathlessly, squeezing the Reverend’s shoulders as pressure built inside you. “Please forgive me.”

“Forgive you for?” she urged, biting your other nipple and sucking on it.

You tried to remember exactly what she had said as your orgasm threatened to impend upon you. “F-For, for being a dirty whore!” The sound of your own voice saying those words pushed you over the edge, your inner walls clenching around the Reverend’s fingers. Your hips rocked hard against her hand as she watched in pure desire and delight, grinning when you finally came down from your climax.

“Very good, my child,” she soothed as you panted, her fingers still inside you. You trembled on her lap, seeing that your wetness had dripped onto her hand and down her maroon robe. “The Lord our God is a merciful one. He forgives you.” She played with the end of your dress, moving her fingers inside you and seeing just what a mess she had made of you. She looked up at your beat red face and teary eyes, her eyes alight with an idea. “Have you ever been baptized?”

#wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff #scarlet witch #marvel #lesbian #lgbt #wanda maximoff x fem!reader

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oodlyenough · 28 days

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apollo justice: ace attorney thoughts

over the weekend I finished playing AA4 so I wanted to try to put my thoughts in order. much to think about etc

spoilers for the whole game obv, but i haven't played AA5 or AA6 yet so any mention of those are speculation lol

I had heard some pretty mixed reactions to AA4 and I had a lot of reservations going in. It's also probably the AA game I've played that I've been the most spoiled for, which is a shame but probably an unavoidable consequence of waiting for the port while engaging with the fandom. I don't usually like being spoiled but I think knowing the broad strokes of what to expect actually helped here. I can imagine an AU where I blitzed through the first trilogy and onto 4 with no idea of what was coming and being... very upset and disappointed by the direction it took. Having several months to brace for things like Phoenix's disbarment, the 7 year gap, Trucy, etc definitely softened those blows and made me more amenable to them than I would've been otherwise.

Cases

For the most part I thought the puzzle solving was good and the pacing was solid. The puzzles were mostly challenging enough to be satisfying to solve but not so challenging as to be infuriating, and I don't think I needed a walkthrough at all. 4-1 is one of the best tutorial cases in the franchise so far (though I'd give the edge to 3-1) and 4-4 was a really cool finale. The middle two cases tbh I also found fairly charming, and there's usually a least one case in the middle that seems to drag forever, so that was a pleasant surprise. I played Investigations 1 right before this, and I thought both the puzzles and pacing in that game were frankly horrible, so AA4 won a lot of points just with that.

I did think Turnabout Corner and Serenade would be more relevant in the grand scheme of things. The half-spoilers I knew had me expecting a much bigger web of conspriacy than we ended up with -- I expected it to be more than coincidence that Phoenix got hit by a car, more than coincidence that the Borginian egg coccoons are related to poison etc ... like... I fully assumed this was going to tie into the atroquinine plot. But I guess not ... ? Lol

Characters

The new main cast are all very likable, despite my initial reluctance to have a new main cast to begin with. Klavier was an interesting change of pace as prosecutor, in that he wasn't particularly antagonistic outside of the court, nor was he particularly preoccupied with winning, but he was still fun and challenging enough to face off against. Trucy was fun and delightfully bonkers as all assistants should be. Apollo's longsuffering exasperation was hilarious. Ema is the BEST I loved having her as the detective I wish she was there all the time.

I loved Beanix, for the most part. I can see why he rubs some people the wrong way, and tbh I'm glad his last canon outing isn't ... this. But I didn't find him wildly out of character, or at least, when he was feeling "out of character" vs the trilogy it made sense given the intervening events. I also thought it was fun to see him from the outside and see what a galaxybrain 5d chess master he is. I do wish we'd gotten to see more genuine moments of him with Trucy.

Kristoph was fun as a villain, though I have to say fandom led me to believe he was much more of a mastermind puppeteer than he seemed to be in reality. I was expecting a whole decade worth of conspiracies! Instead he fucked up once and struggled to fix it for seven years, lol. I also found the Kristoph/Phoenix relationship a) very fascinating, b) not really what I'd been led to believe by fandom (shocker). I like the canon more though -- I like that instead of being a retread of the Dollie betrayal-from-someone-you-love it was two guys who hate each other being forced to play nice as part of their own schemes.

Criticism

I think it's fairly obvious AA4 was meant to be a soft reboot of the series, to pivot away from the trilogy cast and set up our new heroes in Apollo, Trucy, and I guess Klavier. I think this is probably the entire explanation behind Maya and Edgeworth (and others but lbr those are the big two)'s conspicuous absence... but that doesn't make their absence any less conspicuous. I can squint and forgive neither of them being there when Phoenix is accused of murder, even though I find that insane. I can squint around Maya maybe being off in Kurain during the Enigmar trial, even though I think they could've used a line of dialogue to explain it. But then we started playing past-Phoenix for huge portions of investigation and that started to fall apart for me. Sure, maybe he's pushing his friends away because he's depressed, or maybe he wants to keep Maya out of things because he thinks it's dangerous, or whatever -- you could at least throw in a line or two saying as much. Not mentioning them at all and setting AA4 so closely after AA3, where Phoenix fell through a bridge to save Maya and Edgeworth chartered a private jet, just feels ridiculous.

I also think, at the end of the day, the story here was focused on and pivoting around Phoenix. The core question of the game is "what the hell happened to/is up with Phoenix Wright?" I love Phoenix, so that alone isn't a negative -- except that I think it meant Apollo, Klavier and even Trucy felt underwritten. Trucy and Klavier have such personal stakes in the unfolding events with the Gramaryes and Kristoph, but we only spend a little time and hints on how that might influence Trucy, who mostly falls into the AA weird girl pattern of brushing off major trauma instantly. (Maya got this a lot too in the original trilogy.)

Klavier ... I like Klavier, but they did not do much with him. How did he feel about Kristoph going to jail? He doesn't seem to hold it against Apollo, which is uh, noble, but perhaps not believable. He says he values honesty and truth but do we know why?

Apollo, likable as he was, felt like a passenger in his "own" game, rather than a major character. He doesn't even solve much of the stuff happening in the big overarching mystery -- he is Phoenix's avatar in court, presenting evidence and clues Phoenix left for him. Unlike Trucy and Klavier, who I am pretty sure take a back seat from now on, I guess Apollo still has two more games to try and flesh himself out ... lol but I also know fan reception of those two is not great, so my expectations there are minimal.

Overall

A really solid game that I enjoyed playing, though I can see why it's controversial and not some people's favourite, if they really loved the trilogy. I think it's debatable whether this was the best/only way to continue the series after AA3. And I am excited to read and write a billion 7 year gap fics now.

#ace attorney #aa4 spoilers #oodly plays AA #apollo justice: ace attorney

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ladytauria · 5 months

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👀👀 meeting in the ER with damitim pls?

thank you!!

this is more urgent care than ER---actually, i'm picturing this happening at Leslie's clinic?---but. still on theme xD it's also heavily inspired by this post, bc... it's just so damian, you know?

“So… you said a cat did this?”

“Ah… yes.” Damian is distracted—not by the distant tug of a needle, in and out of his skin, but rather by the man doing the stitching.

He would not call him the most beautiful man he’s ever seen, but the man is certainly… attractive, with his sharp cheekbones and aquiline nose. Most striking is the pale, ice blue of his eyes; made even more so by the dark circles under his eyes.

Damian can relate.

“It was a kitten, actually,” he admits, somewhat reluctantly.

That gets those eyes on him, the needle stilling. The nurse’s brows raise. “A kitten?”

“She was very fierce.” Normally he keeps gloves in his car for such an occasion, but he had taken them out to wash them, and— Well. Of course he ended up finding the kitten before he got them back into his car.

"I see," the nurse says, a smile tugging at his mouth. "I wonder if I'll be stitching up the next poor person to find her, too."

Damian sniffs. "Hardly," he says. "She's in my car." His emergency kennel, luckily, had still been there. He hated to leave the poor creature out there—on the way over, he had contemplated calling Richard or Todd to pick her up for him. However, neither of them was likely to listen to his instructions to leave her alone. Richard because he would believe he could befriend her, and Todd because he would underestimate the severity.

Pity Cassandra was out of town.

Pity Jon lived two hours away.

“Huh.” The nurse goes back to stitching. “You didn’t let go?” He sounds vaguely impressed. Damian cannot help the way he puffs up with pride.

“Of course not,” he says. “I would hardly leave the poor thing out there to suffer. Fierce or not, Gotham’s streets are no place for a kitten.”

The curve of the man’s mouth turns—soft, almost. It is reminiscent of a look he often sees from Richard, though it incites a different feeling in him entirely. He feels… warm. His fingertips tingle.

“Of course not,” the man echoes, softly. “Do you do that a lot? Rescue kittens, I mean.”

“At nearly one in the morning? No, not typically,” Damian says. “However, I volunteer at an animal shelter, and I am enrolled in the veterinary program at Gotham University. I find myself rescuing many animals.” He also had, vaguely, considered the notion of stitching himself up. It was only the knowledge of Richard and Pennyworth’s disappointed faces that had sent him to the clinic, instead.

“Huh,” the man says, thoughtfully. “So what happens to the kitten now?”

“She is young enough it should be fairly easy to socialize her,” Damian says. “Once she is used to people, I suppose I will look into finding her a home.” He would keep her himself, but— He has reached his limit on the amount of animals he can realistically take care of. His younger self would scoff at this, but part of adulthood was learning his limits. A dog, two cats, a snake, and several fostered kittens were certainly his.

The nurse hums, snipping the thread. He lingers at Damian’s side. “You know… I always wanted a cat. Do you… think I could call you, sometime? Maybe arrange a visit?”

Damian’s pulse quickens. “I—yes. I would be, ah. Amenable to that.”

The nurse smiles. The brightness of it steals the breath from Damian’s lungs. “Cool,” he says. “Hold on just a second.”

The nurse disposes of the needle and washes his hands before snagging one of the brochures from the countertop, by the sink. He withdraws a pen from his pocket and writes, quickly.

When he passes it to Damian, he winks. “You should be good to go now, Mr. Wayne.”

“Thank you,” Damian says, sliding off the exam table. As he walks out the door, he glances down at the paper. On it is a phone number, which Damian memorizes automatically, signed—

Tim Drake. Call me :)

Next to words is a doodle of a cat, wearing what is likely a nurse’s cap.

Damian is impossibly, terribly charmed.

[ send me an au if u like~ ]

#damitim #timdami #asks and answers #waffleinator-inator #tauriawritesfanfic #did i make up a whole au in my head to go with this? ...no ofc not...#thank u for the prompt #this was fun!!!#i almost had this done last night but. i tripped over the end a little bit

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transmutationisms · 1 year

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feel free to ignore because i know you get one million asks per day but if you have the chance i would welcome any + all thoughts on lolita 👀

no please im dying to talk about lolita

so, i feel like i have to start with the critique of psychiatry, specifically psychoanalysis, that runs through the entire book. humbert tells us that he revels in making himself obscure to psychiatrists by lying to them; the extent of the actual deceit is ofc unclear because he's an unreliable narrator, but certainly it's true that psychoanalysis fails to 'fix' humbert or to save dolores, most obviously when the beardsley teachers believe she's psychosexually underdeveloped and approach humbert to discuss it. humbert delights in pointing out that the patterns the analyst seeks in human behaviour and desires simply fail, again and again, to correct or prevent his preying on children; also, obviously, psychiatry operates within / continuous to the institution of the family, and so is often categorically incapable of preventing or even perceiving violence that occurs as a result of a familial relationship, as in humbert's use of the father role to enable his rape of dolores.

and like, sure, humbert has plenty of self-interested reason to disdain psychoanalysis, as a science that positions itself as potentially aiming to prevent his sexual abuse. but the reasons he generally gives for his criticism are clustered around the idea that psychoanalysis seeks patterns where there are none to be found, and makes meaning out of nothing (eg, "the scholastic rigamarole and standardised symbols of the psychoanalytic racket"). of course, in truth humbert himself seeks patterns and order constantly, from his emphasis on his european morals and the contrast to the unruly america (particularly the western states), to his supposed talent in seeing the stratagems of chess laid out neatly on the board in contrast to gaston perceiving "all ooze and squidcloud," to his use of tennis as a kind of disciplinary measure with dolores, aimed at making the "symmetry" of the court bring out the "harmonies latent in her." and, nabokov goes out of his way to tell us that humbert also retains belief in those two other viennese sciences of pattern-seeking par excellence: phrenology (historically more inclusive a science than how we think of it today, and very much growing from and encompassing physiognomy, to which humbert makes at least one explicit reference and on which he implicitly relies constantly throughout the book) and mesmerism (encountered in this time period as the 'hypnotism' humbert speaks highly of numerous times, along with the fact that at the very end of the book he tells us that one pseudonym he considered using was "mesmer mesmer", a reference to franz mesmer).

this got me thinking about what nabokov was trying to convey by giving us this very clear picture of humbert as someone who, though hostile to psychoanalysis in particular, is generally not only amenable to this type of pattern-seeking and narrativising but often actually dependent on it. and then i thought, well, it's not really about order or patterns in themselves at all. what's at stake for humbert, and for us as readers, is the power relations underlying various discourses of social order, and the pattern of control thus enabled. humbert's problem with psychoanalysis is that it positions itself, however ineffectually, as trying to create subjects who are sexually 'developed' and 'healthy', which he encounters as being directly oppositional to his own interest in preying on girls, and his attempts to make dolores into lolita, whom he wants to be cultured and mannered rather than unruly—but the sense of rule and order needs to come from himself, not from the abstract and distant authority that the analyst speaks on behalf of. so, the critique of psychoanalysis is twofold. 1) analysts fail to see the danger of humbert or the rape of dolores even when it's occurring almost in front of them; but, 2) even if they were to perceive these things, what the analyst can offer is really just an alternate version of the same sort of disciplinary ordering that humbert tries to subject dolores to, only with the definition of order or normality or health coming from a whole social matrix rather than from one man. analogously, humbert can wield the threat of child protective services against dolores, because although it would remove her from his control, she would be at the mercy of a different source of violence, namely the state. in this way, of course, humbert's abuse and rape of dolores is not actually oppositional to but metonymic of these broader structures of violence, control, and coercion, which fits also with the way we can read his use of the father role as pointing to the violence inherent to the patriarchal family structure and specifically the father-daughter relationship.

this sort of interrogation of the relationship between institutional violence and coercion and humbert's rape of dolores is pushed even further, i think, when we consider psychiatry as a subset of medical practice, and medicine's role in the book. most obviously, there is humbert's use of psychotropic drugs in his attempt to rape dolores the first time; drugging her is something he previously fantasised about and practiced by administering sleeping pills to charlotte. but the book is also littered with medical intervention that humbert perceives as akin to, or symbolic of, sexual violation. when humbert visits quilty's dentist uncle, for example, he says that the uncle perceived his mouth as "a splendid cave full of priceless treasures", but that humbert "denied him access". his arrest he describes as "surrendering like a patient". describing the moments of "paradise" he experienced sometimes after raping dolores, he compares her to "a little patient still in the confusion of a drug after a major operation". this obviously recalls humbert's own willingness to drug dolores in order to rape her; however, it also suggests that there is a very real way in which medical intervention—frequently coercive, invasive, authoritarian, &c—is itself already a site of bodily violation and violence. once again, the institution or the social ordering of a relationship—doctor–patient, father–daughter—is an obfuscatory device. the relation creates and enables violence, then defines it out of existence. in 'lolita', humbert's ultimate use of this process is through the re-naming of dolores and his continuous efforts to force her to become the 'nymphet', a figure that replaces 'child' and re-defines her as seductive, otherworldly, &c.

i think this is also something nabokov plays with in humbert's and dolores's travels westward. humbert sees america generally as coarser, less well-mannered, and more unruly than the continent. thus, he perceives their travels as taking them outside the bounds of the social limitations and norms that could prevent or frown upon his rape of dolores: the school, the neighbours, and so forth. but this is clearly at odds with both his continued reliance on the father–daughter relationship in order to abuse dolores, and the fact that westward expansion never simply meant encountering a 'wilderness', but overruling whatever did exist before and installing the very social forms and institutions that, in the novel, enable humbert's rape and abuse of dolores: the state, the family, and so forth. in other words, humbert perceives his movement west as escaping some strictures of modern sexual mores and interference; in his mind, then, the 'conquering' of land is continuous with the sexual abuse of a girl. what nabokov points out is that, although humbert is not in fact 'escaping' into a wilder world, he is in some ways correct to perceive this broader project of expansion west as enabling rape, situated in the context of the broader violence of such expansion. for nabokov this can all be contextualised, i think, as part of the overarching centuries-long post-enlightenment discourses of ordering, controlling, and disciplining nature (which itself is often spoken of in the feminine), where humbert embraces and extolls such acts of discipline and control so long as he is their director, and opposes them only insofar as he perceives them as challenging his own authority—as in the case of his fear and disdain of psychoanalysis.

also: since you are the person who introduced me to tlt–lolita readings, i'm not sure if you've written about this, but it did seem to me like the narrative use of swordfighting in 'gideon the ninth' is expanding on how nabokov uses tennis in 'lolita'. i'm thinking of tennis as a measure by which humbert tries to discipline dolores, hence the emphasis on symmetry and, eg, his pride at having apparently taught her the "continental method" of retrieving a tennis ball with her racket/foot: again, trying to instill refined and ordered european manners over what he sees as her unruly american nature. in comparison, for gideon, refining her swordfighting and learning new techniques is essentially training her body to be first a soldier in the cohort, then a cavalier destined for the 'cannibalistic' death of harrow's lyctorhood. so, the way that humbert is trying to destroy dolores and replace her with lolita, gideon is being trained to become a weapon and a tool of empire (also re-named), with muir again suggesting that these forms of violence are continuous, can represent one another in a narrative, and exist in a causal relation where imperial expansion creates sexual violence. i also suspect there's a close read to be done here comparing the passages that describe dolores's movements on the tennis court to the ones in gtn focussing on gideon's and the other cavaliers' exact fighting techniques; i'm not sure what a person would find exactly lol, but i suspect there's something interesting there.

#ok sometimes when i post i feel like that pascal quote where he's like sorry i wrote you a long letter i didn't have time to shorten it lol #lolita

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amtrak-official · 9 months

Text

@renegade4-13 Here is the current draft for the story under the read more, not all characters have been introduced yet, but this is what I have written so far

Today is the 3rd Sunday of the Month, this means that the city of Saltpeter’s oddities, mistakes, and rarities have come together for Brunch, the national pastime of this peculiar crowd, among them are 2 librarians, a museum curator, a traveling beekeeper, a pen crafter, and about 20 other peculiar fellows. Take great note on the pair of drab brown haired people sitting at the very back of the train station restaurant. These boring sorts go by the names of Danny Jones and Danielle Jones and hold absolutely no relation to each other.

The thing about Danny Jones and Danielle Jones that is so interesting is not the fact that they share a birthday or last names despite being unrelated in any way other than a lesbian aunt 7 generations back, is the fact that these are the 2 most dull and boring individuals you will ever meet. Both have the personality of sliced bread and they aren’t much better in fashion either. There is nothing special about either Jones, they both live completely ordinary lives as shopkeepers on opposite ends of town. The most eventful thing either will do in a month is a Sunday Brunch. And yet both have managed to obtain a loving relationship with incredibly interesting people. And more interesting still is the fact that both are going to wind up dead at the end of the month.

Now to understand why this will happen, you must understand Saltpeter, importantly there are 4 cultural institutions in the city of Saltpeter, Firstly is the Library, it is one of the 3 which is actually known to the people of Saltpeter, and houses exactly 17,943 books and 67 are currently checked out. Next is the Museum of Maria Fernando, a town crazy lady who runs a museum on the way things used to be, this is the institution people like to forget, despite mattering quite a lot to the city, it has received exactly 17 visitors this month and stays afloat via Maria’s wife’s second cousin’s generous yearly donations in exchange for copies of old novels. The 3rd cultural institution is the rail station, it is on the route of the oldest train in the nation, the California Zephyr and is run by the best chef in the city, Leaf Ann Smith, capable of both killing a man and cooking in Omelette in under 20 minutes. Finally there's the Pen shop, they sell pens, specifically fountain pens, each are hand made by a Saltpeter craftsman, it made the list because we were paid 72$ to add it. If someone wants to stretch the definition of an institution, they could get it up to about 20 institutions and a playhouse worth of cultural amenities, but they would also have to include the brunch of the misfits of Saltpeter, which really shouldn’t be added on principle since it happens in Leaf Ann Smith’s train station anyways.

Now back to the Brunch, something very important is about to happen, There will be a rather large toast to the group. This is on account of it being the 3rd anniversary of the start of the groups monthly meetings. Somehow that is a point of pride among the members due to how it is the longest any Brunch group in Saltpeter has lasted after the Infamous Brunch fights 20 years ago. The Brunch fights were a rather dreary matter for such a pleasant pastime. 27 dead and 63 injured over a week. All because of bad French Toast at an upscale restaurant near downtown Saltpeter. And when I say bad, I mean bad, it was soggy, barely toasted, and didn't have any fruits except the one eating it. It's not even like Saltpeter doesn't have any strawberries, it was built on the largest strawberry farm west of the Mississippi. How do you fuck up French Toast that badly? How?

Oh right, the Toast to the Brunch crew, A tall woman in a Green Dress, a leather Jacket and Gold Hoop earings stands up, her hair is cut in a pixie cut. She grabs a Mimosa off the table and begins to talk. Hurricane Jane Rivers as they call her is many things, a lesbian, crazy, a storm chaser, dangerous, a purveyor of Pancakes, a painter and an aerial ace, but one thing she is not is consise. It would take 7 paragraphs to summarize her speech to that disparate group of oddities. In short though, she was thanking them for the best 3 years of her life. Little did she know, only half of them would see next month.

As her glass hits the glass of another member of the Brunch, a whisper rings through the air.

A tick of a second

And Bang, the train comes to a screeching halt outside the station, passengers get off as Leaf Ann Smith scrambles to hide her current mess of a Diner from the view of the wealthy tourists from downtown the tracks. The train is early for once. Precisely 17 minutes and 6 seconds early, something that should not have been possible given the fact that the train tracks were under repairs between Omaha and Saltpeter. And the train had a 2 minute delay when it arrived at the last station. This is all irrelevant if not to show how off guard it caught Leaf Ann Smith who usually manages to keep incredibly on top of the schedules of the train so she can run the station and Diner at once. Leaf Ann Smith is a busy Woman between the Diner, the Station and her time moonlighting as the union negotiator for between the carpenters guild and Sylvia Ink the sole crafter of fountain pens in Saltpeter and a person notoriously bad at paying their union dues. Now in a hurry, she rushes to kick out the Brunch party and clean up the messes left behind in her diner today. She had to rush the 20 people ot for a rather simple reason, she needs money to run a diner and the train is what brings her the best customers each day. As the crowd of weirdos and homosexuals scurries away. One Slyvia Ink bumps right into a Jim Halder. The only man in the city who still knows their face.

Jim Halder is a professor at the University of Saltpeter and has 40 years of Tenure there, starting as a professor at 31, despite being in his 70s, he looks rather young, with a smooth face and deep black hair, this however is a lie. If you look closely at his hair, you’ll notice a long white steak and an indent on his face above his left eye. This is because Jim’s face is not his first, while studying in the mines of Saltpeter, his face was burned off, and a new wooden one had to be constructed by Sylvia Ink, one of the only 4 things they ever made that wasn’t a fountain pen, the other 3 are another less lifelike mask, the hilt of a blade, and pen holder to hold their pens. Jim is a man of learning, giving every book he writes to the library after he publishes it, 14 of the books that are currently checked out were donated by him. If you were to inspect Jim closely you would also find that you could knock him over quite easily with a single punch due to his slim frame. The university that he works at is not considered a cultural institution by even the most generous people in Saltpeter because nothing of interest has been produced in the for 67 years. Well apart from Sylvia Ink and Jim Halder, and their incredible works of course, the two little wooden people of Saltpeter.

Jim was naturally surprised to see Sylvia at the station, but glad nonetheless to see that young fellow out of the workshop. When they bumped into each other, quite literally, as Sylvia had been too focused on a croissant to notice the man ahead of him. He proposed to the young carpenter that they go over to the old river park for a stroll to discuss the terms for the new project.

Despite being a chilly 50 degrees out, if you were to head across town from the rail station, over to the river. You will find 2 men on the banks of the river. One is sitting in a rather large Sycamore tree, reading a book, when he hears the train rush past. He is wearing a blue sweater and long pants, the other man is dressed quite poorly for the weather, he is wearing nothing but a swimsuit and his golden locks of hair. He stupidly planned on Swimming in the river today. He is 6 feet tall and somehow not freezing. These peculiar fellows meant to be at the brunch but the one in the Sweater, Alex Cela had set his pocket watch 3 hours behind. Even knowing this now, he was still caught off guard by the train crossing over the river since the train had not been early in 3 months. Despite being totally different, one a bit of an idiot and the other a top marks student at the University of Saltpeter, they have been dating for 2 months, and six days if either had remembered to keep track of that. They met at the park, Alex was trying to paint the trains and Damien had been trying to teach a cat how to swim, the pair of them instantly became friends after Alex stopped trying to attack Damien for ruining the painting. And the two started dating a week after they met, when Damien kissed Alex under an Oak tree in the town square. These 2 lovers were not however the only people in the park. There were about 400 give or take 27 people in that park on this chilly morning. But none of them Matter, None of them except for Emily Rock

#tags reply #last ride of the california zephyr

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am-i-the-asshole-official · 8 months

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AITA for comparing my disability to my mother's?

I have ADHD and Autism. My mother has MS. They are not the same, not by far, but they share some similarities- my mom agrees that both our memories are horrible, and we're easily overwhelmed.

I had a bad experience working at a pizza place; ableist managers, terrible customers, overwhelming environment... I had never felt so suicidal at the time. So after I quit, I was not eager to find another job. I thought I'd be walking back into misery. I tried to explain this to my mother, but she continued to encourage me to get a job so I can contribute to bills.

The encouragement became pressure as she said I'd have some amenities (computer and phone) taken away if I didnt at least get an interview by the end of the summer. I continued to tell her I wasn't ready to go back to work, and was afraid, but she mentioned that plenty of people with ADHD and Autism have jobs and are successful.

I said something about us both being disabled, and that if being employed wasn't the right path for her then maybe it wasn't the right path for me. She became very upset at this, and said our experiences weren't at all comparable. I know they aren't, but I was hoping that she might understand where I'm coming from better if I attempted to relate it to her own experiences.

I now have a part time job, and am severely limited in how well I can work. We're looking at options for SSI, which my mother is on, as it's possible i may not be able to hold a full time job after all. It's been well over 2 years since that interaction but I still feel bad when I think about it.

What are these acronyms?

#aita #am i the asshole

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queensectonia · 8 months

Text

last night i was reminded of one of my extremely few Hater Moments (lighthearted) about this series and i never got around to fully articulating my thoughts on it, so it is once again time for our regularly-scheduled kirby rant:

the spider sectonia reveal was poorly-executed on every level.

to start with, this plot element was introduced when the series was in its worst throes of Not Putting The Fucking Lore In The Fucking Games, but I will happily concede that this reveal was at least in a game; just not the game it should have been in.

I almost wonder if the Sectonia Clone as a whole was a leftover from the fact that Robobot started out development as Triple Deluxe 2, but considering that a) TD2 was dropped pretty early on and b) Robobot is just full to the brim with fanservice and callbacks anyway, I don't feel there's much evidence for such a theory.

at any rate, reducing the otherwise very intriguing reveal of Sectonia's prior form to a blink-and-you'll-miss-it easter egg in an entirely different game is pretty... underwhelming. we've had plenty of "reveals" or cool nods and expansions to other lorebits in similar easter eggs, but none of them were nearly as important as "oh, by the way, here's what the character whose whole arc revolves around personal and physical image used to look like! in a totally unrelated game!"

but that's the tamest complaint. that's just the accessibility of this information, which could have been better but certainly could have been worse.

the biggest problem is Sectonia's design. it's bad. it is just not good, fellas. she is literally just genderbent Taranza. it fails visually, it fails conceptually, and it fails really hard story-wise.

this design was so uninspired that when people in the EN sphere first saw it, tons of people thought it just was Taranza. then when we got screenshots, model rips, etc., it was still so painfully similar to Taranza that it made people assume HAL was saying Taranza and Sectonia were related - which turned into just as much of a shitfight as you might think.

even if this weren't attached to such a crucial character reveal, it's just downright a bad design! instead of taking even the slightest efforts to differentiate Sectonia from Taranza, they did the laziest, most barebones "uhhhhhh what if taranza But Girl" design shift possible. she's wearing the exact same outfit as Taranza, just palette-swapped. so little effort went into both the concepting stage and the modelling stage. she's just Taranza's model with the merest tweaks to make sure you know this is a Girl Spider.

genuinely, I would be a hundred times more amenable to this entire plot point if HAL had just bothered to give her an actual design.

but the problem is, making Sectonia a spider kind of just fucks everything about her story and contradicts itself at multiple points.

the aesthetic and theme language in TD is very clear. this is one of the biggest strengths that both it and Robobot share - the identity and literary through-lines of both games pervade every single visual element of them. Robobot tells its tale of capitalistic tech-fuelled colonialism through every part of the game from level backgrounds, to enemy designs, right down to surgical decisions like mechanising the pinwheel tree that was such a fond image from KRtD. every tiny thing bore the mark of the HWC, whether metaphorically or literally, such that you spent the entire game never forgetting that there was one unified force behind all of this, and Haltmann at the end of the game was the culmination of this aesthetic.

TD did the exact same. every part of TD sells that it's a fantastical fairytale romp through a series of themed locations with a connecting thread of the invading Antr* force.

*(this is a way better romanisation than "antler" this is my hill)

if anything, I'd argue that TD's design language in this respect is tighter than Robobot's, because Robobot had a fairly broad theme of "industrialisation and hi-tech space future sci-fi" to draw its foes from, whereas TD had to condense its antagonists under the stricter banner of "evil insect army".

and they did incredibly. every point of design about the Antrs points straight to Sectonia and draws from her in some way or another. it's absolutely seamless. she's the perfect logical endpoint of Antr design from every angle: she's the literal queen bee of this insect hive and the perfect expression of their anatomy. she's bigger than the biggest Antr. she's more developed. she's more powerful. they were so careful and thorough about this design conceit that Antrs have multiple stages that all march straight up to Sectonia. we go from the tiny bronto burt and waddle dee clones with their little wings and eyes that seem so familiar, to the Antr soldiers, all the way up to the Lord Antrs who are one step away from Sectonia. they have stripes and facial markings to echo hers. it's all wrapped up with the genius bow of combining ants, bees, and wasps: they're all hymenoptera! the metaphor goes even deeper than that because there's a species of wasp that parasitizes spiders! controls them, even!

... except no actually, we've decided she's a spider too and all of that buildup and artful design means nothing.

it's awful. it's taking what is far and away one of the best-executed designs in the series and saying that all of that buildup and blatant connection of ideas meant nothing.

but that's just the visual end of it. Sectonia actually being a spider makes no sense in the lore, either.

first of all, TD's incredible design sense and artistic direction applies to Taranza as well. while he's obviously derivative of Magolor, within the context of TD he's clearly meant to evoke the sky fairies. he's designed to look much more like them than any of the insect characters. he's got the same body type, he moves the same way as them, he's a sky fairy with a spider theme. the game draws visual parallels between him and the sky fairies more than once; this is not unintentional.

this is part of what makes Taranza's role as Sectonia's right hand more impactful: he's only insect adjacent, and the design language would have you believe he's more closely related to the fairies than the insects, so him being with the bad guys is notable and interesting.

so why would a spider character be the ruling monarch of the insect hive? why would the line go ant, bigger ant, fancy ant, armoured ant, spider, wasp?

I mean, shit dude, the miiverse posts directly tell us that Sectonia used to "look like her insect underlings". it really feels like the decision to make her be a spider was a total spur-of-the-moment one, between how badly it interacts with the rest of the story and how lazy the design was. Sectonia's backstory had a couple of holes in it regarding the actual timeline of things, but those were just mysteries regarding what order everything happened in. she was both a bodyjacker and a good queen at one point, which don't exactly jive, so it becomes interesting to think about how those two facts coexist. on the other hand, her being a spider just gets shoehorned in there for no apparent reason other than to... heighten her connection to Taranza?

and that just dovetails into the complete mockery HAL made of Taranza's character development after TD, and THAT is a rant for another time.

there was just no point to it all. Sectonia being a spider adds nothing, removes a bunch of nuance and intrigue, and muddies both her story and the background world of TD.

#kirby #queen sectonia #truly the laziness of the design is the most insulting part #i'm not lying i'd love this WAY more if they put even a shred of effort into it #christ this one was long and rambly. this isn't a topic i have overly-organised thoughts on other than ''wow that's bad''#ANYWAY ENJOY

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shewhoworshipscarlin · 2 months

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Jester Hairston

By Life Magazine via Google Images-Photographer Loomis Dean., Fair use, https://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?curid=28896923

Jester Joseph Hairston (July 9, 1901 – January 18, 2000) was an American composer, songwriter, arranger, choral conductor and actor. He was regarded as a leading expert on black spirituals and choral music. His notable compositions include "Amen," a gospel-tinged theme from the film Lilies of the Field and a 1964 hit for the Impressions, and the Christmas song "Mary's Boy Child."

Hairston was born in Belews Creek, a rural community on the border of Stokes, Forsyth, Rockingham and Guilford counties in North Carolina. His grandparents had been slaves. At an early age, he and his family moved to Homestead, Pennsylvania, just outside Pittsburgh, where he graduated from high school in 1921. Hairston was very young when his father was killed in a job-related accident. Hairston was raised by his grandmother while his mother worked. Hairston heard his grandmother and her friends talking and singing about plantation life and became determined to preserve this history through music.

Hairston initially majored in landscape architecture at Massachusetts Agricultural College in the 1920s. He became involved in various church choirs and choral groups, and accompanist Anna Laura Kidder saw his potential and became his benefactor. Kidder offered Hairston financial assistance to study music at Tufts University. from which he graduated in 1929. He was one of the first black students admitted to Tufts. Later he studied music at the Juilliard School.

Hairston pledged the Chi chapter of the Kappa Alpha Psi fraternity in 1925. He worked as a choir conductor in the early stages of his career. His work with choirs on Broadway eventually led to singing and acting parts in plays, films, radio programs and television shows.

Hairston sang with the Hall Johnson Choir in Harlem for a time but was nearly fired from the all-black choir because he had difficulty with the rural dialects that were used in some of the songs. He had to shed his Boston accent and relearn the country speech of his parents and grandparents. Johnson had told him: "We're singing ain't and cain't and you're singing shahn't and cahn't and they don't mix in a spiritual." The choir performed in many Broadway shows, including The Green Pastures. In 1936, the choir was asked to visit Hollywood to sing for the film The Green Pastures. Russian composer Dimitri Tiomkin heard Hairston and invited him to what would become a 30-year collaboration in which Hairston arranged and collected music for films. In 1939, Hairston married Margaret Swanigan. He wrote and arranged spirituals for Hollywood films as well as for high school and college choirs around the country.

Hairston wrote the song "Mary's Boy Child" in 1956. He also arranged the song "Amen", which he dubbed for the Sidney Poitier film Lilies of the Field, and arranged traditional Negro spirituals.[16] Most of Hairston's film work was in the field of composing, arranging and choral conducting. He also acted in more than 20 films, mostly in small roles, some uncredited. Hairston starred in John Wayne's The Alamo (1960), in which he portrayed "Jethro," a slave owned by Jim Bowie. In 1962’s To Kill a Mockingbird Hairston portrayed the uncredited role of the father of accused rapist Tom Robinson. In 1967’s In the Heat of the Night, Hairston portrayed the butler of a wealthy racist being investigated for murder. In both films, Hairston shot scenes along side men who won an Academy Award for Best Actor in those respective films for portraying white Southerners navigating their jobs through a racially divided culture.

In 1961, the U.S. State Department appointed Hairston as Goodwill Ambassador. He traveled all over the world teaching and performing the folk music of the slaves. In the 1960s, he held choral festivals with public high-school choirs, introducing them to Negro spiritual music, and sometimes led several hundred students in community performances. His banter about the history of the songs along with his engaging personality and sense of humor endeared him to many students.

During his nationwide travels, Hairston checked local phone books for other Hairstons and reunited many people on his family tree, both black and white. He composed more than 300 spirituals. He was the recipient of many honorary doctorates, including a doctorate from the University of Massachusetts in 1972 and a doctorate in music from Tufts in 1977.

In his later years, Hairston served as a cultural ambassador for American music, traveling to numerous countries with choral groups that he had assembled. In 1985, he took the Jester Hairston Chorale, a multiracial group, to sing in China at a time when foreign visitors would rarely appear there.

Hairston died in Los Angeles of natural causes in 2000 at age 98. For his contribution to the television industry, Hairston has a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame located at 6201 Hollywood Boulevard. He is interred at Inglewood Park Cemetery, Inglewood, California.

#historical #actor #black history month

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majorbaby · 1 year

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The minute I cut that rope they made me a soldier. MASH Season 11, Episode 6 — Bombshells

I used to post practically every week about s11e06 Bombshells because it's my favourite BJ episode and the one I find most fascinating, because BJ seems to frequently think that it's BJ against the world, and Bombshells is a rare example where I think this is narratively true. At last, here are my lengthy but decently articulated thoughts about this Very Special Episode (to me!).

BJ has this "lone wolf" view of himself because he either imagines he has nothing in common with the people around him and therefore it's hard for him to relate to them, or he actually has a hard time relating.

Aside from Potter, who is hardly his peer, and Frank who is The Worst and also leaves two seasons into BJ's run, BJ is the only main cast member who has a wife and/or child waiting for him at home. He's in a different stage of his life than anyone else, and he lashes out at Hawkeye and Margaret at different points claiming specifically that they can't possibly understand what he's going through by being in Korea, away from his family. But for a few differences in their personalities, their world views, and I suspect their class backgrounds (though the latter two are open to interpretation), Trapper might be the character whose civilian life and role on the home front most closely resembled BJ's, and they should kiss about that tbh.

Relatability is important to BJ. We see that through the tension created when he feels his friends 'can't relate' to what he's going through to the point that he gets upset if they try to tell him they understand how he feels. We also see this through how he bonds to people from similar walks of life, for example, the patient in Death Takes a Holiday. Some of this is just normal human behaviour. It makes sense that BJ would relate better to people who share the same values as him, and a wife and children are symbols of those values. Of course, that doesn't mean we can't or shouldn't connect with people who have different lifestyles with us. BJ obviously does do that, although he doesn't stop wanting relatability and that can make things rocky for everyone involved. What I'm trying to say is, BJ isn't as alone as he seems to feel he is. In fact, it's kind of funny how not-alone he is, sharing a tiny tent with Charles and Hawkeye, which naturally causes tension between the three of them. And the fact that he relies very heavily on Hawkeye's support throughout the show.

But in Bombshells, he's really, properly alone. Early in the episode, he'd been giddy to get away from the camp and everyone in it to spend a day by himself, fishing peacefully. Then the most harrowing thing to ever happen to him onscreen happens, and Hawkeye isn't there, as he so often is, to shoulder it with him. All BJ has is a total stranger who gives him an impossible task that goes against pretty well everything BJ believes in, to a fault. A doctor forced to cause someone's death - imo, I think this moment is equally as traumatizing for BJ as Hawkeye's moment on the bus in Goodbye, Farewell and Amen. BJ, who couldn't get on board with Hawkeye's plan to do a medically unnecessarily surgery in Preventative Medicine — even if it meant they had a chance to prevent the further injury or deaths of dozens of patients — is forced to cut a man's life line. It's a devastating moment and I have a lot of sympathy for him.

I know BJ well enough at this point that I don't expect him to voluntarily reach out to anyone for help, but interestingly, his isolation is even mirrored by the B-plot. We get an unusual Hawkeye-Charles team-up, where they run a scam reminiscent of the ones Hawkeye and Trapper used to pull, duping the whole camp for funsies. It's not just that normally HawkBeej are the unit to Charles' lone-wolf, it's that Charles and BJ's roles are reversed here even in the tone the plots take: CharlesHawk are doing something frivolous together, while BJ pursues a serious plot - now it's possible my memory may be failing me, but I can't think of another episode that replicates this formula. One specific example of these plots playing off one another as the A/B plots regularly do on MASH: BJ makes a phone call to try to figure out if the man whose line he cut might've survived, while Hawkeye and Charles make a phone call to see if they can contact Marilyn Monroe, the star of their scam.

In typical BJ fashion, when Potter tries to ask if everything's okay, BJ pulls away and acts like everything is fine, but this time it's because he has a plan and he wants to see it through on his own, rather than just sit by himself feeling powerless. He even tells Potter he'd like to try another fishing trip — trying to catch the one he'd cut loose the day before. He does all of this on his own checking beds, asks around, flings open the doors of the ambulance trying to see who's inside — but the fact that these scenes are interspersed with the B-plot, this would make an interesting montage, which is the thought that inspired the gifset I made. It matters less to me why he's doing it and more that it's a rare instance of him doing it on his own.

If he thinks that's because no one can help him, the episode doesn't really argue with his assumption. Hawkeye can tell that something is off, but despite his efforts, BJ keeps himself out of reach. I do not like the position the narrative takes at the end, when BJ tells Hawkeye that they, as surgeons think they're "self-righteous" and better for thumbing their noses at the estabilshment - I think that's a pretty dishonest way to characterize everyone at the 4077th including BJ and an straight example of MASH's unfortunately centrist leanings in the later years.

But despite my problems with that messaging, I still like this episode for it being about BJ and his resolve, detached from those around him and detached from the other big part of the BJ character - his family. All the other big BJ episodes - Period of Adjustment, War Correspondent, Death Takes a Holiday - feature his personal relationships in a big way that drives the plot. Bombshells is an episode that promotes BJ to protagonist, demoting other characters who might otherwise play a role in the drama.

This is most striking to me when even Hawkeye is unable to reach BJ and plays no role in the resolution of the A-plot. He sympathizes with BJ and tries to comfort him with "Well you didn't have a lot of options" - that may be compassion from Hawkeye, but I think it probably sounds dismissive to BJ, and that puts them in an odd role-reversal: BJ in crisis, and everything Hawkeye says is cold comfort to him. Finally, Hawkeye resigns himself to the feeling that he can't help BJ with this and so he leaves when Margaret comes to get him.

I'm not especially fond of the way BJ resolves the plot by giving away his medal and is then shown to be somewhat at peace with that, not because I fault BJ for it, but because I take issue with the broader practice and so does the show on many an occasion. What's important to me is that BJ also does that completely on his own — tie-up the plot.

I could probably go on about how much I disagree with the messaging of this episode, how much I detest the show taking a shot at it's own formerly anti-establishment beat and how that actually does the BJ character a disservice, but I'm not going to here because it's not as important to me as the unique format of this episode.

Bomshells is no s04e19 Hawkeye, but I really appreciate having so much textual stuff to chew on for BJ, rather than having me sit here and try to interpret the inconsistent writing that the writers admitted to for BJ, or Mike Farrell's acting directions. You could say this about a lot of characters, but BJ really deserved to be given the opportunity to stand on his own two feet more often.

#bj hunnicutt #mash #m*a*s*h #re: mash #beej meta #s11e06 bombshells #maybe now i can finally chill tf out about this damn episode #probably not tho <3 #majorbaby.gif #had to get my nod to MY beejtrap leanings in there 8D

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