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procutemeister · 4 years

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these, our bodies possessed by light || vergil x reader, chapter 1

The city of Red Grave has been defeated; Urizen, the devil king, has risen. No warriors have been able to best him, and countless lives have been offered to him in sacrifice. They say the devil king’s bloodlust is boundless… And you, last of the witches of Red Grave, are his betrothed.

(Vergil x F!Reader, with some V x F!Reader. Arranged marriage AU, with elements of Beauty and the Beast and 1001 Nights. An attempt to give Urizen some personality. Romance, eventually.)

much thanks to @tonitart for supporting me as i write this. <3 if you'd like to be tagged, let me know.

read it under the cut or on ao3 here!

these, our bodies possessed by light

1. land a man in a landscape and he’ll try to conquer it

Today was to be your wedding day.

Soon to be married to the devil king, all you could feel was trepidation and fear. Your marriage was not one for love, far from it; it was a marriage of compromise. Of sacrifice.

An offering of your life, for peace between the humans and demons, a reprieve from the cruelties of hell on earth.

You have a responsibility, your aunt told you as you dressed in the nicest gown you owned. It’s an honor, to have so great a task bestowed upon you.

I am going to die, you wanted to say. Your finest dress would become your funeral gown.

As one of the last witches, you were offered to the devil. With your unique abilities, the people of Red Grave hoped that you might find a way to end the devil king’s reign of terror. While it was true that you possessed some magical power, you were experienced mostly with healing and incantations, rather than combat magic.

You had met the man—if he could be called that—who was to be your husband only once before. You were relieved that at least, you would not have to live in the Underworld for this union; you would live in a palace that remained on earth.

No man nor demon on this world or the one beneath could face him. The people were sure that his was the wrath of a god, unleashed upon a defenseless humanity, and that such a great and terrible god could only be sated by the ultimate sacrifice, the gift of life.

However, you remembered that day—meeting your betrothed, slouched on his throne as you were presented to him. He had not been any more amenable to the marriage than you were. Impossibly tall, his features masked by demonic armor, you had been unnerved at the sight of him. You recoiled when you imagined the marriage bed—you could not possibly be expected to perform the wifely duties for such a creature, could you? He looked utterly monstrous to your human eyes: a twisted appearance, his body the color of brimstone and blood and covered in roots and thorns.

His voice was inhumanly deep and rattled your very bones.

“Is this to be my bride? A human?”

Despite yourself, you froze like a rabbit faced by the wolf. Your heart thundered and you could not help but cower, because what defense did you have against this creature?

You let your eyes settle on him. You could not discern even a hint of humanity in him, only the cruel cold glow of blue light in the gnarls of his skin, the suggestion of a crown by the thorns on his brow. There was no soul in those eyes.

The man beside you quailed, though he had been the one who had arranged all this. He said, “This is an offering from the humans. One of our most precious—one of our own. A great sacrifice.”

You were hardly as great an offering as he made you out to be. You were no virginal young maiden, no legendary beauty, nor the prized first daughter of a proud and subjugated lord. Your life and your body were being thrown away to sate the bloodthirst of a devil that did not even desire you. What use were you, really, to him?

He seemed to consider this. “I could kill her,” he said, “the night we are married. I have no use for human scum.”

Your blood ran cold. He couldn’t possibly—but this was a devil, not just any devil, but the king of them. You would not put it past him to kill you in cold blood. You knew that devils would not hesitate to execute any mortal that dared displease them.

And those who had come to his house before you, all killed by his hand, were the evidence: warriors that dared take arms against him, spies who attempted to undermine his power from the inside, and others like you, who had been offerings from their own hometowns. They, too, had been sacrificial lambs, offered to the demon king in a desperate bid for the legions of hell to stop ravaging the land, misguided appeals to the devil king’s nonexistent mercy. You knew not why those women had been deemed unsatisfactory, nor how many they numbered, only that they had all failed to suppress the devil king’s thirst for blood.

Rumors abound that he took wives not for procreation nor for pleasure, but for his own sadistic, murderous desires. Some lived for quite a while, others only a single day before being executed. But they all ended up the same way: dead.

Today, at your wedding, you had to find out how you could stay alive.

Before you left, you recited a spell of protection for yourself, so that you might not come to harm. You spoke the incantation from your memory as easily as you read it from a book, the familiar words and energy of the magic calming your mind. You pulled out a pendant you wore around your neck, a simple crystal you had infused with dormant power. This you poured your protective ward into, then hid the pendant beneath your wedding clothes. Then, a prayer, to the spirits above and below, that your magic might hold, and your treacherous intentions remain obscure.

Your betrothed had made almost no arrangements for the ceremony, not that you thought demonic weddings were even supposed to exist, anyway. There was simply a minister who had administered the rite upon the both of you, reading aloud the marriage vows and presenting the documentation of your union. One other demon was present as your witness, and that was all. You found you much preferred this, if the alternative were to get married with the people’s eyes upon you, watching and complacent at your sacrifice.

Your husband was called Urizen. He remained seated and he spoke no more than was absolutely necessary. There was no reception after the ceremony, only a dispersal of the scant amount of demons in attendance.

He did not stay with you afterwards, either. In fact, you would not see him until well after night had fallen.

In the meantime you were introduced to your chambers. Possibly the only good thing about this was that you would be living in comfort, however short the rest of your life might be. The palace was an old one, standing centuries before your great-grandparents were ever born, and comprised of so many rooms and structures that you could conceivably take years to explore it all. It was clean, surprisingly so, but cold and empty. It did not have the life of servants bustling around, or any other residents. Or maybe it did, and you had not seen neither hide nor hair of them. The palace was certainly large enough.

Of note were the books in what you assumed to be your husband’s room. There was an astonishingly large amount, and when you looked, they were mostly fiction and poetry, contrary to what you had thought. Some titles you even recognized, and many were well-worn, obviously read several times.

It was a strange detail, you mused, that a devil with such disdain for humans would so readily consume their literature. It was something that had kept the gears of your mind turning the rest of the day. You had a way with words, and writing had always been one of your strengths. This, along with the way your magic manifested, would be the key to your survival.

In the evening you took dinner alone. Despite being human, you were still considered with some respect, as you were served delicious food in a large and ornate dining hall. You were just completely alone; even the demons that served you were mere mannequins, unable to speak or perform actions beyond their purpose. You had the feeling that your new husband did not like to populate his home very much. You weren’t sure if that were better or worse; surely there would be no one to witness or call out to if he attempted to murder you, and you doubted that anyone would even notice in such a situation.

After dinner you washed up, spending so long in the bath you were sure you would shrivel up like a prune. You didn’t want to think about what was to come once you headed to bed; Urizen had not yet returned from wherever he had gone.

With apprehension you left the bath and dressed for bed. You wore a long nightgown, one that covered your body as much as possible. You missed your corset and your layers that shielded your body, much better than a simple nightgown could. You climbed into the bed, a large, ornate affair carved from dark wood and curtained with damask. The bed was sinfully soft, and against your better judgment you found yourself slipping into sleep as you lay there, wrapped in blankets and exhausted from the day’s events.

* * *

You didn’t want to do this.

Terror clasped at your very bones as the plan was explained to you: you, the last witch remaining in Red Grave, would be sent tomorrow into the devil king’s lair under pretense of an offering, as many other towns and cities had attempted to do.

“Hide your magic,” your aunt told you. “Find out what you can about his protections.”

“Yield to his demands,” your uncle instructed you. “Do what you must to survive.”

Numbly, you nodded, even as your veins ran cold.

“Your life is no longer your own,” they said. “The people of Red Grave count on you, now.”

The people of Red Grave had sent their men and women in futile attempts to fight the demon king. When that failed, they began to leave, or to bend the knee to cruel and demonic overlords. Some had fled to Fortuna, hoping that the supposed land of Sparda’s blessing would offer respite from the demonic invasion. Only a few years later was that hope disproven; demons installed themselves in that city’s highest of holy orders, and now Fortuna too bowed under the weight of hellish rule. Your parents had gone to war, too. They fought, and they died, and now you were expected to assume that burden.

You pressed a hand to the crystal that hung from your neck, a last gift from your mother, who taught you everything you know.

Then you silenced your fear. Outside, the summer flowers bloomed, mindless of the blood spilled on their grounds, and you promised upon your life to venture into the heart of the devil king.

* * *

You immediately woke at the opening of the door. You were still restless, after all. Moonlight still poured in through the window; you hadn’t been asleep long. The one who entered was a devil, one you recognized attending your wedding. From his chest he glowed orange, the light the color of molten rock, with an impressive set of wings extending from his back. He spoke:

“My lady. You are summoned to the throne room.”

You blanched at the address, though you expected it as befitting one who was the demon king’s wife. You supposed this made you a queen, but the title meant nothing when you felt like a prisoner. You were not allowed in the throne room, not unless you were explicitly summoned. Despite your position, you held no power in this place. All you had were your brains and the strength of your will.

“Y-Yes,” you wavered, and stood unsteadily, your hands wringing at the cloth of your nightgown. You followed the devil to the large room where Urizen stayed, dark save for the fireplace, kept lit with blue flames.

It was your husband, looking much the same as he had during your wedding. He still wore the same expression of cold indifference. At his side floated the ever-present red jewel, a mysterious object from which you could feel waves of strong demonic power. What manner of magic was it, you wondered?

“My lord husband,” you addressed him, taking a knee as you had been instructed to.

“Wife,” he grumbled, as if saying the word pained him. “Get up.”

You stood. Urizen was seated on his throne, one arm bending to support the chin, eyes skating over you to land on the flames in the fireplace as if you weren’t even there.

You had not moved. You bit your lip, wondering if what you had in mind would work, or if it were even sane. Once again, the image of the books next to the chair revived itself in your mind.

“My lord husband,” you said again, “may I interest you in a story?”

Your voice interrupted his brooding. He raised his head slowly from his hand, his face turning towards you in what looked like a silent fury. You hoped you hadn’t inadvertently angered him with your seemingly inane question.

“…A story?”

There it was, that deep, deep voice that sounded like the rumble of the earth itself. There was something strange in his tone: less animosity, something more akin to questioning. Maybe curiosity, if you were feeling generous.

“Yes,” you said, “I like to tell stories.”

You could barely keep the tremor from your own words. So far, he had done nothing, but Urizen still terrified you, as distant and dangerous as he was, the sound of his words before still echoing in your head.

I could kill her the night we are married. I have no use for human scum.

You didn’t know if he was serious or not. Maybe for now he would keep you alive, or maybe he would murder you later.

“You realize this is no harmonious marriage,” he said. “You mean nothing to me. I do not care about your stories.”

He sneered the last word. You could not help but shiver, but your mind’s eye once again found those well-worn books, stories and poetry that were clearly loved and perused. How long had it been, you wondered, since he had cracked open a book?

You settled yourself next to his throne. Carefully you started to speak, weaving the story you had formed in your mind. You had always been a lover of art, of literature, and you had dedicated many years of study to the humanities. You felt you could put together a story that would keep his attention and weave your spell so that your husband would not lay a hand on you and—maybe—change his heart.

To your astonishment he made no move to stop you. On the contrary, he seemed like he was listening, though he never said a word and never did he turn those cold eyes towards you.

You felt your resolve waver, but you didn’t let yourself falter, not when you had lulled him into this strangely receptive mood with your words. You still feared the devil—after all, he could so easily kill you, and even slouched in his throne you felt the aura of death from him. The red crystal revolved, silent and dangerous.

You continued your tale. You told it all the way until you had reached the last of what you’d written. The hero had fled the destruction of his hometown and met a young woman to whom he’d recounted his tale. He felt torn between his need for vengeance and the feelings that were quickly growing for her.

“Is that all?” Urizen asked.

You looked out the east window. The sky was swathed in violet and edged in gold by the encroaching sun.

“Morning approaches, my lord husband,” you said. “The story must be continued the next evening—I haven’t slept.”

He grumbled, but made no further complaint. Then, “Get out.”

“My—”

“Return to your chambers. Bother me no further.”

You quickly stood, nodded, and nearly ran out of the throne room. You weren’t sure how long you ran, or if you were even going in the right direction, but you made it back eventually.

You closed the door behind you, chest heaving, and not only from the running. You felt like you had just escaped with your life, and when you clutched a hand to your chest, your heart was pounding. You clenched your fists, fear and anxiety knotting between your lungs.

Knees weakening, you fell back into the large, soft bed, trying to calm your racing heart. After tossing and turning you fell finally into a restless sleep.

* * *

The next morning you woke alone. So, he didn’t have you killed in your sleep, at least.

When you looked out the window the sun was already high in the sky. You’d slept in a little; considering how late you’d stayed up the previous night, telling your husband your story, it was to be expected.

You hadn’t been given any actual responsibilities in your new home. You had the distinct feeling that Urizen considered you little more than a nuisance in his home; a thing without real purpose here. It suited you just fine: the more invisible you were in this den of demons, the more likely you were to get out of this alive. And the longer you stayed, the more you would become acquainted with the devil king, and his weaknesses, no matter how small those might be. All you needed was a single chink in his armor, and you’d be able to work your magic.

Your husband, to your knowledge, had never left the throne room. You could not go to check; the red devil that had escorted you there the night before was also nowhere to be seen. Was he just a servant, you wondered, or something more? His presence at the wedding implied the latter.

With you thus unoccupied, you decided to fill your day with exploration. The palace was undoubtedly beautiful, and you wondered why a devil would take such a place as residence. Maybe it was a site of great demonic power…? The home of a conquered human lord? You would not put it past the devils to take a man’s home as a war trophy. You were simply astonished at the state the house had been left in: it was pristine, as if servants cleaned it every day, as if demonic forces had never breached its walls. The glass of all the windows remained intact, the floors sparkling; elegant curling columns reaching towards beautifully painted, vaulted ceilings, and stained glass throwing multicolored light against the walls.

Wandering the halls, you trailed a hand absently along the walls. The sunlight shone brightly outside, and the thickness of the air signaled the height of summer approaching.

Somehow, you found yourself at the far corridor of the west wing. Judging by the sun’s position, it could not be later than noon, and so you thought a bit more exploring could not hurt until you were expected to take your midday meal.

This part of the palace was as pristine as the rest of it, just as clean and untouched, but the energy felt different here. Where you previously felt ignored by the few beings that crossed your path in the halls, here you simply felt… alone. It wasn’t a lonely feeling. On the contrary, you felt peace in the solitude.

At the end of this corridor was a large double door, vaulted, heavy and inlaid with colored tile. It was beautiful, and you couldn’t help but wonder what was inside. After checking to see that you were indeed alone, you placed both hands on the beautiful doors and pushed, making your way inside.

The room that revealed itself to you was a vast library, with towering shelves that seemed never-ending. Sunlight streamed through the large windows, so bright and the air so still that you could see the motes of dust floating.

The way the doors creaked and the difficulty in pushing told you that no one had set foot in here for a very long time. You supposed demons did not really have much time or purpose for human literature, though once again you thought of the books in your chambers. Were they Urizen’s? You doubted it when you thought about it. He had not been to those chambers with you, and it seemed in character for him to arrange a whole separate suite of rooms for you, far away from himself.

You looked again to the library you were in. A shame no one seemed to come here, because this place had been built to take advantage of the sunlight. There were tables and chairs for writing, and cozy little alcoves for reading. You could easily picture yourself spending hours here. Your parents had nurtured a love for reading in you, and you felt a prick of loss at the thought of them.

As you lightly ran your fingers across the spines of the books, reading their titles, the dust stirred. Truly, no one had come in here in recent memory but you. You thought maybe this could be your hideaway, far enough that you could feel even a little like yourself again, and still close enough by that you could easily validate your presence here. All these books would help, too, as would the ones in your bedroom, for crafting more of the stories that had somehow ensnared your husband’s attention. And if, by chance, they held magical knowledge as well, you could do some surreptitious research.

Moreover, it was simply a beautiful place. Even if you were not in the clutches of a devil, you would gladly come here every day.

The sun outside heralded the afternoon, and you knew you would be fetched and served lunch. Quietly, you left the library, closing the doors behind you. You could return another time, you thought. For now, you would acquiesce to the expectations (however little there were) of you.

In the throne room a human was being brought to kneel before the demon king. This man had dared protest his power and struck one of his knights in retaliation. Such insolence demanded punishment, and the decree for him was death.

“Do what you must,” said Urizen. “My power will not be challenged.”

He waved an imperious hand, sprawled as he was on his throne. The guards took the prisoner away, heedless of his piteous cries.

“I did nothing wrong! It was him, he—”

They dragged him to the courtyard, the man’s struggling making a spectacle of the walk. It was just your luck: the window overlooking that courtyard was the one right in front of you.

One of the silent knights struck him across the face with his metal gauntlet. He fell to the ground, and another pulled him onto the chopping block.

His pleas were cut short by the descent of the axe upon his neck.

You stared, barely believing what had happened right in front of your eyes. A man had been killed. You watched the blood spurt, the ground turn red beneath him. Above the body, the branches of a large, leafless tree swayed in the windless air, its bark as white as bone. Red splattered over that bone-white tree, soaked into the earth beneath, and his head rolled on the ground with a heavy thunk.

What had that man done? You weren’t shocked that executions were carried out here at the palace itself, but seeing it was another matter entirely.

Were you going to be next?

You had no stomach for the rest of your meal. You stood, fighting the urge to retch, and took off back to your room. Feeling numb, you hoped that you would not be summoned to attend to your husband in the evening. You weren’t sure you could take another fright in the same day. To distract yourself, you made notes on the story you had started the previous evening, in the case that you would need to provide a continuation. Your mind wandered, far from the confines of the palace walls, as you wove your tale.

Of course, right before you were about to begin your evening toilette, the same devil from the night before came to your room to escort you to Urizen once again. Various other demons came in and out of the palace during the day, but this one was the only one you had encountered at night, not counting the mannequin demons that cleaned and served in the kitchen.

In case this devil was going to remain as your chaperone, you deigned to ask him his name.

“I can’t really say, my lady. But you can call me Tony.”

You noted there was a strange, clipped quality to his words, as if some spell or physicality prevented him from uttering his name. Or maybe you imagined it because demons had different voices than humans. More than that, though—

“Tony?” you echoed. “That’s…” An unusual name for a demon, you were going to say. Much too… human. His face, too, was far more humanlike than the other demons you had encountered.

To your surprise, he chuckled. “A weird name? Sounds better than Urizen, I’d say.”

His nonchalant manner took you off guard. You hadn’t been expecting this at all.

“I only meant that I didn’t expect a devil to have such a normal sounding name,” you explained.

He shrugged. “It doesn’t need to be complicated. Just Tony is fine.”

Before you knew it, you were back again in the great hall, standing before the doors to the throne room. Tony walked ahead of you to open the doors and once again, you saw your husband.

You walked through the large room, one you surmised was the largest one in the entire palace, approaching your spouse. Tony remained outside.

You tried not to let the images from earlier that day distract you too much. The man’s cries. The blood seeping into the ground. The tree that moved by itself.

You nearly crumpled the notes in your hand.

“Wife,” Urizen said, in that deep, dark tone. There was no discernable expression on his obscured face, and none in his voice. You bowed before him and awaited his instruction.

“The tale from yesterday. Continue it.”

You breathed a sigh of relief. As long as this remained all he asked of you, you would be okay, probably. Shuffling through your notes, you began to recite the rest of the story.

Again he offered neither comment nor interjection, or really any reaction at all, which you supposed was the best you could hope for at the moment. The plot you’d woven was fairly basic: the hero of this story was torn between his mission and the growing love between him and the lady who had rescued him, and while he was making to leave, the lady asked to accompany him. She wanted to help him, she said. He did not want to get her involved in his problems.

“This is not just about you!” said she. “I lost loved ones in that attack too. And who’s to say they won’t attack this town too—”

“I have a mission. It’s dangerous.”

“With them out there, everywhere is dangerous,” she said. “I am going whether you want me to or not.”

Cursing his mission for vengeance, she left him to seek a new home for her family.

“What a strange tale,” Urizen said.

“Wh-what?” This was the first time he’d spoken about the story itself. You couldn’t tell whether he meant the comment as a compliment, or as a sign he disliked it, and a shiver of panic rose in you.

“If that is all, you may go.”

You weren’t done, but you also didn’t want to go against his word.

“Then I shall resume tomorrow evening, my lord husband.”

He said nothing, only waving his hand in dismissal. You gathered up your notes, bowed hastily, and left the room.

You wondered—why did he decide to comment on the story now? Was there something about the tale he disliked? He had given no clue as to his feelings, as always. His expression had remained inscrutable and distant. Your hands clenched around your books and papers, frustrated.

Tony was nowhere to be found outside. Alone, you walked back to your room, returning to fitful sleep.

“So? What about it, V?”

There was a crow perched on the top of an armchair in the library, where a young man sat deep in thought.

“Think she’s the one?” the crow asked the young man.

“She has power, I can feel it,” he responded. In his hands he held a book, idly flipping through the pages.

“But what about—"

He interrupted the crow. “She’ll come back. I’ll speak with her then.”

“If you’re sure,” the crow said. “Y’know, I could always fly out there, get her to come if you can’t—”

“No need,” he responded. “What she needs is here. She’ll come back.”

#vergil x reader #v x reader #dmc #devil may cry #vergil #vergil sparda #devil may cry 5 #dmc5 #dmc vergil x reader #fanfiction #my fics #fic: tobpbl

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arkaniist · 4 years

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I wrote 2.5k words about Tolkien, WWI, Le Morte d’Arthur, the Iliad and Odyssey, and more, all bundled happily in an essay about queer subtext in the Lord of the Rings revolving around the relationship between Sam and Frodo. I posted about this before, and someone asked me to post the essay, so here it is!

Homoerotic Subtext in the Lord of the Rings

In June of 1916, J. R. R. Tolkien shipped out from England to France to join his comrades on the Western Front. In July, he would participate in one of the bloodiest struggles of World War 1, the Battle of the Somme. Just a month later, he would be struck with Trench Fever, placing him in convalescence or behind a desk for the remainder of the war. Though his front-line experience was short, there is no denying the effect that the war and the loss of his closest friends had on Tolkien, nor the influence it had on his writing in the post-war years. Much has been written on that topic already. However, there is one aspect of Tolkien’s time in the service which is underexplored when it comes to the literary critique of his legendarium – of which the Lord of the Rings is but a piece – and that is his exposure to the widespread homoerotic attitudes which were a common undercurrent in the British armed forces during that time.

Homosexuality has always been an overlooked behavior on the front during wartime, even as it passed from common practice to taboo. One reason for this might be that people who are worried about being shot to death in a trench have other things to worry about besides who their mates might be kissing. Another might be that facing death brings a greater appreciation for love to the front of the mind, and it does not matter which gender that appreciation is directed towards. As a result, we find many examples in literature and letters of men expressing chaste but deep homoerotic love for other men. In The Great War and Modern Memory, Paul Fussel writes that in WWI-era battlefield poetry, one could not fail to notice ‘the unique physical tenderness, the readiness to admire openly the bodily beauty of young men, the unapologetic recognition that men may be in love with each other.’ (303). “War poetry has the subversive tendency to be our age’s love poetry.” he quotes Richard Fein. In that case, we must examine war literature for the same sentiments.

Most common in officers towards their men, we find ‘something more like the “idealistic,” passionate but non-physical “crushes” which most of the officers had experienced at public school. … What inspired such passions was — as always — faunlike good looks, innocence, vulnerability, and “charm.” The object was mutual affection, protection, and admiration.’ (Fussel 295) This makes sense, as ‘the tradition in Victorian homosexuality and homoeroticism [is] that soldiers are especially attractive. What makes them so is their youth, their athleticism, their relative cleanliness, their uniforms, and their heroic readiness, like Adonis or St. Sebastian, for “sacrifice.”’ (Fussel 302) In the Lord of the Rings, we find Frodo described as ‘taller than some and fairer than most, and he has a cleft in his chin: perky chap with a bright eye.’ (Tolkien 163). At his coming-of-age birthday party, he inherits the great evil that is the One Ring from his great uncle; he is an unintentional sacrificial lamb. Later, when he volunteers to take the One Ring to Mt. Doom knowing that it is likely a one-way trip if he can even make it that far, we find in our protagonist a young, beautiful, self-sacrificing hero.

Fussel writes that ‘although the usual course of protective affection was from superior to subordinate, sometimes the direction was reversed, with men developing hero-worshipping crushes on their young officers.’ (297) Enter Frodo’s counterpart and co-protagonist, Samwise Gamgee. Tolkien wrote in a 1956 letter to a fan that “My ‘Samwise’ is indeed (as you note) largely a reflexion [sic] of the English soldier—grafted on the village-boys of early days, the memory of the privates and my batmen that I knew in the 1914 War, and recognized as so far superior to myself.” (Letter 187)

A batman, in military parlance, was a soldier who, as well as fighting, oversaw an officer’s kit, cooking, and cleaning. (Garth) However, Sam is so much more than Frodo’s servant, though they start the journey as master of the house and gardener. Sam shows an incredible dedication to Frodo that cannot be explained as mere class-based loyalty. Take this passage from Return of the King when the enemy has captured Frodo. The Hobbits are separated, and Sam is up against what seems like impossible odds – faced with the task of raiding an entire tower he assumes is filled with enemies, alone, armed only with a short sword. He does not even know where Frodo is or if he is still alive:

‘… Except for that little frightened rat, I do believe there’s nobody left alive in the place!’

And with that he stopped, brought up hard, as if he had hit his head against the stone wall. The full meaning of what he had said struck him like a blow. Nobody left alive! Whose had been that horrible dying shriek? ‘Frodo, Frodo! Master!’ he cried, half sobbing. ‘If they’ve killed you, what shall I do? Well, I’m coming at last, right to the top, to see what I must.’ (Tolkien 887)

… He cared no longer for Shagrat or Snaga or any other orc that was ever spawned. He longed only for his master, for one sight of his face or one touch of his hand. (Tolkien 889)

Besides demonstrating Sam’s willingness to face certain death rather than leave Frodo, this passage is a perfect illustration of another one of Tolkien’s literary inspirations besides the Great War. Tolkien was a scholar of European mythology, drawing inspiration for his legendarium from epic myths like the Old English Beowulf and the Finnish Kalevala. Read the following lines from Le Morte d’Arthur regarding King Arthur’s death:

Then Sir Bedivere cried: Ah my lord Arthur, what shall become of me, now ye go from me and leave me here alone among mine enemies? … And as soon as Sir Bedivere had lost the sight of the barge, he wept and wailed, and so took the forest… (Mallory, Book 21 ch. V.)

Alas, said Sir Bedivere, that was my lord King Arthur, that here lieth buried in this chapel. Then Sir Bedivere swooned; and when he awoke he prayed the hermit he might abide with him still there, to live with fasting and prayers. For from hence will I never go, said Sir Bedivere, by my will, but all the days of my life here to pray for my lord Arthur. (Mallory, Book 21 ch. VI.)

These Medieval warrior relationships themselves draw from an even older literary tradition, one with not so much covert homoerotism but overt homosexuality. Ancient homosexual pederastic relationships like that of Alexander and Hephaestion or Achilles and Patroclus form the model for many close male warrior literary relationships. Compare Achilles’ reaction to Patroclus’ death in the Iliad to that of Bedivere to Arthur’s and Sam to Frodo’s:

A dark cloud of grief fell upon Achilles as he listened. He filled both hands with dust from off the ground, and poured it over his head, disfiguring his comely face, and letting the refuse settle over his shirt so fair and new. He flung himself down all huge and hugely at full length, and tore his hair with his hands. … Antilochus bent over him the while, weeping and holding both Achilles’ hands as he lay groaning for Antilochus feared that Achilles might plunge a knife into his own throat. (Homer, Book XVIII)

Near-suicidal grief at the loss of the beloved is a common theme between the three of them. Achilles lives to avenge Patroclus, Bedivere lives to pray for Arthur’s soul, and Sam, as luck and Tolkien would have it, lives to save Frodo, who was not dead after all, though it was a close thing. Sam’s joy at finding Frodo alive is as poignant as his grief at having thought he lost him – unashamed physical affection and more tears follow the discovery of his master.

[Frodo] was naked, lying as if in a swoon on a heap of filthy rags: his arm was flung up, shielding his head, and across his side there ran an ugly whip-weal.

‘Frodo! Mr. Frodo, my dear!’ cried Sam, tears almost blinding him. ‘It’s Sam, I’ve come!’ He half lifted his master and hugged him to his breast.

…

‘Well, you have now, Sam, dear Sam,’ said Frodo, and he lay back in Sam’s gentle arms, closing his eyes, like a child at rest when night-fears are driven away by some loved voice or hand.

Sam felt he could sit like that in endless happiness; but it was not allowed. It was not enough for him to find his master, he had still to try and save him. He kissed Frodo’s forehead. (Tolkien 889)

Tolkien’s earlier description of Sam as a combination of village boy and batman fits neatly with Fussel’s declaration that ‘to the degree that front-line homoeroticism was sentimental it can be seen to constitute another element of pastoral.’ (Fussel 300) In the Lord of the Rings, the Shire – Sam and Frodo’s home – represents the ultimate ideal of Pastoralism. In the Shire, Hobbits live community-focused rural lives with minimal conflict, drinking and feasting and partying, with little to no exposure to more advanced societies of the East. In that light, the entire quest of the Lord of the Rings can be seen as a removal from the Pastoral – the world becomes darker, less hospitable, and less natural the further East the Hobbits travel until they reach their end goal: a blighted, unnatural wasteland dominated by machinery.

As Frodo falls further and further under the sway of the One Ring, he forgets the Shire. He loses his connection to his pastoral home. Nevertheless, ever at his side is his loyal Sam, who recalls even in the darkest moments the comforts of home. Sam is Frodo’s link to the pastoral ideal when his suffering is the greatest. Sam’s yearning for the pastoral often comes up in the form of recalling Frodo as he was in the Shire. This is exemplified by the following passage near the end of their quest, just after the One Ring has been destroyed:

‘Well, this is the end, Sam Gamgee,’ said a voice by his side. And there was Frodo, pale and worn, and yet himself again; and in his eyes there was peace now, neither strain of will, nor madness, nor any fear. His burden was taken away. There was the dear master of the sweet days in the Shire.

‘Master!’ cried Sam, and fell upon his knees. In all that ruin of the world for the moment he felt only joy, great joy. The burden was gone. His master had been saved; he was himself again, he was free. (Tolkien 926)

While Sam represents and thus easily returns to an idyllic pastoral existence after the war, Frodo remains haunted by his experiences. Finally, we reach the real end of Frodo and Sam’s journey, the temporary separation before the eternal unification. Frodo and Sam go to see off Frodo’s uncle, and there Frodo reveals he will be passing into the West as well – a form of eternal life in Middle Earth, but one that is forever separate from the rest of the world:

‘Where are you going, Master?’ cried Sam, though at last he understood, what was happening.

‘To the Havens, Sam,’ said Frodo.

‘And I can’t come.’

‘No, Sam. Not yet anyway, not further than the Havens. Though you too were a Ring-bearer, if only for a little while. Your time may come. Do not be too sad, Sam. You cannot be always torn in two. You will have to be one and whole, for many years. You have so much to enjoy and to be, and to do.’

‘But,’ said Sam, and tears started in his eyes, ‘I thought you were going to enjoy the Shire, too, for years and years, after all you have done.’

‘So I thought too, once. But I have been too deeply hurt, Sam. I tried to save the Shire, and it has been saved, but not for me. It must often be so, Sam, when things are in danger: some one has to give them up, lose them, so that others may keep them. But you are my heir: all that I had and might have had I leave to you. … You will … keep alive the memory of the age that is gone, so that people will remember the Great Danger and so love their beloved land all the more.’ (Tolkien 1006)

Here we see Frodo acknowledge that this separation splits Sam’s spirit – part of Sam goes to his home and family, but part always goes with Frodo. Frodo encourages him to live the rest of his life fully in the Shire, and when the time has come, he can reunite with Frodo in the ‘afterlife.’ Contrast this to Patroclus’ final request of Achilles in the Iliad:

“One prayer more will I make you, if you will grant it; let not my bones be laid apart from yours, Achilles, but with them; … let our bones lie in but a single urn, the two-handled golden vase given to you by your mother.” (Homer, Book XXIII)

Furthermore, the resolution in the Odyssey, as Odysseus reassures Achilles that his will was done:

Your mother brought us a golden vase to hold them—gift of Bacchus, and work of Vulcan himself; in this we mingled your bleached bones with those of Patroclus who had gone before you… (Homer, Book XXIV)

Return of the King ends with Sam riding home with a heavy heart to his family after watching Frodo’s ship depart to the West. Like the Iliad and Odyssey, we must read a bit further to determine what eventually happens with Frodo and Sam. The Lord of the Rings has a massive amount of supplementary material, including maps and family trees. In Appendix B, we find a chronology of the years before, during, and after the main novels. It reveals that at age 96, after the death of his wife, Samwise rides out to the Havens and passes over the Great Sea to unite with Frodo for the final time.

Queerness is often overlooked in serious examinations of literature, especially when the voices of cishet men dominate the discussion, as they do in Tolkien scholarship. Tolkien scholars have repeatedly dismissed the idea of homoeroticism in Tolkien’s works as silly fangirls making things gay for titillation, which erases queer voices and condemns queerness to the realm of the unrealistic and ahistorical.

I have been a fan of the Lord of the Rings and the Hobbit since I was queer child struggling with gender identity and sexual attraction. In sixth grade, I received my first copy of the Lord of the Rings, and I read it voraciously until the pages started to fall out. Although I did not fully recognize the homoerotic undertones back then, I still yearned for the deep, lasting, emotionally fulfilling, and life-changing same-sex relationships I saw in those books. Even 20 years later, as a queer adult, the idea that I might share something so intensely personal with my heroes is vitally important to me. J. R. R. Tolkien died in 1973. He was a devout Catholic who maintained a lasting friendship with a gay poet and spoke with great esteem of a novel about gay men written by a lesbian; one can hardly imagine what he might have said about the idea of queer subtext in his writing. But if I, a queer reader, recognize some essential part of myself in Sam or Frodo, if I see my bonds in their bond, is that not enough to warrant an entrance into the discussion and serious consideration? Whether you see their relationship as a purely platonic friendship or a great romance of the ages, Sam and Frodo are in love.

Works Cited

Fussel, Paul. The Great War and Modern Memory. Oxford University Press, 2013

Garth, John. “Sam Gamgee and Tolkien’s batmen.” 13 February 2013, [msg for link].

Homer. The Iliad. Translated by Samuel Butler. Project Gutenberg, 2000. [msg for link].

Homer. The Odyssey. Translated by Samuel Butler. Project Gutenberg, 1999. [msg for link].

Malory, Thomas. Le Morte d’Arthur, edited by Caxton, William, and Sir Edward Strachey. Project Gutenberg, 2014. [msg for link].

Tolkien, J. R. R. “Letter 187.” The Letters of J.R.R. Tolkien, edited by Tolkien, Christopher, and Humphrey Carpenter. Houghton Mifflin, 1981.

—. The Lord of the Rings. HarperCollinsPublishers, 1994.

#lord of the rings #lotr #queer theory #queer academia #sam x frodo #samfrodo #samfro #is that the tumblr shipname?#if u wanna cite this anywhere now that i'm officially publishing it (by posting it) u absolutely can #but please credit me as Alex Kakela and not arkaniis lmfao

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author-morgan · 4 years

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Deimos!Alexios NSFW Alphabet

Deimos!Alexios x Fem!Reader

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Deimos is steadily getting better when it comes to aftercare, just as he is getting better and learning how to show affection. He doesn’t act aloof anymore and starts taking time to tend to you. He’ll check for any scratches and soothe the angry-looking love bites on your neck and chest with soft kisses. Deimos helps you clean up too. While he’s not one to cuddle, he still drags you into his side (and if you want to curl up to him he’s not going to stop you).

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

His favorite body part is his arms because of how strong they are —he can easily pin you down with them and have his way with you. You also like his arms, but Deimos’ thighs are surely sculpted by the gods. There have been times when he’s let you get off by riding his thigh.

Deimos’ favorite part of you is your hands. He likes how much smaller they are than his and how delicate they look against his skin, especially near the scars on his torso and back. He also enjoys how talented your hands are when they’re struggling to wrap around his thick cock. A close second for him is your stomach —Deimos likes how soft it is, a reminder that you aren’t a warrior, and how it rolls and creases as he bends your body like Hephaestus does hot iron in his forge. He thinks it’s a glorious sight to look down and watch his seed paint your belly.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

The Cult may not have told him everything —but deep down he knows he’s only a weapon and they want his bloodline erased (why else would they be hunting his parents and sister?). He knows that if you bear his child the Cult will either twist it into a monster like him or leave it to be exposed. For that reason, Deimos mostly finishes on the inside of your thigh or your stomach. If –for whatever reason– he cannot control himself and cums inside you, he’ll make sure you’re supplied with silphium or wild bird’s nest to prevent conception.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self-explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

It makes him feel a little guilty, but Deimos takes pleasure when you struggle —mostly trying to fight for control, or at least to be able to touch him when he pins your hands down.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Before you, whispers were that the Cult provided their champion with prizes for his victories —a night with some unfortunate soul or souls— to quell the monster until morning. The first time you lay with Deimos, he left you wanting. He knew how to please himself, but not another. It’s a tedious process to teach him the workings of a woman’s body, but after some time he learns what you like (and don’t) and ensures you’re never left wanting again.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

It’s basic, but his favorite ways to take you are with you on your back —legs wrapped around his waist— or on all fours (or bent over a table). Deimos does get a certain thrill when you’re on top of him, but he likes being in control too much for those moments to last long.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Deimos is serious and it’s reflected in everything he does —including when he has his way with you. You don’t mind as it’s his nature.

H = Hair (how well-groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

He’s the face of a powerful organization and image is important to him, even for areas not seen in public. He keeps everything tidy —once he’s comfortable around you, sometimes he’ll even let you help.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

For the longest time, he tried to remain detached, but soon his emotions started getting in the way. That’s when the dynamic started to shift between the two of you —his kisses and touches become softer and linger a little longer and he holds your gaze longer, making sure you’re satisfied.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

For the most part, Deimos controls his compulsions well and rarely ever jacks off. He suppresses his desires when he’s away —he doesn’t need the distraction when he’s trying to sway a leader or change the tides of war— but when he returns, his pent up desire is released like a flood.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Besides an obvious kink for being in control, Deimos also has a kink for marking you as his. He likes seeing the shallow indentation of his teeth on your shoulder, the purple-red hickeys on your neck and breasts, even the light bruises on your hips. (Deimos won’t ever tell you, but he enjoys it when you mark him too especially when your nails break his skin and leave scratches over his back.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

There’s a spot south of the Temple of Apollo that’s always quiet with a view of the sea —he likes to take you there and have his way with you with the moon and stars as witnesses. When you’re there, Deimos tends to take things slower, is gentler, and you might even dare say bordering on romantic. While that’s his favorite place, he’ll take you just about anywhere if he wants you bad enough —in a fort or leader’s house, in one of the antechambers of the Cave of Gaia, on a ship at sea— anywhere.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

Three things can easily get Deimos riled up. 1) When you shake your hair free from a braid or let it down from a pinned style it drives him crazy and he wants nothing more than runs his fingers through it. 2) Back and neck rubs, mostly it’s unintentional as you’re just trying to help soothe his tight muscles after a stressful mission or long day of training. Though sometimes when you’re feeling brave your hands will slip around to his torso, pressing into his abdomen —if you do that, Deimos is on you in seconds. 3) Seeing you for the first time after being separated will get him going too.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn-offs)

Deimos isn’t going to do anything that could seriously hurt you, sure his hands leave a fair share of bruises on your hips and thighs, but he’ll never do anything that could truly injure you. After all, the Cult has made it very clear that he will not receive another prize should anything befall you.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

It was clear when you first met Deimos that he preferred receiving over going down on you —in part because he never had a partner up until you that made him want to return the favor. He still enjoys having your mouth wrapped around his cock, his hand tangled in your hair. When you're sucking him off, it gives you a sense of power and pride to have one of the strongest men in the Greek world completely at your mercy.

When Deimos goes down on you, he always acts like a starved man at a feast —pulling your legs over his shoulders and holding you against his mouth. The stubble of his jaw scraping your thighs, his warm tongue against your clit, and rough fingers pressing into you, curling and stroking. He doesn’t stop until you’re writhing, unsure if you’re pulling him closer and pushing him away.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

He tends to be on the rougher side even if he’s taking things slow, but if you’re ever in pain or uncomfortable he’ll make small adjustments to make sure he doesn’t hurt you. On rare occasions, you can get him to truly take things slow —it doesn’t take long before you’re begging him to go faster and deeper.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Deimos isn’t opposed to a good quickie. Most of the time he pulls you aside for a quick fuck when he has to leave suddenly and isn’t sure when he’ll be back.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Deimos is down to experiment to some degree, mostly it’s trying new positions (he’s always going to be the one in charge though unless you manage to catch him off-guard). He only takes risks when he knows you’re okay with it. One time he had his hand over your throat and you’d laid your over his, squeezing his fingers. That’s how he found out you enjoyed the light pressure of his hand wrapped around your throat.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

He has the blood of the gods running in his veins —he can easily go three to four rounds before he’s spent and tends to last far longer than a typical man. Deimos has been known to keep you up to until the early hours of the morning.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

There’s an olisbos lying around somewhere (it’s molded after his likeness though he’s never expressly mentioned that, but every time the cool, smooth stone slips into your heat it always feels familiar). There are a few long strips of silk lying around, too —Deimos only uses those if you’ve been especially ill-behaved.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

He’s not much for teasing. There’s still ample foreplay between you and Deimos, but it never feels like teasing. You’ve gotten away with teasing him before, like when he was training you to use a sword though once he realized what you were doing, Deimos pulled you aside —his stiff cock pressing into your stomach.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

He’s not particularly vocal during the act. Mainly he just grunts and groans —sometimes right before he cums, soft moans bordering on whimpers will escape his lips. You notice once he’s free from the Cult he becomes a little louder, less controlled, and eventually, he even starts panting and breathing your name like a broken prayer.

W = Wildcard (a random headcanon for the character)

One of his favorite things is after he gets back from an assignment or training and is bathing. He loves it when you start massaging his scalp, working down to his shoulders and arms, around to his back. Soothing his tense muscles and tracing over his scars. Eventually, you always end up in the water, too —with him lazily thrusting up into you, hands holding onto your hips, face pressed into your breasts, and your hands threaded into his matted hair. Now that you think about it —bath sex is one of your favorite things too.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Deimos is well endowed. He may only be a demigod, but his cock is that of an Olympian god —15 cm with an equal amount of girth. When he’s completely hard, it curves slightly to the left with swollen veins running from base to head.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

He has a healthy sex drive —maybe even a little higher than an average man. When he’s not off somewhere doing the Cult’s bidding you can expect to have sex two or three times during a week, unless he’s in a bad mood. His libido is always higher once he returns from being away from you, though.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterward)

If Deimos is beyond the point of exhaustion, he can fall asleep almost immediately, sometimes while still laying on top of you (it takes practice to be able to shimmy part of his weight off of you without waking him). Other times it takes hours for him to fall asleep —even if you’re already sound asleep lying next to him, and sometimes he doesn’t sleep at all.

#Alexios #Deimos #Alexios Imagine #Alexios Fanfiction #Assassin's Creed Imagine #Assassin's Creed Fanfiction #Assassin's Creed Odyssey #Deimos!Alexios #Deimos x Reader #Deimos Imagine #Deimos Fanfiction #my writing #100% have a fluffy alphabet in the works too

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praiseyah · 4 years

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Top 9 things you need to know about King Dawid ( David) and how the book of Psalms, killing his mistress's husband, his sons brutal rape of his own sister, were just the cusp of his story. ... King Dawid, The man after Yahs own heart'

#1 He took over the Kingdom of Ysrayl after King Shaul failed as king.

2 Samuel 5:1-4 All the tribes of Israel came to David at Hebron and said, “We are your own flesh and blood. 2 In the past, while Saul was king over us, you were the one who led Israel on their military campaigns. And Yah said to you, ‘You will shepherd my people Israel, and you will become their ruler.’”

3 When all the elders of Israel had come to King David at Hebron, the king made a covenant with them at Hebron before the Yah, and they anointed David king over Israel.

4 David was thirty years old when he became king, and he reigned forty years. 5 In Hebron he reigned over Judah seven years and six months, and in Jerusalem he reigned over all Israel and Judah thirty-three years.

#2 He was from the tribe of Yahudah ( Judah)

1 Samuel 17:12 Now David was the son of an Ephrathite named Jesse, who was from Bethlehem in Judah

#3 Dawid fell out of favor and angered Yah for lusting after a woman while she was bathing and then fornicating with her and getting her pregnant.

2 Samuel 11:2-5 It happened late one afternoon[d] that David got up from his bed and walked about on the roof of the king’s house, and he saw a woman bathing on her[e] roof. Now the woman was very beautiful.[f] 3 David sent and inquired about the woman, and someone said, “Is this not Bathsheba the daughter of Eliam, the wife of Uriah the Hittite?” 4 Then David sent messengers and took her, and she came to him, and he slept with her. (Now she had been purifying herself from her uncleanness.) And she returned to her house. 5 The woman became pregnant, and she sent and told David, and she said, “I am pregnant.”

#4 After he got Bethesda pregnant he then plotted to kill her husband, Uriah. Dawid told his servants to send Uriah to the front lines of war, so that he can fight against the fiercest opponents and be killed first.

2 Samuel 11:14-16 And it happened in the morning, David wrote a letter to Joab, and he sent it by the hand of Uriah. 15 He had written in the letter, “Put Uriah in the front, in the face of the fiercest fighting, then draw back from behind him so that he may be struck down and die.”

16 When Joab was besieging[j] the city, he put Uriah toward the place which he knew there were valiant warriors.[k] 17 The men of the city came out and fought with Joab. Some from the army from the servants of David fell; Uriah the Hittite also died.

#5 After Dawid successfully got Bethesda husband killed, he married her and she gave birth to their son.

2 Samuel 11: 26-27 When the wife of Uriah ( Bethesda) heard that Uriah her husband was dead, she mourned over her husband. 27 When the mourning was over, David sent and brought her to his household, and she became his wife and bore him a son. But the thing which David had done was evil in the eyes of Yah.

#6 Yah cursed Dawid by causing evil in his household. Putting family against family, etc. Yah also took his wives and gave them to his neighbors so they can sleep with them in broad daylight

2nd Samuel 12:11 Thus says Yah, ‘Look, I am going to raise up evil against you from within your house, and I will take your women before your eyes, and I will give them to your neighbor, and he shall sleep with your wives in broad daylight

#7 Once Yah caused evil to rise up against Dawid's family due to Dawids lack of discipline and self control- things got worst. So worst, that his other children were also feeling the brunt of it; because soon after, his own son raped his daughter.

Amnon ( Dawids son) became sexually obsessed with his own Sister ( Tamar) and then concocted a scheme with their cousin to rape her. House in shambles.

2 Samuel 13:1-14 In the course of time, Amnon son of David fell in love with Tamar, the beautiful sister of Absalom son of David.

2 Amnon became so obsessed with his sister Tamar that he made himself ill. She was a virgin, and it seemed impossible for him to do anything to her.

3 Now Amnon had an adviser named Jonadab son of Shimeah, David’s brother. Jonadab was a very shrewd man. 4 He asked Amnon, “Why do you, the king’s son, look so haggard morning after morning? Won’t you tell me?”

Amnon said to him, “I’m in love with Tamar, my brother Absalom’s sister.”

5 “Go to bed and pretend to be ill,” Jonadab said. “When your father comes to see you, say to him, ‘I would like my sister Tamar to come and give me something to eat. Let her prepare the food in my sight so I may watch her and then eat it from her hand.’”

6 So Amnon lay down and pretended to be ill. When the king came to see him, Amnon said to him, “I would like my sister Tamar to come and make some special bread in my sight, so I may eat from her hand.”

7 David sent word to Tamar at the palace: “Go to the house of your brother Amnon and prepare some food for him.” 8 So Tamar went to the house of her brother Amnon, who was lying down. She took some dough, kneaded it, made the bread in his sight and baked it. 9 Then she took the pan and served him the bread, but he refused to eat.

“Send everyone out of here,” Amnon said. So everyone left him. 10 Then Amnon said to Tamar, “Bring the food here into my bedroom so I may eat from your hand.” And Tamar took the bread she had prepared and brought it to her brother Amnon in his bedroom. 11 But when she took it to him to eat, he grabbed her and said, “Come to bed with me, my sister.”

12 “No, my brother!” she said to him. “Don’t force me! Such a thing should not be done in Israel! Don’t do this wicked thing. 13 What about me? Where could I get rid of my disgrace? And what about you? You would be like one of the wicked fools in Israel. Please speak to the king; he will not keep me from being married to you.” 14 But he refused to listen to her, and since he was stronger than she, he raped her.

**After he raped his own sister, Dawids other Son Absalom killed him for being a sick and twisted pervert and raping their sister. House in Shambles.**

2 Samuel 13:26 Then Absalom said, “If not, please let my brother Amnon come with us.”

The king asked him, “Why should he go with you?” 27 But Absalom urged him, so he sent with him Amnon and the rest of the king’s sons.

28 Absalom ordered his men, “Listen! When Amnon is in high spirits from drinking wine and I say to you, ‘Strike Amnon down,’ then kill him. Don’t be afraid. Haven’t I given you this order? Be strong and brave.” 29 So Absalom’s men did to Amnon what Absalom had ordered. Then all the king’s sons got up, mounted their mules and fled.

V.32 This has been Absalom’s express intention ever since the day Amnon raped his sister Tamar.

#8 Things didn't get better for Dawid and his family-Yah continued the curse and killed the son that he had with Bethesda. Their 1st born child together.

2nd Samuel 12:13 Then David said to Nathan, “I have sinned against Yah!”[j] Nathan said to David, “Yah has also forgiven your sin; you shall not die. 14 But because you have utterly scorned[k] Yah in this matter, the son born for you will certainly die.”[l] 15 Then Nathan went to his house, and Yah struck the child that the wife of Uriah ( Bethesda) bore for David, and he became ill. 16 David pleaded with Yah on behalf of the boy and David fasted. He went to spend the night and lay upon the ground. 17 The elders of his household stood over him to lift him up from the ground, but he was not willing, and he did not eat any food with them. 18 It happened on the seventh day that the child died, and the servants of David were afraid to tell him that the child was dead, for they said, “Look, when the child was alive, we spoke to him, but he would not listen to our voice. How can we tell him, ‘The child is dead’? He may do something evil.” 19 When David saw that his servants were whispering together, he realized that the child was dead. Then David said to his servants, “Is the child dead?” And they said, “He is dead.”

#9 Dawid was extremely remorseful that he fell out of favor with Yah, and caused all this destruction to himself and his family. So remorseful, that he beautifully wrote Psalms 51 as an open apology and humility letter to Yah.

PSALMS 51:A Prayer of Repentance and Plea for Mercy For the music director. A psalm of David.

51 Be gracious to me, O Yah, according to your loyal love. According to your abundant mercies, blot out my transgressions. 2 Wash me thoroughly from my iniquity, and from my sin cleanse me. 3 For I myself know[b] my transgressions,[c] and my sin is ever before me. 4 Against you, only you, I have sinned and have done this evil[d] in your eyes, so that you are correct when you speak, you are blameless when you judge. 5 Behold, in iniquity I was born, and in sin my mother conceived me. 6 Behold, you delight in truth in the inward parts, and in the hidden parts you make me to know wisdom. 7 Purify me with hyssop, and I shall be clean. Wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow. 8 Make me hear joy and gladness; let the bones you have crushed rejoice. 9 Hide your face from my sins, and all my iniquities blot out. 10 Create a clean heart for me, O Yah, and renew a steadfast spirit within me.[e] 11 Do not cast me away from your presence, and do not take your Holy Spirit from me. 12 Restore to me the joy of your salvation, and with a willing spirit sustain me. 13 Then I will teach transgressors your ways, and sinners will turn back to you. 14 Deliver me from the guilt of bloodshed, O Yah, the Father of my salvation; then my tongue will sing aloud of your righteousness. 15 O Yah, open my lips, and my mouth will proclaim your praise. 16 For you do not delight in sacrifice or I would give it. With a burnt offering you are not pleased. 17 The sacrifices of Yah are a broken spirit; A broken and contrite heart, O Yah, you will not despise. 18 Do good in your favor toward Zion. Build the walls of Jerusalem. 19 Then you will delight in righteous sacrifices, burnt offering and whole burnt offering. Then bulls will be offered on your altar.

FUN FACT: Dawid wrote majority of the books in Psalms. Most of them are apologies for his wrong doings to Yah.

Thank you for reading! Yah bless & Shalom!

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azfarrizvi · 5 years

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Ali ibn Abi Talib was born in 599 CE, the son of a powerful Sheikh in the Quaraysh tribe of central Arabia. He was the cousin, and later the son-in-law of the Prophet Mohammad through his daughter Fatima Zahra. He would grow to become one of the most powerful and influential heroes of Mohammad's army, would rule the Muslim Empire as the last of the Four Rightly-Guided Caliphs and would garner himself a place as one of the greatest and most badass heroes in the history of Islam.

Ali and Mohammad were cousins, both of whom were raised as brothers by Ali's father. When Mohammad received the word of Islam and made a call for all to join him in his new religion Ali was one of the first to take up the sword for his new faith, converting at age ten. He supported Mohammad throughout his persecution in Mecca by the Quaraysh tribe, even going so far as to sleep in Mohammad's bed one night to thwart an assassination attempt. That's pretty hardcore, when you're willing to put your life on the line to save your friends. When the Muslims escaped to Medina, Ali made the trip as well.

When fighting broke out between the Meccan Quarayshi and the Muslims, Ali was on the forefront of the battlefield, eager to prove his devotion by hacking some infidels new assholes. When the Muslims and the Meccans lined up across from each other at the Battle of Badr, both armies decided to send out their three biggest badasses to settle their differences in a Texas Tornado three-on-three meleé to the death. Ali stepped forward as one of the Muslim warriors, and promptly defeated the Meccan champion Walid ibn Utba in single combat. Once the Muslim heroes defeated the Meccans, a large-scale battle ensued. Ali was out in front with the other warriors, bravely battling large numbers of enemy soldiers. His valor that day is what prompted Mohammad to grant Ali Fatima Zahra's hand in marriage.

One of the things that made Ali such a badass on the battlefield was his mythical sword Zulfiqar. Zulfiqar was a large scimitar with a two-pronged v-shaped point, and was described as being the Muslim Excalibur. Considering how badass Excalibur was, you can only imagine how much more awesome it would have been if it was a bitchin'-ass scimitar instead of a boring European longsword. It's also fucking radical because Zulfiqar translates to either "the two-pronged one" or "the cleaver of the spine". That's pretty awesome. According to Shi'a myth, Ali once used Zulfiqar to cleave both a horse and it's rider in half with one swing, and it would have actually cut a gaping hole in the Earth if the Archangel Jibreel hadn't stayed Ali's hand. Now you know you've got a badass sword when you need a fucking Archangel to stop you from creating a damn fissure in the ground.

Some dude looks over at Zulfiqar (in the foreground) and says to 'Ali, "Daaaamn G, you ain't fucking around none are you?"

As the war with Mecca went on, Ali continued to show his battle prowess. In the Battle of Uhud, Ali fought bravely and was wounded seventeen times (!!) while fighting off hordes of Meccan troops. He also managed to help rescue The Prophet when Mohammad fell into a hidden pit trap. Ultimately, the Muslim forces were beaten back by the superior generalship of mega-badass Khalid ibn Al-Waleed, an incredibly powerful Meccan tribesman who would go on to be one of the greatest heroes of the Muslim Empire. I pretty much envision this battle going down like a game of Dynasty Warriors 4 for the PS2, where you've got like Ali and Khalid running around killing everything that moves and being totally awesome, but I guess Ali didn't take out enough Gate Captains or whatever so he ended up losing out on all the good Morale bonuses.

After Uhud, the Meccans decided to lay siege to the Muslim home base of Medina. They attempted to assault the fortifications, and all of a sudden this gigantic beast of a man named Abdwood went totally balls out and leapt over the wall on horseback. Now this guy Abdwood was well-known and feared throughout the Muslim ranks for his badassitude, and here we was standing face-to-face with Ali and Mohammad. Ali took one step forward and drew Zulfiqar:

"Remember, Ali," said the Holy Prophet, "it is Abdwood."

"Yes, Oh Messenger of Allah, I know it," replied Ali.

Two minutes later Ali returned with the decapitated head of Abdwood. The Meccan siege fell the following week.

After Uhud and the siege of Medina, Ali let the Medina community for ten years as a Lieutenant of Mohammad, serving in the armies and going on numerous raids and battles throughout the middle east in the name of Islam. Mohammad's death in 632 CE resulted in a dispute over succession - many believed the Ali should be the one to step into the role as leader of the Muslim people, but Abu Bakr was the one voted into the Caliphate. This division marks the major break between Shi'a and Sunni Islam: the Shi'a believe that Ali was tapped by Mohammad to be the next spiritual leader of his people, while the Sunni believe that Abu Bakr was the correct decision. Whatever the reasoning, the fact is that Abu Bakr was the first Caliph of the Muslim Empire. He was succeeded by 'Uman and Uthman, while Ali continued to serve as a faithful lieutenant, writing numerous works on religion and morality and providing wisdom and sermons to all who would listen.

After Uthman was assassinated in 656 CE, Ali was elected Caliph. This did not sit well with Mohammad's widow Aisha, who raised an army to battle Ali. Ali's army was able to crush this insurgency, but instead of throwing Aisha into prison or executing her as a traitor, Ali decided to respect her status as a Wife of the Prophet and allowed her to move to Medina with a full widow's pension. That's pretty hardcore when you can still show mercy and compassion to someone who declared you unfit to rule and then tried to fucking kill you.

Ali would later do battle with the governor of Syria, a relative of Uthman's named Mu'awiya. Ali was assassinated at age 63 when he was hit in the back of the head with a poisoned sword when he was in the middle of his morning prayers at Ramadan. He was buried in secret to prevent the desecration of his grave by his enemies.

Ali had nine wives and thirty-six children in his lifetime. He was just that damn smooth. His two sons from Fatima, Hasan and Husayn, did not assume the Caliphate after Ali's death; rather it went to Mu'awiya, who established the Umayyad Dynasty. Ali's sons are considered by the Shi'ites to be the continuation of the line of the Imams that began with Ali - sacred heroes destined to act as the guardians (wali) of Islam and the divinely appointed successors of Mohammad.

Ali was known throughout the Muslim world by such badass nicknames as The Commander of the Faithful, The Charging Lion, and The Winning Lion of God. He was pious and played a pivotal role in the development of his fledgling religion; essentially serving as like a St. Peter to Mohammad's Jesus. He preached his religion, and defended it bravely with the sword when necessary. He was badass.

"The zeal and virtue of Ali were never outstripped by any recent proselyte. He united the qualifications of a poet, a soldier and a saint; his wisdom still breathes in a collection of moral and religious sayings; and every antagonist, in the combats of the tongue or of the sword, was subdued by his eloquence and valour. From the first hour of his mission to the last rites of his funeral, the apostle was never forsaken by a generous friend, whom he delighted to name his brother, his vicegerent, and the faithful Aaron of a second Moses."

- Edward Gibbon, The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire

#ImamAli

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evils-corner · 6 years

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Do the first ten, lovely!

Hehe ♡

angel; do you have a nickname?

Yes! My most common nickname is Nikki, but I have a few others like Nickster, Nikolai, or lovely~♡

awe; how old are you?

21! I’m a full fledged adult babeeyy

baby; favorite color?

Turquoise/sky blue~

bloop; spirit animal?

Aaaahhhh honestly it’s probably a cat akldjflkasjdfkl I’m lazy and love to sleep and love...comfy......

blossom; favorite book/movie/song?

Uuhhh lemme see....Favorite Book is Warriors: Into the Wild because I have a lot of nostalgia and fond memories of it, and reading it always makes me feel really nice and happy. Favorite movie is probably still Tommy right now tbh, haha. and Favorite Song is currently Do It All The Time by I Don’t Know How But They Found Me

blush; what was your stuffed animal as a child?

I had a stuffed bear that was just named Prayer Bear, because it’s hands were together like it was praying and it had one of those buttons in its hand, that when you pressed it it played the “Now I lay me down to sleep” prayer. I said it every night with Prayer Bear and I slept with him for YEARS, until my dog destroyed him ;v; I also had a stuffed cat named Sassy that I adored, but she met the same fate as Prayer Bear did ;v;

breeze; most precious childhood memory?

Most precious childhood memory is probably.....hm....probably the earliest memory I can remember honestly! I remember it so vividly - I was standing near the front door while my dad was inside cleaning the living room, looking at me every so often to make sure I hadn’t wandered off. I was wearing a silky pajama shirt and a diaper, just watching the sunrise and the fog disappear over the field in front of our house, and it was so warm and calm and quiet, it was so nice....I have no idea how old I was then.

bright; mermaids or fairies?

Fairies!

bubbles; do you have a best friend?

My oh so lovely girlfriend is also my best friend in the whole world ♡♡♡

buttercup; showers or baths?

Oohh...tough question....baths are nice when you have something like bubble bath, or a bath bomb, but showers are nice when you just stand in the stream and let the hot water roll off your body......So I guess both klajsdfklsdj

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lovediva013 · 5 years

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Omg so sorry mama … You don’t need to have those scares… I believe that Dad The Trucker The Myth The Legend T-shirt For some reason he has to go through this journey in his life but he is going to come out with flying colours … I just believe that God is holding him in his arms as you are …. He will keep him safe and his little body will be pure as driven snow when this is over … I ask this all in Jesus name we pray Dad The Trucker The Myth The Legend T-shirt, Hoodie, V-neck, Sweater, Longsleeve, Tank Top, Bella Flowy and Unisex, T-shirt

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Dad The Trucker The Myth The Legend Sweatshirt Have been following this babies story lately from his good days (i.e becoming a N.Y firefighter) to not so good days like Dad The Trucker The Myth The Legend Tshirt Trucker is a fighter and I pray he continues to get better every day because no child should have to go through so much pain. God will give mom and dad strength as well to keep being strong for Tucker. Bless you all. We will keep praying Best Dad The Trucker The Myth The Legend Tshirt O Ke Akua, laying hands upon Trucker, Parents, Ohana, medical team to pull all efforts beyond human capacity and Dad The Trucker The Myth The Legend Tshirt All the energy from Mom’s body be absorbed by Trucker and let strength be restored with Ke Akua’s embrace of Love. Love conquers all; God is Love.My prayers have never ceased; prayer warriors, unite and embrace Trucker with humble multitude of prayers. Amen Read the full article

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tshirtonline79-blog · 5 years

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beautshirt79 · 5 years

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storehottrend79-blog · 5 years

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shirttrendingstore-blog · 5 years

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tshirtfunny79-blog · 5 years

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ablearcher5983 · 6 years

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Does America Have A Gun Problem: Yes and No...

One of the most divisive topics that has faced the US in recent years is that of Gun Control.

Originally I was going to work my way up to this topic, but recent events have spurred me to move it to the front of the list. Before we get into statistics and facts though, let me make one admission:

I like guns.

I know that is a odd stance for someone that considers themselves a liberal and desires a stronger national stance on gun control. I admit I enjoy going to the range (though I haven't been in many years). There is something exciting about the mechanics of a gun; the weight of it in your hand, squeezing off a tight grouping at a paper target, and the smell of spent ammunition in the air. Guns are fun. I personally do not own any guns (and I will get into why later), but I cannot deny that they are fascinating machines, and in the hands of trained and responsible people they are of little to no danger to the public at large.

Though it might not seem like it when you turn on the news, we are living in one of the most peaceful moments in history. In 2017 (according to the FBI's Unified Crime Reporting) we had roughly 15,000 homicides; 10,982 of which were perpetrated by a firearm, which is one of the lowest numbers since the mid-90's (over 18k in '93). Of the roughly 3 million US burglaries that happened in 2017, only 90 people were killed and of that only 61 of those murders were carried out with a firearm. The places in which our military forces are engaged resemble less the wars of yesteryear (WWII, Korea, Vietnam), and unbelievably death toll due to war is declining at a rapid pace around the world. And there are more people living in free societies around the world than ever before.

Yet in a time of 24 hour news cycles and social media, we are inundated with story after story of violence perpetrated by armed assailants. That being said, I don't want to belittle or downplay the impact of these acts. Whether it be the Las Vegas Massacre, the Marjory Stoneman Douglas school shooting, or even the recent Pittsburgh Synagogue shooting, tragedies of gun violence happen every day. We cannot stop deeply disturbed individuals from committing heinous acts of violence like what we have seen in the last few years, but if we don't at least attempt to curtail them then are we not complicit in them? We must try to do something, because so far thoughts and prayers have had little effect...

Yet a major part of the Right's firearms rhetoric is the need for personal protection (both from the criminal element and the machinations of an unjust government). While gun violence still occurs everyday, every year in this country, one cannot help but wonder if the fear of it is amplified by the efforts of the mainstream media, for the numbers say we are safer on the whole today than we were yesterday.

The other main stance of the Right’s gun rights platform is that the personal ownership of firearms is an intrinsic and innate part of our history and our national fiber. The 2nd Amendment of our Bill of Rights gives us that fundamental right which cannot and should not be infringed upon.

I hesitate to invoke his name, but newly minted Justice of the Supreme Court Brett Kavanaugh wrote a dissenting opinion while on the US Court of Appeals calling for gun laws to be weighed based on “text, history, and tradition”. So lets look at the text, history, and tradition of the 2nd Amendment and see what we can find.

Some of the Founding Fathers did not want a Bill of Rights to begin with. It was a gambit they employed to gain more state support for ratification of the Constitution. Many states feared that the Constitution gave the government excessive power, and having just thrown off the shackles of an oppressive monarchy they had no desire to sign up with another such entity. The main reason the Founders disliked the idea of enumerating individual rights was the possibility that they would be held as more fundamental than others (hence why they included 9th Amendment). The Bill of Rights was a compromise, a concession to curry favor. That being said, it is an important part of our history and has helped to shape the society we now live in.

So lets take a look at the 2nd Amendment within the view of, as Justice Kavanaugh put it, “text, history and tradition." The text is rather simple…

"The right of the people to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed.”

That’s pretty self explanatory. The problem is that isn’t all the text says. The full text is:

"A well regulated militia, being necessary to the security of a free state, the right of the people to keep and bear arms, shall not be infringed.”

To understand the full text you have to understand the Founding Fathers’ view of the world they lived in. One of their insistences was that the US not have a standing army when not in wartime. As such, when the Revolutionary war ended the Continental Army disbanded and the keeping of the peace was relegated to volunteer militias.

James Madison told the Constitutional Convention in 1787: “A standing military force, with an overgrown Executive will not long be safe companions to liberty. The means of defense against foreign danger, have been always the instruments of tyranny at home. Among the Romans it was a standing maxim to excite a war, whenever a revolt was apprehended. Throughout all Europe, the armies kept up under the pretext of defending, have enslaved the people.”

Washington said “When we assumed the Soldier, we did not lay aside the Citizen.” And from Jefferson: “Every citizen should be a soldier. This was the case with the Greeks and Romans, and must be that of every free state.” They feared the tyranny that could be wrought with a standing army, and none of them conceived of a local or state police force that would be able to protect the populace. So they created the 2nd Amendment to provide for the protection of the free state by such militias. The idea was that when the nation was in need the militias would rise up to defend freedom, under the tradition of Cincinnatus the famed warrior farmer and would disband when the job was done.

We live in a very different time now. With a standing army, and both state and local police forces it cannot be said that the full text of the 2nd Amendment applies. Freedom is defended aptly by the brave men and women in those bodies, and the text (when looked at within a historical light) is an artifact of a bygone era, much like the 3rd Amendment which defended against the quartering of soldiers in private residences. For much of the history of this country that was how the Supreme Court interpreted the 2nd Amendment. For years the "collective rights" interpretation of the 2nd Amendment was upheld; whether it was U.S. v. Cruikshank in 1876, Miller v. Texas in 1894, or U.S. v. Miller in 1939, the Supreme Court reinforced the assertion that the 2nd Amendment doesn't apply to personal ownership.

Text... History... Tradition...

In 1977 a coup d'état happened within the National Rifle Association that turned it from a sportsman's club to more of a political organization. Due to their efforts, in 1982 a report was authored, “The Right to Keep and Bear Arms”, whose authors claimed to have found clear and long lost proof for the individual gun rights interpretation of the amendment. Conservative Justice Warren Burger remarked that this new interpretation of the amendment was “one of the greatest pieces of fraud, I repeat the word ‘fraud,’ on the American public by special-interest groups that I have ever seen in my lifetime.”

It wasn't until 2008, in DC vs Heller that the Supreme Court first ruled in favor of a personal gun rights interpretation of the 2nd Amendment despite what the text says, what the historical context implied, and what 200 plus years of tradition had upheld.

While I've laid out the issues I have with two of the main conservative arguments for gun rights, and I believe that we have the ability to avoid at least some of the tragic violence we see around us, I have another reason for believing we need to reform our gun laws.

Above I said that I do not own a firearm. That is due to the very personal reason that I have for believing in the need for gun control. We talked earlier about the roughly 11k firearm homicides that happened in 2017. Would it surprise you to know that firearm suicides accounted for nearly 22k deaths last year? Let that sink in for a minute. Almost two thirds of gun deaths in the US are suicides.

Firearm suicides account for a little over half of all the suicides that happen in the US. One of the reasons is due to the firearm’s efficacy at the task. Over 85% of firearm suicide attempts are successful, as opposed to much lower numbers with many more traditional methods. Suicide is an impulsive act, and an easily accessible firearm allows for immediate gratification of that impulse.

Now you might ask, “If freedom and liberty do not protect the right of self determination, then can we really say we are free?” The problem is, other than rare exceptions, suicide is not a freely made choice. It is not only subject to the unbalanced brain chemistry that causes abnormal behavior and impaired decision making, but years of negative reinforcement caused by the damaging and repetitive cycles self doubt and self destruction.

I know this not only because I have done extensive research on the topic, but also because I am the survivor of two suicide attempts. For most of my life I have struggled with bipolar depression, and for much of my adult life it went undiagnosed. All I knew was that despite all of the things that I could list that were positives in my life, the irrational pull of my own despair was such that all I wanted was for it to end it. I failed, twice, and was able to make it though, learn about my condition and how to combat it (pharmaceutically and otherwise).

Over 40,000 Americans a year are not so lucky.

Mental illness is an insidious thing, and our understanding of it is tenuous at best. Looking back I have come to believe that had my parents kept a firearm in the house, I probably would have become a part of that statistic, leaving behind a closed casket, and a family plagued with questions. That is why I do not own a gun, despite my enjoyment of them. I take medication every day. I've been trained to limit the influences in my life that incite the swings attributed to bipolar depression. I have a wife that I love and two children that I adore, I have many reasons to live. But I am far from cured. I live with it every day, and I am always a few bad decisions away from being under the influence of that despair again. As of yet, like with most mental illness, there is no cure...

One of the through lines associated with the not only the personal tragedies that steal 40k Americans from us every year but also the public tragedies like that of the Vegas and MS Douglas shootings is that of our inability to help those in our community suffering from mental illness. Unfortunately, in this day and age it is more profitable to treat an illness than try to find a cure for it. While our initial stabs in the dark at fighting these insidious diseases have helped millions (like myself), in some cases the treatment can worsen the problem. We have not done our due diligence when the treatment has the possibility of causing increased homicidal and suicidal tendencies.

We can do better... We must do better...

But before we can do that, we have to make it a national priority. Until we have Representatives and Executives brave enough to throw the full weight and support of the government behind committing to compassionate and ubiquitous care for this increasing problem (statistics say that almost 20% of Americans suffer some form of mental illness), we will continue to suffer the tragedies we have thus far endured.

Until the mental health epidemic in our country is addressed we might not be able to have a meaningful debate about gun violence, for it is one of the most central root causes to the problem.

So does America have a gun problem? Maybe... Maybe not...

But at the moment the guns aren’t helping the problem...

Later this week I will lay out what I think are some logical ways to try and limit the incidences of gun violence, while still allowing those in this country who desire to own a firearm the ability to.

#gun control #gun controversy #2ndamendment #mental health

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