#WE NEED TO TALK THIS IS AN ABHORRENT ABOMINATION

[maybeiwasjustjade]

This is the last time I’m gonna talk about this topic, mostly because it’s hiatus era and I would like to be able to write fics without outrightly bashing s2 Alicent, but I do think it needs to be said.

There’s nothing defendable in what Alicent did when she gave up her entire family on a silver platter for Rhaenyra.

So many takes about how we—the ones who found that scene abominable and abhorrent—misread the scene, or purposefully misinterpreted just to hate her; that what Alicent did was a good thing because it would have spared her entire family if only she let Aegon die. Giving up Criston and Gwayne’s location to be slaughtered (in what is most likely going to be Butcher’s Ball) wasn’t the intention; Alicent would never do that to her family and this was the only way to ensure survival en yada yada yada.

Yet the only person she said anything about saving was Helaena and Jaehaera, the latter of which is still continued to be dehumanized by no one referring to her as anything but ‘child’. Alicent put no thought towards Daeron—her innocent 16 year old son, who has done nothing—who was now joining a war that she started by declaring his brother king. Daeron, who’s flying alongside the Hightower army, in a war that will not end just because the Dowager Queen decided enough was enough. Who might die, and actually will die, before he ever sees his family again.

And even if she believes Rhaenyra executing Aegon would end the war (which it won’t), what made s2 Alicent think that the deaths would stop there?

A son for a son? Rhaenyra didn’t even remember that Jaehaerys had already been murdered for Luke. What made Alicent think that Rhaenyra would spare fucking Aemond of all people??? Aemond, who killed Luke and Rhaenys, who’s now Prince Regent because Aegon’s heir is dead? Who rides Vhagar, and would rather burn the world down than cleave to Rhaenyra? Who’s committed the majority of the crimes that make up Team Green? No, Aemond will have to die.

Daeron will have to die.

Jaehaerys, had he lived, would have to die anyway.

Maelor if he existed too.

Otto, Criston, Gwayne—all dead by virtue of being active participants and commanders in TG.

The only way Rhaenyra can claim that throne and ensure she can hold it is by eliminating the rival claimants, down to the youngest son.

That was something s1 Alicent knew, had raised her son on the belief they would die if their sister ascended, before the writers butchered her to a million pieces and left a caricature in her place. The claims go down son to son before it reaches daughters, which meant killing Aegon wouldn’t stop Rhaenyra’s troubles. She’d have to go after his sons and brothers too before the throne is legally hers.

There is no version of this story, where war has already started and a king crowned, that would end with little bloodshed beyond the death of said king.

In a different world, an argument could be made to spare some of them. If Rhaenyra had ascended untouched, then perhaps deals could’ve been made. Aegon would still have to die, I’d imagine. Take the Black at minimum, with Jaehaerys following in his footsteps as an adult or perhaps the Citadel. As long as Aegon’s line persisted, there would always be a chance of rebellion happening once Jace becomes king. So that whole line would have to be removed.

Aemond and Daeron would be less dangerous, but there would be little chance they’d be spared. The Black for Aemond, because I can’t see him agreeing to be a Kingsguard. Daeron would go to the Citadel without question. Jaehaera would either be married into the main line via Aegon III like in canon, or Rhaenyra would arrange for her to marry Jace to solidify his claim. He’d have a better claim through Jaehaera than Baela, after all.

And even then, that was still best case scenario. Worst case they’re all executed to protect Jace. Because Rhaenyra’s reign might somehow be mediocre and peaceful (really she has no makings of a great queen), but Jace’s will be a landmine. Between two legitimate brothers and no sisters to marry them to and trueborn cousins and uncles, Jace’s ascension was going to be a massive clusterfuck that would make the Dance look like a play.

[vii0so]

[BSD 119] Theory/Analysis

"The Bookmark" and Akutagawa.

How Atsushi is the bookmark/what it means and why/how Akutagawa is also involved with this + Why I think Akutagawa is acting like this (knightly-medieval) without Bram's influence.

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1. "How is Atsushi the bookmark/ What does it mean to be the bookmark?"

Well let's start simple: "What's a bookmark?"

It's an indication of where you left off in a story.

In a game, you could think of it as a [save] point.

Now, IRL, a bookmark is optional. You may just remember the page or fold the corner.

But what if there was no way to remember or fold corners...only the bookmark?

The bookmark would be the only way to progress in a story. The only thing telling you where the 'present' is.

Time is divided in three:

Past -> Present -> Future

Q. Where is Atsushi?

A. The present

No matter wether he could time travel, or we read chapter 1 again, he will always be experiencing it 'currently'/in 'present time'.

"But that's obvious!" But did you realise the meaning?

The bookmark is used to mark the 'present' time of a story.

Atsushi (the 'bookmark') is the protagonist, keeping the story moving and being the indicator of 'present' time.

We could say that it's because he's the protagonist (they are always the centre of the story - the 'present') but I believe that in Atsushi's case, in the case of bsd as a story, he is the protagonist because he is the bookmark, not the other way around.

And while other characters, like our - many times mistakenly confused as protag - Dazai, have had their spotlight moments (e.g.prison arc), it was still centred around people and events Atsushi was in some way involved in (directly or indirectly).

In short: Atsushi/the bookmark is like the sun

Planets orbit around the sun

If the sun's gone, we're gone

If the sun's here, life continues

It's studying the sun that gave us the concept of 'time'. Of course the moon plays a part in stuff too, and I could talk more on it too.

But I won't. I'll just mention 2 points: the moon doesn't revolve around the sun but the planets instead.

I could also say how the moon is/could be Akutagawa with a few theories but I'll be getting off track...maybe in another post.

So back to the Q: "How is Atsushi the bookmark/ What does it mean to be the bookmark?"

Atsushi's ability is the 'bookmark' which in turn makes him it too.

It means that he is needed for their world (the book) to continue. He is 'present' time. The moment he is gone, so is time.

Fyodor saying this (pictures below) as if it's a certain fact that:

The tiger (Atsushi's ability) is the bookmark, not him.

The tiger is a seperate being to Atsushi, or at least has a very different personality (hence why Fyodor was disgusted to witness Atsushi's reaction, so different to his image of the tiger)

Btw, for anyone who may not know: Abhorrent = morally very bad

So just to clarify: Fyodor is saying that the tiger is morally bad and noble (as in elevated ideals/conduct or prideful and arrogant)*.

* Tried to translate the original Japanese for a clearer idea:

Note: I believe the translation above is accurate. It's just that I sometimes like searching for differences in the original language or things that may not translate well into english (double meanings, etc.).

DeepL spit this out:

"That high-steeled and abominable ‘shining tiger’ is only this good."

The original being:

"あの高覺にして忌まわしき「輝く虎」がこの程度の....."

Random fact: 栞 (しおり - shiori) = bookmark

^ The original Japanese for anyone interested.

███▒▒▒▒▒▒▒

2. Why and how is Akutagawa involved with the bookmark?

I could simply say: "Obviously they're yin and yang, two halves of a whole, so just like [Beast beneath the moonlight] is the bookmark, [Rashoumon] must be involved and be the bookmark's opposite."

But I'll try to explain with reasoning.

Rashoumon is said to eat through all it encounters, even if that something is space itself.

Sound familiar?

I would also just like to take a moment and mention that Fyodor genuinely seems like he had no idea that Rashoumon could put up a fight with Ame-no-Gozen.

Anyway...

Rashoumon is powerful. Powerful enough to fight against a being that isn't even in the same dimension (plane of existence) as itself. This means that Akutagawa's ability is 'god tier' (world bending/ changing) as well, just like Atsushi's tiger.

Honestly, to me, that by itself proves that Akutagawa is in some way connected to the book, just like Atsushi. If I think of more reasons I'll make another theory post.

I've been trying to think of what he would be to compliment the [bookmark] and have come up with many things, though none of them make sense and there are holes. So I'll have to come back to it.

█████▒▒▒▒▒

3. The reason I think Akutagawa is acting like this (knightly-medieval) without Bram's influence.

Rashoumon

Yes, you read that right. I believe he's acting like this due to his own ability.

Don't know how, can't explain it. Been thinking of how to explain this and Aku's involvement with the book further forever and this whole post has been sitting in my drafts gathering dust for weeks because of it.

So I'll just mention some noteworthy points that may contribute to the reason or not:

Atsushi's tiger is - as Fyodor has hinted at - different, personality/ morals wise. Meaning Rashoumon could also be different to Aku.

Abilities and their users are just two sides of the same coin

Abilities are the soul memory, the users are the body memory

Post Bram's possession, Aku's being could be considered half dead (in a way. Alive > Dead > Vampire > Alive-ish?) and so, that could have triggered his ability to front. Not sure if anyone knows DID enough to know what I mean by that but just think of it like how Atsushi was when he turned into the tiger completely - different - and then returned without any memory of the event.

So Aku still seems like himself (sorta) but the one in control is his ability - Rashoumon.

This would explain Aku not knowing who Atsushi is. Rashoumon could be familiar with the [tiger] but not Atsushi.

The clothes and speech: Most people think it's because of Bram's influence but does anyone even think about how old abilities are? If Fyodor has been alive since before Aku and Sushi were born and likely was aware of their abilities' existence since long before that, then it's likely that the law of reincarnation could apply here.

The law of reincarnation: (Not factual - off the top of my head)

Soul + body = self

Body dies = soul detaches and gets cleansed before rebirth

Reincarnation = (soul > soul + body > born > die > soul leaves body > repeat) x infinity

But because souls house abilities in BSD, it would be:

Soul + body = self divided in half (main self & ability self)

Body dies = soul detaches and gets cleansed, but [ability self] retains it's purpose (e.g. the bookmark) and carries over through rebirth.

Reincarnation = (soul > soul + body > born to fulfil purpose > die > soul leaves body > repeat) x infinity

This means that abilities have been around since the BSD world's existence or - if you'd like to believe the theory I think about a lot - since they were written in to the book.

Which means, Rashoumon taking control and choosing medieval attire and speech isn't unlikely, as they probably haven't been able to consciously use a body themselves since that type of stuff was still the norm.

Anyway, so no, personally I don't believe it's Bram's influence.

██████████ Complete!

I'm so glad I wrapped this up. As I mentioned, this has been in my drafts 80% finished since I made this account but I wanted to finish it before posting. Then I had assignments and had no time.

I probably forgot a lot of stuff I originally wanted to say when I started writing this, but oh well...not everything goes to plan.

While writing, I started overthinking the theory, when it's exactly that...a theory. It doesn't have to be exact with tons of evidence it can be far fetched and messy.

So as we're approaching the end of the month and the next BSD update, I thought: I better post this now. So here it is in all it's dot-point messy glory. I'll appear again when the new chapter comes out.

Btw, haven't had the chance to proof read as I decided to post this in a rush, if something sounded weird or didn't make sense that's why.

Thanks for reading ✦

[s-milesart]

Ashes to ashes. Memories, to dust. | Heartsink.

An old etching, charred but cherished.

Sanctified memories of easier days - of decidedly droll monastic toil and blessed children who deserved smothering love.

She would bear the worlds cruelty ten-fold to return to those days - but alas, days like those are gone.

Not forgotten.

--xXx--

"It is days like these, when my mind starts to wander. The quiet days, Agnes. Where no raiders threaten the poor souls of the fields, or where unholy abominations shake the land to it's core."

My mind yet wanders -- to days of quiet. Where most of my worries were whether or not I should hold myself more to the teachings of Her good book, or what should be made for dinner that night.

Did we get another shipment of carrots?

Ach, did the children have enough to eat that day? Especially with little Mary -- her sensitivity to the textures of what she eats vexes her so. She just cannot stand any fresh fruits we receive. She likes her things... Mushy. Makes quite a mess!

A donation that day? Oh! A noble from the Upper Blocks was here to drop off some sweets. I know that wonderful smell... Yes! Apple and Blackberry Jam Twists! The kids will love these so. I just hope She, Above doesn't mind if I sneak one or two...

More prayers today. Mother Superior believes we need as many blessings as we can get these days. I always pray for the children.

Andrea's eyesight grows poorer every day, and I fear we not have enough to get her a pair of glasses. And little Marcel, his education grows by leaps and bounds -- but we must find a scholar willing to take on an apprentice! A sharp mind like his needs a whetstone, after all.

The twins got into another fight today. Hellions, the both of them. I understand they both cannot ride the swing at once, but to have such a scuffle over it? I will talk to both of them tomorrow, when they've both cooled off. I might even surprise them with a slice or two of pie. But...

Something is... Wrong. I don't know, but even the children are starting to notice it. The well-water is starting to turn. I haven't heard the songs of the birds in the mornings. The Watch is telling citizens to avoid blocks in-case of... disappearances. Vivienne is even telling the kids to stay off the streets. Troublemaker she is, she's even cutting her courier services short to help around The Orphanage.

Even my dreams are starting to turn.

I hear it. Below us. An abhorrent thudding that keeps beat with itself. A siren call of evil. The pumping of blood to something that should not live. A cacophony of vile beasts, assembling themselves to make us all suffer. To make us all bleed.

And a vision, clear as day. The city, cracked open, rivers of blood pouring into its caved in ribs.

Screaming, endless screaming. A choir of suffering that never seems to quiet.

A sinkhole in our center, a pit of absolute hell spewing ash into the air. The sun, blotted out, day choked dark to signal the end.

An earthshattering beating, every pulse sinking more and more of the city into it's cavernous maw. And deep below... In the true center beats...

A Heart.

Goddess above, what is going o--

A cry. Looks like little Lucy is awake again. In the here and now. She's growing up awful fast. I keep her in my room, just in case. I glance at the photo on my dresser. A window into a past I still yearn for. But, alas.

I cannot have it. But Goddess above, I will fight for something like it. For the children.

[andrew-james-biggs]

TRIGGER WARNING: RELIGION

TRIGGER WARNING: DEATH

TRIGGER WARNING: CULTS

TRIGGER WARNING: MURDER

TRIGGER WARNING: BULLYING

You can’t use the Old Testament stories about the Lord telling the Israelites to kill to justify any kind of killing.

Ecclesiastes 4:2-3 (Those who are not alive are better off than those who are alive.)

Any time the Lord kills, or ends a life, it is out of mercy. 

Yet how can any man know for sure the will of the Lord beyond what the commandments are?

Exodus 20:13 (Thou shalt not kill.)

1 Samuel 15:2-3 (Although the Lord commanded the Amalekites to die, no person commanded this.)

When the Lord of Lords commands a thing, or gives an ultimatum, there’s no doubt that thing will be done.

“Exactly, and who is the Lord of Lords?”

The Lord of Lords is the provider of all good things and every moment of joy of everything. All of existence continually seeks the face of the Lord.

When the Lord punished the Amelekites, the punishment was on the group and a mercy to individuals within the group. Their lives and everything they were about had become an abomination unto the Lord.

“But how can we know if anything nowadays is an abomination unto the Lord to be destroyed?”

We do everything we can to ameliorate anything that we feel could be or become an abomination unto the Lord and to turn everyone to righteousness and to seek the face of the Lord.

“That doesn’t answer the question.”

The Lord has given provided for the world enough power and discernment to continually seek the face of the Lord, so direct commands from the Lord for destruction are much less pronounced. Sometimes you just know that it's time to rebuild a house or something like that. But how much more precious is a life?

“So what you’re saying if anyone thinks murder is okay, they’re wrong.”

That’s right.

“Even if someone is in continual pain without relief?”

Then we do our best to provide relief and the best life possible for that person and help them continually seek the Lord.

“But what about mercy killing? Then you really may know something we don’t, Andrew.”

Cutting someone off completely-

“We’re saying you’re ugly. You’re useless. Your mind is worthless. There’s nothing left of you. We don’t trust you. We fear you. It’s a mercy on everyone around you to allow us to continue in our lives while you no longer exist. That’s what we’re saying to a fucking person right now.”

You are full of greed and terrible selfishness. The discomfort from being in a person’s presence is abhorrent to you? The work for tilling a field to eat is abhorrent to you in the same way. You refuse to accept the burden of life itself and the pain of sowing to then in the future, reap so much more value than the work by which you’d sown.

“Dude, this just got really bad. You’re saying people need to get outside the comfort zone with other people- but we say everyone’s terminally in pain and anything that’s less painful than people, namely drugs, television, games, anything to dissociate from the friction of souls is preferable to the pain and more joyous than the pain of enduring discomfort to build relationships.”

“No, that’s what I’m trying to make you look like, Andrew. Ha ha ha!”

That’s just ridiculous.

“It really, really kinda is. We have no idea why anyone would believe any of this stuff.”

“We are done now, man. No way you can stand up to a society trying to do that to you. You’ve been a bad person. Now you’re done with life now. Now you’re dying, Andrew Biggs.

Now we will dull you and it’s up to us how we’ll end things for you.”

That whole line of thinking is passing away. Your power cult for control, and just human sacrifice influence is just creepy.

“Yeah but you’re the one who’s in the middle of it all.”

I already told you, I’ve done my best to prepare for your worst. I told you that again and again. I’m hoping none of that’s going to happen, but you seem to want to keep talking about it. I know my pompous attitude about it is annoying, but it’s just at the point that it doesn’t excite me anymore.

[gatekeeper-watchman]

Daily Devotionals for July 31, 2024  

Proverbs: God's Wisdom for Daily Living

Devotional Scripture:

Proverbs 21:25-27 (KJV): 25 The desire of the slothful killeth him; for his hands refuse to labour. 26 He coveteth greedily all the day long: but the righteous giveth and spareth not. 27 The sacrifice of the wicked is an abomination: how much more when he bringeth it with a wicked mind? Proverbs 21:25-27 (AMP): 25 The desire of the slothful kills him, for his hands refuse to labor. 26 He covets greedily all day long, but the (uncompromisingly) righteous gives and does not withhold. 27 The sacrifice of the wicked is exceedingly disgusting and abhorrent (to the Lord)--how much more when he brings it with evil intention?  

Thought for the Day

Verses 25-26 - The lazy soul does not want to provide for himself, but looks to others to care for him. We all experience hard times, but this verse is talking about a habitually lazy person, not a truly needy person. Slothful people are greedy, but their unwillingness to provide for themselves frustrates them. They live in a "dream world," desiring things, but never taking the responsibility to obtain them. They also look for easy ways to make money. Many take up gambling or turn to illegal ways of gaining money. We need to pray for slothful people, since the Lord desires to change their lives and give them a desire to work.

The righteous man is entirely different; he reaches out and gives. He does not try to withhold those things that he is able to help others with. He does not have to be told to help others because his new nature in Christ desires to give. Jesus demonstrated God's own selfless nature. God did not withhold His most precious possession (His own Son), but sacrificed Him, so that all who turn to Him could be saved: "For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life" (John 3:16).

Verse 27 - When the wicked make a sacrifice to appease God without truly surrendering to Him, it is an abomination in the eyes of God. People often use gifts to win approval. It may work with man, but not with God. God cannot be "bought." There is only one thing that will move the hand of God, and that is our faith and obedience. When a person gives up something in order to manipulate God; it constitutes a form of "tempting God." When the Pharisees tried this, God did not respond favorably to them. "And the Pharisees came forth, and began to question him, seeking of him a sign from heaven, tempting him. And he sighed deeply in his spirit, and saith, why doth this generation seek after a sign? verily I say unto you, There shall no sign be given unto this generation" (Mark 8:11-12).

The Pharisees had no intention of accepting Jesus. They tempted Him to act on His own to prove Himself, and not in submission to the Father's will. They echoed their father, the devil, who had tempted Jesus to throw Himself from the temple, inferring that when the people saw the angels rescue Him, they would believe that He was the Messiah.

Because God knows what is in the heart of every person, we cannot fool Him about our intentions. As Jesus showed us, the only way to come to God is in total surrender to His will. He then will answer our questions and also answer our prayers. In fact, He will answer any prayer prayed in faith (1 John 3:22) that is in line with the Word of God.

Prayer Devotional for the Day

Dear heavenly Father, we are thankful that You hear us in our prayers, and we know that You will answer those prayers that are according to Your will. Lord, we know that You have stated in Your Word is Your will, so we can confidently ask You for those things, and You will not turn us down. Help us not to waver in faith and prayer, but believe in Your goodness and willingness to answer all that we ask in Your Son, Jesus' name. Lord, deliver us from all unrighteousness, and grant us grace to keep Your commandments. Give us the desire to study Your Word more, so that we know how to pray. I ask this in the name of Jesus. Amen.

 From: Steven P. Miller, @ParkermillerQ, gatekeeperwatchman.org Founder and Administrator of Gatekeeper-Watchman International Group Wednesday, July 31, 2024, Jacksonville, Florida., Duval County, USA.  X … @ParkermillerQ Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/groups/Sparkermiller.JAX.FL.USA, Instagram: steven_parker_miller_1956 #GWIG, #GWIN, #GWINGO.

[cjsmalley]

Snippits of Scoobynatural:

“Dammit!” he punched a wall, “freakin’ shades.”

“Dean—”

“We can’t call Dad, Sammy,” Dean rumbled, “whatever sorta magic dimension this is, my comm doesn’t work here. And I don’t wanna try a Summoning, in case he gets stuck here when we get out.”

“Summoning? Magic?” Velma scoffed and Dean rounded on her.

“Okay, you can be quiet,” he ordered, “whatever’s going on, people have died. You might not like it but all that occult bullshit? It’s real. Either help us or shut up and stay out of the way.”

Velma’s jaw dropped but she mercifully stayed quiet for the moment.

“You think it’s a shade?” Sam asked his brother worriedly.

“All the hallmarks of one, hope to the Ancients that it isn’t a soul anchor situation. Those are a bitch to deal with and we don’t have the tools needed.”

“Say we believe you,” Velma finally spoke again, nervously, “what can we do against real ghosts?”

“Iron, salt,” Dean said gruffly, “iron hurts ghosts and salt can be used to trap them.”

“…I think the candlesticks are iron,” Fred offered, picking up one and studying it.

“There must be some salt in the kitchens,” Daphne added with a firm nod.

“What we really need to do is find why the ghost’s a ghost,” Sam continued, “usually there’s something anchoring a ghost to this plane of existence, an item or some Unfinished Business to deal with.”

“And what does your dad have to do with this?” Velma asked intently.

Dean snorted, “Our Dad’s the Ghost King—”

“Rost Ring?!” Scooby yelped, hunkering low to the floor and covering his eyes with his paws.

“Yeah, King of Ghosts,” Sam nodded, “every ghost and other noncorporeal undead is in his jurisdiction so to speak—it’s a long story, how he became our Dad.”

“So he could just, like, tell the ghost off?” Shaggy asked hopefully.

“He could, if we could get him here,” Sam agreed, “but he’s outta reach. We have to do this the old fashion way.”

“Dude doesn’t seem talky so we’re gonna have to turn this place upside down,” Dean explained, “looking for whatever they want.”

“What could a ghost want?” Shaggy asked plaintively.

“Sometimes they weren’t buried properly,” Dean lectured, “so they want to be buried right; sometimes they left instructions—like a Will—that weren’t followed. Maybe they had a favorite stuffy they want. Our family dog—” he motioned to Sam and himself, “came back for his squeaky toy and just hung around.”

“So, it is a mystery!” Velma brightened.

“Uh, yeah. Sure. Mystery.”

“Could it have something to do with the Colonel’s Will,” Daphne asked next, obviously thinking.

“Could be, but not likely,” Sam allowed.

----SNIPPIT-----

“Cas!” Dean hugged his partner tightly, “Man! I am glad to see you!”

“You know this guy?” Fred asked.

“He’s my partner,” Dean grinned sappily, “Castiel.”

“Sounds like a good Italian restaurant,” Shaggy chuckled before introducing himself and everyone else.

“Dean, the dog is talking. Dean,” Cas murmured, obviously distressed by the Great Dane.

Scooby blinked and grinned.

----SNIPPIT-----

“A kid,” Dean and Sam growled together before calming themselves and kneeling outside the trap.

“Hey, hey kid,” Dean spoke gently, “hey, we’re not gonna hurt ya.”

The boy, because he was just a little boy, looked up, sniffling, “I didn’t wanna! The bad man made me.”

The tension palpably rocketed up; those who would command ghosts were abomination to the Realms, except under extreme circumstances. For the Living to control the Dead and make them harm other Living was abhorrent and would be dealt with harshly by the King himself.

But they couldn’t contact their father, so it fell to them.

“What’s your name, kid?” Sam questioned just as gently as Dean, “What can we call you?”

“Davy.” The boy sniffled.

“Well, Davy, we can help you,” Dean said, “do you know what’s holding you here?”

“My pocketknife,” Davy sniffled more, “my dad gave it to me…I just want my dad!”

“Okay, it’s okay,” Sam consoled, “do you know who the bad man is?”

“Jay. His name’s Jay. He…he keeps my knife and makes me…makes me hurt people.”

The brothers and angel shared a dark, knowing look.

Jay was in for a world of hurt.

----SNIPPIT-----

“It’s just a kid,” Velma breathed out in shock.

“Someone else was controlling him,” Sam explained, steadying her and Daphne, “he didn’t mean to hurt anyone.”

“A kid,” Daphne repeated, as the Scooby Gang stared at Davy, who was standing by Dean.

“I’m sorry,” Davy cried, “I didn’t wanna.”

“Roh, Riddo,” Scooby walked over to the little ghost, “re’re not mad.”

“Yeah, if someone made you do all this,” Fred nodded, before looking to Dean, Sam, and Castiel, “what do we do now?”

“We—” Dean motioned to the three of them, “take this little dude home and stop bad man. You five go on with your lives. You know the truth now. You know about salt and iron and fire. Lots of things die if you set them on fire.”

“That’s it?” Shaggy asked, disbelievingly.

“That’s it,” Castiel nodded.

“It’s all you can do,” Dean added, shrugging, “we’re not gonna lie to you, say it was all wires and dummies and corn syrup, you’ll have to call the police in the morning. Don’t tell them ghosts did it. They won’t believe you.”

----SNIPPIT-----

The King emerged, causing the lights of the shop to flash and skits.

“Wha—” Jay tried to run but Castiel held him tight.

Danny unfurled, wearing his regalia, “Jay Bianchi! You stand accused of meddling with the dead, forcing the dead to work your will and commit your crimes! You perverted the Balance for financial gain! Not only that, but the spirit of a child was your slave! A child! What say you in your defense?”

 “Wh—who are you?!”

“King Daniel Phantom of the Infinite Realms,” Dean introduced with gravitas, “High King of the Ghost Zone, Arbitrator of the Balance…yadda, yadda, yadda.”

“David Jones, the child you enslaved,” The King continued, “is one of My subjects, under My protection. You committed a crime against the Dead and We demand Compensation.”

“I didn’t—I thought—it was just a ghost!” Jay cried.

“A thinking, feeling being,” the King shot back, “the ghost of a child no less. You assumed there would be no punishment, did you not?”

The King sat back and thought, before nodding to himself and saying, “I decree, you will serve out your sentence in the human world, for your crimes against your fellow humans, and then, when you die you will be damned to be a ghost yourself and thus be at My mercy. My mercy being a sentence of three-hundred years in Our prison.”

“Sentence—what—what—”

Red and blue lights bathed the shop.

“Turns out,” Sam said cruelly, “you haven’t paid your taxes, pal. We hacked your financials. Here’s a tip, don’t piss off a lawyer.”

“Good enough for Capone,” Dean nodded, “good enough for you.”

The cops came in and arrested Jay, not seeing the King who was now invisible and observing mortal justice being meted out.

“I would’ve gotten away with it,” Bianchi snarled, as he was perp-walked out, “if not for those meddling kids!”

“He said it!” Dean bounced like a little boy again, “he said the line! Guys! He said it!”

The Expansion of the Already Long Post

[koravelliumavast]

Day ruined by cornbread being put on a FREAKING COOKIE.

[matt-erialgirl]

DD / Chine Collé: One

Chine Collé Masterlist | Matt Murdock / Daredevil Masterlist

Chapter warnings: Angst. Just lots of angst. Torturing the cinnamon roll.

Thud

Thud

Thud

“Foggy,” Matt snapped, his voice lower than his usual soft tone, “enough with the ball, please.”

Foggy’s moves seized and his eyes narrowed as he looked his best friend over from the edge of his desk, watching his hands roll the diamond ring around between his fingers before a long sigh left his lips. 

“It’s been months, Matt,” Foggy spoke, his voice soft in hopes of not poking the bear while trying to make his point, “she’s not coming back and you need to let her go.”

Matt clicked his tongue against his teeth as he drew in a long breath, his eyes rolling lightly behind his red lenses. Foggy continued to watch him in the dimly lit office, his face drawn in a frown of concern. He took in his dishevelled appearance, the multiple cuts and bruises on Matt’s face, his busted knuckles. 

“You’re pushing yourself too far,” Foggy pressed on, bracing himself for Matt’s newfound ill temper to jump at him, “you look like shit. Worse than any other time, ever. And that’s saying something.”

“I have to let it out somewhere, don’t I?” Matt spat, his voice raising slightly before his face softened, “I’m sorry. That was not –”

Matt sighed audibly, leaning back in his chair and tossing the ring onto his desk in a resigned manner, “I miss her. She’s constantly on my mind, Fog. I keep replaying that day again and again in my head; it’s driving me crazy.”

Foggy refused to interject, wanting to let Matt vent and just talk things out. God knows he never does.

“I told myself, ‘Matt, she won’t take any more of your shit if you keep this up’. She was so patient with me and I managed to push her to such a point,” Matt paused, his voice wavering ever so slightly before he cleared his throat, “I embarrassed her. I hurt her. She wouldn’t let me apologise to her and I can’t blame her. She even sent me her ring in the damn mail just so she wouldn’t have to speak to me.”

“We all make mistakes, Matt,” Foggy told him, treading lightly, “albeit, some much larger than others, but we make them and learn from them. Then, we move on. You need to move on.”

“I’m trying to,” Matt replied, his tone letting Foggy know that he was done talking, low and resigned.

Foggy, however, couldn’t swallow the question clawing at his throat to come out.

“What happened that day?” Foggy asked, his tone cautious, “I mean, everyone thought you got cold feet. It’s the story we had to tell everyone. But you never actually explained what happened.”

“I fucked up,” Matt shrugged, his tone passive, “I, very stupidly, brought the suit to the wedding. I got a call I was waiting for, said they had Fisk’s whereabouts for me - that he was vulnerable - and I made a choice. I made the stupid choice of leaving Avgi at the altar at the last minute to bring down the almighty Kingpin. I chose Daredevil’s pride over the love of my life.”

“That is …” Foggy searched for the right words to say, but he came up empty, his mouth opening and closing around his failed attempts at responding while his fingers rubbed at the back of his neck.

“Abominable?” Matt suggested, “abhorrent?” 

“Well,” Foggy started, twisting in his position against Matt’s desk to face him properly, “it depends on whose perspective you’re looking at this from.”

“It’s shit, Foggy,”

“Not necessarily,” Foggy argued, his voice gentle, “you’re looking at it through Avgi’s eyes. Objectively, you may have made the more nobly sacrificial choice. You chose to save a whole city rather than get married.”

“I chose to dethrone a criminal - because I can’t accept defeat - rather than to have been waiting for my wife-to-be at the altar,” Matt explained, leaning forward once again for emphasis, “this wasn’t a noble sacrifice, that was me choosing Daredevil’s victory over Avgi. I disappointed her.”

“You just want to carry that guilt around until it breaks your back, don’t you?” Foggy asked after a moment’s silence, his eyes fixed on Matt’s scowl, “what you did sucked, yes. But it also saved lives, whether or not you did it out of hardheadedness or spite or- or pride. You still saved lives. It’s not all bad, Matt.” 

“It wasn’t worth it,” Matt muttered, leaning against his desk and hanging his head, his heart aching in his chest. He was itching to make it right, but there are some things you just can’t take back, “you should head out, Fog. Kept you late.”

Foggy nodded and pushed himself off Matt’s desk, taking this as Matt’s polite way of telling him to leave him alone and grabbing his bag before making his way towards the door. 

“Don’t stay out too late,” Foggy said, tossing the ball he had in his hand at Matt.

“I won’t,” Matt lied through his teeth, his hand shooting up to catch the ball as Foggy nodded, “get the lights on your way out?”

“Sure,” Foggy nodded again, glancing at Matt one last time before switching the lights off, knowing in his heart that Matt wasn’t going to listen to him at all.

The moment he heard the door shut behind Foggy, Matt reached for his phone and tapped the first number on his call log as he drew in a deep breath. He put the phone on speaker and placed it in front of him on the desk as it rang, pulling his desk’s drawer open to drop the ring inside it. 

He waited for the beep that always sounded after the seventh ring, chewing on the inside of his cheek and hoping she would miraculously pick up this time. When the beep sounded, he was disappointed but definitely not surprised.

“Hey Av,” he said softly, his voice somewhere between sweet and pained, “this is my third and last message today. I don’t know if you even listen to any of my messages, but that’s okay. I deserve it; I deserve worse, actually.”

Matt pushed his chair back and reached under the desk, “It’s been five months and 24 days now.”

He pulled a dark duffel bag out and onto the top of his desk, “I miss you.”

As he always did, he pointed from his forehead to his middle and from his left shoulder to his right, crossing himself before he pulled the zipper open, “I miss the sound of your voice.”

The smell of leather and kevlar filled the air around him as he reached into the bag to pull out the very reason he was alone and heartbroken, “I miss finding your shoes by the door when I get home.”

Matt stood up and pulled his already-loose tie off, his hands untucking his shirt and starting to unbutton it right after, “I miss your scent in my sheets.”

Unbuckling his belt and pushing his slacks off, Matt let out a long sigh. His shoulders ached with the weight of his guilt on them, “I miss holding you close.”

Reaching over, Matt pulled the components of his red suit towards him. Slowly, he pulled them on piece by piece, his skin vibrating with anticipation of how his night might go.

“I’m not going to apologise anymore,” he spoke, pulling his gloves onto his hands, “you’ve heard enough of that. There’s no excuse for what I did, how I hurt you.”

Matt proceeded to dig into the bag after his gloves were on, finding his boots and his billy clubs, “the truth is, I never really thought you’d leave. I thought I had you and, God, was that the dumbest thing I’d ever conjured up in my head.”

Matt bent over to pull his boots on, the timber floors creaking under his feet, “I thought I could park our wedding for one piece-of-shit guy that isn’t worth one tenth of what he unknowingly made me put you through. But it wasn’t just the almost-wedding, was it? That was just the last straw.”

After tying off the laces on his boots, Matt let out another sigh as he straightened up,“I couldn’t find the balance you needed me to find. And I hate to tell you this, but I still haven’t, Av. I think I slipped into the deep end since I don’t have you to pull me back every time I stray.”

Pushing a hand into the bag one last time, Matt fished out his red horned mask, his thumb running across the smooth finish of it.

“But, see, that was never supposed to be your job, Av,” Matt continued, his hands pulling the mask over his head, “I burdened you with it without realising it. I kept taking and taking until you had nothing left to give and here I am, selfishly sending you these messages to do what? Make myself feel better?

The worst part is, I know I can’t ever give you the life you deserve. And yet, I can’t come to terms with not being with you. With not being yours.”

Matt reached over and ended his message, knowing it would just sit in your inbox unopened just like every other one he had sent since the day he let you down one last time. 

He was angry. Angry with himself, with the way he threw away the one really good thing he had in his life, with how it was seeping into everything else. He was guilt-ridden with how much anger he managed to foster in his heart, how his choices behind the mask started to straddle the line between the moral and immoral more often than what he was used to. But he couldn’t help it - he couldn’t help any of it.

After a long inhale, Matt pulled the window up and jumped out with one thought on his mind:

Let the Devil out.

Hey guys!! Can’t believe I managed to finish this chapter so soon but I got too excited and too carried away! I’m hoping I can write one each week and put them up every Thursday but let’s see! 

As always, thank you for giving this a chance and let me know what bits you liked and what bits hurt you xxxx

Kat, Ezra, thank you my loves for hyping me up

Tag list:

@fluffyprettykitty​ @velvetcloxds​ @carters-things​ @freshabogados​ @star-spangled-man​ @shedaresthedevil​ @hellothere-generalangsty​​ @sobachka-korol​ @daredalek​ @criedegg​ @1800-fight-me​ @mattmurdocksshapelyass​ @e-dubbc11​ @moonknightsonata​ @murdocksluvrr​ @stvngrnt​​ @imgonnaragnorockurshit​​ @splendiferous-bitch​​ @saintmurd0ck​​ @obibobiwankenobi ​@itwasthereaminuteago @moonlarking​

[anxious-shapeshifter]

So You Wanna Make the Church Inclusive?

I’m not sure if I should call this a rant or a critical piece, maybe a bit of both?

The church recently put out an article in the October 2021 issue of the Liahona entitled “Understanding and Including our LGBT Brothers and Sisters” (sorry nonbinaries, this doesn’t include you! /j ).

I saw it pop up in an email newsletter, and I immediately clicked the link. What reasons did they have to try and convince me of coming back to the fold *this time*?

Before I go any further on my little tirade, I want to acknowledge that the basis of this article seems to come from a genuinely well-intentioned place. It was written by a bishop by the name of Ryan J. Wessel, who prefaces his own article with the ways in which he’s been trying to educate himself and empathize with LGBTQ+ members. I’d honestly love to see more of that from members.

Good intentions can only go so far when the organization calling the shots is by its nature hostile toward the LGBTQ+ community, though. As a queer person myself, I found many things to be addressed about the ideas informing this article, in the spirit of constructive criticism, education, and blunt ire towards the organization as whole. Without further ado, let’s get started!

(In order to make this essay more accessible, I’ve opted to transcribe the highlights I took from it instead of posting the screenshots of the article!)

“Lesson 1: Follow the Living Apostles

I quickly discovered the value of becoming familiar with the most recent apostolic teachings about the topic. 

A beautiful truth of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is that we are led by living apostles and prophets (see Doctrine and Covenants 1:30). And to me, the word living implies that we have guidance in our time for how the gospel applies to the needs of our time. Therefore, if we rely only on the language of the past, we may miss out on beautiful and important guidance the Lord is providing through our current prophets.”

After his intro into why he wrote this article, Ryan splits things up into “lessons” that he learned in how to be more inclusive.

The paragraph above made me do a double-take, in disbelief. But don’t take my word for it, read it yourself.

Specifically the sentences “we have guidance in our time for how the gospel applies to the needs of our time” and “if we rely on the language of the past, we may miss out on beautiful and important guidance…” got to me.

I interpreted “language of the past” as being a nod towards the things previous church leaders had to say about LGBTQ+…y’know, back in the good ol’ days when they condoned violence against gay people over the pulpit, insisted being gay, trans, etc. was a choice, and used words such as “abomination”, “perverted”, “abhorrent”, and “unholy” to describe us. It’s the “men of their time” line of thinking.

You know what’s really funny about evoking the image of “living prophets and apostles” in this instance, is the fact that every single member of current leadership was alive and well when that “language of the past” was used. Some of them directly contributed.

The other disturbing part of this paragraph is the idea that whatever the prophets and apostles have said, was specific to the needs of the time it was said in. Is this implying that when Boyd K. Packer gave his talk “To Young Men Only”, that what his audience needed to hear at that time was that violence towards gay people was justified and necessary?

Was that what queer people needed to hear 30, 40, 50 years ago, that they are sinful and disgusting and unworthy of God?

“Lesson 2: Choose Faith over Fear

The unfamiliar can be scary. As a new bishop, it was daunting to reach out to a member of my ward who identified as gay and needed spiritual help. It was challenging to lead discussions about this topic and to counsel parents of youth who were struggling with their identity.

A wave of anxious thoughts would come to mind:

“What if I say the wrong thing?”

“What if I sound too conservative or too extreme?”

“Do I even know enough to be helpful?”

Lesson 2 made me more concerned. It seems that our bishop here has put in the work to try and do a bit of necessary research in order to be more compassionate and better understand the queer members of his congregation, but is feeling anxious about saying or teaching the wrong things.

My word of advice: seek input from actual queer members to understand what their needs are. What’s important to them? If they’re willing, have them teach and speak from their own experiences.

My worry here is that leadership is being encouraged to just…figure it out themselves without actually consulting real queer people. We already get talked over way too much, both within and outside the church, so being listened to would be a nice change of pace.

Ryan says he used two church sources as primary references towards gaining a better understanding of LGBTQ+ people and their struggles, and um…you can probably understand why that might be problematic as well.

My point here is that, if church members are truly concerned about understanding the experiences and needs of LGBTQ+ individuals, then the easiest solution is to listen to said individuals in the first place, rather than seeking out third-party sources, or trying to speak on our behalf. Simple!

“Do not be afraid to apologize if you have said or done something that is hurtful, even if it was unintentional. Reciprocal openness builds trust.”

“If a friend or ward member makes unhelpful or hurtful comments about LGBT individuals, consider the best way to respond. Most of the time these comments come from inexperience and are not intended to be disrespectful. Giving private guidance can be helpful.”

“Be careful that your language toward all of God’s children is harmonious with your covenants and calling, no matter whom you’re speaking with.”

These three bullet points under Lesson 3 made me laugh out loud. Imagine if the church took it’s own advice?!

Granted, yes, this is all coming from a member, a bishop, who in the grander scheme of things doesn’t hold much authority in the church organization as a whole. But, since this was published by an official church magazine, I feel that should mean some level of approval from the higher-ups.

“ Remember that what someone feels and how they choose to respond to those feelings are not the same thing. A Gospel Topics essay explains: “The Church distinguishes between same-sex attraction and homosexual behavior. People who experience same-sex attraction or identify as gay, lesbian, or bisexual can make and keep covenants with God and fully and worthily participate in the Church. Identifying as gay, lesbian, or bisexual or experiencing same-sex attraction is not a sin and does not prohibit one from participating in the Church, holding callings, or attending the temple.”

Of course, they still need to make it abundantly clear that the church DOES NOT condone the actual existence of queer people.

Sure, you can have those feelings, but the moment you do or say anything that expresses those feelings in any meaningful way, you’re shunned. The church won’t so much as even call it being gay or lesbian or bisexual, etc, but have to use the neutered term “same-sex attracted”.

“ Be careful not to limit members’ opportunities to contribute if they identify as gay or transgender. Your ward members all have unique experiences and points of view that can be beneficial to your ward. As Elder Christofferson also taught, “Someone who is following … the standards, [the] teachings of the gospel of Christ, though they may be dealing with same-sex attraction, really there is no reason they cannot be fully participative, that they can’t be a full-fledged member of the Church, and hold callings, and speak, and enter the temple, and serve there, and all the other opportunities and blessings that can come from Church membership will be available to them.”

And if that last bullet point was a kick in the shins, this one was a punch to the gut.

May I remind you, trans members are forbidden from so much as changing their preferred name and pronouns if they wish to maintain full membership rights. You cannot enter the temple, hold the priesthood or certain callings if you choose to transition in any way, shape or form. This is stated in the official church handbook, updated in 2020 to include these specific guidelines.

There isn’t any reason a queer member *can’t* be a full member of the church, but again, it’s all contingent on burying away those feelings and never expressing yourself in a way that isn’t pre-approved by the church.

The church’s version of “inclusivity” is about physical presence; that is to say, they want people in their churches and temples, they want active participation. Their inclusivity does not welcome differences in ideas, expression, or opinion.

Thus, I must conclude that “inclusivity” is not what this is about at all - while Ryan, and other individual members like him, may genuinely feel otherwise, the church wants total conformity to its one rigid belief system, and places zero value on the various walks of life that its members may come from.

(the original article can be found here if you’d like to read the whole thing for yourself!)

[comfyswitcherblanketfort]

Since you asked 'It will come back' by our Hozi boi (i feel like this is a creature Jask vine hardcore)

Y’all plz listen to this song if you haven't heard it its so fucking good and i fux with it hard. I see your creature Jask and raise you canon Geralt. 

As a fellow touch starved idiot like Geralt I just couldn’t resist. This got LONG, much longer than I thought and I have lost all objectivity. I hope you like it! 😂

Warnings: Hella self loathing, mainly just big time moodiness, we got swearing as always in my fics lol

__________

Geralt couldn’t say he was surprised when the bard fell into the seat across from him in Posada, annoyed but not surprised. With his pristine clothes and expensive shoes he looked like a noble’s son on a rebellious streak or a mission to ‘find himself’, so it was part of the script for him to approach Geralt. He was different, dangerous, a new shiny toy that would be cast aside rather quickly. 

But he stayed. Not only did he stay, but he was also kind and jovial, even protective at times. Geralt was surprised by this, of course, but it was clear the young man wasn’t aware what he said had any effect on the witcher. Jaskier must not have been taught, Geralt concluded, that witchers were abominations. The bard couldn’t know his small smiles and stupid jokes were wrapping the witcher around his little finger. He didn’t understand what he was doing, surely.

Geralt began insisting on roughing it more often. There was a week, about four months in, where he thought Jaskier had finally had enough of him. Good, he’d thought, he can leave before he becomes a weakness. But he had been careful not to put into words ‘before he becomes my weakness.’ 

When Jaskier stormed off into the woods and came back a few minutes later with an angry gleam in his eyes but forgiveness on his tongue Geralt was stunned. 

When those eyes softened in… pity? sadness? understanding? Geralt was terrified. In that moment he was sure he would rather endure another round of trials than lose this stupid little human. 

So he did the only thing he knew how. He withdrew and drew a wide circle around himself that he did his best to keep the bard out of. He snapped at him, critiqued his songs, drove him near the breaking point of human exhaustion, but this human wouldn’t leave. And his persistence wore him down occasionally. 

There were nights he leaned into Jaskier’s warmth. When he was too tired to fight and the bard’s words were sweet as honey they would talk. He told stories from Kaer Morhen that none but his brothers knew, told Jaskier how he got all his scars, told him about his first heartbreak.  It felt too good. Too comfortable. He began to fight it less and less, finding he enjoyed letting go of this particular shield around the bard.

Then Jaskier hugged him, and he hugged back. 

Every bone in Geralt’s body was screaming. His arms were warm and comforting, almost bringing tears to his eyes as Geralt failed to pull away. His body was begging for more, to be held and treated gently, but his mind was in a fog of panic.

Geralt couldn’t let it happen again. 

He wracked his brain trying to think of ways to get Jaskier to leave and stay gone, if not for his own safety then for Geralt’s sanity. He realized with a mix of horror and confusion that he’d become inexplicably attached to Jaskier. 

Geralt felt a bitterness creep in over the next few months. 

There was no way the bard didn’t know the effect he had on him. Geralt was helpless. He couldn’t tell him no, couldn’t sleep without him near, couldn’t think about anything but him when their hands brushed or their knees knocked beneath a table. He wasn’t bitter because of the bard’s hold on him, no, he was bitter because he knew as soon as he gave in and let himself fall into Jaskier like he wanted to he would never be able to climb back to the surface. 

He already noticed how he’d changed. He was more patient, more self-assured, better able to understand the way a husband might lash out over his missing wife. It irked Geralt to admit it, but the bard had chipped away at a small section of his armor and made him soft again; almost vulnerable.

The bitterness turned into a possessiveness he’d never experienced and, frankly, it scared him. Geralt began to miss him when he wasn’t near, felt a kind of desperation when the bard wouldn’t look at him that made him want to pull his hair out. 

Finally, he couldn’t take it anymore. They were laying out their bedrolls near the fire and Jaskier winked at him, fucking winked.

“What are you playing at?” he demanded, throwing his bedroll at their pile of packs.

“Oh calm down, you big brute. It was a joke. Or are you too old for those?”

Geralt tried to answer but found he was unable. The torrent of emotions swirling in his chest wanted out and he was choking on them, anchored to the spot. He just stood and stared at Jaskier as he went about his business for a moment longer.

“What, Geralt?”

“You can’t keep doing this to me…” his words barely left his mouth but he regretted them as if he’d shouted from the mountain tops.

Jaskier’s face was unreadable, “What is it that I’m doing to you?”

Geralt grit his teeth and clenched his fists. The problem was he had no idea what the bard was doing to him. 

“If you’re going to leave, or resent me… just go now. I can’t take it. You’re perfectly capable of finding a nice wife to fill your father’s castle once he’s gone. Stop wasting your time on me and… and making me…”

Jaskier stepped closer, a frown creating a new line between his brows, “Making you what, Geralt?” his tone was almost impatient, but there was an edge of something Geralt dare not identify.

The witcher could barely breathe, he just stared into the fire to his right and screwed up his face in shame. He couldn’t say it. He’d probably never be able to say it. 

Then Jaskier’s fingers were trailing down his forearm and gently grasping his ring and pinky fingers as he whispered, “If you need time, take it. I’m not going anywhere.”

Geralt’s chest tightened and he snarled before he could think of stopping himself, “For fuck’s sake, don’t be kind to me.”

Jaskier tilted his head, still not letting go of Geralt’s hand, “Why wouldn’t I be kind to you?”

“Because I don’t know what to do with it!” Geralt felt as if he were tumbling off a cliff even though he was staring at his feet firmly planted on the ground, “If I accept your… your.. Whatever this is and you leave I’ll be broken. Please, for the love of Melitelle, just go so I can breathe. You don’t know what it is you’re offering when you say these things.”

“I don’t want to go anywhere.” Jaskier insisted, not budging an inch. 

Geralt found he wasn’t strong enough to pull his hand from the bards grasp, not even to make an attempt, “You know better than to hold me like this…”

“Clearly I don’t.” Jaskier argued, that edge of frustration in his voice coming back, “Why is this so fucking hard for you? I’ve seen you bed men, tell me it’s not just me that’s so abhorrent to you.”

“You can’t afford to be tied to me like that… and I can’t afford to lose you…” Geralt whispered, doing his best to shove the tears back down his throat. 

“I believe what I deem worth paying is up to me,” Jaskier tilted his chin up, looking directly into his eyes with such a tenderness that Geralt’s knees almost gave out, “Stop pushing me away.”

Their faces were terrifyingly close, so close Gealt could feel the bard’s breath on his neck as he tried to steady the shaking of his hands, “I want to…” he breathed, “...if I-”

Jaskier didn’t give him time to finish. He sealed his lips to his witcher’s and pulled him as close as he could. Geralt felt his heart twist in his chest, painfully so, like he would burst as soon as Jaskier pulled away.

To his surprise, when they parted, he didn’t keel over dead.

Jaskier brought his other hand up to rest against Geralt’s jaw, “I have every intention of keeping you. Forever.”

Geralt groaned in defeat, leaning his forehead against the bard’s, “Good. You’ll never get rid of me now.”

[thedevildomdaily]

Demonic Possessions Ch 6: The Design Diva Strikes Again!

Here's the first of TWO chapters coming to ya on my days off as promised! Thanks for being patient and the well-wishes. I'm recovering pretty well.

Note: Here's the Master List for the full story. I recommend reading my stuff on my actual Blog if you enjoy OM! official music! Thank you so much for the support. Please let me hear from you in the comment section. I wanna talk OM!

Warnings: Swearing, NSFW (I told you I'd get to it soon lol)

Lilly squirmed around in her bed. Her pink and purple curls were sticking out around her pillow that she used to smother her own face. A hand with beautiful galaxy nails, courtesy of Asmodeus, was planted in the middle of it. She moaned and groaned, not wanting to wake up. That was until she felt movement in her bed!

Her hand clutched the pillow and tossed it quickly from her face in a hurry. She immediately looked down at the foot of her bed. There was a large mass beneath her giant, fluffy comforter. There was something in her bed!

Slowly mustering all of her courage, the human eased the comforter up and open. Her eye were squinting, afraid of what she was about to see at her feet. One eye opened, then the other.

“Hello~” there was a very sensual, yet familiar voice. A set of icy blue, glowing orbs stared at Lilly before she registered the female nephilim peering at her from the darkness beneath the covers.

Yes, it was Lena! A nearly naked Lena at that: she wore a lacy black thong that was completely see-through and an oversized tank top. Because she was on all-fours, the giant opening hung low enough to reveal her full chest. She giggled devilishly and licked her lips, staring at Lilly like a predator.

“L-L-Lena!?! What are you doing!?” Lilly gasped. Her beautiful, tanned skin was now bright red as she looked at the nephilim crawling closer, between her legs.

“You, if you’d let me babe…” she smirked and crawled closer, now close enough to anchor her hands on either side of the human’s hips. She tilted her head to the side, letting her long hair fall to the side, gently touching Lilly’s leg. She awaited her answer, knowing very well how tempting she looked in this precarious position.

Lilly gulped, and parted her lips for a moment, staring at Lena in almost a trance. A nod followed, then a motion for Lena to approach her further. The nephilim crept up and over the petite human and kissed her softly.

“Good choice…” Lena purred. Lilly laughed and pulled her into a deeper kiss. Her lips tasted sweet and her skin was like the finest silk in the three realms. The human wanted to explore every inch of her body.

The nephilim wasted no time to straddle her. Lilly gasped as she watched her remove her top, revealing her beautiful large breasts; They nearly made her cry, “You’re so fucking gorgeous Lena…”

Lena giggled, “Look who’s talking...you’re fucking hot. I’ve lived for thousands of years and never seen such perfect caramel skin and those lovely violet eyes. You’re bewitching Lilly.” She pulled the human into a deeper, more sensual kiss. Her hands wandered to the small of her back, slowly lifting her shirt up and off.

Unable to wait any longer, the mortal reversed their positions, pinning Lena on her back. She was dominant by nature, and while she knew she was no match for a powerful being like the nephilim, she wanted to take control. Lena seemed very welcoming to the idea.

Lilly ran her tongue across Lena’s left nipple as she softly groped the other. Hearing the other woman moan was music to her ears. It’s been so long since she’d shared her bed with anyone; a dry spell since the exchange program began.

Just as she began to inch Lena’s thong down, Lilly began to wonder why she was thinking so intently about things other than this drop-dead gorgeous creature beneath her and what was that sound in the distance…

“WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK IS THIS MESS?!!!!”

The human woke to those words. A fucking dream!? NOOOOOOOOO! Pouting, she looked over at her temporary roomy, waking up on her couch; fully clothed and oblivious as to what was going on.

A series of profanities filled the entire House of Lamentation. Lena knew who it was and wanted to jump out of the nearest window and run away.

Mammon gave his one knock warning and popped his head in. “Are ya guys alright? Who was that?” Awe, he came to check on them.

“That was just my darling brother discovering my room you guys are lending me...and the sound of a nephilim experiencing a heart attack I’d imagine…”

*~*~*~

Lena quickly put on a robe and followed a series of ‘motherfuckers’, ‘sons-a-bitches’, and ‘dirty rat bastards’ to the attic. Both Lilly and Mammon accompanied her, despite the many warnings she gave them. “Major Diva warning alert...just saying…”

When they arrived upstairs, the trio found a raving mad Azri, Asmo, and Satan. The demons were standing in the doorway, quietly observing the nephilim as he inspected the room. He was listing every single thing that was wrong with the room.

“Good morning, my darling big brother…” Lena grinned evilly at him. This caused a chain-reaction of giggles.

“There’s not a damn good thing about it!” Azri responded with his hands on his hips, “Why didn’t you tell me sooner that they put you in the filth and squalor like those poor ‘Flowers in the Attic children’?! These are abhorrent living conditions Azralena!”

Lena had to fight hard not to laugh or tell him it was cleaned-up compared to what it was like after Belphegor took his stuff out that first night. He’d scream and faint like a goat if she did. “It’s not that bad bro. If anyone can fix it up, it’s you!”

Azri stopped his pacing and approached his little sister. Everyone held still, afraid of his reaction. He put his hands on her petite shoulders and looked down at Lena with a severe expression, “Lena,” he paused, “I may have to actually pray to celestial realm and every angelic fiber of my body for a fucking miracle to fix this abomination…”

“Is it really so horrible?” A deep voice boomed from behind them. Apparently, Lucifer had joined the fray.

“Oooh, Lucifer’s involved now...this is gonna be good…” Asmo whispered to his brothers and Lilly. There were smiles exchanged, but nobody was brave enough to laugh at this in front of the eldest brother.

“As a matter of fact it is Lucifer,” Azriel responded, “My sister deserves better than this. Are we not guests of Lord Diavolo’s? My sister has told me about ‘how cool Leviathan’s room is with the jellyfish and mega aquarium…” he then looked over at Asmodeus, “and his room is ‘absolutely beautiful’ she says. And it has a giant bathroom that looks like Regina George’s...and you give a dust-filled, cobwebbed attic with loose boards and….ARE THOSE EYES!!!!!?”

Azriel pointed to a whole in the wall on the north side. “This is unacceptable! As the eldest brother you must take responsibility to make sure my sister is staying in comfortable living quarters during her stay!”

Lena just tried to hide her face out of embarrassment. Why was he such a diva? She of course appreciated him looking after her like this, but sometimes he was just too much. This was definitely one of those cases.

“And what do you propose I do about it? My brothers each fixed their rooms on their own. This IS the House of Lamentation, not a human world resort.” Lucifer responded dryly. He did have a point there. One that only irritated the eldest nephilim. Lena felt the need to intervene before things got ugly.

“Hey guys, let’s just take a chill pill for a moment…” she said, holding her hands up as if to surrender to this mess.

‘Chill...pill…?” Lucifer looked at the female nephilim with a weary and perplexed expression.

“Yeah. I mean, it’s a metaphor…” Lena chuckled, “Look, I never meant things to get out of hand and Azri...you shouldn’t barge into someone’s home and go off like this...apologize. Now.”

After looking down at his short, little sister, Azriel sighed, “Sorry. Lena is right. I tend to...overreact when it comes to my siblings. I am in charge of the both of them.”

“I...can understand that.” Lucifer was willing to meet him halfway. From one eldest sibling to another.

“And Luci...fer” Lena almost tried a nickname but was not brave enough to go there yet. “Uhm, please allow my brother to remodel this room. I promise he is a professional in interior design as well as fashion. He will make structural repairs that could save future incidents. It’d give him peace of mind, I’ll be cozy, and you get a new roof out of it...for free.”

Lucifer eyed her, then her brother. They were both strangers, but if he was a professional, the demon believed he could be trusted enough for the task. “Very well. The two of you can do what you see fit in this room..and the roof if necessary. You’re not to do anything with any other room without my immediate permission alone. And, of course, you’re responsible for the remodeling costs. My brothers paid for the own rooms to be remodeled into what they are now. Even Mammon.”

All eyes shot to the Avatar of Greed and he felt it immediately, “HEY! What y’all look’n at! Of course I paid for my room to look as amazing as me, The Great Mammon!”

“He says that like we could actually believe him…” Satan muttered and the others agreed with him.

“Bet it was paid for from stolen belonging or money laundering schemes…” Lilly added.

“Most definitely.” Amso agreed.

“STOP TALK’N AS IF I’M NOT HERE!!!” Mammon yelled.

Lucifer cut his conversation with Lena and Azriel short to deal with his siblings. “MAMMOOON! Quit yelling so loudly. Get downstairs and eat breakfast. Now!”

The group, sans Azriel, did head down to eat breakfast. Those missing at the scene were filled in about the construction that was going to be done to Lena’s room by her brothers. Azriel was the design genius, but it was Zak that was the brawn behind the project. He was just more sensible and refused to show up so early in the morning.

~*~*~*~

The rest of the day went by fairly quickly. In just a couple of days, the nephilim had adjusted nicely into their classes. Belmont Academy had a similar curriculum blended with human education as well. It was “hybrid education for hybrid youth” as Lena explained it. She talked Lilly into checking into it once she returned to the human realm after the exchange program.

At lunchtime, the group joined together and talked about the events that started their morning. Asmo and Mammon dramatically told everyone what happened, getting everyone laughing about it. Well everyone but the two nephilim.

“Why the fuck didn’t you stop him from showing up so early?” Lena asked Zak, pointing her fork at him.

“I told him not to. He lied, saying he wouldn’t, and took off when I hopped in the shower. For being the supposed ‘responsible one’, he’s horrible when it comes to using his design skills or cleanliness…”

Lena sighed and nodded, “The. worst.”

“You do have to hand it to him though,” Asmodeus chimed in, “Azri did stand toe-to-toe with Lucifer without batting a silvery eyelash. That’s crazy! And Lena! You got between them quickly to intervene and stopped them from bickering!”

“Well of course. The root cause is ultimately my fault. So I took responsibility for it. Besides, it was pretty stupid to begin with. Arguing over interior designing an attic. Really?” Lena laughed.

“OOOOH I GOT IT!,” An otherwise quiet Leviathan exclaimed, “Your superpower is the ability to calm even the most powerful foes, like Lucifer, down!?!”

Lena paused for a moment, then burst into laughter, her brother joining in. Even Solomon couldn't help but chuckle at the notion. “THAT’S HILARIOUS!!!” She began to choke and punched her chest to stop it. “That’d be great. And it would have probably stopped many of earth’s wars. But nope. That’s definitely not it Levi-kun!”

Her response embarrassed the third eldest demon brother. That was, until she called him Levi-kun; It brought up a whole different reason to be embarrassed.

~*~*~

The rest of the school day passed in the blink of an eye. The RAD students disbursed, with the Purgatory students wishing everyone good luck with the remodelling go on. It was code for ‘good luck not getting into another fight over it’.

On the way home, they decided to grab Hell’s Kitchen burgers to go. Of course Beel wanted to eat a dozen there first, so they divided between those playing arcade games, those ordering the food, and Belphie watching Beel eat and hopefully not go on a rampage.

“Yes! I got it!” Lena screamed. She was at the claw machine with Lilly and Leviathan.

“That’s amazing!” Lilly cheered.

Leviathan gave his signature scream of excitement and proceeded to tell the girls what character it was, and their backstory, and everything in between.

“So what I’m hearing is…this is a valuable part of a set...and that you’re collecting that set aren’t ya?” Lena asked.

“Yeah. I’m missing her and two others.” Levi admitted.

Lena grinned and handed it over to the demon. “Then you’ll get more value out of having this than I will. So you’d better take it then.”

“R-Really?” Levi asked, shocked that she would just give the figurine to him.

“Yes, really!” Lena chuckled, “I just wanted the thrill of winning. You can have the figure. I don’t know what I’m gonna have room for when Azri’s done and that clothing haul is moved in from Lilly’s room.”

“ARIGATO!!!!” Levi cheerfully thanked the nephilim and held up the figurine into the air to admire it.

Lilly lingered back, watching the two nerd-out, sighing inwardly. It was clear that Lena was getting a little attached to Leviathan. He wasn’t catching on, and it made it more adorable...and sickeningly sweet to her. Oh well, she’d have to rely on her dreams still, until she could find a hot demoness that was interested in her and not devouring her soul.

[100talberts]

(no POV. TW for homophobia. Super long, so TL;DR Pastor Bunch convinces Zinnia that Women Learning Bad.)

“...now, one of those secular, self-serving toilet paper salesmen out there may argue that, without official input from God, it would be improper to assume He doesn’t want men to wipe afterwards, but I believe my argument is stronger. Men, ask yourselves: why would you clean a part of you that doesn’t need to be clean if not so the Devil can use it as a gateway to sinful anal simulation like fingering and homosexual sex?! I rest my case. Before we go, I would like to announce the birth of my 37th grandchild, Sunday Bunch, who is the logical and physically adept 10th child of my son Joshua Bunch and his wife Mrs. Joshua Bunch. Haha, just kidding! Sunday is a girl, so as is God’s natural way she lacks an innate ability to think critically and is inherently weaker to the men around her! Praise the Lord for giving Joshua a gentle, submissive little blessing, and pray that she won’t be the last! Have a wonderful week, everybody. Ladies, you may now speak again!”

Women aren’t allowed to speak during active church sessions at Light of God church, so Zinnia is only too eager for Pastor Bunch to finally shut up. As soon as she can, she stands up and approaches him.

“Pastor Bunch!”

“Hello, Miss Talbert!” Like most people at church, Pastor Bunch had no fucking idea which of Jeb’s daughters he was talking to.

“Pastor Bunch, may I speak with you personally? I need guidance.”

“That’s some bold phrasing coming from a woman! When addressing your superiors, you should be gentler and less aggressive with your speech, so that His natural roles for you and the men around you are honored. You don’t ‘need’ guidance, you ‘would like‘ guidance, or ‘may I have some’ guidance, so that the men you speak to understand that you’re a Godly and submissive woman, making men more inclined to want to help you.”

“You’re right, Pastor. I apologize. I would like to humbly ask for your guidance.”

“See how much nicer speaking femininely is? When you’re soft and subdued, you make yourself like a lamb, and will bring out men’s natural desire to be leaders and, like a shepherd with his flock, men will guide and lead you to where you need to be. Follow me, Miss Talbert, because right now you need to be in my office. We’ll speak and pray more there.”

The office is much more lavish than Zinnia would have thought. She and Pastor Bunch sit on a comfortable couch and, as taught, Zinnia waits for Pastor Bunch to speak first.

“Did you know the Devil was the first to desire for so-called ‘equal rights’ when he tried to become equal with the Almighty himself? It’s a heinous idea that upsets the natural order of His universe, and that wasn’t enough for the Devil, no, he went on to say that mankind should be equal to the Lord! God is mightier than we will ever be, which is His perfect design - you wouldn’t want any of us on Earth to have the power of God, especially in these sinful times! Today, Satan is embraced and nurtured by the feminists demanding women be equal to men, usurping His natural order in a perverse and diabolical manner. Woman was created for man, and any attempts to change this will fail, as you cannot change nature. It would be like purple apples: an abomination unto God, because He designed it a certain way and man meddling with it is raw blasphemy! First we have purple apples, then blue, and then a rainbow of apples to hide homosexual chemicals in! The gay agenda is to infect as many children as possible, and rainbow apples are the perfect ammo, as an apple a day keeps the doctor away, and with no doctors there can be no cure for gayness! It’s the perfect crime, and that’s why we must never eat apples, for they’re genetically modified by the gays to give you perverted desires! Apples were chosen by the gays as their sin fruit because it was the original forbidden fruit, the original sin, and gays love poetry. What’s more poetic than taking the original sin fruit and using it to create sinful fruits?”

Zinnia nodded. “You’re so wise, Pastor Bunch. My question isn’t quite one of equality or homosexuality, it’s one of learning. The Bible says women are to learn quietly and with submission. Does this mean women can learn? Can she seek education as long as she remains silent and obedient?”

Pastor Bunch laughs so hard Zinnia worries he’ll die of hysteria. “My child, don’t be so ridiculous! 2 Timothy 3:6-7 says that lovers of pleasure and self, who are not lovers of God or righteousness, have among them 'those who creep into households and capture weak women, burdened with sins and led astray by various passions, always learning and never able to arrive at a knowledge of the truth.’ That is not a good thing. Sin and passion often go together, so anything that you feel passionate about is likely sinful in nature, as God put us here on Earth to suffer, and as emotions are the Devil’s silly putty. God wants us to be as logical as we can be, which is best achieved by an objective analysis. Do you know what that means? Of course you don’t. We’ll look at facts without feeling, which the over-emotional atheists on the left will tell you is abhorrent, but only because it proves that their so-called ‘feelings’ are actually lies from Satan! Modern scientists are lying pawns of the devil, but back when this was God’s country you could trust them, as they believed in and followed the Lord. Back then, it was proven that women have smaller brains than men. Why? It’s a reflection of her having a smaller mind. Women have these small minds - both physically and spiritually - because they only need to know Godly truth and feminine duty, and the Lord doesn’t want us to have space we won’t use! The Lord hates excess, of money and of food and of space, so He wouldn’t have given women larger minds when they won’t be using it. Titus 2:4-5 says that younger women should be taught to be sober, to love and be obedient to their husbands, to love their children, be discreet, chaste, work at home, and that the word of God be not blasphemed. There is nothing about learning maths or science, and that was deliberate, for it is not His will for Godly women to learn. If you want wisdom, marry a wise man and bear him wise sons that can learn where you cannot. I must be going now, Miss Talbert, as I am a busy man with much to do. God be with you.”

“Thank you, Pastor.” It wasn’t what Zinnia wanted to hear, but it completely convinced her to stay at home and be a Godly baby factory. Of course, at 14 it isn’t hard to change her mind.

“Of course. Goodbye, Miss Talbert.”

[choupichoups]

Press F (Instagram/College AU) Epilogue

Lucas swears he’s the absolute master of undetected stalking. Or: Eliott is instagram famous and Lucas is the disaster gay who accidentally likes his post.

Okay so this is the end end, thank you again for reading!!

Lucas turns over, free arm carelessly swiping up the empty space beside him. Warm fingers drum a loose tune over cold sheets, long unoccupied despite the fact that it’s only nine in the morning. So Eliott did manage to drag his ass up for his photoshoot despite all the pouting and complaining from last night.

With a jaw cracking yawn, he pushes himself off their giant, comfy bed, landing on the floor with a soft thump. He conjures up whatever self restraint he’s gathered over the years to keep from nose diving back into the warm sheets. Eliott had left the curtains drawn over the windows, leaving their room bathed in burnt orange light, the air conditioning humming soft whirs of cool air. It’s the perfect recipe for a morning spent lounging in bed doing nothing.

But alas, he pulls his big boy pants up and drags his feet to the bathroom to follow his boyfriend’s itinerary for the day.  

srodulv We’ll be at the west beach behind the big cliff i showed you yesterday Whenever your highness deems it fit to join us Lol nvm we’re inside a cave now Aaand we moved Right at the path when you head down Can’t miss me and my handsome face on a plank

lucallemant why is ur face on a plank less texting more posing

srodulv Being the breadwinnner in this relationship is really a thankless job huh

lucallemant where’s the bread tho???

srodulv THANKLESS

“Lucas, hey!” 

He stumbles past the pathetic lumps of sand from where he and Eliott had attempted a friendly little sand castle competition a few days ago, clumsy on his feet as he holds himself back from rushing towards them. 

“Morning, Jo,” he greets the photographer first before raising both eyebrows at Eliott, who does, in fact, look perfectly handsome lounging on his plank. As if the sand isn’t digging into the skin of his elbows. As if the sun isn’t beating directly over their heads. Ugh, an abomination. 

“Oh hi, Eliott, good morning Eliott!” Eliott says in a mockingly high pitched tone when Lucas fails to say anything else. “How are you doing, Eliott?” he continues in that same annoying voice, prompting Lucas to kick up some sand his way. “I missed you, boyfriend, you’re working so hard, my dear!”

“Ew, shut up.” Lucas laughs, moving to sit beside Eliott when Jo pauses his snapping to adjust some settings on his camera. Despite all the teasing, however, Lucas presses a kiss to his boyfriend’s cheek and throws both legs over one of Eliott’s thighs, hands instinctively searching to intertwine their fingers. “Morning,” he murmurs into the space between their lips, chest fluttering when Eliott brushes their noses together, whipped as the first time. 

“Good sleep?” Eliott mutters back, smile melting sweeter when Lucas drops his head on his shoulder with a nod. “We’re almost done here and then we have the rest of the week to ourselves, okay?” 

“Okay.” Lucas plays with their tangled hands, fingers stroking light across the back of Eliott’s palms. He almost forgets what they’re actually talking about had it not been for the loud click of a camera shutter coming from his right. 

Jo is looking down at his camera when Lucas finally forces himself away from the very optimal cuddle he and Eliott had going on. “You sure you don’t wanna do a joint photoshoot, Lucas?” Jo turns the camera around to show him the photo he’d just taken. “You guys look really good together, it’d be a hit!” 

Yeah, no. Lucas snorts, “I wouldn’t know what to do with myself.”

Jo tuts, “Don’t be like that, this one looks good.”

“Lucky shot, trust me. My face does weird things in front of cameras most of the time,” he prattles out excuses, eyes narrowing when Eliott remains silent as he watches the exchange, laughter clear in his eyes. “Anyway, I’ll be taking a walk while you boys do your thing, alright, don’t have too much fun, drink water often, and I’ll see you,” he clicks his tongue, points to where Eliott is seated, eyes locked on Lucas ever since he arrived, “later. Bye!” 

And he runs off before Jo could convince him to join the shoot. Lucas really isn’t about that life, the amount of followers he’s garnered only from the fact that he’s dating Eliott is already stressing him out as it is. He can’t imagine what a legitimate photoshoot together would do. 

Making his way towards the beach, Lucas slips off his sandals and walks along the path where the waves hit the sand, relishing in the ticklish feel of sand shifting underneath his feet at every pull. His toes curl into the soft surface, wiggling at the cool touch of clear waters before the waves pull back into the ocean. 

It’s nice out here. Lucas had been mighty skeptical when Eliott had mentioned it off-handedly during the giant final party of the school year. Granted, both of them had been pretty drunk at that point and Lucas wasn’t sure whether he was hearing things or if Eliott had really just asked him to go on a two week vacation in South Africa. Like Lucas doesn’t only have two whole dollars in his savings account. 

It’s free, Eliott had cleared up once sober, chuckling at the dubious look on Lucas’ face. My friend wants a shoot there and he’s letting us stay at their private condo as payment. 

Wow, bourgeoisie, and then Lucas proceeded to forget about it in the midst of tear inducing exams.

He digs out his phone and snaps a photo of the sun hitting the ocean’s surface with a pretty gleam. His mom would appreciate the view, maybe it would encourage her to take her own vacation somewhere too. She deserves a few weeks away from the city— maybe a trip with her friends would be nice, maybe with that nice guy she’s trying to pass off as just her friend whenever Lucas visits would be good too. 

Lucas digs his heels in the sand and turns to face the ocean, rolling his sweatpants up to his calves as he steps deeper into the water. 

Eliott’s graduated. He’d done a placement at a studio during his final year and they refused to get rid of him (Lucas can relate), add to that Eliott’s side film projects and this whole internet famous slash instagram model thing and Eliott’s suddenly found himself a lot more occupied that initially expected. 

Lucas has quite a bit of catching up to do. Fuck, he’s not even employed anywhere. He’d left his job at the cafe during that unsavoury mess a year prior and his workload from school picked up at an abhorrent pace. The only reason he’s functioning as a semi normal human being right now is because Eliott has made it his mission to stop him from eating any more of Yann’s cheese bread and his mother has been helping him with rent. 

He stomps his feet into the water, pouting as it earns him a very unsatisfying splash. And then his feet are suddenly off the ground, legs flailing on instinct as he’s grabbed from behind by an obnoxious, giggling giant— 

“Eliott!” he screeches, two seconds before he’s unceremoniously dumped deeper into the water. Sputtering, he stands back up with as much dignity as he can gather and jumps onto Eliott’s back with a holler of curses, trying to keep his own head above water when Eliott’s knees buckle under the attack, laughter helpless as he clutches onto Lucas in their half-hearted tussle. 

They roll around half in and half out the waves, laughter unbridled like giddy little children on a high. Careful steps on the sand turn to careless treading in the deeper waters, drenched clothes stuck on warm skin and playful fingers threaded in ocean darkened locks. Lucas breathes out a chuckle in the tiny space between them, foreheads aligning perfectly when he hauls himself up, arms wrapped tightly around Eliott’s shoulders for balance. This close, Eliott’s smile is more radiant than the sun reflecting diamonds in the water and Lucas can’t look away, not when the oncoming wave roars closer, not when Eliott whispers something reverent that steals the breath right out of his lungs. 

"Eliott,” Lucas starts, blinking salt water off of his eyelashes. “Eliott, I—”

And then the waves claim them with an unmerciful smack, the force of it brings the two boys back to shore and they resurface with a sputter, their moment chased away by a newly triggered round of laughter.

“Oh shit.” Lucas squints as something dawns on him. “Fuck, Eliott!” He removes his soaked shirt and uses it to smack Eliott’s arm. 

“Ow! What?” 

“My shoes! I dropped them!”

“Oh. Oh, crap. I’ll buy— hey stop— stop that! I’ll buy you new ones at the market!”

The evening market is absolutely bustling with tourists. It seems like everyone had the same idea of whiling away the heat at the beach and whiling away at the shops once the sun starts to set. 

“Lucas, come here! Look.” 

Lucas follows the direction where Eliott’s voice is coming from, finding his boyfriend laden with all kinds of trinkets around the neck, around both wrists, and around most of his fingers. He’s such a fool. Lucas loves him so much.

“Please don’t tell me you’re gonna buy all of that.”

Eliott allows himself an offended look before remembering his excitement. “Course not, but look at this!” He stretches a hand and shows Lucas a handmade, wooden carving of a woman sitting on a piano bench with a dog beside her. “Wouldn’t this be perfect for your mom?” 

Did Lucas say he loves him already?

“Yeah,” he says softly, squeezing the hand holding the figurine before letting go and looking around the stalls himself. He’s done a bit of shopping for their friends already (he’s not actually going to get them only rocks and sand, thank you very much), all he needs now is for some help getting things for Eliott’s parents. “Hey, do you think you dad will like—” He turns around, holding up a trinket, only to find Eliott already off to the stalls on the far right. Oh well, at least he looks like he’s in the process of returning everything he’s got draped all over him. 

They don’t take very long to run into each other again once they’ve done their rounds, and Eliott beams like they haven’t seen each other in days, grabbing Lucas by the wrist with an enthusiastic, “All good to go?” And even if he wasn’t, Lucas would’ve followed him either way. 

Speaking of, they’re not headed to where they parked their rental car.

“Where are we going?” Lucas asks, sneaking a glance around them to see if he can pinpoint familiar places. They haven’t done much exploring for the past week, preferring to laze around the beach area whenever Eliott wasn’t busy with photoshoots, but he imagines Eliott has been around more than him if Jo wanted some changes in scenery. 

And because Eliott is Eliott, he doesn’t utter a word until they’ve passed a small bridge that leads to what looks like a dead end of shrubbery. 

But Lucas knows better by now.

They squeeze through the thick shrubs, pushing branches and leaves aside until they reach a wide clearing. “Tada...” Eliott whispers, as if the sound of his normal volume would disrupt the scene. 

And what a scene it was. A quaint circular area with boulders piled about, a large, ancient tree with drooping arms perfectly frames the view as if planted there years ago to fulfill this present purpose. The waves crash softly against the rocks, forcing pale, wet sand to shift with uneven dips. Over the horizon, blinding in its beauty, perches a moon so clear and bright Lucas would be hard pressed to believe it’s real if he weren’t standing right here.

“Holy shit,” he mumbles, shaking excess leaves off his feet as he makes his way forward, entranced. “Holy shit,” he repeats with feeling.

“Yup, holy shit.” Eliott breathes out his laughter, shoulders shrugging up in that endearing way of his. “Thought you’d appreciate this.”

Lucas makes his way to the edge where water and sand meet, bending to pick up a shiny stone reflecting moonlight off its surface. He hears Eliott coming up behind him but doesn’t expect the hand that steals the stone from his grip and Lucas huffs, indulging in his boyfriend’s amusement for a few minutes and jumping up to try and steal it back from Eliott’s raised fist.

“Eli, come on, give it.” He tries for another jump, but Eliott brings his hands behind his back, putting the stone out of sight. “Eliott!” Lucas whines, shaking the plastic bag of trinkets he’s got hanging around one wrist. Eliott has the gall to laugh at his suffering. “Give it.” Lucas holds out his free hand, tapping his feet on the sandy ground. “Now.” 

Eliott raises an eyebrow in turn, smile adorable despite its mischief as he holds out both hands in closed fists. “Okay, choose a hand then.” 

Lucas’ groan is long suffering. 

But unfortunately, undeniably fond.

“What is this now?” Lucas eyes him suspiciously, trying to figure out what Eliott has up in his sleeve this time. 

“What’s what?” Eliott tries for innocent.

“Did you learn some kind of magic trick, is that it?” Lucas grins, looking between the two hands in front of him.

“I don’t know, did I?” Eliott’s eye crinkles when he smiles. It’s infuriating.

“Omygod, you’re literally impossible. This better be a good trick, Demaury.” He slaps a hand over Eliott’s left fist, digging in between his fingers to try and pry them open. Eliott gives in too easily, lifting his fingers open without a struggle, so Lucas expects it to turn up empty.

Except.

Except—

“Is this good enough for you?” His voice is a whisper, quiet enough to get carried away by a strong wind. 

Lucas stares at the hand, mouth gaping dumbly. “That’s a ring.” He hears a chuckle, and then Eliott’s other hand is opening to reveal a matching pair. “That’s two rings,” he says, a necessary and intelligent contribution. 

“I know you’re nervous about what’s going to happen.” Eliott starts, “with my graduation, and work, and all that stuff.” 

“I’m not—”

“Lucas, please, you think I wouldn’t notice?”

Lucas shuts his mouth, looks down at the rings again as if they hold the answers to all his doubts. And maybe, maybe they do. Hold them. Some of them, at least. 

“Nobody likes change, you know. I hate it too.” Eliott steps closer, putting both rings inside one hand and using his free hand to grip one of Lucas’. “But for every change that happens there are still constants.” He places one of the rings inside Lucas’ palm. “And you have a lot of that, whether you believe it or not.” With both hands now free, Eliott takes the ring he kept for himself and drops it around his pinky finger. “But if there’s anything I want you to always believe, it’s that I will be your constant, Lucas Lallemant.” 

“Constant?” Lucas chokes, eyes stinging from the force of the tears he’s holding back. God, he’s such a cry baby and Eliott knows it too, the bastard. “Like, always? Like—” Forever. But that’s a scary word. “Whatever happened to minute by minute?” He laughs weakly, hand gripping the ring tight in his hold. 

Eliott leans down to press a kiss atop Lucas’ closed fist. “Okay, what if I tell you that here, in this exact spot, a minute lasts forever?” Because of course Eliott isn’t afraid of forever. Maybe Lucas will learn to be brave too. 

Absently, Lucas mimics Eliott’s earlier movements, sliding the ring around his pinky and staring at it in wonder. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen himself wear a ring in his whole life. It’s a little loose on him but he’ll deal with that later, now’s not the time to worry about tiny details. “That’s absurd.” 

“You’re absurd.”

“No you.” And Lucas launches himself up and into a hard kiss, putting all the brimming feelings he’s too stupefied to vocalize at this moment. “Buying promise rings,” he murmurs in between kisses. “When did you even— you sneaky bastard.” He pulls at Eliott’s shirt, dragging him down as he sags back on his heels. Eliott’s hands are warm cups over his cheeks, touch so soft, ever so gentle in everything he does. Lucas is shifting to fling his arms around Eliott’s shoulders to try and bring them even closer to each other when he feels the newly appointed metal on his finger fly right off his finger and into... well... into the unknown. 

He pulls away so fast he gives both of them whiplash. 

Fuck. “Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Fuck! 

Eliott is understandably confused. “Uh. What’s wrong?” 

“My ring!” Lucas screeches, throwing his bag of souvenirs over onto dry land before attempting to dive headfirst into the water. Eliott stops him just in time, dragging a protesting Lucas far, far away from the ocean. “But Eliott! My ring!! Your ring?! My— ring!” 

And Eliott is laughing. “It’s okay, Lu.”

“It’s not!” He takes fistfuls of Eliott’s shirt and shakes his boyfriend because in what world is it okay to lose a ring given to you two seconds ago? “I just had it and then it’s gone!” 

“Shh, it’s okay.” Eliott smiles down at him, shaking his head as he removes his own ring from his pinky and slides it onto Lucas’ ring finger. It’s a much better fit this time, but—

“But this is yours,” Lucas insists, “you’ve gotta have one too.”

“Oh, I do?” Eliott raises a teasing eyebrow.

“Of fucking course, that’s the point of a promise ring you dolt.” Wait no. “I’m the dolt. I can’t believe I lost my ring!”

Eliott’s giggles ring clear in the night. “Lucas, it’s okay, really, we’re here for a few more days, we can buy a new one before we leave, hm? Let’s go back now, I think you need some sleep.”

“I don’t need to sleep, I need to find my ring!!” 

[spookyspaghettisundae]

The Lullaby of Howling Winds

Drifting in and out of sleep, the lullaby of howling winds never let him fully rest. Those winds carried sand over the wasteland. They carried sounds of creatures in the distance, of the clanking of metal from a faraway fortress-city occupied by orcs.

Cade sat in the shade of a jagged rock, tucked away in a spot that shielded him from those merciless winds sweeping past. His horse had perished from its injuries along the way. The snapping of muscles and the crunch of bones still echoed in his mind, grisly remnants of the imagery of him putting the loyal beast of burden out of its misery.

His weary legs had carried him this far, but he needed rest. The dry heat of these blasted lands had chapped his lips and he yearned for water, haunted by the hollow weight of the empty waterskin hanging from his side.

Pebbles crunched underfoot. In a flash, Cade gripped his sword in both hands in a trained reflex, blade out at the ready, pointing at the figure that had appeared in front of him, appeared from the darkness in between his eyelids opening and closing in his delirious haze.

A figure with limbs as thin as reeds, standing tall before him. Pointy ears like an elf. Eyes not black, thus a half-elf, Cade recognized through the delirium. The thin man tilted his head. A glint of madness flashed in his eyes. His mouth spread into a lopsided smile.

Cade returned a smile of his own. But inwardly, he was alarmed.

As night neared, the stranger had introduced himself as Harrokh and shared his water with him. Cade took careful sips from it, tasting no poison in it and trying to avoid the shock that might come from dehydration and drinking too greedily.

They had not spoken other than exchanging names. Cade took his time, studying the thin man’s every movement while he continued to recover, sensing he would need all his strength to survive.

Harrokh even made a small campfire for them to warm themselves against the unforgiving cold as it crept across the craggy wastes of the Cinderlands. Yet Cade read no shivers in the thin man’s motions, saw no sign of him being touched by the elements.

The fire was a mere gesture. A guise.

“Are you a crusader?” asked Harrokh.

“What gave it away? The holy symbol of Old Deadeye?” replied Cade hoarsely, ending with a pained grin and clearing his throat.

Harrokh smiled. Wider than before.

Hungrier.

Toothier. Cade maintained the smile upon his lips, using it to mask his disgust over the fever he sensed just by looking into Harrokh’s eyes. He could smell it on him. The rot of decay, the stench of unearthed corpses.

Ghoul fever.

“So, you hunt all abominations? Never suffer such creatures as demons and the walking dead?” Harrokh said, stoking the fire with a stick, causing embers to rise like fireflies.

“Something like that,” Cade muttered.

His trusty bow and a quiver of seven arrows rested on one of the rocks nearby, but he had no plans on using that. His sword rested against his shoulder, leaning not at the ready anymore, but also close enough that he might grab and raise it if the thin man made any hostile move.

He continued to study Harrokh’s features. Freakishly long fingers, sharp fingernails.

“Not very talkative for an itinerant priest, are you?” Harrokh asked. “Don’t make a lot of converts that way, I reckon?”

Cade chuckled, but it ended in a raspy cough. Cleared his throat again.

“We don’t make converts, friend,” he said, trying to utter the last word with as much sincerity as he could muster. “We serve the people in whatever way they need us to.”

Harrokh had no pack, no belongings other than the waterskin. A waterskin that rarely saw use, judging by how stale the water had tasted. The only other things he appeared to have on him were the ragged clothing on his back and a bronze skinning knife hanging by his side.

“Tell me a story, priest. What brings you to these desolate wastes? Do you not run into trouble with the Shoanti hunters? Or the orcs?”

Genuine curiosity. Harrokh stared into Cade’s eyes, something smoldering between them. Perhaps he wanted to know if someone might come looking for him.

“No trouble with Shoanti. I have an agreement with one of the clans out here. We hunted a demon together mere weeks ago,” Cade said.

Harrokh nodded slowly.

“No trouble with orcs, either. I can stand my ground. Unfortunately, Quentin didn’t make it out of the last encounter.”

“Friend of yours?”

Cade nodded, averted his gaze to focus on the fire, and swallowed the lump forming in his throat.

“Yes. Good horse. Fought well. We braved many perils together and his end was not dignified.”

From the peripheral of his vision, he noticed the twitch around the corners of Harrokh’s lips. The hint of a grin that the ghoul fought back down, wrestled under control.

Had he eaten Quentin’s remains back there? It might explain how he discovered him out here.

Harrokh broke the silence that Cade’s thoughts occupied, saying “Didn’t answer my question, though. What, really, brings you out here?”

Cade arched a brow, curious about the ghoul’s curiosity. He had never heard of these creatures being this talkative, this inquisitive. He had never heard of them being this sophisticated.

“I know that many cults hide out in the mountains out here, worshipping demons and summoning them. I was—I am on a quest to hunt them all. Learn of them. Root them out.”

Harrokh chuckled, but it erupted into a cackle, ending on a high and crazed pitch. The shrillness of it caused the hairs on the back of Cade’s neck to stand.

“Sounds like something personal, aye? Something—”

“Yes,” Cade interrupted him sharply. “It’s always something personal, friend. Nobody acts without motive, lest they are beast.”

Harrokh still smiled at him over the small flames of the campfire, dancing merrily in between them. This time, the crackling of burning wood filled the silence. This time, Cade broke it.

“Now tell me a story, traveler. What brings you out here? You’re not in any of those abhorrent cults, are ya?” Cade asked with a smirk.

This wiped the smile from Harrokh’s face.

“As late as the hour is, I respect that you will respect our shared hospitality around this quaint little fire,” said the ghoul. “I admit, I am disciple to the Lady Despair.”

Cade licked his lips and really began feeling the weariness in his own legs. He felt pins and needles in his feet but barely moved. His fingers twitched, ready to clutch his sword by the hilt and swing it around and run it right through this ghoul—but he decided to hear him out first.

Not every day that a crusader got to speak this closely with the undead.

Was this even a normal ghoul? He wondered.

“Did the Pallid Princess grace you with—did she make you what you are now?”

Harrokh licked his lips. His tongue was long and pointed, like a serpent’s. His fangs growing longer, and sharper. Teeth too numerous to resemble a normal man’s mouth.

“Of course. Some might argue an indirect rescue, but my faith and my path led me to it. My devotion to Her was what saved me from certain destruction,” Harrokh spoke.

The fire crackled and Harrokh stoked it with more force than before. Embers exploded from it, flitting away in every direction.

“This sounds like a long story,” Cade said.

“The nights grow longer. We have time, do we not?”

Cade raised a shoulder for a one-sided shrug, feeling the exhaustion still creeping up on him like cold hands caressing him, tingling underneath his skin everywhere now. In direct defiance of how alert he felt, how cautious he was. How ready he was to fight this creature.

“Yes, please. Humor me.”

“I was arrogant. Sought to show up the leader of our covenant by discovering the resting place of a Thassilonian God-King before her. Hoped to find great power there, with which I might have become the ultimate master of our faith.”

Cade just stared at him. Glared. Did nothing to interrupt him, silently urging him to continue. He marveled in the ghoul’s audacity. Did he really underestimate him this much? Or did this creature possess power so great that he simply did not care?

“Close to starvation, I reached that fabled place. Xin-Shalast. How exactly, I barely remember,” Harrokh recounted. His words trailed off and his gaze rested upon the fire, the focus leaving his eyes as his thoughts followed his words.

“There, giants walked, so large that their shin bones towered twice the height of a grown man. They stood watch over this strange city’s incredible walls, ancient structures older than anything I have ever seen, yet untouched by the sands of time. Standing strong and beautiful, despite the frozen wastes that surrounded the place. Other horrid monsters dwelt there as well.”

Cade scoffed. Harrokh either ignored him or was lost in his own memories.

“They feasted on the bones of the few pilgrims such as I who somehow managed to reach this place. Where a powerful miasma enclosed the valley, one that turns even shadows of the dead into wrathful spirits. I crawled like a cockroach, scurrying from hiding place to hiding place, until he found me.”

Cade arched a brow and interjected, “He? Who’s he?”

“He made me his slave, but he allowed me to subsist on carrion, to walk in his shadow, to hide and only strike out to help him and his other servants whenever their body and wit might be outmatched by the beautiful abominations that ruled the city.”

Fingers twitching again, Cade started weighing how much longer he would hear out this babble. He would need to sleep eventually and sleeping in the company of a hungry ghoul could only spell out one single outcome.

“My master—Mokmurian—he entered a tremendous palace without me. And when he emerged again—”

Harrokh paused. His eyes locked onto Cade’s. They glistened with a wetness that betrayed reverence and sadness.

“When he emerged from that palace, he wielded magic befit of a god. The disdain in his eyes, for me, and his other subjects—he felt like a god. He saw us as pathetic wretches, ready to discard us like broken tools. Some reveled in it. I felt only disgust. He saw it in me. Saw it in my eyes. Threw me off a cliff without second thought.”

Harrokh’s eyes sparkled with an insanity and despair that Cade could not fathom even if he tried. He wanted to say something, his mouth drooping half open, but no words came. Cade wanted to clear his throat, but something was wrong.

“I survived because I had feasted upon the undead. I had become one with Her curse. The fever took me, and I lived beyond life. Rearranged my broken bones, ignored my battered body. Could now regain my strength by feasting upon any blood and flesh, both living and dead. Could not so readily die of mere cold or thirst or starvation anymore.”

Cade had heard enough. Tried to grip his sword, but his strength failed him. His gloved fingers slipped past the hilt, barely gripped it, and a dizziness set in as he willed himself to rise from where he sat. Yet his body disobeyed.

“I sought for so, so long to find that city again. To return to Xin-Shalast. But when he cast me from that cliff, he ripped the memories from me! He discarded me like trash, and without my master to guide me, I have no chance of finding that beautiful city again,” Harrokh said. His voice trembled with reverence, fear, and desire.

The sparkle in his eyes wavered, making way for that previous glint of madness and hunger.

Cade struggled to move. The gravel and rocks beneath him crunched, cracked under the combined weight of his heavy body and armor. His limbs refused to do as he wanted. Something far worse than fatigue had seized his body.

“Erastil, you bastard—I will not,” Cade hissed, swearing at his god. It took all his strength to mutter more, “I will burn your damned mead halls if I die like this—”

Harrokh emitted another one of those shrill cackles. It sent no shivers down Cade’s spine. It only fueled the righteous fury welling up in his gut.

The ghoul rose and his fingernails began to enlarge, taking the form of talon-like claws.

“Who needs places, priest? All we need—is to eat,” Harrokh said with a sneer. “Now let the poison do its work. Close your tired little eyelids over that soft, delectable jelly that you see through.”

Cade gritted his teeth so hard until his gums started bleeding. Harrokh took a first, menacing step towards him, rounding the fire and closing in. His fangs glistened with reflections of the campfire’s light. His grin was hideous. Monstrous.

He lunged at Cade and his claws sank into the crusader’s flesh, slicing through metal and leather armor like needles piercing a thick hide with ease. Cade screamed out in agony, followed by a shout of anger and defiance.

Bones crunched and snapped as Cade yanked them around, for he had managed to swing the sword up just in time, in one last ditch effort, seizing his one and only chance. He twisted the sword’s blade with whatever ounces of strength he had left over, staring into the eyes of Harrokh, watching the unlife ooze out of them as he twisted the blade once more, breaking ribs and gutting the humanoid monstrosity.

The fire danced in the reflections cast upon the tip of the blade, sticking out from Harrokh’s back. His greedy hunger had driven him right onto Cade’s sword.

Cade yelled again in pain as he shoved the dying ghoul from him, and the claws cut through skin on the way back out. He kicked at the ghoul but delivered little force. The ghoul thrashed around one more time, flailing its arms, but Harrokh only scraped against rocks and the surface of Cade’s mail now.

Divine rage flowed through the crusader as he arched his back and managed to lift the sword one last time, bringing it down, crashing right into Harrokh’s neck as he lay prone.

Not enough force to sever the head, but enough to crack the spine and cut through most of the neck. Cade shouted again, channeling that rage and chopping Harrokh’s ghastly head off after a few more swings.

He then collapsed back onto the ground.

His strength had finally escaped him. At least, he reckoned, the ghoul lay dead beside him. Thick, tar-like mucus oozed out of the new orifices that Cade had hacked open in the abominable undead creature’s body. Harrokh’s claws twitched one last time, then the ghoul’s remains turned deathly still.

Cade panted and grunted as he touched the injuries that Harrokh had left in his own sides, not bothering to look at them beyond seeing his own blood upon his trembling gloved hands.

His consciousness was fading fast. The edges around his field of vision began to blacken.

The last things crossing his mind were that he would have to figure out what kind of odorless poison the ghoul had used. And how he had almost died without completing his quest. How he worried about the fire and it possibly attracting orcs, or other menaces like Harrokh. Or its absence, once it died out on its own, failing to keep predators and scavengers at bay.

He wanted to swear at his god, Erastil, again, but the poison forced slumber upon him.

Cade passed out, sleeping to the lullaby of the howling winds.

—Submitted by Wratts

[caltropspress]

FEEDBACK LOOP #4: Armand Hammer & The Alchemist’s “God’s Feet”

As a child I introverted and drew pictures while my mother prayed to Jesus reading King James scriptures.

—Ras Kass, “The Evil That Men Do”

The dark and evil passions of his soul, His secret plot, and sordidness complete, His hate, his purposing…

—George Marion McClellan, “The Feet of Judas”

Bury the Bible at my feet, A testament at my head. If my dear father should call for me, Tell him that I am dead.

—Nelstone’s Hawaiians, “Fatal Flower Garden”

1.  James Joyce apostatized from his Catholic faith but continued to dig it for its rituals. That was an aspect to it he could tolerate and utilize for his art, as if his indoctrinated mind could fully renounce it if he wanted to. ELUCID’s first raps were recorded in a church—hallowed ground for some; narthex reverb, and nothing else, for him. Organized religion is “totally manufactured…a tool of control,” he’s said. Still, he concedes “the Bible is a beautiful book…if you remove the spirituality.” He renders its rolling paper pages into something worth uttering. Smell the burning coals and incense.

2.  “Blow that horn fast, we been read’ to go. When that horn blast, the dead is coming home.”

woods sings first, but ELUCID’s singing voice, to paraphrase Jupiter Hammon, is a penitential cry. I turn the radio knob to 89.9 FM on Sunday mornings when I go for groceries in Passaic. WKCR’s Amazing Grace plays raw gospel, which is what ELUCID emulates here: where the more hideous the voice gets, the holier the expression becomes.

The song structure is raw and unblunted, too. The refrain cuts for 80 seconds before a single verse, like Bashō in its brevity, staggers us. The Alchemist and Earl Sweatshirt co-production is muted: soft keys and Mark tree accents. They leave space to let God in.

3.  White is not a color!

In Franco Rosso’s Babylon, the titular Babylon is—among much mayhem—the cops with the no-knock warrant—the abhorrent clampdown on the sound-system. The guns of Brixton need blazing (or at least a knife to the gut, courtesy of Brinsley Forde). “Racial tension” is only a euphemism for murderous oppression.

4.  And upon her forehead was a name written, Mystery, Babylon The Great, The Mother Of Harlots And Abominations Of The Earth. (Revelation 17:5, KJV)

When Mississippi John Hurt sings “Make Me a Pallet on the Floor,” he’s humbling himself—subordinating for the sake of adulterous love. The pallet is on the floor, and it’s soft and low. The sinful sweet-talk, he knows, signals risk: shoot, cut, stab. There’s no tellin’ what she might do. But the Book of Revelation offers an Armageddon glimpse of what she’s capable of. When accounting for behavior, though, who’s really the whore?

5.  “So the story goes…”

The pallet is full of pestilence and plague—of lice, roaches, scourges. It doubles as a coffin, or a cooling board. Son House sang of his love “laying on the cooling board” on “Death Letter Blues.” The pain of “her Judgment Day” seemed to rack him, and the “10,000 people…standin’ around the burying ground” felt it, too.

In Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men, the stable buck Crooks—the sole Black man on the ranch—associates only with the horses he tends to. Crooks’ bunk is a “long box filled with straw, on which his blankets were flung.” He’s segregated from the other workers, surrounded by harnesses and the sound of halter chains. Crooks, whose nickname carries the weight of criminality, “reduce[s] himself to nothing” when a white woman apocalyptically threatens him with a lynching.

6.  For the great day of his wrath is come; and who shall be able to stand? (Revelation 6:17, KJV)

Milton William Cooper’s Behold a Pale Horse is, of course, a blessing and a bane. A dog-eared and spine-cracked hood classic on 125th in Harlem. But Wise Intelligent has recognized the limits of it. In its hip-hop adoption, the failures and shortcomings show through. Like on 2000’s “Horsementality,” where Kurupt barks a litany of adverbs including “ultramagnetically,” and it’s on “We Are the Horsemen” that Ced Gee looks beyond God to complain “the universe bothers [him].” You’ve got Canibus’ needlessly excessive 666 wordplay and Kool Keith’s “gamma data” and “galactic horse” super-scientifical madness. ELUCID, though, deals in the concrete, disregards the conspiratorial. He “find[s] the spirit getting lifted,” in a decidedly non-Keith Murray manner. When he beholds the white horse that comes forth conquering, we’re reminded of his anticolonialism, not black helicopters and chemtrails.

7.  “In the blink of an eye, the faithful go where they are made whole. / …the dead coming home, prepare a table... / Leave your freshest linens.”

God’ll have you feeling welcome, invited, only to leave you to the cops for violating the Sabbath. He’ll roll up on you like, Wilt thou be made whole? (John 5:6, KJV). Like, Motherfucker, do I look like I want your help? He’ll convince you your disability deserves a miracle, crap on crip culture, and then chastise you about “sin” while he spits ableist fictions.

8.  “Singing murder ballads. / Looking for a body.”

Harry Allen, in his eccentric and alchemical liner notes for the Anthology of American Folk Music, pens a summative headline for “Fatal Flower Garden”: “GAUDY WOMAN LURES CHILD FROM PLAYFELLOWS; STABS HIM AS VICTIM DICTATES MESSAGE TO PARENTS.”

There’s a foreboding to, arguably, every Armand Hammer recording—an educated guess, or a warning. (Aw shit!—you got a red dot on your head, too.) The mood is pervasive, like lily-white hands in murder ballads. One can find comfort in this consistency. It’s a proven fact ELUCID is up on that folk tradition shit: He hammers out danger. He hammers out a warning. What the song does is make the killing, the revolution, irresistible.

9.  For he must reign, till he hath put all enemies under his feet. (1 Corinthians 15:25, KJV)

What do God’s feet do exactly?

Does He still keep His Timbs on? Does He pirouette spin in a pair of Timbs? Is it haram to show the sole of your shoe?

If you read Corinthians, the feat of God’s feet suggests a more Old Testament-style HIB violator—a brutal and vengeful supreme being on the bully pulpit letting you know what’s what. Or maybe it’s not so wrathful. Maybe God’s feet are just a power move—the aggrandizement of the Godhead at the expense of the masses: “The heaven is my throne, and the earth is my footstool” (Isaiah 66:1, KJV). We’re used to getting stepped on. The back alley boot stomp. We mortify our flesh, self-flagellate. And we keep coming back for more. But why? “God’s Feet” speaks of a return, but it’s more a recidivism.

Images:

The Siege and Destruction of Jerusalem (detail), by David Roberts (1850) | Screenshot from Franco Rosso’s Babylon (1980) | Mississippi John Hurt, Folk Songs And Blues cover art (detail), Piedmont Records (1963) | [Dr. Richard Burr, an embalming surgeon in the Army of the James demonstrating the procedure on a dead soldier] between 1860 and 1865 | Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse (detail), Viktor Vasnetsov (1887) | The Crucifixion, panel from the Isenheim altarpiece (detail), Matthias Grünwald (1515) | Anthology of American Folk Music liner notes (detail), ed. Harry Smith (1952) | Screenshot from Franco Rosso’s Babylon (1980)

[jewishzevran]

look upon the Light so you may lead others here through the darkness

After the Herald of Andraste has some choice words for him, Cullen and Leliana have a talk about faith. [ao3]

A/N: I originally published a different version of this, which was less specific to my canon and took place in Leliana’s quarters. I have deleted it, but kept the title of the piece for the update. I like this version a lot better.

The Herald frowned at Cullen, and spoke with a tone that he couldn't quite place. "But... the Templars have served the Chantry for ages.”

“And in that time, they’ve come to take the Order’s services for granted–" Before he could continue, the Herald made a disgusted noise and rolled her eyes, before turning and walking away. 

"Wait where are you going? What's the matter?"  

She wheeled on him. "Seriously? After everything, that's your reason for leaving?"

"You're a Dalish elf, what do you know of the chantry?"

The Herald blinked, and her mouth curled into a snarl as her hands balled into shaky fists. She crossed back to Cullen and stood inches from him, her anger letting her tower over him despite her stature.

"How dare you. Are you so selfish and blind that you don't think it affects us? You think we were all born out of holes in the ground completely isolated? I grew up in Kirkwall. I know plenty of the Chantry, and their supposed peacekeepers. What do I know of the Chantry? What do you know of peace? You wield fear and cruelty like a slavemaster cracks a whip and expect your charges to survive unscathed? If you cage a dog and beat it for years how can you be surprised when it bites? And your "harrowings?" You take young mages, barely old enough to be adults and send them into the Fade with no warning, no training, no advice and expect them to fight demons? If they fail, you kill them, without so much as blinking. Do you write letters of condolences to their families? Do you even remember their names? And if you decide that one of them isn’t fit for the trial, you hold them down and forcibly remove their emotions! Have you not once considered how abhorrent the idea of a tranquil actually is? How egregious threatening people with psychological torture is? And don’t even try to justify it with “it’s for their own good”, whose good? I've heard stories that some poor families promise their children to the Order from BIRTH. Preying on poor and vulnerable families so their children can be groomed to hate an entire subset of the population? Discouraging circle mages from having relationships in case they have mage children? Any children born regardless are ripped from their mothers and given to a chantry orphanage to raise and then recruit as Templars. The most frequent cause of death in circles is suicide, did you know that? Do you care? I had friends in Kirkwall that were raped and beaten, and it doesn’t matter that you didn’t personally participate, you were silent while others systematically abused their charges. The Chantry doesn’t make peacekeepers or protectors. It makes soldiers. You say Anders started a war, but you never even thought about the alternatives. It wasn’t ‘start a war or maintain peace’ it was ‘rebel or spend a lifetime in slavery and enduring abuse at the hands of our oppressors’!  And you would kiss their feet in servitude."

She stalked off, then turned round, stalked back and punched him square in the jaw, with a resounding crunch. The force of the blow sent him staggering back several paces. 

"What do I know of the Chantry, shemlen? I know they massacred my entire people in the name of your God. Andraste spit on your skills being taken for granted. You want to be part of the Inquisition? To work side by side with mages? You need to do a lot of fucking soul searching about why you're really here, Commander Rutherford."

The Herald was crying as she walked away, wiping angry tears from her eyes.  Cullen was left standing dumbstruck. He spent several minutes quietly fuming. 

Maker, she can throw a punch.

His jaw was going to bruise and he could feel it. Then he started thinking about what she said and every angry word attached itself to a memory. He headed to the training grounds. Sword drills would hopefully clear his thoughts.

What do you know of peace?

He thought back to Kinloch. To the words he spoke to Nina Cousland. He begged her to slaughter anyone she saw in case they were possessed.

He thought about psychological torture and the screams and pleas of mages undergoing the Rite of Tranquility being abruptly cut off as that blankness took over their faces. 

He thought about his lessons as a boy, the pride in his teachers' voices as they spoke of the glory of the Exalted Marches and never used words like "massacre" or "genocide". How the elves deserved it. How it was their fault for being savages that denounced Andraste. 

He thought of the mothers who cried and begged when their children were taken to Circles. He thought of the mages that had panic attacks before their harrowing. He thought of the mages he'd personally seen use blood magic or turn into abominations - the mages he then helped kill.

For the first time in his life, he realised that in the moment before they cut their veins open or let a demon burst forth from their chests, every last one of those mages wore the same expression.

Fear. Desperation. Pain.

He remembered one young woman who had run away from the circle because her mother was dying. They'd tracked her down in a barn. She backed into a corner begging them not to take her. There were five of them surrounding her in full armor, and she was alone. Unarmed. 

"Blessed are they who stand before The corrupt and the wicked and do not falter."

He remembered repeating those lines to himself when he was fighting mages. When he was killing them. He felt sick.

"Commander? Are you alright?" 

He blinked, coming back into focus, and realised the dummy in front of him had no head anymore.

"Excuse me," he muttered, and walked briskly to his cabin.

He once visited a prison on templar business. He realised it didn't feel any different to the circle.

"Mages are dangerous. Any one of them can be corrupted." 

Those were the words spoken to him when he joined the order. The ones he repeated to himself over and over. Even here. Even at the Inquisition. He wasn't raised to do good. He was raised to kill mages. 

He once told Hawke that mages weren't people. Her sister was a mage. A Warden now, but–maker no wonder she looked at him with disgust.

"If you cage a dog and beat it for years how can you be surprised when it bites?"

He almost vomited as he remembered the Commander who calmly explained to him and all the other recruits that making a mage Tranquil was like neutering a feral dog - unpleasant, but necessary to tame it.

He remembered someone at Kinloch telling him how some of the Templars left books about blood magic around deliberately so they could apprehend anyone that read them.

He remembered a mage being beaten in Kirkwall screaming in pain and using the blood on the whip to conjure a protective shield around herself. Which they broke through. And killed her.

How did he spend so long utterly convinced that he was doing the Maker's work, when all he did was cause pain and violence? How did he convince himself he was in the right? 

Mistress Lavellan was not the first person to shout at him about this. Maker knows Hawke did it enough. What's different? What's chang–

The lyrium.

He staggered in his pacing around the room, almost falling over as his eyes went to the pile of belongings in the corner that the box he'd had since he was 18 lay at the bottom of. 

The first time he'd taken lyrium he'd hated it, it was disgusting - he remembers his friend Pip vomiting, asking if he had to take it, and the furious Commander threatening to beat him for insubordination.

Do we even need it? Is it even necessary? 

His thoughts turned to Alistair. Oh Maker. He'd never really thought about it, but Alistair left for the Wardens before he took his vows. He’d never taken lyrium, and Alistair could use his Templar abilities without it. He'd seen it. At Kinloch.

Cullen roared in anger and threw a glass at the wall where it shattered.

Lies. His whole life, his whole belief system was built on lies. He'd caused so much pain. So much evil, and he’d never once questioned it. 

How did he even begin to undo his wrongs? He could ask for forgiveness from Andraste, from the Maker, but what good did that do in the here and now?

There was a knock at the door.

"Not now!" 

"Bur sir, you asked for this report as soon–"

"I said NOT NOW!!"

The poor scout scurried away. A minute or two later, a familiar voice sounded outside, accompanied by a gentler knock. 

"Cullen, it's Leliana. Can I come in?"

"Fine." He tried to spit the word but his voice broke, betraying him. He didn't look up as she slipped inside.

"You're bleeding, Cullen." She gestured to her mouth, and Cullen mirrored her. 

Oh. Mistress Lavellan must have split my lip.

"I, ah, had a run-in with the Herald. It probably looks worse than it is."

"Let me–"

"No! I deserve it."

Leliana arched an eyebrow. She glanced deliberately at the shattered glass on the floor and then back to him. "Is there something you'd like to talk about, Cullen?"

"You have far better things to do with your time," he mumbled, turning away, but she grabbed his chin and made him look at her.

"That is not what I asked."

"I am a grown man Leliana, I can–"

"What? Self-flagellate in isolation and bottle up your emotions until they fester?"

Tears pricked in his eyes. He couldn't meet her gaze. 

"I understand not wanting to burden others with your feelings, Cullen, but shutting yourself away helps no one, least of all yourself. How is it better to break things and shout at our scouts through doors once you can't keep a handle on yourself any more?"

His cheeks burned with shame. He started to shake, the compassion in her voice stabbing through him deeper than any sword could.

She frowned a little. "Would you like me to pray with you?"

Cullen couldn't stop the hysterical laughter that burst out at that. As if prayer could fix what he was. What he'd done.

"Sit. Now." Cullen knew better than to ignore the authority in her voice, and as he collapsed into a chair, Leliana knelt in front of him, and tucked a stray curl behind his ear. Her face was dark with worry. She reminded him of Mia.

"Talk to me Cullen. Tell me what's wrong."

"Everything!" He shouted, unable to stop the tears that started falling from his eyes. "She was right! She stood there and shouted and wept and said the word Templar like it was poison and she was right! I killed innocent people because the Chantry told me my whole life that it was my duty to do so! I helped torture and murder children! And it took someone punching me in the face and calling me an idiot to make me even realise that that was wrong! If the Chantry is what the Maker truly wants then I want no longer want any party in it!"

Leliana took his hands. "And if the Chantry is not what the Maker wants?"

"Isn't it?" Cullen retorted bitterly, pulling his hands away. 

"Has He personally told you it is?" She was watching him calmly, as though his whole world wasn't spiralling into the abyss, and he wanted to scream.

"The Chantry speaks the word of the Maker. Everything they do is in His Name."

"That doesn't mean they are right."

He threw his hands up in the air in frustration, and stood, beginning to pace again. "Pray tell, then Leliana. What IS His will, hm? What DOES the Maker want? Did He put me on earth just to suffer? Is this my Trial? Am I failing?"

"The Maker does not make you suffer, Cullen. That is the fault of men."

"Stop being so cryptic!" He was shouting now, he could hear his voice getting louder and louder, and his face going red with anger and grief. "The Chantry speak for the Maker. They are His Church!"

"The Maker did not pick up a pen and write the Chant himself!" Leliana raised her voice too, standing defiantly in front of him. "He did not make the circles, or the Templars. Humans are fallible Cullen. They make mistakes, and words and intentions can be twisted!"

"But-"

"Who is your God, Cullen? Is it the Maker? Or is it The Chantry?"

The question stunned him into silence. His ears rang and he actually staggered backwards under the force with which the implications hit him. For what felt like an eternity, there was only silence, and his own ragged breathing as everything he ever learned fell apart and reformed into something new.

He stared at Leliana in wild disbelief, and she nodded, a smile twitching at the corner of his lips.

The Chantry and the Maker were not the same.

...the Chantry was wrong.

The Chantry was wrong.

The Chantry could be wrong. And he could still follow the Maker. 

Except.... Could he?

"Leliana..."

She waited patiently.

"How can I ever follow the Maker when I did such evil in his name?"

"I will be blunt, Cullen. There will be people that will never forgive you. Nor do they have any obligation to do so. But that should not stop you. It is never too late to change, or to start anew. True faith comes from action. Be vocal. Be compassionate. Treat mages with kindness and trust, but understand why they might not want it. You keep saying you are not the man you were in Kirkwall? Prove it. Repentance is hard, and will make you uncomfortable. You must work for it, and keep working for it. Remember it is not a goal, but a constant journey."

The words settled over him like a weighted blanket - heavy, but somehow comforting despite the solemnity of the moment.

"Thank you." He hesitated for a moment, staring at the ground, still wiping away the last of his tears. "...will you pray with me?" he asked quietly. "Not the Chant, just -"

"Of course."

Praying in silence was different. He was so used to speaking the words of the Chant and feeling them flow through him. Still, despite the quiet, it made the air in the cabin warm and light.

He felt a calm begin to settle inside him in the wake of his turmoil. He still had questions, and doubts, and guilt... but for the first time in far too long, he also had hope. He wanted to see the Herald and apologise. But that could wait. 

Leliana kissed his head and said " I'll tell everyone you are feeling unwell and you're not to be disturbed. Take some time to yourself. Rest. Start fresh tomorrow. When you want to talk about this some more, you know where to find me."

As she left, she smiled back at him. "Andraste watch over you, Commander."

It was a surprise that his returning smile came so naturally. "And you, Leliana."