#YES he is an abomination and a crime against God | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

secretmellowblog · 11 months ago

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Javert has always seen himself as a cog in the machine of the law—- but his final realization is that he hasn’t been a “bad cog,” he’s been a perfect cog in a bad machine. Javert hasn’t been a bad cop— he’s been a perfect cop in a system where his job is to enforce laws that are bigoted, evil, unjust, and cruel.

Javert’s entire life and soul was built on authoritarianism, on mindless bootlicking deference to the people above him in the social hierarchy. He had no desires outside of serving authority, and no joy outside of gaining its approval. He literally refused to think because he considered “independent thought’ a form of rebellion against authority!

But now he’s finally forced to realize that the authority he’s destroyed himself to serve is hollow, that the things he worshipped all his life are meaningless.

Derailed begins with Javert furiously interrogating himself for his failure to arrest Jean Valjean, for his failure to perform his duty to to the government….but as he continues thinking he’s eventually forced to come to the realization that the failure is not just coming from below, but also from on high. He’s not just failing to follow orders, he’s been given horrible orders that it would he immoral to follow, and his greatest failure was his lifelong refusal to recognize the hollowness of the higher powers he’s been serving. The authorities he’s been serving are poor arbiters of morality. There is a “gulf on high.”

I especially love these passages towards the end of his emotional breakdown self-reflection:

To be obliged to confess this to oneself: infallibility is not infallible, there may exist error in the dogma, all has not been said when a code speaks, society is not perfect, authority is complicated with vacillation, a crack is possible in the immutable, judges are but men, the law may err, tribunals may make a mistake! to behold a rift in the immense blue pane of the firmament!

(…)

Up to this point, everything above him had been, to his gaze, merely a smooth, limpid and simple surface; there was nothing incomprehensible, nothing obscure; nothing that was not defined, regularly disposed, linked, precise, circumscribed, exact, limited, closed, fully provided for; authority was a plane surface; there was no fall in it, no dizziness in its presence. Javert had never beheld the unknown except from below. The irregular, the unforeseen, the disordered opening of chaos, the possible slip over a precipice—this was the work of the lower regions, of rebels, of the wicked, of wretches. Now Javert threw himself back, and he was suddenly terrified by this unprecedented apparition: a gulf on high.

What! one was dismantled from top to bottom! one was disconcerted, absolutely! In what could one trust! That which had been agreed upon was giving way! What! the defect in society’s armor could be discovered by a magnanimous wretch! What! an honest servitor of the law could suddenly find himself caught between two crimes—the crime of allowing a man to escape and the crime of arresting him! everything was not settled in the orders given by the State to the functionary! There might be blind alleys in duty! What,—all this was real! was it true that an ex-ruffian, weighed down with convictions, could rise erect and end by being in the right? Was this credible? were there cases in which the law should retire before transfigured crime, and stammer its excuses?—Yes, that was the state of the case! and Javert saw it! and Javert had touched it! and not only could he not deny it, but he had taken part in it. These were realities. It was abominable that actual facts could reach such deformity. If facts did their duty, they would confine themselves to being proofs of the law; facts—it is God who sends them. Was anarchy, then, on the point of now descending from on high?

Thus,—and in the exaggeration of anguish, and the optical illusion of consternation, all that might have corrected and restrained this impression was effaced, and society, and the human race, and the universe were, henceforth, summed up in his eyes, in one simple and terrible feature,—thus the penal laws, the thing judged, the force due to legislation, the decrees of the sovereign courts, the magistracy, the government, prevention, repression, official cruelty, wisdom, legal infallibility, the principle of authority, all the dogmas on which rest political and civil security, sovereignty, justice, public truth, all this was rubbish, a shapeless mass, chaos; he himself, Javert, the spy of order, incorruptibility in the service of the police, the bull-dog providence of society, vanquished and hurled to earth; and, erect, at the summit of all that ruin, a man with a green cap on his head and a halo round his brow; this was the astounding confusion to which he had come; this was the fearful vision which he bore within his soul.

#Les mis #les mis letters #;_;;;;;;;#the imagery of there being a ‘rift in the immense blue of the firmament’…chefs kisss

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imeternallylove · 2 years ago

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Cloud Covered - S.Holmes

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x Reader

Warning: Graphics of violence, torture of dead and plenty of more brutality

Word: approx 3.5k

main mastetlist | request & ask | prompts | theme song

Chapters index

Bloodbath (you are reading this) | Marionette | Invisible Strings

It's an abominable to see.

Two victims were strewn on the floor, and one was hanging upside down. Blood is spilled as far as the eye can perceive, staining both the walls and the ceiling, creating a gruesome bloodfield scene. The odour in the air is revolting.

"My god," Sherlock hears you gasp next to him, shaken by the sight. He doesn't blame you; it's beyond anything he's ever seen, and he can easily say he's been in some gruesome crime scenes in the course of his job.

But his concerned against one another continues to be and before proceeding and allowing his own inquiry to begin, a gentle hand grips his partner's shoulder and he leans close. "Wait outside," he asserts that reassuring squeezed into your shoulder. He watches as you give a nod giving one final startled glance around his surroundings before turning around and going towards the police outside the warehouse's closed doors.

Sherlock returned his concentration to the crime scene only when you were close enough to the door, taking his first steps ahead and closer to the corpses. He crouches close the first, his sombre stare fixed on the horrified, wide-eyed look of the dead body, apprehension from his final moments on earth imprinted on his soulless eyes.

Only a few details emerge from his solitary observations: the corpses are soaked in their own blood, concealing any wounds or scars. Before handling the bodies in the mortuary, Sherlock always waits to meet them. He argues that people should look with their eyes, not their hands, because hands are awkward and untidy, and dragging their fingers across a flawless crime scene ruins so many aspects.

Many facts can be deduced by Sherlock with a single glance at a person, object, or scenario without even moving a muscle.

He takes his time studying the bodies and their ravaged faces, capturing everything in his memory and safely storing it for future use. It takes him twenty minutes in that stinky warehouse to be satisfied with his mental notes, and he turns to leave, his own feet leaving faint bloody prints behind from how dirty the floor was.

Once outside, he nods to the fellow officers, indicating that he has finished his studies and that the bodies may be taken away for further investigation before making his approach towards you, who appeared to be preoccupied in a hushed conversation with two police officers and a witness.

When they notice Sherlock's arrival, both officers leave, assuming it was time to get back to work. "How do I address you?" Sherlock asks the witness, a youngster of the same height as himself, pretty directly.

"James. McGuigan, James." The boy responds calmly, despite the fact that he, too, is visibly shaken by the circumstances. Sherlock took note of every expression he made. "I was just telling the officers that I have no idea what happened here," he adds, casting a furtive glance towards the warehouse before returning his attention to Sherlock. "I was going for a morning jog when I saw all the blood, so I immediately called the police."

"You did well," Sherlock replies, his hands in the pockets of his long coat. He casts a glance at you, who returns his stare with a begging look to leave the location within as little time as possible. "Do you usually go for a jog around here?"

"Yes," the boy says, nodding. "It's serene in here, and there's plenty of space." I went here this morning as well, and there was no blood."

Sherlock's brow furrows slightly, allowing the witness's comments to enter. "Interesting," he says, though you groan at his uncommon habit, he speaking slowly and attentively before nodding. There's nothing else to listen to, so there's no time to waste. "I'm sure you've had enough of the cops.” Sherlock steps towards to the boy, “thank you for your time with us." He gracefully lowers his head, hand finding your back to stroke against before departing and tugging the shorter along; which meant you.

You take out your phone and dial your friend's number; it takes a few moments for her to answer. "Hey, Molly." You greet with large exhaustion. "Have your toys arrived?"

The mortuary room, shall be you both next stop.

"Jeff Hewlett, Vincent Mcbride, and Reynard Hall." Molly says it with her arms crossed across her chest and an uncomfortable expression on her face, as if corpses still frightened her despite years of working in a mortuary. "Vincent and Jeff are siblings, not sure how Reynard falls into the picture."

Despite hearing Molly's remarks, Sherlock remains silent, leaning over Reynard's corpse and studying. The bodies had all been cleaned of blood, and the cause was clear; they had all been shot, albeit no bullets were recovered in them or at the warehouse.

"Jeff and Vincent have been dead for a while." Molly speaks up once more, watching as he moves on to Vincent's body. "I'd guess two days. Perhaps three."

"But our witness said there was nothing in the warehouse yesterday." You ponder during where you stood against the wall, brow furrowed, looking, waiting, having never been fond of mortuary space.

“Indeed,” Sherlock straightens himself up. “Only Reynard was killed there. Whoever did it painted us a whole show to make it seem like all three murders happened at the same time, in the same place.”

You pucker up, your weary face tilting. "But why?"

"Why not?" Sherlock retorts. "Perhaps it was a warning for Reynard, showing him Jeff's corpse as a threat. He wasn't given a choice, however. The killer definitely wanted him dead as well. It was most likely a game for their own entertainment, as well as an opportunity to leave a magnificent crime scene behind with all that splattered blood."

You ponder, your mind already absence. "Bloody Hell..."

"I wouldn't use the word magnificent to describe such a bloody scene." Molly mutters, breathes deeply, and shakes her head slightly. "In any case, there's more. Check their chests."

Sherlock doesn't need to be told once more, yanking at the white sheet that covers the rest of the dead. His brows furrow and he leans in, curious.

"What on earth is it?" You ask yourself, moving closer.

"All three bodies have the letter J carved on the left side of their chest." Molly adds this as she uncovers the two more bodies, displaying the same wounds that Sherlock saw with a little magnifying glass.

"Beautiful," Sherlock thinks to himself as he walks up to examine Reynard's scar. "The murderer left his imprint... He wants everyone to know that he did it. It's another jeopardy a warning that this could be a case for a serial killer."

The proprietor of the mortuary room frowns. "You should tone down your enthusiasm for murd-"

"Collect their files and bring them to me. All three of them." Sherlock commands, straightening his back and walking towards you, his arm wrapping across your shorter shoulders to urge you along. "I need to do some research."

Things were finally getting fascinating around there.

Shouting out the route out of Sherlock's flat to take you home. "Jeff and Vincent were cousins," he recalls fast as the outcome of his momentous laboratory spills out, loud enough to alarms you, half-sleeping from the passenger seat window.

You two share a knowing, amused gaze as a bright shade of pink sweeps across your cheeks after his delicate smooch on your hairline. "The entire thing could have been a family issue, a misunderstanding- but then you have Reynard, eh? Who appears to have no connection to them. However," Sherlock says, raising his finger. "According to my research, Vincent and Jeff were in a relationship. This could be a love problem instead, but it's still strange because of the cousins."

"Ugh, please. Don't tell me it was about illicit bromance like old fashioned in 70' European," you counsel with a smile. And your comment made him snort next to you.

"This J is dropping hints, which indicates that they intend to return. But if they don't, we can rely on your brilliant cousin illicit bromance concept." You can't stop yourself from laughing. Till you realize what he implied then your smile faded: "Are you trying to say we supposed wait for someone else to die before going after this 'J' ?” Your brow furrows in bewilderment.

“Exactly.” Sherlock gives a short, innocent smile. "God! Sherlock Holmes, that’s bloody nonsense. What's we need to do is avoid the next victim, not waiting and enjoying it!" You shout out as he turns right, leaving you dumbfounded.

Your water is just starting to boil when Sherlock asks, "-so what about steak and your fondness for wine?"

"Huh," you keep staring out the window, knowing he's only attempting to loosen you by addressing the food topic, and the only response you gave him was the muttering in rage. "Nah, I saw plenty of blood today."

"We're going to have burger for dinner," Sherlock replies hastily. "There will be no more second thoughts."

“Fries, also”

“Yes, ma’am.”

You were about going over soda when Sherlock's phone started ringing. He urged him to slow down his car and search his trousers pocket for the device. He frowned at the number as you gazed upon him doubtfully, then slid his thumb to the green button. "—Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock stared down at the body, and the body stared back to him.

"She was discovered exactly like this an hour ago." The officer from the local police department explained. "She drowned and washed up on shore, but we called you because she has the letter J carved on her. We do believe you are familiar with this."

Sherlock shut his eyes and exhaled slowly. He'd been overly confident, certain that he'd put the pieces of the puzzle together, that he'd tied all the traces together and located the real victim the murderer was looking for.

And now this - an elderly woman and she defies the men-only pattern, has no ties to any of the previous cases, and smashes Sherlock's assumptions and inferences in the blink of an eye.

And Sherlock is never, ever wrong with his predictions.

He feels your palm on his arm, a delicate tug of reassurance, of comfort, but he brushes it aside and walks to kneel over the body. You shake your head at the others, signalling that Sherlock needs a bit of solitude time.

"She used to work at a local, tiny grocery store." Sherlock claims that bending his head as he searches the body with furrowed brows for any wound other than the J sliced through her garments. There was nothing, which was not surprising given that drowning her shouldn't take much effort.

"Hold on, Greg." You paused the line and step over him, scracth your shoulder; by now it's already midnight and you're still at the crime scenes with nothing in your tiresome stomach. "You got that from just looking at her?" He sighs as he hears you ask in stupor.

"When I was younger, I used to go to her store and buy candy." He explains, possibly in a fairly harsh tone, though it was common for the frustration to crawl up on his chest and adhere to his ribcage. "She is unrelated to the other victims. She's most likely retired by now. It makes no sense."

No one says a thing. The wind from the Thames is refreshing, yet the air is dense. If Sherlock doesn't comprehend, the others obviously don’t either.

"Perhaps the connections between the victims weren't as straightforward as I would assumed."

Curled up within your coat, you allowed the darknight breezes swirl over you, leaving your blonde hair tangled. You've known your thoughts went away into the cloud from your body since this granny bodie had a sheer string with Sherlock.

"Anytime," you say as you offer your namecard to one of the local police officers, who appears to be the lieutenant.

Sherlock could hear your breath hitching behind him, followed by the noises of you turning around and exiting the room. He looked over his shoulder as his girl walked away, briefly wondering if the mortuary had finally become a bit too much for you to bear, before returning his gaze to the corpse.

"Mercury poisoning." Greg reinforced his thoughts, an uncomfortable expression on his face as he gripped the victim's files against his chest and watched Sherlock. "In his body, a big dose was injected. Considering the others, I'd say this was a rather clean death."

Sherlock concurred silently, his gaze fixed on the J cut right below the body's collarbone. “Name?”

"Clifford Shelton," the proprietor of the mortuary room replies, returning her gaze to the paperwork. "A kindergarten teacher, Oxford Montessori Schools."

There it was. The headache came slowly, cautiously, curling its twisted fingers around his thoughts and squeezing it.

"Do you think there's any connection to the other victims?" Sherlock questions, putting a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose and frowning at the gathering annoyance.

"Nothing that I can think of."

“Figured.”

Sherlock straightens up, disregarding Greg's somewhat irritated expression. Seconds passed slowly, static silence filling the air as he stared harder and harder at the corpse, as if the jigsaw pieces might fall into place on their own if he did it long enough.

"Where did Y/N go?" Molly is the one who breaks the silence, her hands moving to draw the sheet over the dead, effectively ending Sherlock's investigation.

The detective's attention slowly returns from the shrouded body to the pathologist, accepting the query before returning to the exit. "I don’t know.”

"So," Greg begins, his tone tinged with doubt and perhaps a hint of amusement. "You can't figure it out?"

"I haven't start to figured it out yet." Sherlock corrects Greg, irritated by his choice of words. He has copies of all the victims' files strewn over his desk, but the more he stares at them, the more difficult it is to think. Part of him blames Greg; honestly, the shorter's presence lowers his IQ by the second.

“Right.” He nods slowly, a kitten-like smile twisting on his lips, yet he doesn't dare to continue his tormenting.

"He was thirty-two years old, making him the second oldest victim so far, but there's still a significant age difference between him and Mrs. Madison from Thames river." They both were in your house, Sherlock muses as he leans over the papers, fists gripping the table. "In any case, it's barely significant. He was born and reared in Scotland and has no history of being linked with any of the men." He sighs and leans back against the table, his palms against his face, away from the paperwork. "I feel like there's something obvious here which I'm overlooking."

There was a brief moment of silence before you stood up, the entrance of the door. "He should be in Oxford, it’s Tuesday and no necessary to be in London." You mutter, barely audible, before turning and heading for the bedroom instead.

Sherlock kept an eye on you, the unfamiliarity of the circumstance, along with your out-of-character actions, making you nervous. He exchanges a glance with Greg, who returns his gaze, and he suddenly feels as if there's something else he's missing that isn't related to the murders.

"Is she-"

"Is she okay? You should go ahead and ask her." Greg shrugs, maintaining his nice, casual grin, but his eyes were clearly prodding Sherlock; attempting to break past his thick mind loaded with puzzles and detective novels. "Did you happen to forget Clifford was Y/N's ex?"

Sherlock's mouth opens in surprise, then closes again.

"Thought so." Greg laughs and shakes his head slightly. "Go talk to her."

Three knocks on the door before Sherlock stepped in, turning the handle. “Y/N?”

His shorter girlfriend sat on the bed, phone lighting out on your hands, apparently doing nothing more than being lost in your own thoughts, yet a smile spreads across your lips as your gaze meets Sherlock's, albeit somewhat tiredly. "Hey, beb."

Sherlock pursed his lips, locking the door behind him; he believed Greg would busy himself in the sitting room or the kitchen (like he always did), so he stepped farther into the room. He knew about Clifford and you, but the whole serial murderer thing managed to take over his entire head, seizing its place and leaving no room for other facts.

Even those about his girlfriend.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock asks, the mattress sinking slightly as he sat next to the shorter, bony fingers searching for you to hold. He senses you relaxing only for his touch, and you shrug.

“I hate your silly question.. It has been a long time. I haven't spoken to him for years." You say, seizing the opportunity to finally express yourself now that you have the opportunity. "It's just... strange -- you know? That someone I used to know..." You trail off, words turning to ash in your tongue before you can say anything, yet there is no need for a detective to figure out the finish of this phrase this time.

Sherlock's hand squeezes yours, and your head leans on his shoulder. "Suddenly, it all feels a lot more threatening when it's about someone you know, doesn't it?" Sherlock hums, now his head resting on his woman's shoulder, lips placing a kiss to the top of your hair. "Are you scared?"

“Kinda.” You chuckled defeatistically. "Well, if something happens to us, I mean; I guess 'J' knows who we are. Mrs Madison and Clifford happen to be related to us." You breathe out with a slight smile on your face. "And I wished I'd died first because I couldn't live without your goofy face."

Sherlock's stomach clenches, and he is anxious but determined. He presses your hand once more. "Nothing is going to happen to us." He then draws you closer into his warm embrace. "Just put your trust in me."

“I always did.”

“I know.”

While his lips were connected to yours, the deadpanned blank countenance quickly covered over your agonised sorrowful appearance that you showed to him. And, despite your best efforts, you sense no peace from his embrace, at all.

To your mastermind that running back and forth in your veins, something within you shouts louder and more profoundly in the silence.

a/t: eh i did told you don’t hate me yet xD

#Sherlock #bbc sherlock #bbc sherlock x reader #bbc sherlock x you #sherlock imagine #sherlock x reader #sherlockxreader #Sherlock Holmes x Reader #sherlock holmes x you #sherlock x y/n #sherlock x you #sherlock bbc #sherlock holmes imagines #bbc sherlock imagine #bbc sherlock x reader smut #sherlock fanfic #sherlock angst #bbc sherlock holmes x you #sherlock holmes

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wisdomfish · 1 year ago

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Non-Christian sources confirm the validity of New Testament

The Jewish historian, Flavius Josephus (A.D. 37-100), is the first non-Christian author to mention Jesus. In the Antiquities, Josephus writes:

There was about this time Jesus, a wise man, if it be lawful to call him a man, for he was a doer of wonderful works—a teacher of such men as receive the truth with pleasure. He drew over to him both many of the Jews, and many of the Gentiles. He was Christ; and when Pilate, at the suggestion of the principal men amongst us, had condemned him to the cross, those that loved him at the first did not forsake him, for he appeared to them alive again the third day, as the divine prophets had foretold these and ten thousand other wonderful things concerning him; and the tribe of Christians, so named from him, are not extinct at this day (Antiquities 18:3:3).

Tacitus (A.D. 56-120), the Roman historian confirms that the crucifixion of Jesus actually took place. Writing in his Annals, he records:

Consequently, to get rid of the report, Nero fastened the guilt and inflicted the most exquisite tortures on a class hated for their abominations, called Christians by the populace. Christus, from whom the name had its origin, suffered the extreme penalty during the reign of Tiberius at the hands of one of our procurators, Pontius Pilatus, and a most mischievous superstition, thus checked for the moment, again broke out not only in Judæa, the first source of the evil, but even in Rome, where all things hideous and shameful from every part of the world find their centre and become popular. Accordingly, an arrest was first made of all who pleaded guilty; then, upon their information, an immense multitude was convicted, not so much of the crime of firing the city, as of hatred against mankind.

Pliny the Younger (A.D. 62-113), Roman governor in Asia Minor, established that early Christians worshiped Jesus as a god:

They (Christians) were in the habit of meeting on a certain fixed day before it was light, when they sang in alternate verses a hymn to Christ, as to a god, and bound themselves by a solemn oath, not to any wicked deeds, but never to commit any fraud, theft or adultery, never to falsify their word, nor deny a trust when they should be called upon to deliver it up; after which it was their custom to separate, and then reassemble to partake of food, but of an ordinary and innocent kind (Epistles 10.96).

Suetonius (120 AD) was a Roman historian and court official. When recounting the history of the emperor Claudius some years before him, he said,

“Because the Jews at Rome caused constant disturbances at the instigation of Chrestus [Christ], he [Claudius] expelled them from the city [Rome]” (Life of Claudius, 25:4).

Lucian, born (c. AD 125 – 180), the pagan author Samosata, while ridiculing Christians, accepted that Jesus actually existed:

The Christians, you know, worship a man to this day—the distinguished personage who introduced their novel rites, and was crucified on that account. … You see, these misguided creatures start with the general conviction that they are immortal for all time, which explains their contempt of death and voluntary self-devotion which are so common among them; and then it was impressed on them by their original lawgiver that they are all brothers, from the moment that they are converted, and deny the gods of Greece, and worship the crucified sage, and live after his laws. All this they take quite on faith, with the result that they despise all worldly goods alike, regarding them merely as common property. (Lucian, The Passing of Peregrinus)

Celsus (2nd century), the Greek philosopher, while arguing against Christianity, also accepted that Jesus existed:

O light and truth! He distinctly declares, with his own voice, as ye yourselves have recorded, that there will come to you even others, employing miracles of a similar kind, who are wicked men, and sorcerers; and Satan. So that Jesus himself does not deny that these works at least are not at all divine, but are the acts of wicked men; and being compelled by the force of truth, he at the same time not only laid open the doings of others, but convicted himself of the same acts. Is it not, then, a miserable inference, to conclude from the same works that the one is God and the other sorcerers? Why ought the others, because of these acts, to be accounted wicked rather than this man, seeing they have him as their witness against himself? For he has himself acknowledged that these are not the works of a divine nature, but the inventions of certain deceivers, and of thoroughly wicked men.

~ Samples, Kenneth Richard. ‘Without a Doubt: Answering the 20 Toughest Faith Questions

#celsus #lucian #pliny the yournger #tacitus #josephus

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detective-slenderman · 9 months ago

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Victor Frankenstank is a goddamn fool. If I had an eight foot tall abomination that was a crime against god I would step up and raise my darling son

Yes this is my darling sweet little boy, he is so tall that he cannot fully stand up in any room. He is also two years old and reading paradise lost

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oklahomapartisan · 20 days ago

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God Pleased With Gay Marriage Ban: ‘No More Tornadoes’ Says Placated Deity

By Ernie W. Marland, Partisan Staff Reporter If Oklahoma votes in favor of a constitutional ban on same-sex marriage, God will stop pelting the state with tornadoes. “If I look down and see that homosexuals are behind denied the same civil rights and privileges that heterosexuals enjoy, then we’ll be okay,” the Judeo-Christian deity said in a joint press conference with Sen. James Williamson, R-Tulsa.

“But if I see a separation of church and state, something’s getting wiped out.”

Republican leadership has been in talks with God throughout the session, working to broker a deal wherein the often-unpredictable supernatural entity would stop pelting the state with tornadoes, drought and other so-called “acts of God.” Federal law requires the state to enter into compacts with divine beings regarding Class III natural disasters, such as tornadoes, earthquakes and famine. God’s Class II disasters, such as a 1200% increase in meth use and the hemorrhaging of high-paying jobs, remain unregulated. However, God said he may reward the state if the Bible’s 612 other amendments are enshrined in state law.

“Yeah, I said homosexual love was an abomination, but I didn’t say it was any worse than any other abomination,”

he said. “What’s with all the hetero-textile clothing? In Leviticus 19:19, I specifically said ‘Ye shall keep my statutes. Thou shalt not let thy cattle gender with a diverse kind: thou shalt not sow thy field with mingled seed: neither shall a garment mingled of linen and woollen come upon thee.’ Yet I look around and I see all sorts of hybrid cattle and a lot of people wearing linen-cotton blends. What’s up with that?” In response to the voice of God, Rep. Bill Graves, R-Oklahoma City, is crafting legislation to enshrine the entire book of Leviticus in the Oklahoma Constitution. A reprieve from tornadoes backs up Williamson’s claim that a gay marriage ban would help economic development in Oklahoma. Democrats had previously disputed that argument based on the fact that it made no friggin’ sense. Williamson said the lack of God’s wrath would drive down insurance prices which, along with right-to-work and tort-reform, will function as a panacea for the troubled state. “If Oklahomans don’t take a stand against civil rights, we’ll soon end up like the God-forsaken hellhole that is Massachusetts,” Williamson said. So far this year, God has punished Massachusetts with a standard-of-living and per-capita income far above Oklahoma’s, as well as much lower rates of crime, teenage pregnancy, obesity and suicide.

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ramon-balaguer · 2 years ago

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This idiot is no more a Bible Scholar than a two year old is an Doctor, and hypocritically hilariously uses Holy Scriptures to push Biblical homosexual heresy by altogether skipping the whole need of repentance and resistance of sexual sin abomination. In other words, the pope is right that homosexuality isn’t a crime but it is in fact a Sin of the worse kind that GOD Hates and is against His Moral Laws that JESUS Doesn’t Do Away with but instead Fulfilled and requires us to abstain from Sinning continually that His grace may abound. So yes, be inclusive and invite homosexuals, drunkards, drug addicts and ALL Sinners to Church for Redemption and Salvation through Faith and a turning away from their many Sins, Not for the Church to be Sinners like them, we become a Royal Holy Priesthood, a peculiar people, set aside, Exclusive body of Saints. 🧐🙏🌍#REBTD😇

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tangent101 · 1 year ago

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If Democrats turned against everyone but white supremacists just like Republicans have.

You have to understand something. I'm transgender. My head is on the fucking chopping block and Donald Trump is salivating at the chance to declare people like me illegal and throw us all in jail. He'll call us rapists and murderers and maybe there's one or two good ones but no they're all rapists and murderers and need to be locked up and detransitioned for their own good and forced to be good Christian Americans rather than these abominations to the eyes of God. And yes, Donald Trump personally gives no fucks about transgender people, it's all to rile up his supporters, but once he got into office he went after transgender people without being asked to do so and showed other Republicans that they can declare war on the LGBTQ+ community and get away with it.

So excuse me if I refuse to not vote, and urge people to vote Democrat no matter how much you hate it and despite the fact that they are supporting atrocities in Palestine. Donald Trump wants to continue those atrocities and add another genocide to it on the side while also hanging the Ukrainians out to dry so Russia will go in and start raping and pillaging again and then continue to roll through into Eastern Europe and then ignore our NATO obligations because he's Putin's Puppet. Not that it will matter to me at that point because, again, I'll be in jail for the crime of being transgender in a Republican World, even if he has to declare it by Executive Action.

By not voting for the lesser evil, you are voting for the Greater Evil. We need every single vote to keep Trump and these fascists at bay. For me, it's a matter of actual survival. So I will call you on this and urge you to reconsider. And hey, you know what can still happen? Maybe a Democratic Presidential Candidate will arise to oppose Biden and run on the anti-genocide-of-Palestine platform. And if such a candidate won against Biden I'd vote for them in the General Election. I. Fucking. Don't. Care. About. Biden. I care about keeping Trump and the Republicans out of office.

At some point you’ve got to ask yourself what WOULD someone have to make you not vote for them. Kill someone? Arm national militias? Roll back even more pandemic protections? Like, fuck, Joe Biden is materially supporting a genocide. If you still want to vote for him after that then maybe you should have a sit down and ask what on EARTH would make you not vote blue no matter who.

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saltwukong · 2 years ago

Text

Nitpick November, Entry #1: Aesthetic

Honestly, with Volume 8, it feels like everything has ballooned into such a mess that actual 'nitpicks' aren't that common anymore just because of how everything is a major issue now. But I know we're all thinking of the same thing when we think of the one that's left.

And that's that RWBY's aesthetic qualities have...pretty much atrophied by now.

RWBY was a show built on aesthetic, and yes, it should never have relied solely on that. But its strengths in early volumes was that even if the writing wasn't great, it was still just really fucking cool to look at. All of RWBY's colors were sharp and contrasting, movements were always quick and fluid, and it all worked together with camera angles and sound design to produce something insanely cool.

Contrast that with utterly braindead ideas for character design in later volumes... And yes, I'm gonna be using Blake as an example again. Look at Blake in the Black trailer versus Blake now.

I mean, look at that. That's a silent image, but you still heard the piano melody, didn't you? Look at all of that red and the way it fades into white near the ground. Look at the way Blake's hair blows in the wind and how it's so inky black you could spot it from a mile away.

I Isolated this scene in Volume 7 because the outside snowfield scenes are pretty much the only ones where you can see a character set against a largely monochrome background, like in the above. So that we can see on even footing why the new designs are utterly uninspired.

First of all, I think cutting Blake's long flowing black hair the color of the deepest night should qualify for some sort of war crime unto itself. Second, I don't know why Blake has been wearing so much white lately. Her outfit has slowly been getting whiter and whiter since Volume 4, and I don't like it. I would like to remind CRWBY that Blake's signature color is, you know, black. The white in her original outfit is there to offset the black and sharpen that delicious contrast. But there's nothing to offset here, because Blake's hair is gray now--and looks like it's made of Play-Dough, might I add. It's practically blending into the outpost behind it, which is roughly the same color.

Even before the utterly abominable Atlas Arc outfit updates, this was a problem we've had for a while. Everyone's colors have had the saturation sliders pulled down, so that instead of popping like they used to, they're now safe and "realistic" and my god, do I hate it. But when the outfit updates do come, I genuinely wish they hadn't.

Shout-out to Weiss' hair looking like two thick pasta noodles got braided together. There is entirely too much blue invading Weiss' design, just as there's too much white invading Blake's.

The only one who tends to survive outfit updates unscathed is Yang, with the designers coasting by on "okay, she wears a lot of brown", which generally works because brown is just darkened yellow. It doesn't draw too much attention, so Yang's brilliant hair, so blonde it practically glows, can have its fair share. As it would, back in early RWBY:

Yang is also the only one whose fighting style hasn't devolved into utter garbage, perhaps because hers is the simplest of the four and easiest to mocap, or perhaps because it's the only one Rooster Teeth's employees have been able to learn when animators are leaving as quickly as they arrive. Remember that moment in Volume 7, where Marrow comments on how Blake and Yang have been partnering up like 10x more often than they did in earlier volumes, and that maybe they should branch out because their styles don't mesh? And then before he can finish his sentence, they fight some Grimm and prove him 100% correct "wrong"?

That's all Blake and Yang ever do--Yang does the up-close work and Blake does some nonsense with that fuckin' kusarigama, because that's all Blake can do anymore. You would not catch the Blake of Volumes 4 through 8 doing this:

This is a problem that's affected everyone, most noticeably Ruby, who never displays any talent with that goddamn scythe--she either takes on a human opponent too strong for it to matter, or takes on Grimm she can easily carve apart with single strikes. That much has been a problem literally since RWBY started, however--they've never known how to display the edge a giant scythe gives Ruby Rose, and probably never will. What's a little more jarring is when it happens to characters like Penny. Want another one of those images you can hear? Here's one:

You cannot hear this image, on the other hand:

I'll grant you that in this one it's obvious they're trying, as opposed to fighters like Ruby or Blake where they just avoid the issue outright. But the gap widens with the sound design, this being the part where I realized they probably lost the files for the weaponry sounds--which, in early volumes, were 100% distinct from one another and completely recognizable. If you strain your ear really hard looking at that second one, all you'll hear is anonymous 'ting!' sounds that bring to mind forks being tapped against one another.

Early Penny's knives were autonomous. Yes, connected to her by near-invisible strings, but they moved around independently even when her hands weren't moving, and they had quite a long range. These knives...don't.

RWBY's writing may never get better. We might always have to mourn the times when things made sense. But these things, the little details like this that add so much spectacle and flavor--they wouldn't be that hard to learn. Maybe one day when we get the evil version of Rooster Teeth that doesn't break their animation teams' spines to bleed money out of them, we might actually see this improve.

Til then, we gotta deal with fugly.

#nitpick november #nitpick november 2022

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hintofelation99 · 3 years ago

Text

Jason Chaperons Damian's Field Trip

Damian and Jason in the Batcave trying to murder each other

Jason: I'm going to kill you demon brat!

Damian: Ha! I'd like to see you try Todd!

Fighting continues for the next two days

Bruce: That's it! Jason, Damian, no more fighting. You two are going to bond even if it kills you!

Jason: Again?

Bruce: Not the time Jason!

Damian, rolling his eyes: And how exactly do you expect me to bond with this barbarian?

Bruce: A trip to the art museum.

Damian and Jason look confused.

Bruce: Damian's class is going to the Gotham art museum next Friday. I was going to chaperon, but since you both decided to try and stab each other in public I have some PR matters to attend to. So, Jason will chaperon.

Damian: That is absolutely ridiculous father. Is it not enough that I am already forced to see subpar art with snot nosed brats? Now I have to take the zombie?!

Jason: Watch it brat!

Damian: Tt

Jason and Damian glare at each other.

Bruce: No, your brother is taking you to see world renowned art with your peers.

Jason: C'mon Bruce, world renowned? It's the Gotham art museum.

Bruce, glaring: Fine. Country renowned.

Jason raises his eyebrows.

Bruce: Don't push it. I'll call the school and let them know that you're taking my place.

--> The Next Friday <--

Jason: Damian! Get your ass down here!

Damian: I am right beside you Todd.

Jason: Where's your tie? And your blazer? Where's your backpack?

Damian: Calm down Todd. I have never been late for school and I do not plan to deviate from that today.

Jason: Whatever. Just be ready in the next five minutes, I want to get coffee first and we are not going to be late.

Damian: Pennyworth has already brewed a pot of that infernal drink.

Jason: And Tim has already called dibs on the entire pot. That kid is scrawny, but when it comes to coffee he's vicious.

Damian: Tt.

-------

Damian: STOP THE CAR RIGHT NOW TODD!

Tires screech as Jason whips into a parallel parking spot in front of the school. Damian's entire class watches this happen. They look terrified.

Damian, jumping out of the car, cursing in Arabic: Are you trying to murder me?!

Jason, casually getting out of the car with a Frappuccino, shrugs: I told you we wouldn't be late.

Damian: WE ARE THIRTY MINUTES LATE!!

Jason, shrugs: Oops.

-------

Teacher: Ok class! This is Jason Todd, he is Damian's older brother and he will be helping out on the field trip today. I expect you all to be on your best behavior today! Now Mr. Todd, would you like to tell us a little about yourself?

Jason, feet on a desk not paying attention, glaring at Damian.

Teacher: Mr. Todd?

Jason chokes on Frappuccino, stands up.

Jason: Uh, yeah, sure. Um, my name is Jason Todd, feel free to just call me Jason. Uh, what else?

Teacher: Maybe give us a fun fact about yourself?

Jason: Sure, sure. Uh I recently spent some time down under.

Teacher: Oh, in Australia?

Jason: Yeah, let's go with that.

Damian facepalms

-------

On the bus, kids screaming and throwing things at each other. Damian and Jason sit at the front near Damian's teacher. Jason has his eyes closed and looks tense.

Teacher: Uh, Mr. Todd? Jason? Are you alright?

Jason: Just peachy.

Damian: Pull it together Todd. You are embarrassing me.

Jason: Listen demon spawn, I'm trying to keep it together and not maim a rich brat. So why don't you shut up.

Damian: Tt. Everyone knows you are too cowardly to maim a child. However, I do admit that the loud and confined environment could cause stress... Here. Take these.

Damian hands Jason headphones. Jason looks confused.

Damian: Grayson claims that music can have a calming affect.

Jason: ...Thanks brat.

-------

Teacher: Ok class we are here! Remember to stick with your groups. Group one is with me. Group two is with Mrs. Smith. And group three is with Jason.

Kids break into groups, each group has seven kids.

Jason: Group three over here!

Damian rolls his eyes as the other six kids approach.

Jason: Be nice. Ok kiddos, we're starting at the uh American Rural Avant Garde exhibit. What the fuck is that crap?

Teacher: Oh my! Um, Mr. Todd. We do not encourage such strong language.

Jason: Wha- oh! You mean crap, so teach' that's my bad.

Teacher: Uh, no I uh-

Jason: Anyway c'mon demons let's go look at shitty art.

Teacher, chanting under their breath: The Wayne's donate a lot of money. The Wayne's donate a lot of money.

-------

In the cubism section.

Kid 1: Mr. Todd! When's lunch?

Jason: Call me Jason kid, and it's only ten? Lunch isn't until one.

Kid 2: But I'm hungry!

Kid 3: And this is boring!

Jason: It's not that bad, look at this thing! It's- oh shit is that a Picasso?

Kid 4: Uh, yeah?

Jason: Fuck that asshole, let's go get ice cream.

Damian: Todd! That is not in the schedule, we can not skip a section just because you dislike the artist!

Jason: See, that's were you're wrong baby bird. I'm in charge and I say that Picasso is an asshole and we're skipping his shit.

Damian: We are already in trouble with father, if we exhibit bad behavior he might force us to spend more time together.

Jason: Look kid, Bruce sent me here because he wants us to bond. The greatest form of bonding is breaking rules and skipping school. So, really, by skipping we're actually doing what he wants.

Damian: Tt. I suppose that sounds accurate.

-------

Jason: Time for lunch kiddos.

Kid 2: But we just finished our ice cream break?

Jason: No, we just finished the seeing the museums second floor. Right?

Kid 6: No we-

Jason: No no, we finished the second floor. The whole ice cream thing, that's our little secret. Right?

Kids: Ohhhhh

Jason: Now you're getting it!

-------

Damian glares at his lunch

Jason: What's wrong kiddo?

Damian: Tt. It appears that I might have, accidentally, taken Drake's lunch instead of my own.

Jason: And? What's the problem?

Damian: Drake, packed that abomination that he calls a sandwich.

Jason: Oh, god. He packed a peanut butter pepperoni sandwich again?

Damian, looking at the lunch with complete disgust: Yes.

Jason: Here, take my PB&J.

Damian: ...

Jason: Timbits taste in sandwich's is a crime against humanity. But I'm not vegan, so if worst comes to worst I'll eat it.

Damian: ...Thank you Todd. I- I did not think you cared about my dietary choices.

Jason: Just because we fight sometimes doesn't mean I won't have your back kid. Yeah, I guess being vegan is a choice, but it's a choice that I'll always support.

Damian quickly hugs Jason before taking his sandwich and pretending nothing happened.

Damian: I appreciate the support. Thank you, brother.

Jason: No problem baby bird.

-------

Jason: So, we have an hour before we have to get back on the bus. And, uh- oh shit! Ok, so apparently we had an assignment. Uh, the instructions say to draw your favorite work and write why you like it. What the fuck kind of bullshit assignment is that?

Jason: Uh, ok we're doing a speed draw. Everyone just pull up your favorite work on the museum website and try your best.

--> 40 Minutes Later <--

Jason: Ok, hand me your sheets and let's head to the bus.

Damian, hands his assignment in.

Jason: Whoa, huh.

Damian, looking nervous: What Todd?

Jason: Nothing, just this is a really good drawing kid.

Damian blushes: Of course it is.

Jason smiles and ruffles Damian's hair: Good job brat.

Damian smiles and heads to the bus

------

Both in the car, about to drive back to the manor.

Jason: You know, I actually sorta had fun today.

Damian: Your presence was... enjoyable.

Jason: We're never telling that to Bruce, right?

Damian: Obviously, if father thinks that his plan worked he will be completely insufferable.

Jason: Agreed. Y'know, sometimes field trips go long.

Damian: Oh?

Jason: Yeah, I mean, it wouldn't be too weird if we were an hour or so late getting home.

Damian: If we were to be late getting home, how would we spend that time?

Jason: There's a cool arcade that should be open right now.

Damian: I do not believe that I have ever been to an arcade.

Jason: Well, that needs to be fixed right now. You down baby bird?

Damian: I- uh I am down, is that the correct usage of the term?

Jason: Hell yeah.

---------------------------------------------------

Based on this headcanon.

#also the peanut butter pepperoni sandwich is curtesy of my brother #he got dared to eat one in high school and decided he liked it #his wife was v disappointed when she realized he still eats them #batman #bruce wayne #incorrect batfam quotes #damian wayne #robin #jason todd #red hood #field trips #brotherly bonding #batbros #mypost

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systlinsideblog · 3 years ago

Text

Part 2

The Lady walked, unseen and unheard, through the grass.

She looked out from the eyes of animals, felt through the grass, through the soil. She was, after all, a goddess of soil and fertility and life, and all life was her domain.

She followed her child, as Systlin walked.

It was cruel, sometimes, the uses to which she must put her chosen champion. The Lady regretted it, on occasion. But it was necessary, and her champion had the fortitude and skill to accept such hard tasks, to stand her ground though the whole world be against her. Her champion had the power to change worlds.

There was much on this world that needed changing. The cries of pain had reached the Lady, though she was not the native goddess of these people.

But the gods here were silent. The Lady was, among other things, a goddess of mercy, and she’d not been able to bear it.

Justice was what was needed, but there was none of it to be found in this place. Justice was not one of the Lady’s domains. But there was one for whom it was, even if that one still railed against what she’d become when she’d taken the soul of a slain mad god into herself.

She watched, as her champion killed, and though it was not her domain she could taste the justice of it. She’d brought justice and protection to a world with none, and granted mercy to the millions who cried for it. It was honey in her mouth.

A breaker, to break a whole world. The Lady thought, and smiled.

The leader of these...people...would not been pleased with her. She knew this, because she would not be pleased with anyone who came before her in her court and challenged her as she planned to challenge him. She would probably have had them seized, had they tried such a thing, and likely killed.

But then, Systlin was fully ready to burn this entire camp down, and quite honestly the only reason she hadn't yet was because there were helpless innocents in among the monsters who called themselves men.

Every step she took led her past women collared like dogs. Some wore nothing but bells, and Systlin was no fool; she guessed the purpose of such things. Some were chained to wagons. The ones allowed clothing wore little of it. To a one, the women gave way to men. On some of them, Systlin could see whip wheals and healed scars from beatings.

Her power curled within her, and oh but the lure of it was a powerful thing, as her blood ran hot and the red rage misted her vision.

But that was a dangerous path, and for now she kept her power under tight rein.

The women she passed looked at her with something like wonder; they had never seen, she supposed, a woman armed like she.

One woman, a chained girl wearing little but scraps of leather, had in fascination reached out to touch the hilt of Ice. Systlin paused to let her, and smiled.

"Warrior caste?" The girl's voice was wondering. "But..."

"Women," Systlin said, her voice gentle. "Make excellent fighters. It was a woman who trained me."

The girl smiled, and then all at once a man angrily grabbed for the back of the collar around the girl's neck, and moved to cuff her. The girl yelped and cowered, apologizing, begging forgiveness, and it was enough.

Ice was in her hand without conscious thought as she moved, and then she was standing over the cowering woman, legs planted, the point of her sword at the man's throat. The Power-bound blade, sharp as a razor, drew a drop of blood where it dug into skin.

"If you touch her." Systlin's voice was a snarl. "I will kill you."

She let, at last, the tiniest curl of her curse rise. It came cold and eager, and she reached out, feeling, feeling the million tiny flaws in everything around her, in her bones, in the bones of those around her, in the girl's collar...

"How dare you!" The man was furious. "She is mine! I will do with her as I like, I am her master!"

Systlin pushed, a thin little thread of Power, delicate as a needle.

The girl's collar cracked with a sound of over-stressed metal, and fell from her neck in two halves.

"She," Systlin hissed, "Is a woman, and a person, and not to be owned. What the bloody fuck is wrong with you people?"

"She is a woman!" The man hissed right back at her, heedless of the sword at his throat. "Her place is as a sla..."

It was the last thing he said. Systlin ran Ice through his throat, out the back of his neck. The sudden gurgle as his windpipe was severed was as sweet as music.

There was a roar of outrage, and she felt rather than saw the lance shoved for her back. She bent away, and it went past. She whipped her sword around, getting her back to the wagon, and looked down the length of ice-blue steel at the snarling faces of hundreds of furious warriors.

“Eighteen.” She said, coldly. “Whoever wants to be nineteen, step forward first.”

“Give me one reason, woman.” Kamchak was deadly serious. “Why I should not order you slain where you stand.”

“Because you said that you would take me to this Kutaituchik.” Systlin shrugged one shoulder. “And go on and do it. I would be delighted to kill some more of you.”

“You’re mad.”

“I fear that I am the only sane one present.”

“I should kill you.”

Systlin’s patience snapped. She called again on her curse, and with a terrible cracking of wood fifty lances snapped in a moment, dissolving into splinters in their owner’s hands. There was a cry of astonishment and…ah, yes, there it was…fear.

Several warriors…didn’t quite step back, but leaned back a bit, and looked uneasy.

“Try.” She said, very softly. “Please try. I’ll make a soup bowl of your skull.”

Kamchak regarded her for a long moment. “So you are a sorceress.”

“The next thing I break will be you, and the twenty men closest to you, unless you take me to this man as you promised.”

There was a long, tense moment, and finally Kamchak turned and jerked his chin at her to follow. Systlin did, warily. She did not tamp her power down and lock it away; she kept it to hand, a constant itch under her skin, a temptation to crack the femur of the man ahead of her just to hear him scream.

She did not. She’d long ago mastered her power, as perhaps no other Breaker had. She ruled it, not the other way around. She felt the temptation, but discarded it, and kept the terrible boon of her power close at hand.

She would need it. She knew it in her bones already. The sun was dipping towards evening. She’d been a warrior for decades. She was a warrior, a conqueror, a queen who’d fought two wars against people and one against a god. She’d won all three.

She knew, in her bones, that tonight she’d be spilling blood. A lot of it.

The girl rushed to stay near her, trembling. Systlin let her; the poor thing was terrified, traumatized, and clinging to perhaps the one thing that had ever offered her a helping hand. She had never been particularly good at comfort, but she tried; she patted the woman on the shoulder, somewhat awkwardly. The girl flinched, but then looked at her with wide frightened eyes.

“It’s all right.” Systlin tried to keep her voice gentle, for all murder was singing under her skin and gleefully anticipating a slaughter. “It’s all right. To touch you again, they’d have to go over my dead body.”

This seemed small comfort to the woman. “They’ll like that.” She said, in a very small voice.

“They won’t. I can and will kill every man in this camp if I must.”

A wide-eyed look. “No one can do that. No one but a god.”

“And I killed a god once.” Systlin shrugged. “Men die easier.”

The look she got was skeptical, but the girl clearly remembered the shattered lances. The trembling faded perhaps a little.

She was led to an open area before a wagon of exceptional size and make. Jewels and gold glinted and glittered everywhere. Systlin waited as men ducked into the wagon and hurried conversation were had. She waited as rugs and cushions were brought out, and finally with ceremony an old gray robe was spread over them. She waited as an older man was escorted with great deference from the wagon. He assumed the seat, still chewing a string of some substance. Systlin noted the somewhat sleepy detatchment in his eyes.

The lines of his face were familiar. She looked from him to Kamchak, and back. Kamchak was just turning, and took up a position very close to the older man.

Ahhh. She remembered the deference shown Kamchak by the other warriors, and noted how they looked to him even now. Ahhh. I see.

The old man… Kutaituchik …looked her up and down. She looked back, with all the self-assurance she had, which was enough to break an army against.

“I am told,” The old man said at last. “That you killed eighteen of my warriors.”

“I did.”

“Why?”

“Because they offered me insult and implied that they would put me in chains and enslave me.”

“You are a woman, are you not?” The old man said mildly.

The rage boiled again, and Systlin forced it from red hot into ice. “Slavery is abomination.” She said sharply. “It is among the greatest crimes, to hold another person in bondage. Those who would break another person to their will are monsters, and killing them cleanly is too good for them. Enslaving another for the purpose of sex is beyond abomination, for rape is another of the greatest of crimes. To even suggest such a thing is vile, and I sincerely wonder what in the name of all the gods and spirits is wrong with the men of this camp.”

A short laugh. “Ahhh. Another sent by the Priest-Kings then, new to Gor?”

Gor. The name of this world, then? And Priest-Kings; gods of some sort? “I am not from this place, no, and thank the Lady’s mercy for that.”

“You’ll find,” said Kutaituchik, “That the ways of Gor are different. You may as well get used to them, woman; you’ll find that the Tuchuk are quite fair masters, all in all. As you are new, I shall not have you killed. The male kin of those you have slain will draw lots, and the winner may put his collar on you and claim your sword as recompense. If he is charitable, he will loan you to the other men seeking recompense.”

There was a general murmur of approval from the surrounding men. Systlin felt the itch under her skin grow more insistent. The girl clinging to her side sobbed. “I told you,” she said. “I told you!”

“I have a counter offer.” Systlin said. She was drawing up power now, and readying it, because she knew with absolute certainty that she was nearing the point where it would turn to blood. She looked Kutaituchik dead in the eyes. “You acknowledge me as your new chieftain and acknowledge my word as the new law. You remove the collars from every slave in this camp. You renounce your crimes, and abase yourself for forgiveness before those you have wronged. You pay recompense and escort every newly freed woman wherever she wishes to be taken, and leave her there with funds and supplies enough to piece a life back together.”

She smiled horribly, a smile that held no mirth. “Since you are new to this new law, I will not kill you for your crimes.”

There was utter silence. And then a great roar of laughter all about.

“Kamchak.” Kutaituchik said. “Kill her.”

Kamchak nodded, and the men who’d been creeping up behind her moved. Systlin had been tracking them for some time; she’d felt the disturbances in the air and the patches of too-silent space behind her. They intended, she guessed, to strike her without warning. It was wise. It was what she would have done to kill a sorceress, were she without power.

Systlin reached into that yawning pit of coldly eager power within her, and she broke the men trying to kill her. Bones shattered into splinters. It was utterly soundless, save for the sudden screams of agony as men collapsed into piles of bloody meat.

It was easy. It was terribly easy. Her blood sang with the last agonized gurgling screams.

“Good effort.” She said, and she could not keep the smile from her face. “You should have taken my offer. Now I extend you my second; you submit to me, here and now, and I make your death painless.”

“Kill her!” The words were roared in utter furious rage. “Tuchuks! KILL HER!” A thousand voices roared, and a forest of lances rose.

Systlin drew her sword, and her dagger, and smiled, and in that smile was ruin. And as the first warriors rushed forward, she began to kill.

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quazartranslates · 4 years ago

Text

Welcome to the Nightmare Game - CH136 (Final)

**This is an edited machine translation. For more information, please [click here]**

[<<< Previous Chapter | Table of Contents | Next Chapter >>>]

-----

Chapter 136: Goodbye, Neverland (Extra)

{cw: religious homophobia}

Would you fall in love with such a person? You have the same sex and different beliefs. It is a sin to love each other.

For the former Ning Zhou, this was unthinkable.

But fate had played a cruel trick on him, making absurdity become reality.

Neverland was in a world of ice and snow. The shortest day had not yet arrived, but the coldest time of the year was almost over. Ning Zhou, who had just stepped out of the spiritual barrier, knelt on the glacier in exhaustion, and the hot tears that had just flowed out of his eyes froze into ice. Neverland was just around the corner, but it seemed as if he would never reach it.

In the face of the coldness of death, he had finally put aside all his hesitations and concerns and shouldered his guilt, even if he would fall into hell after death and bear the punishment of eternal fire.

Ning Zhou slowly stood up from the glacier, watching the bright lights that were like the eternal kingdom of heaven was on the ground. Amidst the ice and snow the Vatican stood on the ice sheet, majestic, holy, and ethereal.

He knew that this was the last time he would see Neverland.

Ning Zhou walked down the glacier and walked into the Vatican with awe.

Through the row upon row of buildings, the noise of the world rang again in his ears. Several children ran past him laughing and frolicking. Because they ran too fast, they almost ran into Ning Zhou. Ning Zhou took a step back, avoided the children, and watched them run away laughing.

Ning Zhou could hardly remember what he was like when he was as small as them. He was thirteen years old when he’d come to the Vatican, and Maria had just died. According to her last wish, he was sent here by his teacher Arnold and met the Pope for the first time.

He was a kind old man, his eyes were full of wisdom precipitated by years, and he had taught him a lot of things, not only the knowledge of survival, but also the truth of life. It could be said that after Maria died, it was this wise old man who had shaped his personality. In Ning Zhou's eyes, he was not only God’s speaker on earth, but also an elder whom he respected from the heart.

But today, he wanted to tell the old man who had raised him that he was in love with someone whom he was not allowed.

Ning Zhou passed through the city of ice and snow without a face. In order to welcome the residents of the Holy City who would come here soon, this polar city was expanding. It was like the projection of the divine world onto the living world, full of prosperity and warmth everywhere, far away from all the evils in the world, just like the home he dreamed of.

But after everything, he was going to leave this pure land, and from then on he would wander in the wind and rain all his life.

Stepping into the border of the Vatican, bathed in the power of ethereal and holy power, Ning Zhou's abdominal wound once again burned with pain, which combined with a stabbing pain all over his body. He frowned and strode forward regardless of the pain. Through the huge snowy square, countless ice sculptures silently guarded the heaven on earth, soaking in the cold air together with the guards patrolling back and forth.

Ning Zhou looked toward the deepest part of the Vatican, a magnificent cathedral, where the Pope was standing as he completed a prayer alone under the huge cross, the Canon spread out on the podium at his side. Gold and silver points of holy light were faintly visible in the cold, fluttering up and down.

Ice benches ran on both sides and in the middle was an aisle covered with gold and red carpet. Ning Zhou walked along it towards the Pope and looked up at him from the base of the stairs.

The Pope turned around and gazed at Ning Zhou kindly: "A few days ago, the will of the blazing angel returned to the Holy See and told me that your faith was shaken. Son, tell me what happened?"

Ning Zhou bowed to him and said calmly, "Under the crown of the Pope, I... fell in love with someone."

"You are embarrassed about this." The Pope saw through his heart.

Ning Zhou replied honestly: "Yes. The person I fell in love with is a man like me. He comes from another world and is an non-believer."

The Pope's voice suddenly became severe and solemn: "The Lord said, 'Thou shalt not lie with mankind, as with womankind: it is abomination'; If a man sleeps with a man, just like a woman, they have done an abominable thing and so they must be put to death, and the sin should be attributed to them. You know this is a sin, and if you blindly obey these rebellious feelings and desires, you will be punished by eternal fire."

"Yes, I understand," Ning Zhou calmly replied.

"Then repent. God will forgive sinners who are willing to repent. Tell me, are you willing to repent?" the Pope snapped.

Ning Zhou raised his head and looked him in the eye: "No, I cannot repent under the crown."

The Pope was silent for a long time, and the high crown on his head and the red vestments on his body seemed to overwhelm the old man. He said wearily, "Your mother chose to entrust you to the Holy See before she died, not to let you go the same way as her. You kept the last name of your foreigner father, the name your mother gave you, and... a heart lost for love like hers.

"Ning Zhou, my child, I give you one last chance: give him up and confess to the Lord."

Ning Zhou closed his eyes and a wind seemed to blow past him. He seemed to return to the Garden of the Holy Tomb in the afternoon, quietly staring at the lover sleeping in the tree stump full of petals, watching while every minute and second his heart was suffering in the fires of guilt, a kind of desperate pain, yet it happened that he felt the sweetness of sin.

His memories suddenly fast-forwarded and came to an abrupt end in the Garden of the Holy Tomb at dawn. His lover had returned there again, but was never to open his brown eyes again... He suddenly understood that his heart, which he’d tried to persuade, cheat, and block, had already fallen into hell.

He was guilty of a crime for which he did not wish to repent.

"I'm sorry, crown, I can't. I tried, but I couldn't. He sacrificed again and again for me, refused the temptation of the Devil for me, and died because of it. I’ve failed his life once, and I can't fail his love again. I am willing to accept eternal torture in hell after death, but please allow me to be loyal to my heart in the short time when I still live in this world." Ning Zhou opened his blue eyes and spoke succinctly and firmly.

"Even if you will lose everything the Vatican has given you, even if you must leave this country forever?" asked the Pope.

Ning Zhou lowered his eyes, untied the buckle, put aside the dagger and the pass order given by the Holy See. He knelt in front of the cross on one knee: "I am ready."

After the anger reached its apex, it became a deep disappointment. The Pope came down from the high platform with a scepter in his hand. The cross-shaped scepter inlaid with gems pointed to the top of Ning Zhou's head: "The glory given to you by the Lord will be fully recovered."

Ethereal music came from the cold air and the golden light fell from the sky like raindrops. Behind Ning Zhou, it painted and wove into the shape of a blazing angel with six wings. He watched all this sadly, spread his wings silently, flew to the ice sculpture of an angel in the church, merged with it, and was no longer inspired by him.

The holy power flowing in his blood was taken out a little at a time, and the pain of it being torn from his soul made Ning Zhou sweat like rain in the extreme cold of tens of degrees below zero, feeling as if he were dying.

The scepter left Ning Zhou's head and the Pope sighed, "Is it worth it for a dead foreigner?"

Ning Zhou struggled to stand up, his face pale, but his eyes were still bright: "I can't deceive my heart. Does love dissipate when its object dies? No, the Lord said love never stops. From the day he died and every day from now on, this feeling will be precipitated by time and memories. The longer it is, the stronger it will be. I can't pretend that I’ve let go. This would be the most unforgivable shame."

He seldom said so much, but every word came from the bottom of his heart: "Under the crown, love should only be love. I have never lost my piety because of love. I will only be stronger because of it. It should not be a sin. If it is a sin, please let me bear this sin and fall into hell after death... I don't regret it.

"I still believe in my Lord, I abide by all the commandments except that one, and will continue to fight against the Devils. My heart will always belong here no matter where and when."

This was the last sentence Ning Zhou said before he left.

He left everything given by the Vatican and left alone. The Pope watched his distant back and sighed deeply: "Those who fight against the Devils should be careful not to become a Devil. 'If you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.'"

Ning Zhou didn't answer again. At this moment, he firmly believed that he wouldn't fall in the current, because his soul had already docked in his own harbor.

The road to leave his hometown was longer than the one to enter it. He had lost the power of faith. It was tantamount to seeking death to trudge through the extreme cold with human frailty alone. Only a body that had carried out severe training all the year round could cross the vast ice sheet by its own strength.

Ning Zhou walked alone in the extremely cold ice and snow. Under the vast expanse of the starry sky, he recalled the scene when he’d passed through the spiritual enchantment of the Holy See not long ago - while walking through this heavy enchantment, everyone would be eroded by past memories and those distractions contrary to faith would be magnified hundreds of times. If you couldn't wash yourself of it here, you would be lost in the ice sheet forever.

Ning Zhou thought he would get lost here. However, when he really set foot on the ice sheet under the starry sky, an illusion he’d never imagined appeared in front of his eyes.

He saw that the ice sheet was covered with white roses, from one end of the world to the other, and the overwhelming white under the pure starry sky seemed to announce that the love between them was pure.

It was not evil, it was not immoral, it was not unnatural, it was not perverse - this desire, it was just love.

The deep and remote green aurora danced on the horizon, illuminating this empty and cold wasteland. From stepping into the spiritual barrier to finally leaving this white rose sea, Ning Zhou never saw Qi Leren again, not once.

-He was no longer his distraction, he was his whole world.

-----　

The author has something to say:

PS: Some lines refer to Christian teachings, but they are not the same religion, just refer to it; The man who fights the devil... This sentence is Nietzsche's; In the face of cold death, he finally put aside all his wandering worries and shouldered his guilt, and turned to Yeat's "The Cold Heaven": And I took all the blame out of all sense and reason.

PPS: a little nonsense after the end. When conceiving the Nightmare Game, the author wanted to find out the feeling of writing this kind of piece before completing the Egg Game and prepared to write a simple story of a fast-paced horror game, in which the attacks are coming from the environments and the victim is constantly dying.

However, when the story of Novice Village was gradually perfected, when the predetermined characters were getting fuller and fuller, and when the brain hole was getting out of control, the author couldn't help but want to dig down. So the world view became bigger, the setting became more complicated, and the emotional drama became more tortuous. Finally, I finished the outline of the first Nightmare Game with the idea of exercising how to write emotional drama. At that time, the author thought: Yes, I just want to write such a story.

When conceiving the end of the first part, the author seriously considered several options, and also thought about setting it so Qi Leren wouldn’t die, and instead Ning Zhou would share his life with this person forbidden by the Holy See and take him to Neverland; or he would become a demon, follow Su He to the underworld, and they would both love and kill each other from now on. But in the end, I chose this ending, which is actually the best ending and the best beginning for these two people. They can abandon their stubbornness, face up to themselves, and start over. This is death and a new life, which perfectly conforms to the aesthetics of the author.

Qi Leren is not dead (those who will be resurrected are certainly not dead), but Ning Zhou has firmly established that his love was swayed in the end, and with this in mind + all alive + destined to be together = HE, so please touch your chest and tell every little friend loudly that this is a happy ending full of love and hope. As for why it doesn't end with the two people meeting again after seven days, it’s because the two people can't meet for the time being even after seven days, as Ning Zhou went to Purgatory... This is the second story.

Although it's my first time writing CP*, when I look back, all the sugar I sent is poisonous… But it doesn't matter, we have the second one! In the second part, Chen Baiqi's sister has a saying "God assists", which she likes very much. She announces in advance: "How much courage does it take for a person to deny his past, destroy his present and future with his own hands, and make himself struggle to abandon his faith before and after his death, just for his right to love. From now on, you are his God and his sin. You should heal him, redeem him, be his scabbard, be his armor, and become his faith. Qi Leren, you should take good care of him."

*{EN: Character Pairing}

I give full marks for this assist.

Thanks to the readers here, I really appreciate your support. Sometimes I am really not a good author, and I often write willfully regardless of the market. However, the author thinks that although I can't make readers like every work, at least I can make myself like it. If my brain waves are lucky enough to keep pace with the readers while satisfying my cute point, it is the greatest fate.

Here, once again, I love the master reminder with a stupid face. She must regret dating me because of the Nightmare Game now, but it's too late to get on the false boat.

The plan for the second half of the year is tentatively set as Egg Game 3 and a silly white sweet medium-length brain hole. The outline of Nightmare Game 2 will be carried out synchronously, and the second one will be opened as soon as possible. In addition, the manhua of Nightmare Game 1 is also being done. The pre-sale time depends on the progress of the two artists, the art being set, and my writing. You can pay attention to my Weibo @ 薄暮冰轮, or directly pay attention to the @ secret newspaper in charge of agency.

The text has been roughly revised, and I'll pack a TXT and send it to Weibo later. Goodbye until the next story, love everyone, Mwah~

-----

Editor’s Notes:

We still have one non-canon extra left, but I know not everyone reads those so I will put my final comments here.

Thank you to everyone who has read, commented, and spoken to me directly! I’ve really enjoyed working on this and have appreciated the engagement my little pet project has gotten. With that said, I will be taking a one month break before I begin posting Nightmare Game II, so the first chapter will be up on May 10th, mark your calendars and check back here then. If the date changes for whatever reason I will announce it both here and on [my twitter]. Sorry to leave you all on such a cliffhanger ending.

To fill the Nightmare Game-shaped holes that I know must be in all of your hearts, I have two novel recommendations. The first is that I want to once again urge you to read BMBL’s other trilogy The Easter Egg Game if you haven’t yet, as its connection to Nightmare Game will become more prominent in Part II. It is much shorter so I promise it won’t take as much time to read as this one has. My other recommendation is Kaleidoscope of Death, which is actually the reason I started reading Nightmare Game in the first place as I had finished reading Kaleidoscope and was desperate for something similar. I would say the horror in Kaleidoscope is honestly much better than in this, though I prefer Nightmare Game’s overall story. (A warning though that it includes quite a few crossdressing jokes.)

Thank you again for sticking with this series and my editing of it all the way! I hope you’ll continue reading in the future. Until then, farewell ( *・∀・)ノ゛

----

[<<< Previous Chapter | Table of Contents | Next Chapter >>>]

#Welcome to the Nightmare Game #欢迎来到噩梦游戏 #danmei

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patrice-bergerons · 3 years ago

Text

The thought of depressed ghost Jon done with life would not leave my head, so here, have this JonMartin.

Martin knew there must be something terribly wrong with his flat. When he asked why the rent was only £300 per month (in London!) the letting agent had woven an elaborate story about the dying wish of the landlord’s late wife; looking at the dilapidated floors and the peeling paint, Martin had not bought it for one second.

But it is one thing to imagine a horrible but vague crime taking place where you rest your weary head and another entirely to wonder into the living room at 2am to find a translucent man rattling the radiator pipes while making a low OoOoOoOo sound at the back of his throat.

The man, or rather, the ghost, for clearly that’s what he was, there was a ghost in Martin’s living room, spared him a single uninterested glance when he entered the room but did not stop otherwise.

He was tall and thin, dressed in a vest and a neckerchief that announced themselves as distinctly 19th century; his hair once black, now streaked with grey, was pulled into a ponytail behind his head. He could not have been older than 35.

He was also a ghost and he was in Martin’s living room.

Nope! Martin thought. He turned around and walked straight back to his bedroom, closing the door behind him. He got into bed and pulled the duvet over him. He was not dealing with this. He turned to his side and closed his eyes, intent on falling back asleep.

He may have succeeded too, he was excellent at repressing unpleasant memories past and recent, thank you very much, but for how loud the clanging was. He opened his eyes. He had no earplugs and not even earbuds on him. Damnit.

Back in the living room, the ghost was still where Martin had left him.

“Um,” Martin said but this retrieved no reply.

It should be terrifying, and in a way it was, of course it was, but there was also a…languid energy to the movement of the ghost’s arms, his ghostly cry, as if he was…feeling a bit out of sorts.

After a moment’s hesitation, Martin approached him, hesitantly.

“Um, excuse me,” he said more forcefully this time, although still fairly polite. “I do not mean to-to interrupt you or anything? But it is a bit late and tomorrow is a work day you see…”

The ghost stopped now, so abruptly that Martin almost jumped back with a little yelp. In an instant a pair of scowling, brown eyes were on him, no less sharp for being see-through.

“You can see me?”

“Yes, yes indeed,” Martin chuckled; the sound came out utterly deranged and he had to fight the urge to bury his face in his hands in embarrassment.

“That’s a first.” The ghost did not sound thrilled by this.

“For us both,” Martin remarked, dimly aware that he was holding a conversation with a ghost. In his living room. At 2.30am. The ghost went back to rattling the pipes.

OooOoOoOoOoOooo.

Good Lord.

Martin huffed out a breath, more than a little irritated now.

“Excuse me,” he said again, sharper this time. “Could you not do that for a second.”

The ghost shrugged.

“I am a ghost; it’s what I do.”

“Well, could you do it in the morning?”

At this something thoroughly unexpected happened: the ghost let go of the pipes and stopped his incessant OoOoOoing. “Why not?” he said with a sigh so deep Martin felt it in his own chest, and slumped against the wall, frowning. “Look at you, you are not even scared.”

Right. Right.

Martin had achieved his aim. He should go back to his room and get some sleep. He was not running a helpline for depressed ghosts, god damnit.

Move, he ordered his feet.

And yet they stayed firmly put. Damnit. He sighed very quietly, and then he said, “I’m terrified, actually.”

“Right.”

“I am quaking in my, well, slippers. You, sir, you are terrifying. An abomination of God, dare I say, an Eldritch horror, a nightmare come to life, a being with infinite power and-”

Martin gave the performance his all and at this something thoroughly unexpected happened (for the third time that night): the ghost looked up and snorted, the sound bubbling out of him unbidden as a lop-sided smile lit up his lips and, he looked so young like this, so much younger, and,

Oh,

Martin thought.

Oh this is very bad.

#tma #the magnus archives #jonmartin #ghost fic

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esmealux · 4 years ago

Photo

The Devil Doesn’t Do Children

Part: 1 / ?

Setting: About a year after 5a

Word count: 3.3K

Rating: T

Warnings: Mention of death/murder (and, quite indirectly, foeticide)

Summary: Chloe is sick and Lucifer puts two and two together (with a little help from Dan).

Author’s note: This is my longest work so far. It was meant to be one long piece, but it ended up being 10.8K (!), so I’ve cut it into three parts. And just because I can’t help myself, there’s already a fourth on the way. Enjoy!

Usually, Lucifer wakes up bathed in golden dawn light and wrapped in the warmth of Chloe’s naked body. If it’s not her raucous snoring or the demanding screeches of her alarm that rouse him from his sleep, it is the press of her soft lips against his neck (or somewhere more south, if he’s particularly lucky, and he often is). But not today. Today he wakes up surrounded by darkness in her much too cold bed, and it’s neither her snores nor her kisses which break off his slumber. It’s the sound of Chewbacca being strangled in her bathroom.

Or, he realises upon fully awakening, Chloe throwing up.

Alarmed and slightly annoyed that vomit of all things is interrupting his peaceful rest, he sits up in bed and stretches his taut body. Grabbing the nearest phone, he checks the time and groans when it says 05.26. Somewhere in his half-asleep mind, he recalls the Danish saying ‘Før Fanden får sko på’—now officially a synonym for 05.26, he thinks as he gets up and walks to the bathroom door barefoot.

‘Detective?’ he asks in a gruff voice, knocking quietly.

‘Don’t come in,’ she commands before heaving again.

He flinches. ‘Believe me, love, I wasn’t planning on it.’

It’s mostly said in jest, because if she asked him, he would be there by her side in a heartbeat. They’ve been through far too much together to care about the other’s less appetising sides. Besides, it wouldn’t be the first time he sees her ejecting her stomach contents, having once picked her up from an extraordinarily wild Tribe night. At least he won’t have to stick his fingers down her throat this time.

Eventually, there’s an intermission long enough for her to flush, put down the seat and open the door for him. He enters with reluctance, inspecting her warily as she sits on top of the toilet lid, her head in her hands. When she looks up at him, he gasps. ‘Oh, darling, you look positively terrible’—he leans a bit forward, assessing her ashen face—‘Abominable, really.’ Behind the thick mask of nausea and exhaustion, he thinks he sees her glare.

‘Fancy a toothbrush?’ he offers, already walking past her to find one by the sink. A hint of gratitude glints in her matte eyes as he hands it to her along with a glass of water. He smiles at her and leans against the door frame, eventually looking down to appreciate his pedicure as she rinses her mouth. ‘Is pwobably sumthin I ate,’ she mumbles around foam and toothbrush. He cocks his eye and looks up at her, scoffing. ‘You think?’ When he’d locked himself into her flat late last night after hosting an event at Lux, he’d been greeted by the sight of her and her spawn sleeping on the couch, remains of junk food cluttering up the coffee table before them. The logo on the Styrofoam had made him shake his head in disappointment and disgust. He’d cleaned it up and carried the ladies to their beds, but not before ripping one specific menu card off their fridge and tearing it to pieces. ‘I mean, it’s one thing you order garbage for yourself, but must you punish your offspring in the process? I may detest children, but even I think that’s no way to treat a child. Especially Beatrice. You do realise the men’s room at Lux are cleaner than that place, right?’

In response to his question, she pulls the toothbrush out of her mouth, lifts the lid of the toilet and, once again, disgorges her dinner.

‘My point exactly,’ he replies, before crouching down next to her to hold back her hair.

‘Lucifer! Did you make breakfast?!’ The doe-eyed creature shrieks as it appears from its nest, the brown, ungroomed mane falling messily around its head.

‘Good morning to you too, urchin,’ he greets her, looking up from the pot he’s stirring in to give her a half-forced smile as she takes a seat by the counter. He feels a strange itch in his hands to pull out the bar stool for her and help her up (mostly because he can’t be bothered with her tedious jumping), but to his surprise, she climbs the stool with ease—or at least not ungracefully. It tugs at something in his chest the same way it does when he occasionally is compelled to spend time with his nephew, and the babe’s already crawling, or walking, or making sounds that somewhat resemble actual words. For unfathomable reasons, it makes him feel uneasy—but mostly pleased; the sooner they grow up, the sooner they’ll stop being such pains in the-

‘Oh my God, is that bacon? And eggs? And pancakes?!’

He sighs and looks up to chide her for her unjust invocation, but swallows it when he sees her hungry, gleeful eyes. ‘Yes, here. Have some actual food,’ he tells her, nudging the plate and some cutlery in her direction. And some wet wipes, because longer limbs or not, she’s still a sticky child.

‘It’s chocolate chip pancakes!’ she exclaims upon inspecting her breakfast further, as if he didn’t already know. ‘Thank you, Lucifer. You’re the best.’ She’s beaming brightly at him now, and he feels threatened, foreseeing that she, any second, will launch her small body at him and enclose his middle, ruining his Armani suit with her greasy fingers. But she doesn’t. She just sits there and stares at him, her eyes twinkling with an emotion that looks uncannily related to one he has only ever seen in her mother’s eyes.

‘Eh,’ he breathes, his throat tightening. He looks away from her unsettling smiley face and returns his attention to the pot on the stove. ‘Well, it was the least I could do after your supposed caregiver fed you literal poison last night.’

Suddenly reminded of the Detective and her progeny’s shared meal, he turns his head to search the adolescent’s face for any signs of sickness. But she doesn’t look remotely nauseous as she devours her feed like a starving hyena cub. He quirks an eyebrow. ‘I’m guessing from your lupine appetite that you haven’t been praying to the porcelain gods like your mother?’

Beatrice’s brows knit together, her fork pausing mid-air. She (fortunately) swallows her food before she speaks, all joy in her voice suddenly gone, ‘Mom’s sick?’

‘Well, yes, but I’m positive it’ll pass soon. She just needs to… get it out of her system,’ he quickly reassures her, offering her a soft smile. The discomforting concern in the big, brown eyes slowly disappears as absolute delight takes over.

‘Does that mean you’re taking me to school?’ She asks, her small corpus barely able to contain her joy. ‘In your car?!’

He scoffs, feeling attacked. ‘As if I’d ever voluntarily drive your mum’s mind-numbingly boring example of an automobile.’ She grins at that, making a comment about how his is ‘definitely a trazillion times cooler,’ and he smiles at her, smug and victorious. ‘Exactly, child! So, yes, naturally, I will be escorting you in the corvette. But now, march off and get yourself ready while I finish this…’ he pokes around the grey goo in the pot with the wooden spoon, trying not to grimace, ‘oatmeal, for your mother. According to our friend Alexa it’s good for nauseated humans, although I highly doubt it.’

The teenager simply shrugs at that, finishes her breakfast and retreats to her burrow to get dressed. Once the porridge is done, Lucifer pours it in a bowl, puts it on a tray along with a cool glass of coke (also Alexandra’s suggestion) and carries it up to the Detective’s bedroom. He opens the door slowly as to not wake her, but the stubbornest of women is sitting on the edge of the bed, using all strength left in her depleted body to pull on her skinny jeans. Putting down the tray on the nearest surface, he darts over to her with a ‘what in Dad’s name are you doing?!’ and tugs the trousers down her legs and off her. ‘We have to go to work, Lucifer,’ she objects rather weakly, not even trying to put her jeans back on. ‘I have to go to work,’ he corrects her, carefully laying her down once he’s freed both her feet. ‘You, Detective, need to stay here and rest until you can keep it all inside you.’ He senses she’s about to protest again, so he places a kiss on her forehead and assures her, ‘Trust me, dear, everything is taken care of.’ Even as nausea has tinted her face green, she manages to narrow her eyes at him in scepticism. ‘Just promise me you’ll behave,’ she eventually mutters as she gives up and nuzzles into the blankets.

He lightly strokes her shoulder with the back of his fingers and quietly walks out of the room, leaving her with a dramatic sigh and an ‘As you wish.’

Daniel is already at the crime scene when Lucifer arrives after depositing the urchin. He’d thought he’d have to go through an entire day of purgatory—or paperwork, as the Detective pronounces it—and it was only worsened by the fact that he wouldn’t have his partner by his side. If she had been there, he could at least have distracted them both with some suggestive looks here, some subtle touches there, and—when he’d worked her into a frenzy of desire—a coffee break or two in the parking garage. Instead, he’d have to endure the agonising tedium on his own, even as there were, at a minimum, three hell loops he’d rather spend his time in than do paperwork at the precinct all day. But then Miss Lopez had called and informed him they’d got a new case. He’d been absolutely delighted (as delighted as it is allowed when someone has dropped dead), but only until he’d made the mistake of telling her that the Detective was home sick, and she’d said that she would ‘call Espinoza ASAP’ and tell him to meet them at the scene. If he had just kept his mouth shut, he could have got the case all to himself, instead of having Detective Douche tag along.

Taking a deep breath, he checks his cuffs and takes his time approaching the douche in question. ‘Sorry I’m late. Your spawn spent quite some time choosing the right attire,’ Lucifer offers in greeting. Daniel looks him up and down with raised eyebrows, his eyes landing on the perfectly folded crimson pocket square. ‘For a normal school day? Wonder who inspired that kind of vanity in her.’

‘Well, it certainly wasn’t her father,’ Lucifer deadpans and nods towards Daniel’s hoodie/jacket/jeans-combination.

With a humourless laugh and a shake of his head, Dan stuffs his hands in his pockets and turns on his heels to walk up the stairs and into the residential building. After bringing out his flask and taking a long swig, Lucifer follows him.

When they enter the flat, Miss Lopez is leaning over the body with her camera. The sight is oddly welcoming. Comfortably familiar. She’d only come back a week ago after being away for a little over a month, on a much-deserved vacation in New Zealand, and Lucifer had missed her cheerful spirit and their crime scene banter terribly. The latter is, much to Lucifer’s annoyance, cut short today by Daniel ‘Buzz-Kill’ Espinoza’s ‘So, Ella, what can you tell us about the vic?’

It’s a rather uninteresting case; a woman, Laura Greene, 26, has been murdered in her home. Stabbed with a kitchen knife, first in the abdomen, then the chest. No signs of B&E, no signs of struggle. A swift and impulsive act—no doubt a crime of passion according to Ella. The most obvious culprit would be an angered partner, but the roommate, who found the body, tells them the victim wasn’t in a relationship and rarely went on dates or brought anyone home. On top of that, Roomie can’t think of anyone who would hurt dear Laura. And the neighbours are just as useless; one is a deaf elder lady, and the others were chasing the dragon at the time of death. The rest of the floor haven’t heard or noticed anything either. Consequently, they have absolutely nothing once they get to the precinct. Ella goes through evidence and Daniel through piles and piles of papers, leaving Lucifer to stand awkwardly in the corner of Ella’s lab, with no desires to unveil or miscreants to threaten.

As to not die of boredom, he zooms out and lets his mind wander. He’s in the middle of designing a strategy for how to make Chloe finally agree to try the deliciously sinful position he considers one of his favourites when Ella’s frustrated sigh interrupts his planning.

‘Something troubling you, Miss Lopez?’ he asks her, pulling out his flask.

She tells him she has nothing. No match on the fingerprints from the murder weapon, no useful surveillance tapes, no clues at the scene that can tell her the gender, age, or occupation of the murderer. Nada. Just the fact that it was done in a moment of heat.

Before Lucifer can answer, Dan walks in with a puzzled look on his ill-favoured face, his arms filled with highlighted printouts. ‘Could she’ve been pregnant?’

Ella tilts her head. ‘I mean, it’s not impossible, but based on what her roommate told us, I wouldn’t bet my money on it. You know, because our girl Laura had no boy toyz.’

Lucifer can’t hold back a snort. ‘Please, Miss Lopez, all it takes is a boy toy, singular, ten minutes in a bathroom stall and the absence of contraceptives.’

Dan looks at him with disgust and horror before shaking his head and returning his attention to Ella. ‘Well, no,’ he answers her, ignoring Lucifer’s comment entirely, ‘but then I thought about the other thing her roommate said, about Laura throwing up during the past weeks, and I thought-’

‘But Michelle said she thought it was an eating disorder, like Laura’d had before,’ Ella interrupts him, looking to Lucifer for support. He just purses his lips and looks back. Truth be told, when they’d been talking to the roommate, the mentioning of vomit had reminded him of his feeble Detective at home and he’d excused himself to send her a text. He therefore hadn’t heard whatever explanation the woman had offered (nor her arguments for why the victim’s sickness would be relevant to them). Fortunately, Dan answers.

‘Yeah, I know, I thought that too, but then I saw she paid a bill to an OB-GYN earlier this month, and it could just be a gynaecological check-up or something, but then I remembered how badly Chloe suffered from morning sickness when she was pregnant with Trixie, so I…’

Lucifer stops listening as Daniel’s words—one in particular—suddenly whirl around him, loud and ominous. His heart starts pounding faster and his throat goes dry. He instinctively grips the edge of the lab table.

‘Surely there could be other explanations,’ he manages to get out, interrupting his co-workers’ discussion. ‘Food poisoning, for instance.’

Dan and Ella look at him with equally sceptical looks. ‘Not for ten days straight,’ Ella argues.

‘But there is a myriad of reasons for a woman to throw up,’ he defends as he starts frantically googling. ‘Indigestion, stomach bug, chemotherapy, motion sickness… aha, migraine!’

When Lucifer looks up from his phone, Daniel is looking at him like he’s questioning his sanity. Miss Lopez seems concerned too, but more in an ‘dude, you okay?’-way than anything else.

Ella slowly takes her eyes off Lucifer’s face and eyes Dan shortly. ‘Well, we can’t know for sure before we get the final results from the autopsy, but from what Dan has found, she could quite possibly be pregnant.’

‘But,’ Lucifer objects, barely audibly, like someone has knocked the wind out of him, ‘she can’t be.’ He’s staring out into empty air, unwelcome images suddenly flooding his mind, as Daniel and Miss Lopez continue talking. He’s on the verge of what he thinks might be a panic attack when a voice, her voice, drags him out of his own head.

‘Hey guys,’ she greets them. She’s hoarse and looks a little tired, but the green tinge is gone.

‘Detective,’ is what he manages to say back. She looks at him with soft eyes and it’s enough for him to come back to his senses for a moment. Surprised by her presence, he begins to ask, ‘Are you done-’

He was going to say ‘puking your guts out’ but she widens her eyes at him and cuts him off, ‘Having a bad headache? Yes, thank you, Lucifer. I just needed some rest.’

‘Right,’ he mumbles, giving her one slow nod. She walks over to stand close beside him and brushes her fingers against the back of his hand, somehow sensing that he’s tense.

‘Okay, what have we got?’ She looks to Dan and Ella and lets go of Lucifer’s hand. He instantly misses her touch.

They fill Chloe in, telling her about everything from the lack of leads to small, seemingly insignificant details. When she’s completely up to date, she has that look on her face, eyes slightly narrowed, like she has a (historically, clever) theory.

‘Well,’ she begins, still visibly thinking, ‘it does take two to tango.’ She side-eyes Lucifer, a small smirk playing at the corner of her lips. It’s clear she expects a remark or a praising grin in return, and he tries, but it comes out as a grimace and a strained ‘eh’. She gives him a funny look before continuing her theory, ‘What I mean is, boyfriend or not, there’s still a father out there. Maybe he found out and couldn’t handle the news? Maybe he was married to someone else? Or… he just didn’t want to be a dad?’

Lucifer feels his heartbeat speed up once again. An odd emotion he can’t quite name spreads in his chest. It feels like a disease.

‘Sure seems like motive, but how are we gonna find him?’ Dan asks. Not one second later, Miss Lopez’ ‘found him!’ sounds from where she’s leaning over her computer. ‘Tech just got access to her photos —kinda tricky since she had this super secure lock-’

‘Who is he, Ella?’ Chloe demands.

Ella clicks on the screen and turns the computer around so they can see. ‘The guy’s everywhere in her camera roll. I don’t know, he seems kinda familiar, but-’

‘That’s Max Steinfeld!’ Dan exclaims when he sees the photo. It’s taken in bed, post-orgasm Lucifer would say, judging from the blissful aura. Laura’s got a hand on the man’s chest who, indeed, is the chap who starred on that horrible teenage comedy show and today is trying to redeem himself by doing mediocre action movies and… settling down with Hollywood’s sweetheart.

‘But he’s dating Simone Riley,’ Lucifer enlightens his colleagues upon his revelation. ‘They’re tying the knot this spring.’

Chloe shoots him a questioning look, and he tells her he got a mani-pedi the other day. She nods her head in understanding.

‘Well, if he’s engaged, he probably wasn’t ecstatic when Laura told him she was pregnant with his baby.’

As she asks Dan to get the actor’s current location all Lucifer can do is stand there and stare at her, as if he might find the answers to the thousands of questions in his head written on the side of her face. But he doesn’t. He only finds the familiar beauty mark, a perfectly pointed eyebrow, and the smooth, marble-like skin of the woman he loves. And it makes him yearn for those answers even more.

Part II | Part III | Part IV (coming soon)

#deckerstar fanfiction #writing #lucifer x chloe #lucifer morningstar #chloe decker #dan espinoza #lucifer and trixie #ella lopez #post 5a #lucifer on netflix #lucifer fanfiction #pregnancy #The Devil Doesn't Do Children #established #hurt comfort #murder case

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jojo-reader-hell · 5 years ago

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may i please have head cannons for this scenario and if all three is too much then doing Kars is just ok but what if the pillar men had a secret s/o that was human before they went to 'sleep' and after a few years she had turned herself into a vampire with the masks and when the pillar men are in italy they see her?

WHY HELLO YES DID SOMEBODY SAY PILLAR DADDIES BECAUSE I AM ALWAYS A SLUT FOR SOME PILLAR DADDIES AND POSSIBLY SOME PALEO LOVE HOLY FUCK YES YES YES YES YES YES YES YES YES YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEES

- When they met you, at the dawn of the Cro Magnon race, Kars and Eisidisi decided that you were a marvel compared to your simpering tribal members.

- You were considered an abomination, living on the outskirts of your tribe. There was something wrong with you, you could not speak the simple grunting language of either the Cro Magnon or the complex vocalizations of the Neanderthal. Instead you came up with a unique way of speaking, utilizing your hands in a completely unique way that both Kars and Eisidisi were instantly able to decipher.

- They had both been stalking your tribe for quite some time, needing life force to feed their growing babies, and would pick off members of the tribe one by one, not before stopping at your makeshift lean to in order to get to know you.

- You revealed to Kars that you had committed a grave crime: touching the weapons of the hunters was a punishable offense to those the tribe deemed the lowest on the complex system of caste they developed. Thus according to the ancient customs you were cursed with death, and had been living purely on the rudimentary hunting skills you had learned in secret.

- Eisidisi was the first to offer to help you teach to hunt properly. He made use of your complex hand language, and due to the utter silence of your approach you were eventually able to take down large game without the assistance of either Pillar Man.

- You heard many legends of the Pillar Men. Your tribe revered them as malevolent spirits, unable to touch a member that had the protection of the animal spirits. Yet you saw right through that facade, and found them to be far more compassionate and understanding than your so called fellow brethren. Kars and Eisidisi were the ones to approach you with beautiful trinkets unlike any that your tribal artisans could make, and when they explained the significance of them, you were touched.

- Each trinket was a courting gift. They wanted you to be theirs.

- When the tribal hunters saw you steal their intended prey, a mighty wooly mammoth, they immediately jumped to the conclusion that you were the spirit stealing the people and leaving shelled corpses in your wake. But it was all part of a trap. You purposefully terrorized them and used their fear of you against them, leading them to their deaths at the hands of your massive lovers and your new adopted sons.

- You became a mother to both Wamuu and Santana, coddling them and teaching them the complex language you had invented yourself. Both knew you only as their true mother, and have fond memories of your crooked smile and fluttering hands praising them, holding them close to your breast as Kars and Eisidisi sang songs of your brilliance.

- Only once they tried to use the stone mask on you, and it happened at the most inopportune and tragic of moments...

- Not all things last forever. Eventually your trickery of both Cro Magnon and Neanderthal clans caught up to you. You were eventually caught and sentenced to be killed, it happened on an evening that the Pillar Men had taken your sons to feed. You were left in your shared cave, smoking large slabs of aurochs meat for the winter when you were ambushed by both sets of hunters. The Neanderthals had more concise ways of cursing spirits that refused to die, and your death was violent.

- In a fit of desperation, Eisidisi demanded Kars use the mask to resurrect you, but when the mask did nothing to stir you, they both mourned the loss violently.

- Both Neanderthal and Cro Magnon tribes were slaughtered, nearly causing a mass extinction of humanity save for the few that sought to hide from them or offer sacrifices in compensation for the lover that was cruelly slaughtered. Wamuu and Santana felt your absence even as babies, but after a while they stopped wailing during the daylight hours when they realized you weren’t going to come back and soothe them into napping. You became nothing more than a memory, a revered holy figure in their minds that was worshiped like a god as they became older.

- Little did any of them know, when they buried you deep in the cavern that you made into a home, you would rise from the animal skins wrapped around you in a burial shroud, coming out into the moonlight with new found strength. You had only been at the cusp of death when you were bludgeoned by the Neanderthal’s magician, and it had taken you a while for your body to heal and return to life.

- The weak muscles in your mouth were strengthened by the reawakening. You learned to speak throughout the years but not any better than the language you made yourself. Broken by the fact that your mates believed you to be dead, you spent the next thousands of years looking for them desperately. It didn’t take long for you to discover that your power was a weaker form of a Pillar Man’s abilities, and since you lived with and made love to two of them regularly, you knew your limits well and acted accordingly.

- Making your mark wherever you went, as you consumed the ever evolving cro magnon ancestors, you took pity on those who could not fit in with their people, teaching them the language you invented and consuming those who harmed them for energy.

- When you finally overtake Kars, time has moved far too fast for you to comprehend. You’ve had to learn to adapt to the times, and you look far different than he remembered, but he still embraces you tightly and kisses you with the fondness that you’ve been craving for what feels like eons of time.

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