#biblical violence

[pablosexc0bar]

[nsfwbible]

So much stabbing in the Old Testament

The illustrations are from the Getty Museum's Weltchronik, a Bavarian manuscript made around 1400.

[gekken]

hella - hold your horse is - the d.elkan+biblical violence

[nsfwbible]

The story is from the Gospel of Matthew: Herod, the Roman-appointed king of Judea, learns of the birth of a new “king of the Jews.” To eliminate this potential rival, Herod demands the killing of all children in Bethlehem age two or younger (that is, at least according to Matthew; the infanticide goes unmentioned in the other gospels).

The detail is from the sprawling cycle of frescoes at the Tornabuoni Chapel in Florence that Ghirlandaio and his many assistants painted between 1486 and 1490.

Domenico Ghirlandaio (1448 - 1494) - Slaughter of the Innocents. Detail.

[annt-i]

Another request by @vaschenko-chao was Alex and Julius's final confrontation. yuh.

It's read left to right if you weren't sure.

[error-ego]

Hey am I the only one who thought the story of the couple living in the manor may have been a retelling of or metaphor for how Kinger and Queenie were separated?

TADC episode 3 spoilers + theory below the cut!

To recap the story of the couple in the manor:

Martha and Baron Theodore Mildenhall lived together in Mildenhall manor. Theodore had been hunting as a hobby for as long as he could remember. at some point Theodore becomes aware of the presence of a creature near his manor that is neither man or animal.

Believing it to be dangerous to him and his wife, he attempts to hunt and kill the creature, plagued by a feeling of dread the entire time.

Over time, his hunt for the creature turns into an obsession, and he spends years trying to catch it. He at some point learns that this creature is an angel of God, but this doesn't stop his pursuit.

When he eventually does catch it, he decapitates it, but the body goes missing during the minute he isn't looking at it. He knows it's still alive somewhere. He knows it will be back to claim its head.

He mounts the head on his wall as a trophy, but he doesn't celebrate. He becomes anxious and paranoid, constantly on edge for when the body will return.

One day, this paranoia leads him to mistake his own wife for the creature, and he shoots her, leaving himself as the only living thing he has left to protect.

He hides in his cellar with a shotgun and two rounds. There he stays, keeping watch for the creature's inevitable return. He dies alone there, his soul dragged down to hell for the crime of harming one of God's angels.

TL;DR: Theodore and Martha Mildenhall live together in this manor. Theodore hunts as a hobby. This hobby turns into an obsession when he tries to kill a monster to protect his wife. He finds out the monster is an angel of God. He doesn't care. The angel's body lives and escapes when he does eventually catch it. He becomes paranoid the body will come back for its head and mistakes his wife for the angel's body, killing her. He dies alone in his cellar and goes to hell because he harmed an angel.

I believe the angel is meant to represent Queenie, and that Theodore and his story represent Kinger and how he accidentally caused Queenie to abstract.

Hear me out:

The eyes on the head of the angel are misaligned in the exact same way Queenie's are,

and when Kinger first sees the head, he stares at it for a long time before saying "You know, I'm starting to think..." before cutting himself off. He may have been about to acknowledge the similarity between it and Queenie. His eyes tremble noticeably during the moment after he says this.

He never elaborates on this statement for the rest of the episode.

Kinger appears to see Queenie inside the mouth of the angel while it's chasing him and Pomni. I say this since it's out of character and unlikely that he'd call anyone else "beautiful" and "honey" in the same sentence.

The composition and numerous eyes within the mouth also mirror a scene later in the episode depicting him and Queenie after she abstracted.

Also, his eyes tremble in this scene in the same way as when he was looking at the angel's head for the first time.

Kinger doesn't find out what he believes to be a monster is an angel of God until after he's shot it.

This could be a parallel to how Theodore didn't realize what he believed to be the angel's body was his wife Martha until after he'd shot and killed her.

Both people took the shot in the effort to protect someone they cared about, but both times it only made things worse for both parties.

Based on Kaufmo's abstraction and the way people respond to stress in real life, it's likely that Queenie was isolated from Kinger to some degree before she abstracted.

Kinger says he doesn't remember the events that lead up to him and Queenie in his pillow fort together.

Something may have come between her and Kinger that caused Queenie's relationship with him to weaken, which made her spend less time around him and other people as a result. It's possible that Kinger accidentally said or did something that sent her over the edge and caused her to abstract.

In conclusion, Kinger may have caused his wife to abstract and Caine used this fact with a modified version of the events leading to it in his horror tragedy adventure because he's an AI and isn't capable of coming up with completely original stories or art, just like generative AI in real life.

[haggishlyhagging]

Carol Ochs, in The Myth Behind the Sex of God, discusses the story of Abraham, Isaac and Sarah and finds that in order to prove that Abraham is not rooted in the older tradition, God demands that he renounce the most fundamental tenet of the matriarchal religion and kill his own child. Abraham's choice is between the matriarchal principle of protecting his child and the patriarchal principle of following an abstract ethic, obedience to God. Abraham passes the test and is pronounced fit to be the father of a new, patriarchal religion.

Naomi Goldenberg maintains that giving voice to biblical women cannot save Judaism or the Old Testament for, as she says, "The nature of the religion lies in interplay between a father-God and his Sons. In such a religion, women will always be on the periphery." Some women scholars advocate the complete abandonment of Judaism and Christianity. Others are working to reform these traditions by removing various sexist practices. Goldenberg sees the reformers as engaged in a hopeless effort. She feels that it is futile to defend patriarchal creeds.

-Shirley Ann Ranck, Cakes for the Queen of Heaven

[bloodygothichell]

Why every man who likes me from the first glance, blocking me in a week of chatting, I can’t figure out. It’s something weird with me, with them wtf

[glitched-username]

Biblically Accurate Turtles (1/?)

Basically their heights match the relative sizes of their respective turtles

1-2 years before the events of the show start up.

Donnie finds something rare: a completely intact still functional phone! Being too small to get it on his own, he employs Raph (and the 2 other turtle Tagalongs who invited themselves) to help retrieve it. The phone isn't the only thing they run into in the sewers, and Raph is ready to protect his family from it.

AKA: April O'Neil's terrible awful no good very bad day

CW: blood, violence and generally everyone freaking out

4000+ words

Also color coded height references (green is April for comparison)

“Speed it up Raph! I don't want it to get any sort of water damage!” A tiny blur of purple zoomed through the sewers in excitement, followed by a larger snapping turtle. Despite being nearly three times the size of the softshell, Raph struggled to keep up. The extra weight on his back and head certainly didn't help

“Psh yeah Raph, keep up!” Leo playfully mocked while still getting a free ride. Raph responded by purposely jostling the foot tall slider in mock annoyance and tilting his head back.

“You're one to talk! Want Raph to just drop you here and see if you can keep up?!” Leo just gave a dramatic huff and got comfortable again.

Atop Raph’s head, the snapper felt the feather light touch of his tiniest brother moving a bit, still gripping onto his mask tightly. “Why’d you even want to come, Leo? No offense but… uhh… I don't think you're strong enough to carry something bigger than me all the way back to the lair.” The box turtle nervously laughed.

“Well, I know that I've carried you around plenty and if I can drag around someone half my size then I can EASILY bring home something a tiny bit bigger! I just don't want to!” Leo closed his eyes and smirked, “I'm just here cause I wanna see what's got the nerd so spazzed out!” Leo shouted that last part pointedly at said nerd.

“Yeah yeah! I get it! My excitement is such a momentous occasion!” Donnie shouted back in a tone no one knew if it was sarcastic or not. “Now can we PLEASE speed things up?! We’re almost there! Right up ahead!” With that the softshell sped off again, purple light fading in the distance.

Raph just rolled his eyes and kept his pace steady. As much as he was annoyed by the shinanigens of the two hitching a ride, Raph didn't wanna jostle them too hard or have either fall off by speeding up.

After a minute or two of running, the tiny purple light returned and Raph barely had a second to register as he heard Donnie uncharacteristically shouting expletives. He all but slammed into Raph, who caught the panicked scientist into a hug with a slight ‘oof’ and saw Donnie holding his prize: a completely intact smartphone with cat ears.

Donnie was panting from the overexertion, barely able to speak from being so out of breath, even his jetpack was burnt out. Mikey and Leo stopped messing around and looked concerned.

“Donnie? What's-”

The softshell pointed in the direction he came and saw a larger white light shining their way. Raph was confused until he saw a shadow from behind the light.

It was massive. Almost three times Raph’s height. He knew from when Donnie talked about their heights and stuff that while Raph easily towered over his dad and brothers, he was still dwarfed by humans. But to actually see one in person?

It terrified him. Raph only had one thought come to mind: protect his family. She would NOT hurt them. Slowly, Raph crouched down to let his brothers off and silently told them ‘Get home IMMEDIATELY’. The brothers obliged. Mikey grappled onto Leo with an iron grip. And Leo picked up the phone best he could scrambling away with Donnie who tried his best to help Leo.

The sight comforted Raph as he prepared for what was going to be a difficult fight. He hunched over and was ready to do whatever it takes to stop the human from daring to threaten his brothers. His long tail swishing in anticipation.

She looked around in confused panic. “Agh! Where did that stupid phone go?! The tracker said it was right here--” their eyes met and it made a shiver ride up Raph’s shell.

She dropped the source of light, and Raph took that as his moment to pounce.

Faster than either could really process, he grappled the human’s leg, claws baring into her skin. She shrieked, flailed and tried to kick him off but it just made Raph bite down. Hard.

He didn't even notice her yelp from pain, falling to the ground or the taste of blood in his mouth. Raph did notice when he felt hands pushing at his face and trying to pry his mouth open. Eyes white and feral, Raph let go of the human’s leg and bit down on her arm, using his hands to claw at anything in front of him. He pushed and pryed the arms away to reveal a neck to bite into, and was about to when he finally got a look at the human’s face in the dimmed light.

Eyes were wide and had a constant flow of tears streaming down her face. And despite the size she looked young, around Raph’s age.

And… she was scared.

Terrified.

Her body was completely frozen as if her body was preparing itself for the fatal blow. The image made Raph think back. He attacked first, he drew blood and nearly cleaved her limbs off, the human was just reacting defensively, she didn't even leave him with a scratch.

The thought that he almost killed someone who didn't understand what was happening, someone so close to his age, someone who was defenseless and scared… it made him sick. The taste of blood from the arm still in his mouth made him sick.

He quickly let go and pushed himself back a few feet. Both to make the human feel safe, and so he doesn't get kicked in any defensive crossfire. He tried to spit out any blood left in his mouth but it just caused the deep crimson to smear on his face, scales and shell.

Now that he was a good distance away, Raph was able to get a better look at the damage he caused. Scratches littered the poor girl’s arms and legs with two very distinct and very bloody bite wounds. Nothing was ripped out but it would still require a lot of stitches and time to heal.

It ripped out his heart. Raph didn't know what he would've done if any of his brothers came home looking like that. Actually, that was a lie. He does know because he almost did it to the human.

Raph didn't know where to go from here so he just sat down, hugged his knees and tail to his chest and began to mutter apologies as tears silently fell.

----

April was having a bad day that only got worse. First she missed her bus so she had to walk to school. Then she trips and loses her phone down into the sewer. And THEN when she finally finds it, some random purple… something runs off with it.

And now she's being attacked by a freaky sewer monster.

It doesn't even reach her waist in height but that doesn't stop the turtle-monster-thing from easily attacking and biting down hard on her leg.

The pain was blinding. It felt like her leg was being ripped off at the joint.

April fell to the ground, bringing the creature down with her as it clawed at her legs. Her mind slipped into instinctual self preservation as she tried to pry open the monster’s mouth. She realized the mistake a moment too late and its attention was flipped to her hands and arm and bit down even harder on them.

It was agony, her lungs seized, she couldn't breathe, but the monster and it's cold white eyes were hell bent on ripping her to shreds.

April tried so hard to protect her face, but either was in too much pain or the monster was so strong it was able to shove her arm away. It was staring at her, at her neck- oh god she was going to die!

…

…

The pain eased from her arm and the weight on her chest quickly disappeared. April should've felt relieved but was left gasping for air and began to full on sob.

Everything hurt, she was bleeding bad, didn't know if she could walk, had no way to call for help and was left at the mercy of a blood thirsty, fucked up monster---

“...m’srry…”

April barely registered the tiny, muffled sounds. Trying to ignore the sound of her heart beating out of her chest, she heard what almost sounded like… an apology?

That got her attention. Who was apologizing? And for what? Pushing through the pain, April used her good arm to push herself up enough to get a look at whoever was remorseful and was surprised to find out that it was the creature. It was hunched over and curled in on itself.

April would've called it cute if she didn't know that thing could've easily killed her…

… but it didn't…

Why?

------

Raph was too scared to move. He didn't want to hurt anyone like that and was worried he'd scare the human or hurt her again by accident.

It was always his biggest fear. Raph was so much bigger than everyone he knew that he had to be extra careful. He thought he knew his own strength, how much of his weight was safe to throw around.

He thought that a human would be far more durable, so much tougher. I mean, every Lou Jitsu film he's watched told him that humans are powerful and unstoppable. But it turns out humans are just as fragile as his dear brothers. No shell, no carapace and no tough scales. It was like he was shredding through paper.

Raph heard shuffling and the sobs and whimpering cease but didn't stop his rambling apologies. What else was there to do. He'd never live with himself if he killed her, but if he ran then more humans could appear and deem his family as a threat to kill. On top of that, he was genuinely remorseful and wished more than anything he just waited to see what the human's first move would've been. But it's too late now.

…

…..

“You… you can talk?!” That snapped Raph out of his spiral and he looked up at the human, meeting her eyes. Tears littered both of their faces and the two froze and stared at each other. She didn't look angry or upset, but just confused and scared. That made Raph feel even worse as he broke the stalemate and began crying and apologizing again, this time much louder.

“M’SORRY! Raph didn't MEAN to--I didn't know what-- we’ve never seen a human before and I freaked out! M’SO SORRY!”

April honestly didn't know what to think at this point. One second she was being ripped to shreds by a crazy sewer monster, and the next she felt the need to comfort what she could now see as a turtle. A weird one that can talk, but a turtle nonetheless.

Maybe it was because she could tell he felt genuinely remorseful. Maybe it was because he mentioned having a father and little brothers he was trying to protect during his ramblings. Or maybe it's because he seemed as scared of her than she was of him. Something about the attack seemed desperate and feral, like he wasn't fighting just to pick a fight, but more fighting to protect his life and the lives of those he mentioned.

She felt the terror begin to seep out of her body, but the confusion and bloodied pain remained.

Though it hurt to keep the position, a nasty bruise on her abdomen going to for sure appear in a few hours, April forced herself to keep upright enough to look at the sobbing heap nearby.

“Okokok, I think we both need to cool our jets a bit,” she winced and shifted to lean on a nearby wall. “I… this is--man, this hurts!” She saw Raph take a shaky step forward, like he wanted to help but was worried about further injuring the human by getting any closer. Any terror she felt over the turtle melted away at the sight.

“I'm not gonna die… but… but I need help. I know it's awkward and freaky for both of us but, please? We can worry about apologizing and questions later.”

The question left Raph dumbstruck. He knew she didn't immediately trust him, but he was the only chance she had at getting her any aid so tried his best to switch into “protective bigger brother mode”.

“Y-yeah! Of course! Anything! What do you need? My brother is a lot better at medical stuff than me, he can probably fix you up!” Raph took a step forward and fidgeted with his hands, ready to do whatever he could to fix this mistake.

April avoided the mention of a brother. “No, but I need my phone to call for help.” Raph’s eyes widened at the realization. “The phone that was taken by something that led me your way. I'd go get it but...” She gave her legs a test wiggle and winced. “Yeah…”

Raph grimaced but now understood the reason why the two ran into each other. She wasn't there by chance or to hunt anyone down, the human was just looking for something… that her brother now had and would probably strip for parts as soon as he gets home!

“Yeah! Don't worry! I can get it! Just… stay here? You probably can't go anywhere--but yeah--I'll get it!” Stammering a bit, Raph took his objective and began to sprint back home (keeping an eye on the ground just in case his brothers aren't back home).

He didn't spot them as he approached the entrance to the lair: a curtain covering a sewer grate large enough for him to squeeze easily through but not for any humans without them forcefully sawing off the grate (thanks Donnie for soldering the metal together).

Upon entering, Raph was greeted by 3 small and very exhausted turtles circling around the phone. Mikey was flipped over on Leo’s shell, the slider in question seemed barely conscious (he must've had to do most of the heavy lifting). Donnie was the most awake and tried to drag the winnings back to his lab. No one seemed to notice Raph entering.

Seeing the softshell start to drag the phone off, Raph sprung into action. “Wait! Donnie stop, I need that phone!” He got a few paces closer, finally getting the scientist’s attention. Donnie’s eyes were tired with a hint of annoyance but widened in terror when they locked onto Raph.

“Raph? Is that… blood?!” Donnie took a step back, not knowing what else to say.

That snapped the other two brothers out of their exhaustion and Leo bounded towards the largest.

“Shit! Raph, sit down! Let me look at you! Are you okay?! Did you hit your head?! Sit down!” The panicked slider grabbed Raph’s massive hand with two of his own and tried to guide him closer to the ground for inspection. Mikey was freaking out, terrified that leaving the oldest brother to face the human resulted in him getting horribly injured.

Raph was suddenly made aware of the red soaking his face, hands and plastron. For a brief second he believed his brothers panic and thought that this was his blood, only for reality to crash down that this was all the girl’s. He shook away the guilt, he could save it for later, he had to help her.

“No! That's not- I'm not-it's not my blood!” The three immediately stopped mid freak out and stared, almost trying to catch Raph in a lie, expecting to find any hidden gashes or cuts but found none.

“Then…”

“Is that the human's blood?!” Leo finished Mikey’s sentence. Raph silently nodded.

“Didn't mean to… Raph thought… she was trying to hurt Donnie… didn't know that I’d hurt her that bad…” Tears started to well up in his eyes again and Donnie looked slightly embarrassed.

“Ah… that's… not good. She didn't hurt me, or was even aggressive. I ran back because I wanted you to just scare the human away. I probably should've communicated that in a way that didn't imply that violence was needed.” Raph hugged himself and sat down, curled up the same as before.

Mikey jumped on his knee, kneeled down and tried to comfort Raph, giving gentle rubs to his head and tried to ignore any blood he got in contact with. “It's going to be okay, Raph, we'll figure this out. Is the human still alright? Is there anything we can do?”

Raph suddenly remembered the task he was given and his head shot up. “The phone!” Mikey fell back in surprise but caught himself on Leo who didn't even flinch at being used as a jungle gym.

“Oookayy, but what's the phone gonna do? You think that hunk of metal can patch up wounds better than any of us?” Leo looked at his other brothers, “Well, better than me?”

“No! I need it so she can call for help! Raph hurt her legs really bad so she can't walk and we can't get her help because of our not human-y-ness and the phone is the best thing to get her help so I'm bringing it to her now!” Raph didn't want to go over anymore questions and just laid it all out. Deciding to just snag it without another word and book it.

He barely noticed a smaller form latch onto his shell.

As he drew closer, Raph swore he could smell the blood and, thankfully, still saw the girl in the same spot. After a second, she heard his footsteps and turned towards him, flinching the tiniest bit but that didn't stop her from giving a kind smile.

Raph grew nervous as he stopped and slowly and carefully shuffled toward the human, holding the phone out to her with both hands, too nervous to make eye contact. “Here’s the phone! It still works! Just when you leave, please don't tell anyone about us! ‘M so sorry I hurt you but if anyone knows about us, or what did that to you--they’d--we’d be--”

“Hey, don't worry, I'm not gonna say anything.” She gingerly took the phone from Raph’s hands. It still terrified Raph seeing hands so much larger than his draw closer, but took pride in swallowing down his panic. “I've honestly dealt with feral street cats who roughed me up just as bad, and they didn't even have the courtesy to apologize, much less get me help.”

“But--but I should've known better! Raph was taught to be careful about how strong he is, and the one time I’m not I--”

“Apologies, but I think that's more my fault than anything.” Raph was suddenly aware of the weight on his shell, reached back and gently pried a very nervous Donnie off, holding him in both hands.

“Donnie? What are you--”

“Apupup! I'm talking to the human, miss uhhh…”

“...oh! Uh, April? April O'Neil.” The human, April, seemed shocked at the sudden visitor, either if it was by the additional person or by how much tinier this one was compared to the 2’6” ft one in front of her. Was this his brother? No wonder he was so protective. The thought was enough to get her to forget her pain for a minute.

Donnie nodded “Donatello,” he continued despite Raph holding him like a teddy bear, speaking quickly and robotically. “Now, as I was saying, I'd like to apologize. I was the one who took your phone and in my haste to keep such an invaluable piece of technology… I may have caused some confusion over the overall situation. What I thought was conveyed was for Raphael to simply scare you off so we can make a clean escape. However, when I got to him, I was out of breath and couldn't verbalize the plan so he must've confused my exhaustion for panic and fear and thus interpreted you as a threat. Apologies.”

April took a moment to process the apology before, “Wait--that was you who took my phone?!” Raph flinched slightly at the sudden shouting, hugging Donnie closer to his chest. The softshell was mostly unphased, more grossed out by being pressed up against (now dry) blood more than anything.

“...yeess? And I still would've loved to keep it but, seeing as you need it in this situation, I'll concede and wait for the next one to fall through a sewer grate…” April just snorted at the casual tone, letting Raph relax his bear hug on the smaller brother. The three fell into a mostly comfortable silence before the human winced at the flare of pain, breaking them out of the calm.

“Eugh-boy, probably should get that help then?” Raph grimaced, silently nodding. April noticed and leaned forward a bit to gently pat Raph on the head with her uninjured hand.

“Hey, don't worry big guy, this was a really awful first impression but I'm not gonna be mad at you for it.” Raph gave a soft smile, leaning slightly into the touch. Satisfied, April looked down at Donnie, “I am a bit ticked at you for taking my phone” the softshell nervously laughed, tucking himself slightly into Raph’s hold, “buut I'm willing to overlook it if we can meet up again? Preferably with less violence and more getting to know you guys?”

Donnie and Raph perked up immediately. The younger squirming out of Raph’s grip and moved to the back of his neck, pushing down on his head to get a better look at April. “GASP! Of course! You're the closest I've ever been to a human, I'd figuratively kill to trade notes and questions!”

Raph snorted a bit and grabbed his excitable brother again, holding him loosely in one arm. April huffed at the sight and drew up a lopsided smile. “Yeah! Honestly I've got like a million questions anyway that I'm going to write down cause I will forget!” With that, she turned her phone on and after a few moments of scrolling for the phone app, Raph got the tiniest bit anxious again.

“You, promise you won't tell anyone ‘bout us?” April paused but held the soft, reassuring smile.

“I promise. I even have like five different cover up stories about what got to me and none of them involve any small turtle people!”

“Disbelieving laugh! That's the first time anyone's referred to Raph as small!” Donnie laughed a bit and Raph rolled his eyes and playfully bonked Donnie’s head with his chin.

“Okay. Okay. Yeah! I'd love to see you around, and I promise that I won't go crazy on you again!”

April nodded and looked at her phone again. “...sooo I guess you guys should head out before I call someone?”

“--Oh! Right! Okay, Donnie let's head out!” Raph said, mood completely lifted and happy that this didn't turn into as big a disaster as it could've been.

“You say that like I have a choice…” Donnie was squeezed a bit into Raph’s plastron.

“That's right! You don't!” He said in the same sing-song-esc tone and walked back home, looking back and giving April a small wave. When she waved back, his tail wagged a bit in excitement.

After a couple minutes of walking, and when he knew the two were out of earshot, Raph stopped and flicked Donnie in the forehead.

“Ow! What was--”

“You have 30 seconds to tell me why you seem so casual around humans.” Raph spoke with a sternness saved for when he's trying to get a confession from his brothers.

“Ah. Well. I kinda… go to the surface,” Raph raised his eyebrow, “...a lot. And I don't talk to any humans? But I do get close enough to snag any useful technology. And I do have enough pattern recognition to tell what is a dangerous human and what is a skittish human.” Raph stared, “And I would never willingly talk to a human either way outside of this extreme circumstance and I should've let you know I was joining you when I was hitching a ride with you.” Donnie nervously smiled. “Is… is that good?”

After a moment Raph sighed. “Fine, I'm not gonna stop you from getting what you need, just… tell me next time? Okay? I know you guys can take care of yourself, but it just worries Raph that if something happens I won't know what happened to you…”

Donnie untensed and relaxed into his brother's hold. “I'll be sure to keep reminders up so I don't forget.” He felt Raph huff a bit, “Setting up reminders to remind you to remind me?”

“Exactly. Glad you understand! Not to mention if something does happen (even though that's very unlikely) then we seem to have acquired a human ally who might be willing to assist!”

Raph froze and thought about their interaction before he left, and then… he continued walking, tail wagging again.

“Yeah, guess we did…”

[mojavebluez]

bound by blood - a bbc sherlock / johnlock fanfic

chpt. i

John once said to Sherlock: “I’ve seen people die before. I thought I’d never sleep again. I’ll sleep fine tonight.”

fic summary | John has killed before - but not like this. John would do anything to keep it a secret. To keep his family safe. Sherlock would do anything to solve a case. And he seems to have taken a keen interest in this one.

tags/warnings | BBC Sherlock, johnlock, parentlock, angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, semi-slow burn, mild smut, violence/ injury, substance abuse

words | 5.6k

a/n | it’s been a while! I can’t say how long this will be but I’m on my holiday now so I’ll have more time to write. Each chapter will be about 5.6k words I’ll try and get part 2 out asap but I just wanted to see how this was received first. Enjoy :))

ao3 edition

————————————————————————————

"You've got to tell him."

"I can't tell him, Mary."

"He would tell you."

Silence. "I know."

"He can help you."

"No one can help me."

—

"Morning, John." Sherlock called from the kitchen as soon as John set foot in the hall.

"Oh, morning, Sherlock." John stifled a yawn and shuffled into the room. He tied his tattered dressing gown around his waist in a lacklustre knot before meeting Sherlock, a regular ritual. No one needed to see his pyjamas - they'd definitely had better days.

"How long have you been awake?" John probed, sweeping a mug of coffee off the table. He gingerly took a sip, but set it back down again after realising it tasted faintly of decomposition.

Sherlock didn't turn around. He was wearing only his pyjama bottoms and a worn pair of slippers. This was nothing new; John had seen Sherlock in various stages of undressed before, even near nudity (in Buckingham palace, where else). So why did he feel the need to avert his eyes when he turned around?

He avoided the sight of Sherlock's bare chest, which filled his vision, instead smiling up at him and rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

"Er, a couple hours, I think?" He whisked back around again without even glancing at him.

John sighed internally. What's wrong with you? It wasn't as if he was naked. He must just be tired still. His thoughts were muddled, nothing made much sense to him right now. Coffee.

"Jesus," he pulled his chair back and walked to the sink, "coffee?"

John didn't know why he bothered asking. Sherlock didn't bother to shake his head in response. "Made some," he carried on clattering about at the counter, "try it."

John cast a sideways glance at the mug. "I did."

Sherlock twisted around, eyes narrowing. "And?" It's like he couldn't help but bring his fingertips together in their signature diamond shape.

"Vile."

"Hmm," Sherlock grunted and eyed John briefly before continuing with whatever he was doing. "I'm not sure why you're surprised, John. I'm always up early."

"Yes, but it's seven. A couple hours ago could mean anything." John glanced at his watch.

Sherlock looked up, seeming to realise something. "Oh, it is seven. Why are you up so early?"

"Sherlock," John let his head fall back in exasperation. "Are you kidding me?"

Sherlock drew his eyebrows together. "Uh, I don't think so."

"Work. I'm going to work. You know, the thing I do three days a week."

Sherlock stared at him like he thought he was lying. His eyes were unfocused, as they usually were when he was working something out. "Oh?"

"Yes, Sherlock. That's where I go all day." At this point, John was leant on the counter, arms folded, waiting for the coffee to finish brewing. The smell almost masked the ever-present aroma of Sherlock's failed experiments that coated the air like London smog. John wondered how Sherlock had managed before he came along - his living space must have bordered on uninhabitable.

Not that John tidied that often. In fact, he regularly wondered how the place managed to stay as clean as it was. He suspected Mrs Hudson might have had something to do with it - though she'd only admit it if she was in an argumentative mood with Sherlock. She usually brought up the, 'I do everything around here!' when it suited.

Sherlock shook his head in disbelief. He pulled out a chair from the table and sat down, peering into a Petri dish. John wasn't sure how he could look at such off putting things at this hour. Sometimes he really wondered if he was human.

The coffee had come to boil and John poured two mugs full of the black stuff. One milky, two sugars, one black, one sugar. He sighed loudly to himself before slipping Sherlock the black mug across the table and leaving to get ready. Sherlock must wonder where all the coffee came from.

John stopped still, suddenly remembering something. He ducked his head back in the doorway, noticing that Sherlock was sipping the coffee, unsuspecting. "Oh, and you can forget me all you like, but just don't forget Rosie. She's asleep upstairs."

Sherlock looked up at that. His jaw had fallen in mock-offence. "John, how dare you."

John smiled and shook his head, walking back out the room as he had before. Sherlock yelled something from the table, along the lines of, "Besides, Rosie is far less forgettable than you."

Sherlock didn't say goodbye that morning. John wasn't offended - he was used to it. Still, he called out his own bellowing farewell from the front door and stepped into the street, peering up at the window of their flat as he turned right.

He wasn't at all surprised to see nothing but the swaying curtains. He wasn't even sure what he expected to see - perhaps the familiar figure of Sherlock, waving him off. Smiling down at him. Who was he kidding? Sherlock had never, ever done that.

John was a little disturbed with himself the whole journey to work. He'd woken up half an hour earlier to give himself enough time to walk there (he had given up on cycling a long time ago, much to Sherlock's amusement), but he wasn't feeling the usual benefits of the walk at all.

He couldn't shake the image of Sherlock, bare chested, holding a vial of something brown, standing over him. Every time he blinked it was there. He was there.

I'm going fucking crazy, John thought to himself, I need to go on Tinder or something.

He nodded at this idea once and pulled his phone out of his coat pocket. He swiped to the final page, searching for the icon. He eventually found it, thumb hovering over the screen. He slowed his walking pace, thoughts ticking, barely registering the people that shoved past him in the usual London manner.

He completely stopped when he realised what he was doing. On the fringes of his mind, reflected on the concrete slabs, he could see Mary, smiling at him, holding their child. He waved it away, not even caring that he looked like a smackhead. In its place, the woman on the bus, Eurus, smirking from across the aisle. John pressed a firm hand to his forehead.

I'm seriously losing the plot now. He hadn't thought of either of them for months, but somehow, the images always appeared one way or another. He knew he couldn't just stop meeting people - not even Mary would want that for him, he knew. But he couldn't allow himself to. Every time the prospect came up, internally or externally, it was like a brick wall slamming down over his mind.

He wasn't sure what it was. Rosie, maybe. The idea alone that she would grow up without her mother was troubling enough. He knew that he didn't want her growing up with a collage of different women in her life - it didn't feel right to him. No, he needed to be stable for her. Steady.

But it wasn't just that. He couldn't connect the dots, not now, in the middle of a busy street. Still, the answer floated somewhere in his headspace, though he couldn't grasp it. He'd mull it over later - at work maybe - if it was quiet.

I need to start waking up later. The whole morning had been a mess. It was Sherlock's fault, entirely, of course. If it wasn't for him, his skin, utterly stupidly smooth, way above him...

Christ. John slapped himself, hard.

—

Work dragged on, as per usual. The waiting list was long, far too long, leaving John no time to search his brain for what he'd been missing earlier.

At half five on the dot, he leapt from his chair and tidied his room up for tomorrow. His phone buzzed from inside his coat pocket and John, unsure what it could be, eyed it from the cupboard. It stopped for a minute or two then buzzed once again.

John exhaled loudly and stalked across the room, several possibilities crossing his mind: Sherlock with a new case, Sherlock with a Rosie crisis, Sherlock with a general anecdote, or his mother.

Instead, he saw: We still on 4 2nite? See u at the Stag if so - M

Then: Gonna get WRECKEDDD

Shit! John had forgotten about that. It was Friday, and he had agreed, in a slightly more motivated moment, to meet a couple of his friends for drinks. And because he'd forgotten (in the chaos of the morning, Sherlock) his wallet at home, he'd have to walk back to Baker Street before he went out.

He stood briefly with his head in his hands, willing any motivation to rise. He really could not picture himself drinking tonight, let alone with a gang of friends he hadn't seen in months. All he wanted was to head home and watch a Sean Connery film with Sherlock, with Rosie dozing off in his lap. That was his usual Friday routine. And he liked it.

Eventually, by twenty-to, the motivation came. He seized his coat off the hook and walked out of his room, waving bye to his receptionist as quickly as possible to avoid any conversation. She managed to slip out a barrage of questions about his evening, his weekend, his sister (how does she know about Harriet?) despite John shaking his head. He managed to make it out with not a single question answered.

He marched down the street in a manner that resembled his military training. It was fascinating, really, to see the ways those years abroad and in battle shaped him. Sometimes he was truly astounded with himself. Like the way a gun felt in his hand - like it was supposed to be there, like an extension of himself. There was a reason John was the one that carried the gun and Sherlock didn't. He much preferred target practice on Mrs Hudson's walls.

He reached Baker Street in half the time it had taken him this morning. His head was empty of the previous things that had bothered him - though he suspected that would change once he set foot inside. He had no idea what to expect every time he came home.

He only trusted Sherlock with Rosie if Mrs Hudson was in the building. Thankfully, he had created a work schedule that benefited them all and allowed John to work part-time. Working with Sherlock could probably sustain them all, but the consulting industry was temperamental, and John knew the importance of keeping a steady job.

It wasn't that he didn't trust Sherlock, he just got carried away with himself sometimes. For all his supposed hatred for humanity, he was pretty good with kids. John suspected it was because Sherlock acted like one himself most of the time - he knew what to say to them. Especially Rosie.

John was the opposite. He'd never been good with kids. His childhood seemed like a distant thing, something he had no doubt experienced, but a very, very long time ago. Rosie was different. John supposed that was fatherhood - it changed the person you thought you were, and replaced you with something completely different. An imposter. But a welcome one.

John knocked lightly and let himself in, the smell of home washing over him. He was greeted by Mrs Hudson, who was on her way down the stairs with a basket of folded laundry on her hip.

"Oh- I told you not to bother with our washing anymore." John sighed as he wiped his shoes on the welcome mat.

"Well, I don't see either of you washing it. How clean's that shirt? Give it to me when you're done with it."

"We- well, alright. If you insist..." John shrugged off his coat, "how have they been, by the way?"

"Lovely, fine. The things I hear him telling her though, John! Murder and all that. You need to give him a good talking to." She made a disgusted noise in her throat then pottered off to her flat, shutting the door curtly behind her.

John just shook his head. What made Mrs Hudson think Sherlock would listen to him, John wasn't at all sure. In fact, he'd love to hear her reasons.

As John ascended up the stairs, two familiar voices (one distinct, one babbling) became clearer. He stopped halfway and shut his eyes, trying to make out the conversation. He didn't know if they were aware of his presence yet, but he tried to be as quiet as possible.

"...quite short, isn't he?" then, "...obviously he's been off with her...needs to get sacked..."

Once John reached the top of the stairs, he could make out music wafting into the hall out the open door. Familiar music.

"Sherlock! You're letting Rosie watch Top Gun?"

Sherlock didn't turn to look at him, instead waving a hand in his general direction. "Yes, John. You said it was your favourite - I wondered if it might be hereditary."

John scoffed. Rosie turned from the TV, making a pleased noise at the sight of John by the door. She got up to greet him, steadying herself on the arm of John's armchair. Sherlock moved to help her but leant back again when she toddled off by herself.

"She seemed to be enjoying it. Not for me. A bit too..." he made an odd gesture in the air.

"I'm not sure what that," John jabbed at Sherlock, "means, but I'm going to pretend I didn't hear it."

Sherlock just hummed, unable to tear his gaze from the TV. His eyes lingered extensively on Tom Cruise's six pack.

John sighed, holding Rosie's pudgy hand as she looked up at him with wide blue eyes. "Any clients?"

Sherlock nodded, keeping an eye on the TV. "Yes, four."

John raised his eyebrows. "And?"

"Boring, boring," Sherlock stabbed at the air with a slender finger, "okay, and boring."

"What was the okay one?"

Sherlock pressed his fingers together. "Convinced her husband was a goat-man hybrid controlled by the devil, or something or other."

John was slightly stunned. "Well?"

"Carbon monoxide." Sherlock didn't elaborate.

John just widened his eyes and nodded, at a loss for words. Rosie reached up to him, wanting to be picked up, but John made no move to do so. He stared at the TV with his eyes glazed over. Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"You're going somewhere."

John snapped out of his daze. "Correct."

"You don't want to."

"Also correct."

"Let me guess," Sherlock stood up nimbly out of his armchair, "the pub with Mike."

John nodded, swiping a hand over his face. He had no idea how Sherlock could know, but he wasn't interested in finding out.

"And others." Sherlock frowned slightly, bending down to pick Rosie up. He held her somewhat awkwardly as though he still wasn't used to the gesture, but she didn't seem to mind. She squealed happily in his arms.

"Yeah, a couple guys I haven't seen since the wedding." John's voice cracked a little on the last word. He hoped Sherlock hadn't noticed.

"Well," Sherlock adjusted Rosie, "don't worry about us. It'll be an early night I think." He smiled at her.

John wasn't convinced. "Sure." He paused, looking down at his shoes. "It's not that. They'll ask about Mary, and..."

"And?"

"I really don't want to be hungover this weekend." John frowned at Sherlock.

Sherlock seemed to be considering something. He set Rosie down, who wandered off to watch the end of Top Gun. "Well, I could come with you."

When John pulled a face, he continued quickly to make his point. "Make sure you only consume an acceptable amount, redirect conversation, et cetera..." He watched John's expression carefully.

John worried his lip. Usually, inviting Sherlock to any friendly alcohol-driven setting was not a great idea. Especially considering the last time they had gotten considerably drunk together, they'd ended up in a jail cell by the end of it. Even worse than that, the last time these guys had seen Sherlock was during his rather distracted best man's speech. John winced.

"Well," John began, "I'm not sure. What about Rosie?" He looked over at her. She was standing barely an inch away from the TV, mesmerised.

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand. "We can put her to bed and Mrs Hudson can keep an eye on her. We won't be out all night." He smiled as though he had already won the conversation.

He had. "Alright, Sherlock. You win."

He turned to walk out the door, en route to his bedroom. He couldn't exactly show up to the pub in business-casual. He called behind him, "I don't even know why you want to go. You hate this sort of thing."

"Just looking out for you, John." Sherlock said in an odd tone.

"Hm," John hummed sceptically. He wasn't convinced, but he also didn't have the energy to make Sherlock explain himself. He knew he wouldn't be able to get the reason out of him.

John proceeded up the stairs and began getting himself ready. He picked his usual jeans-and-jumper ensemble and re-combed his hair. Sherlock, of course, decided to wear a suit of sorts - him and Mycroft had that in common, at least. He went for the slightly more casual choice of a partly unbuttoned white shirt, however, which was the closest he could ever get to the concept.

It took them all but twenty minutes, most of it being John contemplating messaging Mike about the new addition. He opened and closed messages about fifty times before deciding against it. Showing up unannounced with Sherlock was not John's smartest idea, but it was better than the alternative of having to deal with an awkward text conversation. No doubt Mike would try to wriggle out of it somehow.

"And you're sure you're okay with it?" John asked Mrs Hudson by the front door.

"Oh of course, don't worry," she assured them, "you boys deserve a date."

Sherlock smiled at the ground, but John intercepted. "It's not- oh, you know what? Never mind." He shook his head at nothing in particular.

Mrs Hudson's faint voice followed them out the door, muttering something about "live and let live". John decided to ignore it.

"I really don't know why you're doing this, Sherlock." John commented.

"Like I said, John," he looked straight ahead, "I'm just looking out for you. That's what friends do." He smiled a strange little smirk that John didn't miss.

"You're so..." John trailed off.

"Thoughtful?"

"Wasn't the word I was going to use, no." John weaved through the crowds, trying not to lose Sherlock.

Sherlock met him again and turned right, John jogging slightly to catch up with his long stride. A sign that indicated the pub, nestled between several terrace-style shops, jutted out from the wall. John stopped suddenly.

"How did you know where we were going?"

Sherlock didn't say anything, sweeping his coat behind him as he stepped into the entrance. He held the door open for John. "After you."

John mumbled his thanks. He braced himself for the sight of his friends, no doubt at the bar, and their reactions to his companion. Once they caught sight of John, they all whooped, moving to greet him with their arms out. Their celebrations faded when their gaze rested upon Sherlock, who stood assertively behind John with his hands in his pockets.

John sighed. The next few hours would be interesting.

—

"So you're telling me you don't know who the queen is?"

Everyone was at least four beers deep now. The pub had gotten busier with each passing hour, and the five of them were piled in a booth, elbow to elbow.

The whole place had a warm glow, the ceiling strung with exposed bulbs and bunting. The feel of the decor was very clearly industrial, every wall being exposed brick or faded red wallpaper. It smelled like overpriced beer.

"No," Sherlock replied to one of John's friends who sat opposite. John was squeezed between Sherlock and another one of his pals. John could feel every word that Sherlock said like a deep vibration, and every breath he took warmed his neck.

John was finding it very hard to concentrate.

Especially because Sherlock's leg was pressed right up against his own, and John couldn't bear to move an inch.

"How can you not know that?" John's friend looked around, baffled, his beer sloshing onto the table. John peeled his coat off the already sticky surface to avoid the backsplash.

"It's not important," Sherlock replied.

The whole evening had gone far better than Sherlock had anticipated - each of his friends had taken a great interest in Sherlock's work, all barraging him with questions. They, of course, also had questions about the wedding and Sherlock's speech, but he had skilfully diverted the conversation. Whether that was for John's sake or his own, John wasn't sure.

In fact, John had barely gotten a word in edgewise. He was grateful for that, though - the beer had made him drowsy rather than buzzed. He had to splash his face a couple times in the bathroom to keep himself awake. Sherlock seemed to notice this.

Sherlock nudged John's foot under the table. John, who had his face in his hand and his eyes half-closed, looked up to see everyone staring at him.

"Oh, sorry," he blinked. "What was that?"

"I said," his friend opposite smirked, "are you seeing anyone?"

John paused, a little stunned. He had no idea when this topic had arisen. Sherlock cleared his throat. "They asked me, but I told them I'm married to my work."

His friends laughed at that, which Sherlock looked quite confused about. "Not at the moment, no," was all John could manage.

John noticed a crease between Sherlock's brows. He didn't say anything, though.

"Really?" Another friend joined in, "have you tried any apps? I met my..."

Their voices dissipated into the noise of the pub. John was barely able to concentrate on the conversation anymore. He could feel Sherlock's body heat rolling off him in waves, warming his whole right side. It made him even more tired. It took all his strength not to close his eyes and let his head fall.

Sherlock made the whole table explode into another round of booming laughter, jolting John awake. He groaned and swiped a hand over his face. No one seemed to take note. Except from Sherlock.

Sherlock stood up suddenly, palms pressed on the table. He thrust a handful of coins onto the table from his coat pocket. "Another round gents?"

They all cheered in response, apart from John. Sherlock seized him under the arm and excused them both to the bar. He swept up the coins and thrust them into John's hand as he dragged him along. John was a little dazed.

"Feeling sleepy?" Sherlock said sarcastically, holding John's shoulder.

"Yes, Sherlock, I am," John looked around at the crowd. He could barely hear Sherlock's voice. "Why, Sherlock?"

Sherlock looked puzzled. "Why what?"

"Why are you doing all this?" John clenched his jaw. "Switching on the charm?"

"I don't know what you mean," Sherlock said.

"Yes you do," John mumbled. "You hate going out. Every time I introduce you to a friend you insist on making sure they never want to see me again."

Sherlock rolled his eyes theatrically. John saw this as a sign to carry on. "And suddenly you're cracking jokes? Trying to impress them?"

He was cut off by Sherlock ordering another round of beers. He shouted over the noise at the bartender. John waited, mouth in a tight line, his first clenched on the bar.

When he was done, John continued. "So what's this about, huh?"

"You're exhausted, John," Sherlock dragged his eyes to meet him. "Imagining things."

"You're kidding, right?" John scoffed. "No, that's not it, is it?" John searched Sherlock's face.

"If you must know! It's for a case," Sherlock hissed through his teeth. He picked up two glasses of beer, gesturing at John to get the others.

John didn't budge. He stood, frozen. "Unbelievable," he watched Sherlock with his mouth agape. "You could have told me. Could have said something."

"Like what?"

"Something!" John pinched his nose bridge. "You barged in on my one meeting with my friends in months! Years! For a case!"

"You didn't want to go anyway. I was doing you a favour." Sherlock moved to walk back to the table, but John grabbed him by his coat sleeve and dragged him back.

"So what is it, then? Huh? Tell me, is one of them a murderer?" He said sarcastically, but his voice held no jest.

Sherlock inclined his head. "Maybe. I'd hardly call them your friends, though, certainly not two out of the three..."

"You know what?" John was barely inches from his face now. He unknowingly still had a fistful of Sherlock's coat. "I don't want to hear it. Keep your deductions to yourself, Sherlock Holmes."

John let him go. Sherlock seemed to be at a loss for words. He was still holding the beer glasses, though a considerable amount was running down his arms.

John spoke for him. "I'm going home." He grabbed a beer glass out of  Sherlock's hand and raised it to his mouth, downing it in four gulps. He wiped his mouth with his coat sleeve, eyes shining. "Take your time."

Sherlock called his name as John left the pub, weaving through the groups of people. He let the door slam behind him. The night swallowed him whole as he stomped down the street, his shoes slapping against the pavement.

He had no idea what time it was. The street was empty. He looked up at the black sky, stars like white-hot pinpricks scattered sparsely across. He shrunk back into his jacket once the cold bit into him again.

He could see his breath fogging the air before him, but he couldn't help himself from gasping slightly. He just couldn't believe Sherlock's nerve. He knew that his sudden interest in socialising was odd, anyway. It all seemed to make sense now.

John wasn't even sure why he was surprised. It wasn't as if this was the first time Sherlock had done something like this. Taking off in the night, leaving mid conversation, disappearing for hours with no explanation… the subconscious list went on.

It seemed to be fading as of recently. Sherlock, a man who detested routine, had settled in to 'family' life well. But John couldn't help but notice the way his leg bounced constantly, or the increasing quantity of stabbed paper on the mantelpiece.

John felt guilty, in a way. Sometimes, at night, when he couldn't sleep, his mind wandered to a time when it was just the two of them. Never sleeping, solving one case after the next, leaving whenever.

John had reassured Sherlock that he could still solve cases without him. Sherlock said that was ridiculous. He tried that before, remember? And it ended the same way it had began: Holmes and Watson.

John huffed into his hands in an attempt to warm them. It barely worked. All he could hear was the wind hissing past his ears and his footfall on the pavement.

Until they were accompanied by something else. Someone else's steps, falling in time with his own. John ignored them for a while, his mind still racing with thoughts of Sherlock.

They grew closer, barely six feet behind him now. John glanced back but only saw a figure dressed in black, the hood of their parka pulled over their head. They seemed to be staring at the floor behind John's feet.

John move aside to let them pass despite half the pavement being empty. They didn't make any attempt to move or quicken their pace. John felt an increasing uneasiness in his stomach.

John decided to take a random turn off the main road, wanting to see if the man followed. There was no clear way back to Baker Street now unless he went past the river.

His bad feeling only got worse when John reached a break in the houses. An alleyway bathed in darkness stretched to his left. John was about to break into a run when the person grabbed him by the shoulder and thrust him into the alley.

John slammed against a brick wall. "Hey! The fuck are you doing?" His voice echoed across the empty street, but the person slapped a hand over his mouth.

John couldn't make out the person's face. Their hood cast a shadow over their features, making them indistinguishable. John mumbled, yelling, against his palm, readying his leg to kick out.

"Do you know Mary Watson?" The person hissed. John froze. A gun had been removed from his pocket and was pressed against John's temple. He flattened his hands on the wall.

They threw back their hood. The person holding the gun to John was a young man, barely twenty-five, with a youthful face. His eyes, however, held something dark. He stared at John with a bitter distaste.

The man moved his hand slightly. John, far too terrified to speak, kept his mouth clamped firmly shut.

The man didn't like that. "I said," he pressed the gun further, bruising John's face, "do you know Mary Watson?" He brought his face so close John could feel his breath.

"She's my wife." John gasped. He fought to get the words out, before realising his mistake.

The man brought a hard fist to the side of John's face. John spluttered, pain clouding his vision. What did this guy want with him? With Mary? This wasn't just a mugging. That punch was personal.

He watched as John rose back up to his full height. John clenched his fist, prepared to throw back his own punch. The man was too quick - he kicked out John's legs from underneath him, causing John to whack his head on the concrete below.

Spots danced across his eyes. He groaned, barely registering the next few kicks to his gut. The man spat out assaults. "It was your bitch wife that did it! I'll kill her!"

John scrambled against the wall. "What do you-" he gasped, trying to rise to his feet, "want?" He finally choked out.

The man smirked. He didn't rush to kick John back down. "Does AGRA ring any bells? Or did she keep that one quiet?"

Just the acronym made John's stomach drop. He hadn't heard that in a very long time. And the emotions he already associated with it, even without the beatings, were bad enough.

"Your wife betrayed them. Betrayed my dad. He was tortured to death because of her."

Through the pain, John fought to recall anything Mary might have said to him before about this. The process was painful enough. Though, there were so many secrets, so many lies, that John couldn't even be sure if her stories were true.

"No? Nothing?" The man drew closer now. The gun was still in his hand, dangling from his palm.

John waited. Slowly, he rose to his feet, using the wall behind him as support. The man just chuckled to himself. This was his first mistake.

John flexed his fingers. Then, rather unexpectedly, his fist connected with the man's jaw. He staggered back but regained his footing, eyes misted with abhorrence. He ran to hold John against the wall, but he moved in time, instead twisting round to grab the man by the back of his neck.

He was strong, but John was stronger. John held him there, cheek against the brick wall. "You're insane."

"You must be," the man spat, "if you married her."

John couldn't help himself. He pulled the man's head back, and smashed it into the wall. He cried out, trying to reach for John, but he couldn't. John pinned his hands behind his back.

"I don't even know who you are!" John yelled in his ear. His vision was hazy, all he could feel was hatred. Hatred for this stranger, who somehow knew all about him, all about his wife. Who wasn't even alive.

"You will," he hissed. "Ask Mary about me. Ask her about my father."

John clenched his jaw. "She's dead."

The man's eyes widened, his black irises twinkling. “Ha!" He gasped.

John tightened his grip on his neck, but the man only winced. He grit his teeth so hard he thought they would shatter. Everything that had been filling his thoughts was gone now - all he could see, all he could register, was this disgusting man.

John wanted to kill him.

The man grinned with bloody teeth. “Though, I wish I could’ve done it myself.”

Something inside of John snapped. His breathing quickened, heart thrumming in his ear.

The man’s head met the wall. Again. And again.

The noises he made filled John’s ears - he hadn’t known, then, that he’d hear those screams for the rest of his life.

John didn’t stop. Not when the wall was splattered with blood, not when a trickle of the slick red stuff tumbled down his face, staining John’s coat. Not when the man went limp in his hand.

John’s chest heaved; his head buzzed with static so loud he couldn’t hear the words the man was spluttering out. John fought to focus, to read his lips:

“I’ll say hi to her in Hell.”

John let go. The man slumped into a bloody heap on the floor, breathing rattling breaths. John tried not to look at what he had done - the man’s nose was a crimson pulp on his fractured face. The wall was stained with John’s actions. His choices.

John once said to Sherlock, a long, long time ago: “I’ve seen men die before. I thought I’d never sleep again—“

John raised his foot, and brought it down, hard, on the man’s face. The heavy breathing ceased. His eyes slowly glazed over, gaping at the scattered-salt sky. John had seen this look before. More times than he could count.

“—I’ll sleep fine tonight.”

END OF CHPT. i

[bluberimufim]

I just discovered that there's a biblical figure named Seth who has absolutely nothing to do with the Seth that I named my protagonist, Seth, after

[nsfwbible]

‘So the Philistines seized him and gouged out his eyes’

Delilah wields the fateful hair-cutting shears in Rembrandt’s “The Blinding of Samson”, produced in 1636. These are details from the painting in the Staedel Museum.

[sspacegodd]

Back in biblical times, violence stayed in cartoons where it belonged.

[campgender]

summary of the Titus 2 movement

from Saving Sex: Sexuality and Salvation in American Evangelicalism by Amy DeRogatis (2015) pp.97-102

transcript under the cut

[…] families. Pro-natalists use this argument to define themselves against culture and other evangelicals.

Open Embrace, and other books like it, circulate among conservative Protestant women in loosely affiliated groups that identify with the labels Titus 2 or “Biblical Womanhood.” There is no one specific denomination or umbrella group that coordinates groups within this movement. The individuals who blog, write books, run workshops and seminars promoting Biblical Womanhood, or who identify as Titus 2 women, may hold differing theological views and practices. Some tend toward Reform Protestantism; others are more charismatic. Titus 2 writers are united around the belief in the inerrancy of Scripture and the effort to define the meaning of biblical womanhood—the view that men are the head of the household and obedience to a husband is ultimately obedience to God’s will—in their everyday lives.

There is a spectrum among Titus 2 ministries but the majority affirms that married women should fulfill their biblical role through homemaking skills, childrearing, and following their husbands’ leadership. This goal typically is portrayed as a countercultural position that is challenging for young wives who have grown up in country that supports feminism. Typically in the Titus 2movement, men are not characterized as brutes who force women to stay in the home and serve them. Women choose this role. Itisthe job of older women to teach younger women that true liberation comes from fulfilling their proper biblical roles.

Some—but not all—of these groups also oppose contraception. Whether they allow for family planning or not, biblical women position themselves against feminism, which they believe destroys godly families, ruins the lives of women with false promises, sanctions unbiblical sexuality, and promotes a pagan religion.

THE EXCELLENT WIFE

Biblical womanhood is defined by the most visible leaders of Titus 2 as an effort to reclaim women’s proper scriptural role of “helpmeet.” According to Nancy Leigh DeMoss, older women must teach younger women to serve their husbands and God before all others, and together they will change the world. In her words, it will be “a revolution” (unlike feminism) “that will take place on our knees.”

Writers like DeMoss find biblical authority and definitions for female submission throughout Scripture. For specifics, however, they focus on Titus 2:3- 5. In this letter from the Apostle Paul to Titus, his colleague living in Crete, Paul provides rules for organizing new churches, including the proper roles for Christian men and women. The specific verses state:

“Likewise, teach the older women to be reverent in the way they live, not to be slanderers or addicted to much wine, but to teach what is good. Then they can urge the younger women to love their husbands and children, to be self-controlled and pure, to be busy at home, to be kind, and to be subject to their husbands, so that no one will malign the word of God.”

Besides detailing the qualities of a “good” woman (modest, loves her children, etc.), proponents of biblical womanhood emphasize wifely submission to support the word of God. A Christian wife’s willing submission to her husband, they explain, is a unique, daily way of witnessing to Christ.

There are a range of views regarding the meaning and practice of wifely submission based on Titus 2:3-5. Some glorify the Christian homemaker and her ability to provide hospitality. Others instruct women to stay with physically and emotionally abusive husbands— abused women should look to Christ, the divine model for suffering. Still others present an expansive vision of biblical womanhood, explaining that women are created by God to excel at multi-tasking in all areas of life, not simply in homemaking. Monique Mack, the founder of Titus 2 Women’s Network, praises a woman’s God-given abilities but does not specifically state that women work only in the home.

Women, Wife, Mother, wherever you find yourself in the following pages, you are unique. God masterfully created you with enormous ability. As women we have the ability to effectively function in nearly any arena that we enter. As mothers we have a tremendous ability to multi-task in the greatest sense of the word. As wives, He called us “helper” and enabled us as such to bring a greater capacity to the human relational experience. We are uniquely fashioned to bring a level of fulfillment to those we are connected to. God has duly equipped and enabled us to be triumphant in multiple roles.

Biblical womanhood is a fluid category that can include single, married, and widowed women who may or may not be mothers or homemakers.

Still, the majority of Titus 2 writers believe that women can best fulfill their biblical roles from within the home. Homemaking is a sacred calling. Here again there is a range of opinions regarding women’s roles and authority within the household. Some Titus 2 writers affirm that women are in charge of the domestic sphere. A few writers believe that husbands should be in control of all matters in the family, including household management.

In her 2009 book Quiverfull, Kathleen Joyce notes that “among some purists, it means submitting a list of daily activities to one’s husband for approval and following his directions regarding work, going to church, clothing, head covering, and makeup choices, as well as what a wife does with the remainder of her time. Sexually, it means being available at all times for all activities (barring a very limited number of ‘ungodly, ‘homosexual’ acts).”

Despite these range of opinions, all Titus 2 women agree that God created them as distinct from men. Women have unique roles, talents, and obligations to their husbands, children, extended family, other women, as well as to the church. These roles and obligations are given by God and found in Scripture.

Biblical womanhood, according to Titus 2 proponents, offers women a role in Christian missions without leaving the home. Authors such as Martha Peace consider a Christian woman’s cheerful submission to her husband’s authority as a form of ministry to him and to others. Peace looks to examples of celebrated Christian wives such as Edith Schaeffer, author and wife of Francis Schaeffer, who created a hospitable household and supported her husband even when he made poor decisions for the family. This, according to Peace, was Edith Schaeffer’s “accidental” contribution to her husband’s ministry.

Creating a beautiful home with dutiful children and a happy husband, Peace believes, presents a compelling witness to non-believers. Homemaking becomes a form of missionary work. Lonely and unsaved men need look no further than the honored Christian husband, admired by his wife and children, living in a peaceful, charming home, to find compelling non-theological reasons to accept Christ.

Peace and many other writers make clear that this complementarian understanding of spousal roles does not define wives as lesser than husbands. Each simply has distinct roles and obligations within marriage. The husband’s is to provide for and guide the family; the wife’s to support the husband in all of his endeavors and nurture the children.

Many of the leaders of the Titus 2 movement turn to the life and writings of Edith Schaeffer for inspiration. Edith and Francis Schaeffer were missionaries to Switzerland sent by the Independent Board for Presbyterian Foreign Missions. In 1955 they started L’Abri (meaning “shelter”) in their home.

Over time the community grew and by the 1970s L’Abri became known as a place for evangelical youth to stay for a few months. There, they engaged in heated discussions about philosophy, theology, art, music, culture, and literature. Francis Schaeffer presided at the center of the community, a charismatic preacher and teacher who desired to meld conservative Protestant doctrine with the history and intellectual concerns of Western culture.

Edith Schaeffer developed a reputation in evangelical circles as an extraordinary hostess who cheerfully cooked and cleaned for countless young adults who backpacked to her house and dropped in for a few months. Schaeffer wrote over a dozen books but the most important for Titus 2 women is her 1971 Hidden Art, later retitled The Hidden Art of Homemaking.

Hidden Art provides artistic inspiration for home design using natural and readily available resources (such a pinecones or scraps of material). In her slim book Schaeffer makes a case for the power of beauty and art to enrich a family’s life even in small and homespun ways. In her view, the home provided daily opportunities for a woman to express her creativity and love for her family.

Martha Peace is not the only conservative Protestant woman who valorized Edith Schaeffer. In the 1970s and 1980s her thrifty ideas and focus on the beauty of homemaking caught the attention of many Titus 2 women, who have gone on to enthusiastically recommend and cite her book over the years. In his 2011 memoir, her son Frank who left his family’s faith writes:

“An Edith Schaeffer cult (made up mostly of born-again middle-class white American women) grew up around Mom’s books after she began to be published in the late 1960s. I’ve met countless women who say that they raised their children ‘according to Edith Schaeffer.’ Of course what they mean is that they raised their children according to the ‘Edith Schaeffer’ fantasies they encountered in her books.”

Whether fantasy or reality, Edith Schaeffer’s life and writings provide a model of the quintessential Titus 2 woman who is a husband’s “helpmeet.”

Martha Peace’s portrait of a godly wife represents a fairly mainstream evangelical view on gender roles. The theological stance that men and women have distinct roles that “complement” each other in marriage was codified at the Southern Baptist Convention’s annual meeting in 1998. The preferred language for the wife’s God-given role in Titus 2 literature is “helpmeet.”

Peace explains, “Basically, we have said that the wife’s role is to glorify and submit to her husband. She was created to fulfill her role as ‘helper’ for her husband. It’s easy to see Eve’s role, but what about you? How, practically, can you carry out your God-given role?” The key to success and happiness in Christian marriage is for each person to fulfill his or her specific role and respect the unique qualities and distinctions between husband and wife. Trouble begins when either spouse acts outside of their God-given gender role.

On the margins of the Titus 2 spectrum are authors like Debi Pearl. In Created to Be His Help Meet, Pearl suggests that even in abusive situations women are called by God to remain with their husbands. She believes that this type of submission is a visible and important testimony to faith. According to Pearl, even the most loathsome husband should be respected and supported. Submission to an awful husband is godly because it is ultimately service to Christ.

“If you look at your husband and can’t find any reason to want to help him—and I know some of you are married to men like that—then look to Christ and know that it is He who made you to be a help meet. You serve Christ by serving your husband, whether your husband deserves it or not.”

Pearl urges women to look to all areas—including the tiny details of their lives—to find a reason that they may be the cause of their husband’s discontent or failures. “Always remember that the day you stop smiling is the day you stop trying to make your marriage heavenly, and it is the first day leading to your divorce proceedings.”

Some husbands will act in despicable ways toward their wives. This, however, is not a reason for divorce. A wife should always find ways to improve herself in her husband’s eyes and that effort will save her marriage. Marriage always requires sacrifice.

It is tempting to cast Debi Pearl as a radical outlier. For example, the blogger Mary Kassian of “Girls Gone Wise,” a blog dedicated to promoting biblical womanhood, characterized Debi Pearl as “fringe and extremist. She certainly is not representative of the modern complementarian movement.”

But her position is not as far-flung as some proponents of biblical womanhood have argued. John Piper, one of the founders of the Biblical Council on Manhood and Womanhood, author, and Chancellor of Bethlehem College and Seminary, stated in 2009 that women should be able to endure some physical abuse in marriage.

“If it’s not requiring her to sin but simply hurting her, then I think she endures verbal abuse for a season, and she endures perhaps being smacked one night, and then she seeks help from the church.”

Piper is clear that simply being hurt does not warrant a woman’s refusal to submit to her husband’s authority. Women are sometimes called to sacrifice themselves for the sake of their marriage. A wife who finds herself in this situation should call the church, not the police.

[godsprettiestprincess]

Kid jack with a little astronaut helmet with foam on the inside and a tinted visor for when things get too loud and bright (and lucifer the pta mom who stares down any teacher or other parent that has a problem with it)

[stigmatafunction]

biblical iconography zine remake lik e...halfway done! Very pleased so far