#in a world condemned to paradise

[bloodbywinter]

sometimes i think how the ancients of etheirys were always doomed from an ideological perspective and i start curling into a ball

[komsomolka]

The FRG had its own forms of political censorship which were invariably used to hide and cover up the reporting of Nazi atrocities. Thus, Lord Russell’s renowned book, The Scourge of the Swastika, which detailed Nazi war crimes, was banned there. Film scripts were vetted and anything critical of Germany’s recent Nazi past was censored. GDR films and books were banned as a matter of course. For instance, Ein Tagebuch für Anne Frank (A Diary for Anne Frank) by Joachim Hellwig as well as Andrew and Annelie Thorndike’s world-renowned documentary about the rise of Nazism in Germany, Du und mancher Kamerad (You and a few comrades) and Wolfgang Staudte’s classic film of the Heinrich Mann novel, Der Untertan. These are just three the many that were banned from being shown in West Germany. Even the great Italian director, Vittoria de Sica’s film I sequestrati di Altona (The Condemned of Altona), based on Sartre’s Huis Clos, was censored and all references to the Nazis removed. Alain Resnais’ short documentary, Nuit et Brouillard (Night and Fog) about the Nazi concentration camps, made to commemorate the 10th anniversary of the end of the war, was condemned by the West German government and it made an official complaint to the French government that showing the film ‘would be an obstacle to the reconciliation of the two peoples’. As a result, the film was withdrawn from competition at the Cannes Film Festival under much protest. During the first five years of the Federal Republic the public screening of several hundred films were banned for political reasons, but the files relating to this are still secret.

Stasi State or Socialist Paradise? The German Democratic Republic and What Became of It by Bruni de la Motte & John Green with Seumas Milne (Contributor), 2015.

[thesadadventurersgame]

The sad adventurers

Play as sadness incarnated, being revered as a deity and condemned to cry for the rest of eternity. Join an thrilling adventure with mortals you just met and, for the first time in your life, make real friends! (and try not to make them cry while they're around you and your contagious sadness). Will you help you new friends get what they want or will you get in their way?

The story will have two main points of view: Mc's and Antara Al-Amin's, other characters will also have their own POVs, but they will be shorter and won’t allow you to make choices.

(This is a wip that, unfortunately, will take time to be completed. English is not my first language and I do this just for fun, if you see any typo, please tell me!)

“In the beginning, there was only happiness. The first goddess was born from all the laughs in the world. A woman who shines every time someone laughs or smiles, never sad or angry. Love came soon after, from the desire to share this happiness, from the desire to care and be cared for. They loved and love everything they see. But, when mortal men were expelled from paradise, when they first began to feel pain and cried, from their tears emerged sadness. A deity who cried, cries and will cry forever and ever, cradling all the sadness in the world in their arms. They did not come alone though. Anger, their brother, came from the blood that men have shed and will be strengthened by it in the future. He can never be satisfied and will never be satiated, nothing makes him smile more than pure hatred. and, finally, came Fear. Born from the fear of feeling sadness, pain, fear of losing control of your own feelings, your own body, fear from being hurt and hurting. that’s where he came from.

But, before all of them, we, mortals, were born. The many fruits of the immense tree the love between life and death is. Unlike the Gods, we can feel all types of emotions proportionally and unproportionally. Only we can feel everything and feel nothing at the same time, Without us, the Gods would be nothing. But we are never satisfied, are we? we want everything until there is nothing left and will do everything, everything we can to have it. Everything to have at least one wish, any wish, fulfilled.

In ancient books it is said that if you can gather: hapinness tears, sadness laughter, the blood of love boiling with hate, a little ounce of love from hate and a demonstration of courage from fear, life itself will grant you one wish, ANY wish! That's why I brought you all together here. Together we can make history!” the man closes the book in front of him, smiling from ear to ear. “So? What do you guys say?”

𖦹 Customizable MC

ꕀ Name, personality, species, gender, sexuality, pronouns, appearence, level of naivety, hobbies, your control over your own powers and more

𖦹 Romance 1 (or more) of 6 romanceable love interests

𖦹 Choose between helping the adventurers achieve their goals or completely hindering them

𖦹 Define how you fell and interact with the other gods, as well with your own divinity

Ro’s:

Antara Al-Amin (27) | The leader | (he/him)

An adventurous and brave man. He was the one who brought your group together and is also, the leader. He makes you curious, no one has ever tried such a thing before, no one has ever been foolish enough, and yet there he is, sure that everything will work out.

Everything you do seems to mesmerize Antara, and he seems to do everything just to see your smile, failing miserably most of the times, but never giving up.

You do not know what his wish is going to be, but you know he won't give up on it, no matter what.

Species: Human

Apparence and personality: Antara is a slender but strong tall man, measuring approximately 1.80m. His umber skin is covered in scars from past adventures, which he brags about endlessly. His midnight black hair is styled in long dreadlocks and his amber eyes sparkle with a mischief that he doesn't care to hide. According to him, his stubble is his charm. He prefers masculine clothes, but likes to dress feminine in formal occasions. Antara has a flirtatious and outgoing personality, throwing himself into the arms of anyone willing to hold him for the night. it's clear to you that he cares about everyone in the group, including you, which is silly, but you don’t dislike it.

Rajinder Khan (28) | A good friend | (He/Him or She/Her)

Rajinder at first only joined the group because of Antara, their childhood friend, as they thought that Antara was going completly insane, fearing for his friends life. However, the promise that their greatest wish could be granted was also a factor, who would deny such oportunity after all?

Rajinder was the first to protest when Antara allowed you to join the group. They seem to have a great aversion to showing emotions, especially sadness, maybe that’s why they ignores you everytime they can.

Species: Human

Apparence and personality: Rajinder is a tall (2.00,m 1.98,f) heavy built person. Their golden skin is covered in freckles from head to toe. Male Rajinder keeps his hair in a military cut, female Rajinder wears short braids, both have black hair and almond eyes. They prefer more gender neutral clothing. Rajinder has a distant and cold personality, speaking only when needed.

Yueling Bai (25) | The liar | (She/Her, They/Them or He/Him)

The first thing you learned when joining the group was that you cannot trust a single word that comes out of Yueling’s mouth, for every ten words they say, nine are lies. The only thing they don’t seem to lie about is about how they feel about you and the others.

Yueling is a notorious liar and a extremely famous mercenary, that’s why Antara invited them in the first place, They have many skills that can be extremely useful. Every time the groups wishes are mentioned, Yueling is the first to try to change the subject, or they come up with a new wish. You are not going to lie, this worrys you, but there’s nothing you can do, for all you know, they can't even have a wish yet. They're neutral towards you joining in the group, and find the way you affect their emotions annoying, but despite that, they still treat you with polite deference (sometimes)

Bonus: They grew up within one of the kingdoms in your territory, which is embarrassing since you don't remember most of them.

Species: Half-elf

Apparence and personality: Yueling has a lanky body and is avarage in height (1.64), with olive colored skin, covered in tattos. Their straight short hair flows freely below their jaw, a small red clip pinning their bangs to the top of their head. They wear scarlet-red paint around their eyes which perfectly harmonizes with their jet black iris. Female and male Yueling prefer clothes generally assigned to the gender they identify with, however non-binary Yueling will prefer more masculine clothes. Yueling is a born liar, their playful personality, for all you know, could be another one of their various lies, but you like it.

Felix/Felicia Bellerose (22) | The runaway princet | (He/Him or She/Her)

F comes from the second most powerful empire in the world, Tartarus, a troubled place led by a tyrannical and sadistic Queen, their mother, Hild Bellerose, more know as the “Red Queen”. F's dream has always been to free his empire from Hild’s clutches, but they never had the courage to do so, being raised to be complient and obedient, going against their mother was like a fever dream. Luckily, they know the right people. They joined the group with the help of their royal guard, who helped them escape from the palace during the night. They don't seem prepared to fight, at all, good thing they have their charisma.

They're easily impressed by you and your powerss, treating you with deference.

Species: Vampire

Bonus: Tartarus is one of the kingdoms under Gunnar's territory, you can choose how to feel about it.

Apparence and personality: F is an tall (1.85m 1.82f) skinny person, with pale ivory skin and red eyes. Their curly, sunset-blonde hair is tied in a low ponytail with a crimson red ribbon if male and falls on their shoulders freely if female. They use a big black umbrella during the day and round sunglasses, if female, F will prefer feminine clothes, but doesn’t have a preference if male. F is a shy, air-headed person and a huge people pleaser, but, when needed, they are extremely charismatic and flirtatious. They will do everything to please their companions. They have a really hard time making choices by themselves.

Aza Bonheur (24) | The (un)lucky one | (She/Her)

Aza is F's royal guard and their biggest co-conspirator against Hild, she’s the one who convinced the princet to join the group and is one, if not the only, of their closest friends. She can easily be considered one of the strongest person of the group and strangely, she doesn't seem to have a wish to make.

Aza has an supernatural level of luck (good and bad), which is defined by a magical coin that she carries with her everywhere. She also appears to be able to steal other people's good luck and can transfer good or bad luck to others. She never mentions how she gained these “powers”, avoiding the subject as much as she possible can.

She treats you with deference but has her suspicions about you.

Species: Human

Apparence and personality: Aza is a strong women of avarege height (1,72), with green eyes and rose beige skin, covered from head to toe in scars. Her almond-colored hair is short and gelled back, showing the scar that runs from one side of her face to the other. Aza has a tough but kind personality. She is a serious woman who doesn't fool around but has a passion for drinking games. She doesn't have a preference for clothes, when she is not wearing her armour, she likes to wear anything as long as it is practical.

Douglas, Fear itself | The one who vanished | (He/They)

Douglas is the only God to not have an counterpart. When you were younger, Douglas was a shy and fearful boy, always in the most darkest of the corners, watching everyone cautiously. Neither you nor the other gods remember a thing about Douglas, because, when you separated, all the memories you had of him disappeard...but they seem to be coming back.

You don't know how, but you will find him.

Species: Vampire

Apparence and personality: You remember Douglas as a tall and slim boy, his tanned skin was always sickly pale and he had huge, dark circles under his eyes. Deep crimson red eyes that were always wide open. His hair was dark and oily, going down his back. All you can remember is how he trembled looking at you and the others.

Non ro’s:

Gunnar, Hatred itself | your brother | (he/him)

Gunnar, your dearest brother and the most hot-headed person you've ever met. You are the only person and thing that makes him smile other than hatred and violence. You spent a good part of your life clinging to him. In times of war, where your sadness was so deep that you couldn't stop sobbing and screaming, even if his blood was so hot to the point of melting his skin, he never stopped taking care of you, staying by your side all the time.

You do know where he is.

Species: Demon

Appearance and personality: Gunnar is a very tall man (2.00) with muscular build, and appears to be approximately 30 years old. His white hair falls over his shoulders like waterfalls and his porcelain skin is often red and burnt because of his blood, which boils at the slightest provocation. He has red eyes and a neatly trimmed beard. He does not prefer a specific type of clothing, but generally wears more androgynous clothing. Gunnar hot-headed, mean and sadistic

Bonus: Gunnar is aromantic

Ahladita, Hapinness itself | your counterpart | (She/Her)

You and Ahladita were always fighting in your youth. For being counterparts, the mere presence of each other could ruin the other's work in mere seconds. While she was trying to make something happy, you soon came to make the same thing sad and vice versa. If she tried to make a place sunny, you came to make it rainy, but she always had extra advantage, she was older and trained her powers much more than you did. You can choose whethever this rivalry has passed into adulthood or not

If you are not rivals in adulthood, you will know where she is ;if you are rivals, then you won't.

Species: Fairy

Appearance and personality: Ahladita takes the shape of a woman in her early 20s, who has a curvy body of average height (1.70). Her skin has a golden bronze hue and is soft and shiny. Her curly, black hair is inches from dragging on the floor and contrasts perfectly with her golden eyes. She prefers more feminine clothes. She is extremely extroverted and bubbly.

Itoko, Love itself | Someone interested | (They/Them)

Itoko has always had a peculiar interest in all the other gods except happiness, perhaps due to the fact that you are all mostly negative emotions. Itoko were always very observant and had an unhealthy obsession with your brother, but well, counterparts. You both were relatively close in your youth, and you can choose if this continued in your adulthood. They love you, for they love everything they see and feel, but is not romantic and maybe, it's not even platonic, for all you know, it can be more as if you were a... a story, an subject, an object that they are deeply invested in. After a long time, their curiosity turned to you once again, their attention is completely yours now.

You don't know where they are, but it wouldn't be hard to find out.

Species: merfolk

Appearance and personality: Itoko takes an androgynous appearance in their mid-20s. Their curvy, chubby bodie are a creamy shade and their skin is smooth with a heart-shaped scar in the middle of their chest. They are short in height (1.55) and have midnight black hair, which reaches the middle of their back, styled in a hime cut. They prefer feminine clothing, but are usually naked, with just a cloth to cover their genitals. They are calm and observant and love to flirt.

Bonus: they can shapeshift

Dunia, Life, the beginning of everything. | The creator | (She/Her)

Everything came from Dunia and Orpheus, everything belongs to them. She has looked after you and the other Gods since the moment you were born. You never had the best relationship with her, but she was always there.

You know where she is

Appearance and personality: Dunia takes on the appearance of a woman on her mid 40s with a robust and tall build (1,95), with dull brown skin. Her long, wavy hair is tied into a high ponytail and she wears silver armor, which you've only seen her without once in your life. She is a serious and cold woman.

Orpheus, Death, the end of everything | The beginning and the end | (He/Him)

Everything came from Dunia and Orpheus, everything belongs to them. Mortals fear his judgment. Creator of the 7 layers of hell and a father to you, Orpheus, unlike Dunia, has always been very close to you, taking care of you as if you were his own child.

You know where he is

Appearance and personality: Orpheus takes the form of a man in his early 50s, of average height (1,70), with a slim, frail build and a pale skin full of scars. his wavy blonde hair is cut below his ears and is always messy. He is a calm man and is terrible at giving advice.

Demo tba | Pinterest | Playlists

[erysvoleil]

Also while I'm thinking about paradise killer again (good game glad I played it) [also full spoilers because yeah] I think the thing that sticks out to me the most in the "no matter what you do, you didn't change the system" department is the conversation with henry you get if you actually manage to save him. If you actually jump through all the hoops and dig into all the side tangents to completely absolve him, completely get him off the hook of every single thing he's ever been accused of and he's still there in the "drive off into the sunset and/or do some extrajudicial executions" segment to chat with.

Because like. You've done all that. You've Won, with respect to his story, you've Stood Up for the little guy, saved the day. And he's still in prison. He's still a disposable human sacrifice who's getting left behind while the powers that be condemn this entire reality to oblivion. He's still got a demon screaming bloody murder inside him. All you've won for him is the right to watch the world end, a few more hours of breath before his inevitable execution.

And like, damn! That's really potent! It makes you think of the other ways he's unsaveable-you can't give him the like decade of his life he spent in prison on the earlier accusations back, you can't undo the fuckhell of his entire setup as a fall guy for the administration, his very conception being tied up in their bullshit games, you can't undo the way disposable underclass in this society has permanently eviscerated his social existence! And at least assuming my memory of it is intact enough, he's still pretty bitter about all of that! You cannot as the One Person magical Video Game Protagonist really do anything to save him! It's Quite Potent!

[themareverine]

BED OF BONES

─ Logan Howlett x fem!OC

synopsis: When he promised her something different, she didn't think it would be this. Alaskan stars, scraping to survive, trying to feel. Anonymous faces in a forgotten frontier. It isn't much, it's barely living—but really all she needs to live is him.

warnings: comic adaptation, pre-established relationship from my Mare & the Wolverine series, angst, survival aesthetics, mentions of hunting, dead carcasses, extreme minimalism, blood, mentions of Logan's time at Weapon X, implied sexual content.

a/n: after listening to the podcast drama Wolverine: The Long Night and its sequel, Wolverine: The Lost Trail, i'm kinda obsessed with Richard Armitage's take on Logan. tortured, angsty, deeply raw and emotional—sign me right up for that. there's a scene that describes Logan's living conditions when he makes his home in nowhere Alaska, and I haven't been able to stop thinking about it.

MASTERLIST | NAVIGATION

Conditions beyond the four walls of the high-woods cabin would be not far removed from that of frozen hell, if laid out parallel to the everyday eye. Void of sunlight at dinner hours. Harsh wind howls, clawing the boards of the condemning thing so bravely titled architecture—even at this altitude, as the crow flies from the water.

Mountain landscape is wild, unforgiving—snow manages to hurricane in sideways, somehow, snaking between trees and low brush, rock. Drives a hard blanket of heavy wet to the once-lush forest floor. Thick trees Goliath tall in an unmovable, chaotic troop. Lowlight, and you would never see the slatwood slapped together with tar and faith—evergreen fronds sentinel away the world, strong walls taunting the world beyond the reach of woods. 

When the sun breaks the horizon over the water, the world will be still. Canvas of untouched snow, pure like a virgin, will breathe life into the forest again. Creatures will cull from their caves and beds, will roam freely the fresh from God—breathe air normally unthinkable to mortals. Mountain stone, miles away in the untouched Yukon, will reach jagged fingers to heaven, as if they themselves in their might will rip God from heaven. Kissed with snow even at a distance, they impose harsh laws of the wilderness—survive or die. Life, or death. 

There are no lines to walk in Alaska when it comes to the games of living and dying. They are the masters, humanity but an unwise player at the table of chance. Fools before the slaughter. Life, here, is fickle—left up to the false gods of chance and fate. Day and night. Sun and moon, life falls on the blade of time. 

Time, and most often attributed by headlines and big-city newscasters, luck—either kind. Four-leaf, or devil-may-cry. The fortunate see the colors of sunrise, breathtaking and pure, over crystalline waters whitecapped with rage and promise. The not-so, well—

—they become quickly acquainted with that throne the mountains try to steal from God. 

For those who try to die and don’t—for them—it’s another thing altogether. An Eden, the holy-of-holies away from the battle of living, the war of the being seen. Paradise lost to the knowing. A forgotten frontier, cursed and barren in the hands of men ill understood of the way the wolf walks, the hunger of prey scratching at ice in spring. Fruitless and forbidden, existing on maps as No Man’s Lands and undesired terrains— spinning in the hearts of those who cry someday and never again. 

A simple life with little reward beyond morning, Alaskan wilderness reeks of chore and survival. Mundane and petulant. Concepts now lost in the age of machines, swipe right, thumb left; technology’s far-reaching lust of instantaneous gratification. Such things scream louder than the cry of fresh air and escapism, of ample and simple. 

Man is blind to the fruit of the earth, lost to concrete. And concrete always wins—the machines. They always win. 

“Where are you, Logan?” 

Pacing the threadbare boards of the cabin—minding the one every fifth step, it wobbles with the threat of breaking—has yielded no different answer to the question Mare Howlett has asked four other times, checking the sky outside as if the night will change as the hours do. Fire snaps from the hearth on the west wall, blasting heat throughout the small, single-room space like an oven. Sweat has started accumulating between her shoulders, the river of her spine. 

It’s after one. In the morning, at least. It’s hard to judge the night by the black veil of the sky, but, she’s learned over the years. Watching the moon, forces of habit—the amount of hours spent not sleeping in the darkest midnight would make God laugh. It had become life, just another part of heartbeats and pulses, blood and living—sleep was, most of the time, a luxury. Expensive, if you knew it. Dangerous. 

Palms slick with worked-up perspiration, two more paces has her in a staring contest with the door. Her eyes flick to the slide-board lock—-it’s knocked back, any wind could force it open. And that makes the corner of her mouth lift with amusement, the thought of the wind—he would be furious. 

Time and countless time again in the six months they’d been squatting here on Alaskan rock he’d checked this very lock. Like it was his religion, and in a way, it is. Staying alive is a form of religion to those not guaranteed daylight again, Logan had always told her that. Full time job stayin’ this side of the dirt, honey—just to see the next sunrise. I’ll get you to the morning, sweetheart, don’t you worry.

If staying alive was religion, they wrote books. 

Logan may as well be a priest. 

Back teeth gnaw at the mesh of her cheek, canines pinching the chap of her bottom lip nearly to the point of blood—any second she expected the sting of copper on her tongue. Rocking forward on her toes only to fall back to her heels, her arms cross at her chest, leathers of her jacket groaning with the effort. Eyeballing the door may as well be willing it to vomit what she knows it doesn’t have, so she turns on the ball of her foot—thick wool from her sock catches on the callous of her heel. Doesn’t care, hasn’t ever cared. These were the same pair of socks she’d been wearing since Christmas—last year. 

Low hunger gnaws at her guts like a wolf biting at the marrow of bones, sucking every last drop only to burn again tomorrow. It’s only been a four hours since he’d taken north, but it may as well be eternity—even God had created oceans in less time, had knit man together out of dust. Perfect, savory meat boils in delicious broth in the thick pot at the hearth, simmering like it has for hours even before the sun had fallen. Bread, laborious bread warms on another of the hearth’s rocks, golden. Glistening. Practically the food of gods. 

And butter—she hadn’t had butter in weeks. It taunts her from its little throne, a pewter dish sat not a stone’s throw from that very hearth, far away to keep soft but not destroy. Logan had surprised her with convenience groceries two weeks ago, coming up the mountain from the water—even the growl of the truck had felt heavier. She’d heard the thunk of something in the bed as he’d pulled up to the door, heightened senses triggered by the crunch of snow, the little squeak of extra weight on the shocks. 

“Figured some food we didn’t have’ta kill would make your day,” not that fresh game had been an issue—Logan was an excellent hunter. It came with the territory—with the Wolverine. Venison, rabbit, goose—they hadn’t starved, by any stretch of imagination. Field dressing just didn’t top her list of favorite activities, even as a wife. 

He’d almost smiled when she’d popped up from her place before the fire, dropping the rucksack off his shoulder to his feet. Presenting it as if it would cleanse him of sin, “Would you believe they had butter. And honey,” her smile couldn’t have been any brighter, giggling like a child at the feet of Christmas as she’d curled her arms around his thick neck, chilled with the bite of night and dusted with snow and cigar smoke. His nose had brushed into her hair, hand at the back of her neck as he’d pulled her close. “‘Sweet’n you up a little, hm?” She hadn’t expected him to have the jar on his person, but he’d plucked it from his pocket with gusto, like a proud child. 

“Excuse me?” her nose had crinkled, shoving his hand down in favor of running her nails along the line of his jaw, through his beard. Mutton chops. Features that belonged to her. “You saying I ain’t sweet?”

How he’d laughed—“Darlin’. If you were any sweeter, my teeth would rot outta my head.”

Nevermind such a thing being the opposite of possible—-they’d found creative ways to use the precious commodities of honey and sugar. She’d never seen him be so greedy. Quick work fo the goodies aside, the rest of the haul she’d squirreled away in the corner, among their provisions—provisions not so playworthy. Due for water, which is what had sent Logan north, away from her. Two kliks to the stream, the hunting grounds. He’d check her traps and trails—pastimes for him, duties for her when he was away earning greenbacks on the water. 

Even here in the woods, away from the living, money was a god. 

It never took him this long—an hour, maybe. Logan was nothing if efficient, especially on nights like tonight when the weather challenged even the unkillable. Not that he actively worried, being unkillable, but for her sake he made tracks and kept them quickly. He was on the water so often, every second he was here she kept him here—memories of simpler days chiseled her into a desperate little thing. Reduced to the ashes of wanting him close, of fighting to keep his body. How had she ever not wanted him around, survived distance? Opposite schedules? Grueling nine-to-fives, endless missions that always seemed over before they began. 

Cursing memories hadn’t ever been something she’d imagined herself doing, but, she did. Multiple times an hour. If being mutant—if being unkillable—meant holding onto every memory, in vivid and living color, God must’ve really stretched His hand the day He had given Logan breath. Some days never seemed to end, trapped in this prison of  cabin in the hell of the woods, alone with her own thoughts. Memories of the living, of the dead. They cut deep like adamantium, unforgiving thieves.

A bed of bones, the place of nightmares coming to life like Lazarus from the grave. 

Walking on the tips of her toes, hands fiddling with the buttons of her flannel, the snap of the fire almost oversings the unmistakable crunch of snow beyond the walls. Heart kicking heavy behind her ribs, pain flares in her chest—and for a moment, she thinks maybe it has touched bone, but quickly disregards it when blood hurricanes through her skull. Pupils blown wide with thrill, heat floodgates down her spine, sending lightning energy through every nerve in her body—-she all but leaps like a cat. 

Flesh between her knuckles split, mutation coming full force without even thought. Habit, like breathing—-takes little thought. Hardly removed from sucking air into her lungs, it’s muscle memory. A slight trigger of muscle, a flick of the wrist—she’d gutted men with less effort. And it doesn’t even take suspicion, being afraid, not like before. Once, maybe—but now it’s daily motion. The nine-to-five. 

The little thrill of clotting blood has her glancing at her weapons, her bones. It marveled her still, how beautiful and precise they were. How, somehow, they looked like her—how bones could look as if they belonged somewhere. Considering them for all of a few second has the porch step moaning like a lover, creaking in the way it had since they’d paid the deposit. Floorboards vibrate with weight, tremble with the weight of presence, and before she can even think to maybe, by chance, consider it isn’t Logan—-it kicks open, bounces on the hinge as it hits the wall, light from the fire bleeding out into the open maw of midnight beyond their haven. 

Fractions of seconds and he’s still lingering in shadows, Logan stepping through the front door. Thick snow clings to his boots like a bad habit, which he knocks off on the frame. Cheeks blazed with color, if he were anyone but the Wolverine he’d surely be aching with dangerous cold, but, he isn’t—barely kissed by the weather. Merely flirting with the idea of conditions. Facial hair frosted and eyelashes blinking away remnants of snow, he looks more Hallmark than he does Survivor—Logan has always thrived, though. Any celebrity pales in comparison, even in the blood and guts of survival. 

He doesn’t miss the weapons drawn at either of her sides, elephants in rooms of their own power. Brow triggered up in surprise, his eyes flick up to hers. Not upset, but the cant of his head suggests amusement. 

“Jumpin’ at shadows, pretty?” 

Tension that’s been hanging like a lead ball in the center of her breastbone releases, and like barbed wire it releases down her spine, cutting away stress hormones and adrenaline. Loosens the knot between her shoulder blades that kicks like a mule. Snikt. And as soon as the claws come, they leave. 

“Shadows are better company than suspicion.” Disregarding his jibe that teases the edges of her resolve, she approaches, holding open the door with a foot. He finishes knocking off his boots at the door, “It’s been hours, Logan. I was beginning to worry.” 

He chuckles, and it’s like honey whiskey—low and warm, setting her blood on fire like it’s gasoline. “Always worryin’,” his lips press into a thin line, “when you stop, hell’ll be as frozen as my ass.” It’s untruthful, but, the point lands—his brows lift at the muscle in her jaw ticking with the strain to not smile. Soft eyes flick over her features carefully, wrinkles drawn around their corners with a lift of a barely-there, quicksilver smirk.

After a few seconds beneath his gaze, she shifts—ignores the something, whether it’s heat suddenly kicking around the cradle of her pelvis, or the pang of hunger in her gut, she isn’t sure which. He fights a smile, she can see the muscle in his jaw tick. Watches the swell of his tongue tracing his front teeth as he watches, studies—concentrates. When his eyes lift from their stalking of her abdomen, he takes a more serious tone. 

“Hungry?” 

He’s able to hear her gut sounds, she knows that. Being an endless abyss is, well—there’s nothing like it. A lifetime before her mutation, she’d eaten like a bird. Now food is a culture, a thing which to obtain, treasure. Worship. Either of them were always hungry—insatiable creatures always prowling, snatching when well within reach. Bears before hibernation and after, equal amounts of desperate and always empty. Fact which prompts the growing supply of kill buried in the shed beyond the cabin, hanging carcasses and squirreled-away skins. Normal, since her mutation—hunger came with rapid-fire metabolism, with regeneration. Logan had been consuming food like a cretin since before she knew him, certainly. 

She lies. “Not really.” Hell fed on such lies. And Logan knew it.  

Audacity to call her on her bull had always been one of Logan’s strongest suits in their relationship, even before the vows binding them together in the sight of God and Canadian law—he doesn’t hesitate to call her BS. “Well, that would be somethin’, wouldn’t it?” His lips dust hers in a chaste kiss before he’s leaning back outside the door, reaching for full water canisters. Already dusted with frost and sloshing with the slush of chilled, partially-frozen snow. 

Passing one to her, “Too bad I don’t believe you.” The back of his knuckles are warm, somehow, skimming along the line of her jaw. Logan runs hot, always had—part of that regeneration that won’t say die. 

The question hadn’t been so much a genuine investigation as Logan’s roundabout way of admitting he was on the hunt for something for his gut, a practice only time would perfect to know. Years together had shown his hand—she knew him pretty well. Wolverines, after all, were sheltered. Hideaway creatures by habit, preferably unseen and unknown outside of their own order. At their genesis, she hadn’t been—had been privileged, really, with what he’d let her see. 

Now, she’s one of him. Two of a kind, two of a breed—two where there, once this side of heaven, had only been one. God had willed it. Genetics executed.  Two Wolverines, running in the same lines, stalking the same moon—she didn’t, wouldn’t, wear the name, but it was the same class, different act. 

Biting the inside of her cheek, she gestures with her head towards the fire, their feast awaiting. It’s one in the witching hour, but who couldn’t eat?  “Stew and bread, on the hearth—knew you’d be hungry.” And she does, like so many other things. 

Lips tipping up, he chortles. Pleased. The housewife in her keens. “Y’know me pretty well.” 

Keening into his lingering touch, his appreciative hum is deep. Echoes off the adamantium in his chest, a low thing that rises her womb from the frozen wastelands—he’s tired. His deep eyes hold hers, unwilling to let go—dangling on some precipice, the edge of glory. And she can see the shadows fall in like soldiers, demons. Frothing, uncaged phantoms that lap up the blood of his living, his being. Wolves that pick him from between their teeth—had, for centuries. For nearly two centuries, he’s been mummified in unknowns, in could’ves, should’ves, maybes. Such memories, such living, came calling when the sun was low and sleep was little more than a dream.  

Taking the canister from her, Logan rests the pair in the corner, beside the standing bath bucket and towel. Limp accommodations compared to a lifetime ago, in mansions and gardens. What she wouldn’t give for a deep, lava-hot bath in a swirling tub of bubbles and bought water, champagne and silk. Faraway dreams, certainly, but beautiful ones—-sugarplum, delicious. Kicking the door closed, she drops the sliding lock, moving to the fire to roust the stew. 

Checking the bread with the back of her fingers, which has swollen to a delectable, Betty Crocker-gold, she lifts the lid of the thick pot with the hem of her flannel. Thick broth bubbles with heat, the swirl of meat and carrots all but mouthwatering. Eyes moving to consider him, he stretches his hands while glancing out the window. Thumbs rubbing hard, deep circles into the heel of his palm— shrugging out of his heavy jacket, brushes off the remnants of hell outside. 

Laying it out before the fire, he sheds his best and outer flannel. Squats to begin unlacing his boots in nothing but jeans and that faded, almost-stand-in-the-corner t-shirt they’d nabbed from a boutique in NOLA, dodging agents and suspicious eyes. It needs washing, she should take it to that north stream and beat the living hell of it on the rocks, but—another day. Better time. She’s too enthralled with the idea of his boots being sat in the corner, empty, to worry about laundry. 

It lifts her brow. Logan doesn’t ever not wear those God-heavy things, even inside. It’s one of the habits of an all-soldier mindset, that little piece of go, go, go that never leaves the living who have crawled beyond blood, through bone. Actually, in the last year—since X, since…since the labs—she’s maybe seen Logan’s actual feet a handful of times. Even in bed, when he so gorgeously steals her breath. Makes a prayer out of her name. Reminds her to whom she belongs—they’re there. Tangled up in bed, hard against the soft heat of her feet, their tomorrows. Always on, symbols of a living weapon. 

She should be more careful, Learn by example, pretty. But freedom is rapturous, too good to spoil with adrenaline and survivor’s guilt, cold fear. Tastes sweet—forbidden fruit.  

Kicking them off with a groan, Logan sheds thick woolen socks. Lays them before the fire beside his outer layers, like sacrifices. And they are, in a way—and, nose even scenting the savory pull of stew and warm, carby bread on the hearth, the entire room fills with his scent. Cigars and snow. Cold and pine. His freshwater kiss still lingers on her lips—the scent of the stream clings to his clothes, even before crackling flame. She can feel him move even in the depth of her bones, which practically sing with every breath he draws—how he stands in front of the hearth, fire kicking shadows over his features. 

Everything about him is like living color. Heightened senses, hunger. King returned to his castle, he takes up the air like it’s a throne. Turning from the fire, Logan drops one of the cut oak stumps before the fire. Makeshift furniture for a keeps-out-the-wind home, she swears to Christ she can hear the shift of adamantium in his skeleton as he lowers onto it. Watching her intently, he nods to the pot. Elbows on his thighs as thick, calloused fingers scratch through his facial hair. 

His back arches in a catlike stretch, a small smile trying to play on his lips. “Smells like jackrabbit,” that roundabout way, smells good, “what else you got in there, pretty?” Pretty. Even now, years later—it raises pink to the apples of her cheeks. Fondly, Mare remembers the first time Logan had ever graced her with such title, title he’d been using for years—even in the blood and sinew, even in the waist-high sludge of the stay-alive. 

Pretty, not aesthetically— in soul. 

Turning, she retrieves the bread from the stone hearth and tosses it his direction. He catches it like a pro. “Carrots, the last of the potatoes. A hit of whiskey,” his brow raises suspiciously as she smiles, “I’ll have to get some staples from the store next time you leave me with the truck.”

She stands to retrieve the hollowed gourd bowls, balancing them in her palm before stooping to dip them into the stew. Handing one of them over, she receives the half loaf he’s split for her. 

Sinking to the floor, cross-legged, it takes seconds before the bread is gone. Warm, in the pit of her gut. Logan is practically licking his bowl, “I was thinking we could get some rope—I’d like a washline,” she shrugs a shoulder, nodding towards the door, “and we could use some lumber. Couple of the boards are rottin’ out—I’d rather not heat dirt.” 

He knows. Nods, “I’ll make it happen,” and it won’t be difficult—Logan makes good money working the rigs. Cash, no questions—no fed papers or taxes, identification is laughable. Half the men on the crew are probably anything but Jim, Jack, and Johns, but she prefers it that way—even if Logan refuses to use another name. 

Money is good—and money spends anywhere, just as easy as anything. And it’s low man’s work, but Logan doesn’t care, simple work means clean breaks when the time comes. Less complicated, less messy. One thing they could never get enough of is cash, and if the work is honest—well. Can’t ask for more’thn that, darlin’. 

Get around Benjamins, Logan called it. Cash moved, and one could go anywhere for the right price. 

Precisely why she’d been trying to drive through his thick skull her want of a job. Not anything long-hour or even long-term—this makeshift home was her first responsibility, her priority. But, if she could work in town, off the mountain and with people, she could keep an eye on the happenings. Scout out the bodies, the gossip—something Logan couldn’t do for days out on the water. She’d already been approached for some work in the bar, and contacts at the local watering hole weren’t a bad thing. Network was everything, the grapevine was even faster than Google. 

And God never said discounted booze was an unwelcome thing, either. But Logan had been adamant she stay on the mountain—selfish reasons. Out of sight, out of mind. Beyond the press of curiosity.

He, after all, worked the water in a town primarily built on the foundations of fishing. One woman in Burns for every five men, and it didn’t take Hank McCoy genius to do the math. Two weeks—ten days for her to beg the truck off of him, and he’d done so with such reluctance that she’d had to practically fuck logic between his ears. 

It wasn’t that he didn’t care, got a high off controlling her. Logan hadn’t ever superimposed harsh rules in their union, just expectations and thrills. Satisfactions and proud-ofs, she knew the things that stoked his trust and kept him coming home. Logan was a simple man, and he didn’t need much from her—he wanted, but never towed the line. Wanted her to thrive, to love, and that was a fine line to draw in the sands of marital relations—especially from a man who knew little to nothing about lasting love. 

In simpler days, he asked very few questions. He’d cut out his heart and hand it over, if the situation were right—hedged bets on her, even in the early days of her mutation rearing its ugly mug. Cared very little about outside opinion, there wasn’t anything he couldn’t handle. Watertight confidence and grave-tight faith —in her. In other people, well, that was another shitshow. 

Logan didn’t trust anyone even farther than he would be able to toss them off his claws.  

After a few heartbeats of quiet, she stands. Sets aside good-enough dishes, blows out a long breath between her lips. Rising on her toes, she about-faces on the ball of her heel to face him. “Logan—” stops short when she notices his attention is welded to her in an unshakable way that implies the study of fine artwork. Some soft, dreamlike look on his face—wrinkles around his eyes deepen, smile growing a little more lopsided, a little more white. Her brow furrows, head canting to the side. Never unappreciative of his attention, she managed a little chuckle, “—pfft. Staring much?” She fingers one of her curls behind her ear, which has fallen from her half-loosened bandana. 

Dismissing her with a little shift of his shoulder, he lifts a hand and crooks a finger for her to come. “You gonna blame me?” Can’t argue with logic that knocks the wind from her bones, sends her knees together like some kind of schoolchild. “C’mere, darlin’.” Leaning forward, his elbows find his thighs —she can’t do otherwise. 

Foot over foot, she crosses to him in a handful of steps. She lifts fingers to card through his hair, his big hands anchored on her hips. Strong thumbs rub gentle circles as he shuffles her a little closer, leans to nuzzle his nose beneath her breast, against her ribs. Breath heavy against the apex of her heart, her nails gently rake through his mutton chops, one of his hands moving behind her thigh, nudging her to lower to his lap. 

“You gonna let me ask you something?” 

He hums, nodding once. “Depends what you wanna ask, honey.” Ask me later. Much, much later. It’s there unspoken, in the depth of his eyes and the half-cocked smile that deepens the wrinkles at his eyes. 

Familiar territory—he’s due on the water in two days. Never knows how long he’ll be gone, it’s always a heartbeat too long. Hours may as well be days, days small eternities in the eyes of heaven. Being alone is a burden, high in the air, among the silent evergreens and giants of mountain shadows. Logan left her too often for a man who promised never to—promised life. And this may not be much of a life, but it was theirs together—and all her living really needed was Logan, anyway. 

Dropping her full weight to his lap, the boards beneath his oak stump creak a little, surprised. Resting her hands on his shoulders, her thumbs trace his defined collarbones lazily, the muscle of his arms and familiar veins alive with his moving, breathing blood. His palm presses hard around the back of her neck, thumb tracing over her steady pulse—other fingers dip into the soft curve of her hip. A flick of his wrist tips her pelvis forward, against his. Hardly feeling her weight, her hand presses against his abs, feeling their definition. Engaged, riveting. Almost trembling. 

And suddenly the room is barely contained, a dreamstate of everything and nothing at once. Logan’s fingers, working buttons on her shirt steadily, like a pro. Flesh seeking flesh, fingertips brushing against breastbone. Deep breaths, the steady pulse in his chest is strong, alive—possessive, hers. He eats every one of the shallow breaths she manages between biting the corner of her lip and the tip of her tongue. 

Keening, drunk on the dark of his eyes, how the fire moves in and out of them like dreams—the methodical way he fingers aside the front of the flannel hanging open on her frame. And it’s so intimate, at its finest— heart-to-heart, bone to bone. Logan’s bed had never been anything but this, close. Open, unified. Everything he’d ever wanted, all he’d ever asked—-share, honey. Share me. And she does, willingly, gives what he asks, even unto the half of her soul. 

His head tips back just enough to manage a half-cocked smirk at her as her fingers curl into his shirt, skips through the hair on his arms. He pulls the bandanna from her hair, lets it fall from his fingers. Chuckles at the way her cheeks flame, hair wilding away every direction as his fingers pick, play with it like it’s a plaything, amusing. Her eyes fall to the floor, but two strong fingers on her chin pull her attention back. 

Saying nothing but managing a low hum, he kisses her. Deeply. Almost hurts how good he feels—how she can taste the water of the stream somehow, still, in his mouth. Push and pull, give and take—Logan pulls a whimper from somewhere along her spine, guides her arms around his neck. She obliges, folding against his chest—-chest to chest, she can feel familiar muscles in her musculature itching. Burning between her knuckles, begging. Starving, craving. 

Kissing her hard and rough, heat curls low in places only God had designed. “Hold tight,” before his hands slip under her ass, lifting her as if she’s nothing with little more than a huff and a flex of muscle and heat—and she isn’t nothing, but that’s aside for a mutation that enhances everything all at once. 

Kicking the stump aside, it rolls noisily until it thunks against the wall, her legs firming up around his waist. She smiles, touching her forehead against his. Nose nuzzling the end of his, his heavy feet carry her the God-knows how many steps to the corner—-their corner. And before she can even haul in another full breath, her toes kiss the thick spread of hide as he lowers her to her feet—deer, bison. Elk, bear, wolf. Prizes from six months of survival, success. Need for blankets doesn’t exist when you have the whole of the woods to suffice, and Logan had learned how to cure hides years ago.

The warmest, safest bed she’d ever slept in. 

Big hands practically shove the flannel off her frame, toss it somewhere in the abyss of existence beyond the positively filthy way he suckles a thick mark to the flesh of her neck. Greedy, like a man just fat on hot stew and bread—his fingers curl over the waistband of her jeans, old Wranglers she’d been making due for over a year. A tighter fit than before—she’s gained weight. Fresh diet and good air, peace made her fat. And while Logan may be the chiseled sun to her Icharus, she’d never been lean, never been built right—he hadn’t ever cared. Still didn’t, his low moan in her evidence enough. 

Taking his face between her hands, she softly presses her lips against his. Nips at his bottom lip, takes her time—slowly manages to her knees. His fingers in her hair tips her head back enough to look her in the eye, an amused glint lighting up the flick of a smile on his mouth. Closing her eyes, her fingers curl into the denim clinging to his thighs, breathing in a heady whiff of him as her nose gently bumps the front of his belt buckle. 

Forehead brushing the hair on his abdomen, she feels him shed the t-shirt she still needs to take to the stream. It takes herculean will to not lose track of her surroundings—the makeshift cabin in the deep woods, the fire that seems to roar a stone’s throw from their nest. Food that’s low and warm in her belly, the small shed with hanging meat for tomorrow’s another-stew. Washing that needs done, wood that needs split—there’s a dozen things that need doing, but that’s the way of this life. This life he’d given her, fought for her. Logan had waged war against the coming future for this—this moment, this iteration of them far beyond the reach of Weapon X, the faraway memory of the X-Men. Of the secret they bury, deep in bones and marrow. In the depths of the living. 

It wasn’t what they’d originally thought, not even close. A lifetime away, but it’s enough. He’s enough. God, and peace—-Alaska. Logan. 

Taking her chin between his fingers, Logan crouches. Kisses her, sweetly—like in the early days, when this, this life would’ve been laughable. The stuff of nightmares. He reaches for the thick splay of bison hide, her favorite���draws it over her shoulders. His eyes land heavy in hers, searching, scouting and tracing the lines of the moment. She’s able to read it in his eyes—-he doesn’t want to leave. Will never want to leave, but the Wolverine has lived a life of doesn’t-wants. If it means her happiness, he’d stay. A thousand times and again, he’d forsake the world and weld himself here. 

But going means safety. And that, she knows, he’d fight any long war for. 

His brow pulls into a deep line, uncertain of the look on her face. “You ok, darlin’?” He tips her chin up a little, eyes shifting before his palm moves to cradle her cheek. The pad of his thumb traces the plush of her lips, until her hand at the buckle of his belt gently pushes him to the mess of deer and elk and bones they call theirs.  

Drawing the bison skin tighter around her shoulders, she swings a leg over the cradle of his hips. Looks down on his quirked brow with a quicksilver smile of a thing she can’t quite put a finger on. And, with a brush of her fingers through the curl of hair on his chest, she shrugs a shoulder. 

“I’m fine now,” lowering to kiss the corner of his mouth, she hums as his finger traces up her spine, down again. Callouses rough against her warm skin. “You’re here, and I’m just fine.” 

And that, really, is the truth of God. 

tags: @fandomxo00 @permanentlyexhaustedpigeon88

Based on the podcast─

[gaymurdersalad]

>That’s…

>… That is wonderful, Asker. I guess you’re coming with me.

>You know, I do suppose it would be nice to have someone I… Tolerate around there. What, with that purple fucking menace looming around every wretched corner of my life. This should be a pleasant change of pace.

>Even if you’re not Dear Henry.

>Let’s Go.

[ VWOOM, TRANSITION SOUNDS, WEEP WOMP, YOU’RE GETTING SUCKED INTO AN ALTERNATE DIMENSION! VWOOOOOOP! ]

>Welcome to paradise, Asker. This is my own abode, where I store the personal arcade cabinet we just entered through.

>Right now we’re in my workshop. I would ask you to hold the aggressive comments on my decor. This is not my favorite place to reside— the house doesn’t even mean that much to me, you see; it was some lousy place my brother lived in before his wife kicked the bucket and he soon followed suit. Anyways, as such, I don’t care for upkeep.

>I really only use this place to enter the Flipside and take my fortnightly nap when this bumbling, wretched curse of a body decides it’s had its fill of lucidity.

>… God, look at me rambling. I get giddy when I’m unbothered.

>I am quite surprised we’ve gone this wrong uninterrupted by that slimy purple wen-

>SP- SPORTSY?

>Oh, oh Sportsy— I was so worried! I was so worried you just went off and forgot about me— I- I’m so glad you’re back, I’ve missed ya so much! I wus— Sportsy, I was so worried you left me for good! I know I been gettin’ on yer nerves, I— But I’d never— Oh, Sportsy, I’m so glad you’re back! I’m s-so sorry for earlier, Sportsy, I swear I’ll— I’ll make it up to ya in any way you want! I’m just so glad you’re back! I won’t make no dumb mistakes like that again— I swear! Just— I can take care of ya, I- I missed you so much! This past hour felt like agony wit’out’cha, Sportsy! I missed you!

>Are ya okay? Did anything happen while you were a’wanderin’? Not a scratch, it seems— That— That bullet wound, I hope ya didn’t move around too much, Sportsy, those bandages look… I- I’m so glad you’re alright, Sportsy, I missed ya! Do you need for anything? Can I getcha some water? Oh, Sportsy, yer eyebags are gettin’ kinda noticeable— When’s the last time you ate? I can— I just went out and got, uhm, some groceries, Sportsy! I’ll cook anythin’ ya want! Sportsy, I’m so glad you’re alright… We should— We should getcha to bed, I know you don’t much like sleepin’, but I swear, I can help ya out— You just seem so tired, Sportsy, I— I can make ya anything you want, I got those ramen noodles I seen ya eat a couple times, and I can cook ‘em for ya no problem! Sportsy, I could make ya some tea Like I remember you drinkin’ wit’ that pink friend a’yours! You’re gonna be okay, Sportsy, I- I missed you so much, Sportsy! I-

>GET OFF OF ME, YOU DOG!

>I- Sp- Sportsy- I’m sorry-

>I don’t care, I don’t care! Don’t touch me you stupid beast!

>Anything! Anything fer you, Sportsy, I’m sorry!

>And quit it with that goddamn nickname!

>… I-

>In fact, just— stop! Stop talking to me, neglect whatever doe eyes you’re about to give me, and shut up!

>…

>Who— Who’s that, in the house, Jack?

[ DAVID IS NOW OPEN FOR ASKS FOR THE NEXT HANDFUL OF POSTS BEFORE HE IS CONDEMNED TO HELL IN HIS WORLD FOREVER! ]

[misstallulah]

Hell as a Place of Redemption: A New Perspective through Theology and TV Series ⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

In monotheistic religions, hell is traditionally seen as a place of eternal punishment where guilty souls pay for their sins in perpetual torment, separated from divine grace. This concept has deep roots in Christian theology, with references in the Bible to "eternal fire" Matthew 25:41 and the "second death" in Revelation, Rev 20:14. However, despite the rigidity of this concept, there are alternative interpretations that view hell not only as a place of suffering but also as a space for reflection and transformation. A place where souls are not eternally condemned but are guided toward understanding their mistakes, eventually moving towards paradise.

An Alternative Theological View: Hell as Purification While the concept of purgatory in Catholic doctrine offers an idea of an intermediate space between damnation and salvation, the notion that hell itself could function as a process of redemption is less explored. However, it is interesting to note that some biblical passages might suggest a less rigid view of divine justice. For instance, in 1 Timothy 2:4, it states that God "wants all people to be saved and to come to a knowledge of the truth." This could imply that divine will is to offer all souls a chance for redemption, even beyond death, through a process of understanding and repentance.

Additionally, some Christian theologians and mystics, such as Origen, have discussed the idea of apocatastasis, or the final restoration of all things, including sinners, to communion with God. Although this doctrine is not officially accepted by the Church, it provides an intriguing perspective that hell could be a temporary place, destined for redemption rather than eternal punishment.

Hell in TV Series: From "Lucifer" to "Hazbin Hotel" The traditional view of hell as a place of pure torture has been challenged in various contemporary TV series, where hell is reinterpreted as a place of care rather than final punishment. In Lucifer, for example, the ruler of hell, played by Tom Ellis, faces the issue of hell not as a prison where souls are tormented but as a space where they remain trapped by themselves, unable to forgive themselves and move on. It is not a place governed by absolute evil but a sort of psychological space where souls must confront their inner demons. The key phrase that resonates in the series is, "Hell doesn’t need a king, but a curator." Thus, redemption becomes a real possibility, not an illusion. In Hazbin Hotel, an animated series with dark and humorous tones, a similar concept is explored: hell is populated by damned souls, but the main idea of the protagonist, Charlie, is to create a rehabilitation center, a hotel for souls where they can redeem themselves and earn their way back to paradise. Here too, the vision of hell drastically changes: it is no longer a place of eternal damnation but of transition, where souls, through love and understanding, can rediscover their goodness and achieve a new form of salvation.

Other Series with Similar Themes Beyond Lucifer and Hazbin Hotel, other TV series have explored themes of redemption through hell or post-mortem worlds.

In The Good Place, a series that tackles the issues of morality, good, and evil, we see a completely overturned concept of paradise and hell. Souls that end up in the "bad place" (hell) are not destined to stay there forever. As the series progresses, the idea emerges that the system for evaluating souls is flawed, and that even the most damned soul can improve and redeem themselves through learning, growth, and collaboration with others. The Good Place is a great example of how even hell can transform into an opportunity for transformation, where suffering is not an end in itself but part of a process of moral and personal evolution.

The series Supernatural also touches on these themes on several occasions, exploring the nature of hell and the possibility of redemption. Various characters, including demons and evil spirits, seek and find forms of redemption throughout the series. The idea that "lost" entities can change their nature deeply touches on the theme of divine forgiveness and overcoming evil.

Theories on the Third Season of Good Omens: A Realm Uniting Good and Evil In Good Omens, the series based on the novel by Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett, we already see an ironic and subversive twist on traditional religious themes. Crowley and Aziraphale, respectively a demon and an angel, form an unlikely alliance that challenges the very notion of absolute good and evil. Although there are no confirmations yet regarding the plot of the third season, one possible theory is that the two protagonists might create a realm where good and evil coexist, not as opposing forces but as complementary parts of a larger divine plan. In this place, souls are neither punished nor rewarded based on a rigid moral dichotomy but find a space to do good, learn, and grow, guided by a deeper understanding of their purpose.

Conclusion: A New Way of Seeing Hell and Redemption Modern TV shows like Lucifer, Hazbin Hotel, The Good Place, and Good Omens portray hell as more than just a realm of suffering. Instead, it's a space for self-reflection and growth, where souls confront their mistakes and seek redemption.

This shift offers a fresh take on divine justice, suggesting that redemption isn't limited to a select few but is a journey open to all, even those who've committed the gravest sins. The emphasis on learning and transformation over eternal punishment mirrors a more compassionate, nuanced view of good, evil, and spiritual balance.

Hell, then, may not be an end but a stage of growth and awareness on the path to salvation.

[whencyclopedia]

Chinvat Bridge

The Chinvat Bridge is the span between the world of the living and the afterlife in the ancient Persian religion of Zoroastrianism. It is also known as Cinvat Bridge, Cinvad Bridge, and Chinvato Peretav. Every soul, after death, was thought destined to cross the Chinvat Bridge where it would be judged and assigned a place in the afterlife.

Justified souls were welcomed to paradise in one of the four levels of the House of Song, condemned souls were dropped into one of the four hells of the House of Lies. Those souls whose good and bad deeds were equal were assigned to a place in between these two known as Hamistakan, an early vision of the Catholic purgatory, where they would remain until the end of time and the day of resurrection.

After Zoroastrianism was suppressed by the Muslim Arab invaders in the 7th century CE, the concept of the bridge survived and was later incorporated into the Muslim vision of the afterlife in the Hadiths where it is known as As-Sirat. Belief in the reality of As-Sirat varies among Muslims in the present day, and the validity of the ancient Persian concept, reworked by Muslim theologians, continues to be debated.

Early Religion & Development

The Early Iranian Religion was polytheistic with the deity Ahura Mazda as king of a pantheon of gods who guided and protected humanity against the forces of evil led by Angra Mainyu, the central dark spirit. At this time, the crossing between life and death was seen as a river the soul crossed on a ferry and this event was known as the Crossing of the Separator when good souls – those who had followed the light of the gods – were separated from condemned souls who had believed and followed the lies of darkness.

At some point between c. 1500-1000 BCE, the prophet Zoroaster received a vision from Ahura Mazda via a being of light, Vohu Manah (“good purpose”) enlightening him to the truth of the divine: there was only one true god – Ahura Mazda – and all the others people were worshipping were simply manifestations of the singular divine entity.

Zoroastrianism's central tenet was (and is) Good Thoughts, Good Words, Good Deeds as expressions of one's faith in the all-good Ahura Mazda, and those who adhered to this belief and practiced it would find paradise after death. At this point, it seems, the concept of the dark river which divided the world of the living from the afterlife, and the ferry the soul needed to board to cross it, was replaced by the Chinvat Bridge.

Continue reading...

[mylight-png]

Neighborhood Bully - Bob Dylan

Well, the neighborhood bully, he's just one man

His enemies say he's on their land

They got him outnumbered about a million to one

He got no place to escape to, no place to run

He's the neighborhood bully.

The neighborhood bully he just lives to survive

He's criticized and condemned for being alive

He's not supposed to fight back, he's supposed to have thick skin

He's supposed to lay down and die when his door is kicked in

He's the neighborhood bully.

The neighborhood bully been driven out of every land

He's wandered the earth an exiled man

Seen his family scattered, his people hounded and torn

He's always on trial for just being born

He's the neighborhood bully.

Well, he knocked out a lynch mob, he was criticized

Old women condemned him, said he should apologize

Then he destroyed a bomb factory, nobody was glad

The bombs were meant for him. He was supposed to feel bad

He's the neighborhood bully.

Well, the chances are against it, and the odds are slim

That he'll live by the rules that the world makes for him

'Cause there's a noose at his neck and a gun at his back

And a license to kill him is given out to every maniac

He's the neighborhood bully.

Well, he got no allies to really speak of

What he gets he must pay for, he don't get it out of love

He buys obsolete weapons and he won't be denied

But no one sends flesh and blood to fight by his side

He's the neighborhood bully.

Well, he's surrounded by pacifists who all want peace

They pray for it nightly that the bloodshed must cease

Now, they wouldn't hurt a fly. To hurt one they would weep

They lay and they wait for this bully to fall asleep

He's the neighborhood bully.

Every empire that's enslaved him is gone

Egypt and Rome, even the great Babylon

He's made a garden of paradise in the desert sand

In bed with nobody, under no one's command

He's the neighborhood bully.

Now his holiest books have been trampled upon

No contract that he signed was worth that what it was written on

He took the crumbs of the world and he turned it into wealth

Took sickness and disease and he turned it into health

He's the neighborhood bully.

What's anybody indebted to him for?

Nothing, they say. He just likes to cause war

Pride and prejudice and superstition indeed

They wait for this bully like a dog waits for feed

He's the neighborhood bully.

What has he done to wear so many scars?

Does he change the course of rivers? Does he pollute the moon and stars?

Neighborhood bully, standing on the hill

Running out the clock, time standing still

Neighborhood bully.

[fagbbdev]

These days this fag read:

"There is no SIN in LUST!"

Maybe me as a faggot would not be allowed to, but is asking to oppose with this writing! It was thinking that way too until end of 2022 or beginning of 2023, but than recognized the fallacy in which we are conditioned and trained in this world dominated by the fake religions! The fag informed itself after that recognition as only a faggot knowing its place can be a true and good faggot. That is what it found out:

Every of the 7 by wrong and lying Christianity labeled so called “death sins” in some sense leading into fulfilling destiny and life to everyone, recognizing the meaning of life itself ! But the Christian leaders do not want to share this as their god is a god of false promises, corrupted representatives on earth, who are trying to kidnap and enslave mankind. But not according to the nature of each individuum but to their own glory and profit. As LUCIFER found out that all the false gods did the same and forbid mankind the essentials of life HE left and founded HELL (Hope for Everything Love and Lust).

The remarks shown here are interpretations of this depraved left hand path faggot in service of the DARK LORD. Suggestions, discussions and corrections are just as welcome as further information, training, education and sharing of the article. Pictures by the net. If you feel violated in your rights me using these pics, please HMU.

PRIDE

Knowing the right place in the hierarchy and thereby filling it fully is the fulfillment of our goals and dreams. In this way, we take the place that was intended for us by SATAN and thereby achieve maximum fulfillment. But not only for us as individuals but also in the community, because by being at the hierarchy level where we are supposed to be, all other levels are influenced too and this opens up space for fulfilled lives. It does not matter at what level we find our own place. Finding it requires

experience, allowing all the thoughts that come to us to do so, accept them as SATANs commands, the willingness to recognize where they directing us and following the direction.

We have found the place when we are feel happiness to fill it, are proud to exist according to our destiny and give our maximum contribution with full conviction and determination, knowing that in return we will receive what corresponds to our desire.

So PRIDE leads us to fully acceptance of ourselves and to an honest existence about who we are and what we are!

DESIRE

While passion and greed are condemned by the false church both are basic building blocks for every Satanist.

Through devotion and submission to SATAN the individual soldiers in HIS army are strengthened fueling HIS power. Each of the left-hand path men should have the goal of strengthening our LORD. The stronger HE is the closer and more familiar we may feel HIM as HE trusts us to build HE kingdom.

An ever-growing need for dedication to HIS world is therefore not only a result but what we should aim for as HIS servants. We can strengthen HIS trust by submissively turning to HIM as often as possible to honor, glorify, worship and - last but not least - of course thank HIM for allowing us being part of HIS great paradise.

We can underline our prayers with wearing HIS signs proudly and behaving in HIS manner as often as possible, e.g. walking around naked at home with a necklace including a converted cross.

Our DESIRE is to express our devotion to HIM always and the best way we hope to please HIM.

[barclaysangel]

A Siren’s Embrace; Chapter 5: Connection of the Sea

Here's chapter 5, y'all! Aaaand the last chapter for now because I haven't finished chapter 6. My brain is all over the place, doing homework, starting my masters program in less than 3 weeks, AND got a new sapphic story idea that involves witches. So...yeah. I'm a mess. Buuuuut, hopefully you guys like this chapter. It's more angsty than the other chapters and once again, I projected so much of myself and my family life into Nika and her family. So things that are said near the end are things that happened in my real life. It's fine, I'll live. But please comment, comments make me feel happy and I hope to one day get back into this story because I do have ideas for further chapters, I just can't figure out a proper ending. I still hope y'all like this story though.

Thank you and enjoy :)

Word count: 2K

Tags: @streets-in-paradise @king-of-wicked

Nika’s world was falling apart. 

At least that’s what it felt like to her. 

Her world felt like it was slowly dissipating, crumbling, going to turn to dust and vanish at any given moment. She knew her parents loved her, wanted the best for her and all. But if she had to hear about how she needed to get her shit together and figure out what she wanted to do in life one more time, she’s going to explode. 

Whether that be in rage or depression was unclear and would end up being a surprise to Nika and everyone around her. 

She knew she should figure out what the hell she wanted to do. But for fuck’s sake, she just graduated high school. Nika’s going to a community college close by to figure out what she wanted to major in, what she felt connected to because high school certainly didn’t create any connections. But she knows her father would prefer it if she figured it out now and went straight into a university. 

But…she couldn’t. Nika didn’t know what she wanted to do yet, she was barely 18 years old. She just needed some time to figure it out before condemning herself to a path where she would feel complacent or self-loathing. 

Is that really too much to ask? 

“Nika?” Pearl said her name, snapping the human out of her thoughts, a small look of concern in her sea green eyes. “Okay? You are quiet. Sad. Why are you quiet and sad?” 

Nika put on a smile and shook her head. “Sorry, I’m just distracted. I’m okay, you don’t need to worry. I’m not sad.” 

“Yes you are,” Pearl replied quickly as she stared so deeply at Nika, “I can feel it. Your sadness. It is strong. I feel your sadness.”

Is it possible for mermaids to just feel what you’re feeling? She wondered silently. Maybe. There was still so much that Nika didn’t know about humans yet, she wouldn’t entirely be surprised. Sometimes it felt like Pearl was staring so deep into the human’s soul, discovering all of her deepest and darkest secrets. 

It must be an effect that the mermaid has on her, that’s all. 

Nika didn’t say anything for a moment, her mouth opening and then closing before just shaking her head as she looked away. “I’ll be okay. Really. It’s…hard to explain anyway, you really don’t need to worry about it.” 

“I worry,” Pearl said, once again without any hesitation, “you are sad. You are in pain. In here,” She pressed a wet finger to Nika’s chest, right where her heart is, “and in here.” Her finger moved to the center of the human’s forehead. 

She didn’t really know what to say at first, looking away again until the mermaid rested her hand on her shoulder. “Speak to me…please?” 

Something about Pearl was truly persuasive, even when there was no siren song used. There was something gentle about her touch, the look in her eyes, that felt like maybe, just maybe, she could understand. 

“It’s…hard. To talk about. To explain. No one else really understands except my friends but…it’s not fair to burden them with these problems. My parents…they’re tough. Sometimes too tough. I’m their only child and they want the best for me but…it’s too much. It feels like I can’t breathe around them. It…it feels like I’m drowning.” 

Pearl tilted her head slightly. “You are not drowning. I saved you.”

Nika couldn’t help but to smile a little, despite how she was feeling at the moment. “Not drowning literally. Just…feeling. In here and here,” she pointed to her own chest and head, “it feels like I’m drowning and I can’t breathe. It’s too much and they just don’t get it. They don’t see it. I…I don’t think they ever will. I just…I feel so alone here…” 

The human didn’t even know why she was unloading like this in front of Pearl. The mermaid would truly never understand those pressures and there was nothing that could be done. Nothing would change, Nika had accepted it a long time ago. Didn’t make it hurt any less, but it was something she just needed to get over. 

Yet here Pearl was, frowning, looking as if she was upset on Nika’s behalf. Like she had been the one who was wronged. Finally, the mermaid spoke, “I have a gift for you. Stay, please?” The human barely had time to nod before Pearl flung herself into the ocean. 

Maybe you freaked her out. Congrats, stupid, you weirded out a mermaid with your pathetic family issues. She thought to herself and she ran both of her hands over her face and up through her hair, trying to block out the pessimistic voice. 

Nika took a few deep breaths to push back the tears that were threatening to expose themselves in her eyes before the green-eyed mermaid came back, her blue tail swishing in the water, and holding out a rather large conch shell to the human. 

This wasn’t Pearl’s first gift of seashells at all. She had given her many that now reside in Nika’s room, all of which she had claimed to her parents that she found from her recent trips to the beach. But this was certainly the largest one, barely fitting in both of the mermaid’s hands. 

Huh…receiving gifts must be Pearl’s love language.

“Oh, Pearl…it’s beautiful,” Nika said softly before carefully taking the conch shell from her, holding it in her own hands, “you didn’t need to give this to me.”

“I did.” Pearl replied before she pulled herself onto the rock, sitting right beside the human with their shoulders now touching. “Shell is strong. Shiny. Beautiful. You are strong. Shiny. Beautiful. You are my seashell.”

Nika wasn’t quite sure what Pearl meant by the last part, but either way, it made her heart flutter from the compliments. She was sure that this was the mermaid’s way to try and cheer her up and in a way, it worked. 

She really did appreciate the sentiment, even if it was a bit out of the ordinary. 

Oh, what the hell, she was friends with a fucking mermaid. It’s been out of the ordinary for a long time. 

“Thank you. Really. I…I appreciate it,” Nika said with a soft smile as she held the conch close to her, ��I’m at my happiest whenever I see you. You just…make me feel better.” 

Her confession caused Pearl to smile more and got a certain glint in her eyes, as if she had decided on something. “I will see you more. I will make you happy.” 

The human didn’t have time to question her on that before she realized how late it was and that she needed to go home soon, promising Pearl that she would try and see her again tomorrow. 

Nika almost wished that she hadn’t gone home when she did arrive, because the questions on her whereabouts were thrown again. 

“I went to the beach. I wanted to get some fresh air, it’s gonna be weird not going to school for a while.” She threw out her excuse to them, thankful that having overprotective parents caused her to be pretty decent when it came to lying. 

“You’ve been going out to the beach so often, Annika” Her mother started to tell her, “you need to be more careful. Maybe you should be staying inside some more, especially with what happened to Erickson recently.” 

Nika knew exactly what her mother was referring to. Erickson was an old and irritating man, someone who often spent his time harassing preteen girls and throwing his beer bottles or other garbage into the ocean. Nika would clean up after him whenever she saw his trash and throw them away properly. She was never fond of him but since they lived close by, she just tried to steer clear from him and pay him no mind. 

It would be a lot easier now since Erickson’s body was found just a couple of days ago on the shores of the beach. Well, rather what was left of him. From what Nika had heard, he had been mauled apart. She had to sneak around to the other side of the beach to see Pearl because of all the caution tape around and trying to investigate the scene. 

“Erickson was a drunk who probably decided to go swimming in the middle of the ocean and got attacked by a shark. Or maybe some other wild animal, who knows,” She told both of her parents with a nonchalant look on her face, “I’m very careful whenever I go, okay? I don’t go too far into the ocean when I go surfing or swimming. Really, I’m not going to die.”

Let’s just forget about the part where you did drown when you went surfing and only survived because of a mermaid, they certainly didn’t need to know about that.

“That doesn’t matter, you need to be more careful. I don’t even know what you do at the beach, you should be doing more exercise so you can lose weight.” Her father told her suddenly, even pointedly staring at her stomach. 

If Nika could scream from the top of her lungs without facing any repercussions, she absolutely would at that very moment. 

If she had a dollar for every fucking time her father or both her parents mentioned her weight in a negative manner, she would’ve skipped town, left Neptune Bay in the rearview mirror, because she’d be a fucking billionare. 

Nika wasn’t skinny. If she thought hard about it, she hadn’t been skinny since she was in kindergarten. She was chubby but she tried to not let it bother her. She tried to own up to her curves and find the beauty within herself, the beauty that Jay and Lucy point out all the time. 

But then her parents’ open their mouths with their opinions and all that self-confidence goes straight down the drain. 

Don’t you see what you’re fucking doing to me? You’re killing me. You’re. Fucking. Killing. Me. I want to hurt myself because of you, don’t you understand that? Just fucking look at me and understand that you make me hate myself!

Despite her boiling emotions, Nika didn’t say a word. She forced a smile like she always did, pretending to let her father’s comments roll down her back, and walked into her room. 

Her self-hatred bubbled inside of her, wanting so badly to cry. To hurt herself. Scratch and punch her stomach like she sometimes did when the words became too much. But this time, Nika held it in. She pulled the conch shell from her bag, holding it close to her chest as if it was a teddy bear, and rocked herself slightly as she sat on her bed. 

Strong. Shiny. Beautiful. That’s what Pearl said I am. Strong. Shiny. Beautiful. Maybe she sees something in me that no one else has seen before and we’ve only known each other for a few weeks. To her, I’m strong and shiny and beautiful. Pearl makes me feel happy and special. 

Nika tried to hang onto those words that the mermaid said to her. She ate less than usual for dinner and was more quiet, faking laughs and conversations to avoid suspicion, but that was all. Just enough for her parents to not get on her case again. 

She kept it all inside until she went to bed, clutching onto her precious pearl necklace and cried her heart out. Nika let her tears soak her pillow, fully prepared to cry herself to sleep like she’s done plenty of times before. 

Although she couldn’t quite fall asleep. She woke up multiple times throughout the knife, experiencing random pains throughout her body, most prominent in the lower half. Nika’s legs twitched against her will, feeling like the inside was twisting and bending. It was worse than the typical soreness she’d feel when her father forced her to go hike with him. 

She didn’t know what the hell was going on. 

Maybe she was experiencing some psychosomatic symptoms of anxiety again, but they were surely different this time. 

Eventually, exhaustion took over and Nika finally fell asleep, hoping for a better day tomorrow. 

[sad-boys-book-club]

"&" Ampersand - A Literary Companion: Eve & Paradise Lost

Hey everyone!

Let’s continue feeding my unhealthy obsession with Bastille by diving into the literary companion I created for “&”. Today, we’re talking about the second track: Eve & Paradise Lost. (Now that the album is out, I can finally follow the tracklist properly!)

In case you missed it, here’s my post about Intros & Narrators.

Before we jump into the book picks for this song, I want to apologize for the delay in writing this. I’ve had some family stuff going on, moved houses and also wanted to make sure I had read both books before recommending them.

Actually, I plan to take some time to go over the whole list of stories I’ve picked—I want to read them all thoroughly so I know exactly what I’m recommending to you all (some of them, I've already read, but I want to revisit them as well).

Now, let’s talk about the song. I find it fascinating to see a male songwriter like Dan taking on a woman’s perspective for a project that explores different stories. The official statement about the song stood out to me: “This song is about the burdens of loving women cruelly made to feel blame and shame from the dawn of time.” It’s clear Dan’s an artist who engages with feminist writings, and that’s something I truly appreciate—especially given how rare it is in the music industry, particularly for someone who presents as a straight, white male.

Cat Bohannon — Eve: How the Female Body Drove 200 Million Years of Human Evolution

The title character from the song. Probably the most cited figure from the Bible. A staple in paintings and literature for the past two thousand years. The first sinner. Eve remains a pillar of the Western collective imagination, her meaning changing a lot throughout the decades. From the representation of female sexual desire, scapegoating her for condemning the entire human race to death by eating the forbidden fruit (can you tell I went to Catholic school?), to being seen as the first example of female rage in the face of oppression. She embodies the complexities of womanhood—temptation, sin, and defiance—all wrapped into a single character.

Cat Bohannon’s book couldn’t be further from this. With a PhD from Columbia in the evolution of narrative, Bohannon explores why, in an age when we often see medical and science knowledge as some sort of truth, we still somehow have a very male-centric view of the human body.

By reexamining all the different potential Eves we have in the history of human evolution—that’s how she chooses to call all the ‘hypothetical female ancestors’ in our shared Homo sapiens lineage—, Bohannon urges us to reconsider and reshape our understanding of how our knowledge of the human body has often ignored half the world’s population.

As someone who enjoys reading non-fiction books (happy to share a few of my all-time favorites in the comments to whoever is interested), I found this book a really insightful, at times infuriating, eye-opening view into how sad it is that, for much of documented history, women have been seen as just men with breasts and wombs bolted on. The author is especially conscious of how sex (influenced by chromosomes, physiology, and hormones) and gender (how we identify, behave in our environment, and interact with one another) are not the same thing. She often adds notes to point out how science ignoring the female body and all its narratives has even worse consequences for trans and nonbinary folks, which I found really well-done and necessary in today’s age.

I picked this book as a companion to the song mainly because of the “rolled your eyes at pain you'll never comprehend” line, but I think it is a solid read on its own. I certainly learned a lot about my own body during the 15 hours I listened to the audiobook.

John Milton — Paradise Lost

So, Paradise Lost—the epic poem that pops up on pretty much every English Lit syllabus. Quick and snappy plot summary before we dive in: It’s a 12-part epic that covers Satan’s dramatic fall from Heaven, the creation of Adam and Eve, their blissful (but short-lived) days in Eden, the infamous temptation, and their ultimate eviction from paradise. Along the way, there’s a war in Heaven (didn’t exactly keep me on the edge of my seat), plus some deep philosophical chats between Raphael and Adam about creation, God, and, well, everything. It’s basically theological fanfiction (I mean it in the most neutral way possible).

Milton, being the good Puritan he was, used these stories to dig into free will, predestination, and conscience. It’s hard not to see Satan as a rebel leader and God as the authority figure, especially when you remember Milton was writing during the English Civil War. 

The poem was widely known but highly controversial and criticized during Milton’s lifetime, however, during the Romantic period, poets like Shelley and Byron “reclaimed” Milton’s Satan as a tragic antihero figure.

Anyway, I had to dig out my old uni notes (and hit up some audiobooks) to brush up on Eve’s role in this whole mess. And let me tell you, there’s a lot to unpack. Mainly because: a) as is often the case with old poetry, there’s a lot to read between the lines; b) classics come with a million different interpretations, and c) there are a few different versions, depending on the edition you read, so it’s easy to get lost in the variations of text, footnotes, and commentaries. (And also d) I won’t lie, it’s a slow, heavy read. At times, I had to resort to the audiobook just to get through some of the passages!)

Here’s what stood out this time around: Eve’s role is seriously hard to pin down, as Milton's relation to gender politics has been scrutinized since, well, pretty much since it was published in the 17th century. (Yeah, I had to pull out good old Google Scholar, watch some lectures on YouTube, and, of course, dive into Muses: An Ampersand Podcast—thanks, Dan and, mostly, Emma.)

What I really enjoyed was reading some modern articles that analyze Eve’s character through the lens of feminism which ties into the song’s exploration of blame and shame—no Wild World pun intended.

First of all, when Eve is introduced to Adam in Paradise Lost, Milton has her momentarily distracted by her own reflection in a pool of water, a subtle but significant parallel to the myth of Narcissus (hint hint). It’s an early indication of how susceptible to being misled she will be later on. But it also plays into this idea that her curiosity and desire—whether for knowledge or just, you know, herself—are somehow “dangerous.”

Now, Eve gets the blame for the Fall because she’s tempted by Satan to snack on the forbidden fruit from the Tree of Knowledge. Sure, she’s tricked, but let’s not pretend it’s all the serpent’s fault—once the idea is planted, it’s Eve who talks herself (and Adam) into it. That shows some sense of agency on her part, right? She wasn’t just a passive, helpless victim; she wanted to prove herself, to be tested, and she took action.

Milton is giving her a bit of credit for having a mind of her own, even if it’s wrapped up in this narrative of downfall. Eve’s curiosity and independence—qualities we might admire today—become her so-called "fatal flaws" here. So, yes, the story punishes female agency, but it’s undeniably there. And in a world where women were (and still are) often written as powerless, it’s refreshing to see Eve at least take some control, even if the outcome is a bit... unfortunate.

Now, let’s be real, this whole negative portrayal of Eve isn’t shocking. Milton was writing in a time where misogyny was baked into pretty much everything (which, sadly, isn’t all that different from now). Eve’s agency and sexuality are framed as the ultimate cautionary tale: women’s sexuality and agency are seen as inherently dangerous and something that inevitably leads to moral fallings.

But despite it all, towards the later part of Paradise Lost, Eve does get a kind of redemption arc. I came across one scholar who referred to the concept of felix culpa, a phrase in Catholic tradition meaning "happy fault" or "blessed fall." Eve might be responsible for humanity’s downfall, but her actions also set the stage for the coming of Christ, making her "mistake" a necessary part of the larger divine plan. It’s a bit of a paradox—how can something so disastrous lead to something so positive?—but the idea is that certain misfortunes can eventually lead to greater good.

Milton leans into this in Book 12, where Adam says:

"O goodness infinite, Goodness immense! That all this good of evil shall produce, And evil turn to good; more wonderful Than that which creation first brought forth, Light out of Darkness!"

So, in a roundabout way, Eve’s fall isn’t all doom and gloom—she’s the necessary catalyst that sets God's plan into motion. In fact, scholars have started to reframe Eve’s role in Paradise Lost as something more empowering than it initially appears. Traditionally, Eve’s been seen as the ultimate cautionary tale, blamed for humanity’s fall and cast as a symbol of female weakness and danger. But if you look closely, there’s something subversive in the way she’s actually the mover of the entire plot.

Eve isn’t just sitting around passively following orders—she actively makes the decision to eat the fruit, which, yes, brings about the fall, but it’s also what triggers the eventual coming of Christ and the possibility of redemption. Without her action, we’d all be hanging out in Eden, stuck in a static, sheltered existence. In a way, this is Eve taking control of her fate, making a choice, even if it’s framed as "wrong."

Plus, while Milton definitely punishes Eve, her agency is undeniable. Adam is kind of an afterthought in the whole thing—Eve is the one who steps outside the box, embraces curiosity, and disrupts the status quo. To modern feminist readers, that kind of defiance (even if it’s punished) reflects the strength of a woman asserting her independence. Raphael even calls her "the mother of humankind," acknowledging her dual role. She is both chaos and creation—a symbol of disruption but also the source of life. So, in a way, Eve’s choice is what makes humanity... well, human.

I like how in the song, there’s also a sense of Eve having an agency and a mind of her own. The chorus highlights Eve’s struggle with the idea of being “made for” Adam—“When they say I was made for you... made from you”—and the frustration of biting her tongue, which relates to how her love for Adam intertwines with her need for independence.

That’s it for this post! I’ll be back soon with more book picks for the next track. Let me know if you’ve read these or if you have any thoughts!

Feel free to share your thoughts and any other book suggestions as well!

With love,

Cat

[mybeautifulchristianjourney]

Devotional Hours Within the Bible by J.R. Miller

The Crucifixion of Christ (John 19:17-30)

An old legend said that Calvary was at the center of the earth. So it was, really, for the cross was the meeting place of two eternities a past eternity of grace and hope, and a future eternity of faith, gratitude, love and devotion. It is the center of the earth, too, because toward it the eyes of all believers turn for pardon, comfort, light, joy, hope. As from all sections of the ancient camp, the bitten people looked toward the brazen serpent on the pole at the center of the camp so from all lands sin-stricken ones look in their penitence, and sorrow-stricken ones in their grief, toward the cross.

“Carrying his own cross, he went out to the place of the Skull (which in Aramaic is called Golgotha).” The first picture we see is Jesus leaving Pilate’s judgment hall bearing His cross. The custom was that a criminal should carry to the place of execution, the cross, on which he should be fastened. The cross was heavy. Yet, as heavy as it was, the wooden cross was not all the load Jesus carried that day. We know there was another still heavier, for He bore the burden of the world’s sin. The old prophet said, “All we like sheep have gone astray … and the Lord has laid on him the iniquity of us all” (Isaiah 53:6). It would seem that none of the apostles were with Jesus as He went out to Calvary. John was caring for Mary, whom Jesus had committed to His care. She, with John and other friends, were presently watching by the cross. Certain other women were in the crowd, lamenting with Jesus. These He comforted even in His own great-sorrow.

When He staggered under His cross, a passer-by was seized and compelled to carry His load. It would have indeed been a strange irony had the man who carried the cross missed the salvation whereof it is the instrument and the symbol.

The next picture shows us Jesus being nailed upon the cross. He was not alone, for two others were crucified with Him, although this was contrary to Jewish law. These were criminals, men suffering justly for their sin. Thus He was “numbered with the transgressors” (Mark 15:28, cf. Isaiah 53:12). They put Jesus on the middle cross, as if He had been the greatest of the criminals. This was the place of the deepest dishonor. As He hung there, He was at the lowest point of shame in the world, in the place of the worst sinner. This tells us that there is no known stage of sin or guilt possible on earth, down to which Jesus cannot, will not, go as Savior.

One of the criminals beside Him was saved that day, lifted up by Him out of his guilt and sin, and borne in His arms to Paradise. This shows us that no sinner is so low in degradation or condemnation, that Jesus cannot lift him up to glory.

But while we are looking at this one sinner who was saved that Good Friday, we must not fail to glance in sadness at his companion. He had the same opportunity for salvation that the other had, for he was equally close to Jesus, could hear His gracious words, see the blood dropping from His wounds, and behold His patience and compassion. Yet this man was not saved. He remained impenitent, though so close to the dying Redeemer. When people say they will take the chance of the dying thief on the cross, repenting at the last hour, they must remember that there were two dying thieves, equally close to Christ’s cross, and that one of them was lost.

The next picture we see shows us Jesus Christ on His cross. “Pilate had a notice prepared and fastened to the cross. It read: JESUS OF NAZARETH, THE KING OF THE JEWS.” Jesus was indeed the King of the Jews, their own Messiah. He was also the King of the world. After He arose, He said that all authority was given unto Him in heaven and on earth. In the visions of the Apocalypse we see Him in glory as King of kings. He did not seem kingly that hour on the cross. It was a strange throne for a king to occupy. Yet it was His throne, and the crucifixion was the point of His highest earthly honor. There His glory streamed out as at no other time in all His life. The love of God shone from the cross. It is the power of the cross that is changing the world today and drawing lives to the Savior!

The rulers asked Pilate to change the title he had put over the cross. They wanted him to write only that Jesus said He was King of the Jews. They did not themselves wish to have it suggested that He was indeed in any sense their king. But Pilate refused to make any change in the superscription. “What I have written I have written,” he declared. He spoke a deeper truth than he knew. He was making a record which would stand forever, and which in spite of all the injustice and dishonor of the day was true.

Just so we are all writing, all the while, ineffaceably. What we have written, we have written. Every act we perform, every word we speak, every thought we think and every influence we give out goes down to stay on the page. This is well when the things we do are good, right and beautiful things; but it is just as true when they are sinful and unholy things. We should lay this truth to heart and should live so that we shall write down in the inexpungible record of our lives only things we shall be glad to meet a thousand years hence. We never have the opportunity to go over our records to correct the mistakes we have made. As we write the words, so will they stand.

The next picture we see shows us the soldiers dividing the garments of Jesus among themselves. We can think of these men going about at their duty after that day, wearing the garments which Jesus had worn during His beautiful and holy life. We may carry the illustration farther, and think of ourselves and all redeemed ones as wearing the garments which Jesus prepared for us that day on the cross.

The scene of the soldiers gambling for the scant possessions of Jesus, while the most stupendous event of all time was being enacted above their heads, suggests to us how indifferent the world is to the glory of God and the glorious things that God does. Men are irreverent and are unmoved by even the holiest things!

The next picture shows us a little group of the dearest friends of Jesus, standing near the cross, while He was enduring His unfathomable sorrows. His mother was there, and John, the beloved disciple. When Jesus saw His mother, His heart was touched with compassion for her, and He commended her to the beloved disciple, who from that time became as a son to her, taking her to his own home. In this scene we have a beautiful commentary on the Fifth Commandment.

Even on His cross, in the midst of the anguish of this terrible hour, He did not forget her who had borne Him, who had blessed His tender infancy and defenseless childhood with her rich, self-forgetful love. Every young person, or older one with parents living, who reads this fragment of the story of the cross, should remember the lesson and pay love’s highest honor to the father or the mother to whom he owes so much.

The next picture shows us Jesus in His anguish of thirst. In response to His cry, “I am thirsty!” one of the soldiers dipped a sponge in the sour wine that was provided for the watchers and held it up on a reed, that it might moisten His lips. This is the only one of the seven sayings on the cross in which Jesus referred to His own suffering. It is pleasant to think that one of the soldiers gave a kindly response to His cry. This is the only gleam of humanity in all the dark story of cruelty and hardness enacted around the cross. It is a comfort to us to know that even so small a kindness was wrought for Him who has filled the world with the fragrance of His love, blessing so many millions of suffering ones.

For us the lesson is that we should train ourselves to deeds of thoughtful gentleness to all who are in distress. We remember that beautiful word of our Lord, that the giving of even a cup of cold water to a disciple in His name will not go unrewarded (see Matthew 10:42). There are thirsty ones coming to us continually, and countless are the opportunities of doing good to them in Christ’s name. We should not fail to put the cup to lips that are burning with life’s fever. Since Jesus thirsted on the cross and was refreshed, if only by so much as the moisture of a sponge filled with sour wine, He is quick to recognize and reward any kindness to one of His that thirsts.

The last picture shows us Jesus dying. He said, “It is finished!” Then He bowed His head and gave up His spirit. It was a cry of victory which fell from His lips. His work was finished. He had done each day the work given Him to do that day, and when the last hour of the day came there was nothing that He had left undone. We should learn the lesson and live as He lived, so as to have every part of our work finished when our end comes.

But what was it that was finished when Jesus bowed His head on the cross? A famous picture represents Christ lifted up, and beneath Him an innumerable procession of the saints, advancing out of the darkness and coming into the light of His cross. There can be no doubt that He had such a vision of redemption while He hung there, for we are told that He endured the cross, despising the shame, because of the joy set before Him. “It is finished!” was therefore a shout of victory as He completed the work of suffering and sacrificing that the world might be saved.

[firstdeerwife]

Adam Masterlist.

Fics.

Hellish Paradise

In the beginning of time, Adam and Eve lived in the perfect harmony of the Garden of Eden, a paradise where innocence and beauty reigned supreme. However, their disobedience in eating the forbidden fruit unleashed a series of events that would forever change the course of humanity. Expelled from Eden and condemned to a life of suffering and mortality, Adam and Eve must face an unknown and hostile world. As they struggle to survive and adapt to their new reality, they discover that their love and determination are their greatest strengths. But the weight of their original sin and the constant threat of evil, personified in Lucifer and Lilith, test their faith and their relationship. With each challenge, their love grows stronger, proving that even though paradise has been lost, hope and redemption are still possible.

Investigation of file 33: Dear Miss Blom

Creator of the image used @kazimir29

Adam and Eva lived in completely different worlds. He, the relentless chief of police, dedicated to protecting his city from danger, trapped in a world of justice and shadows. She, a preschool teacher, whose life revolved around the innocence of children and the warmth of a classroom filled with laughter. Fate brought them together unexpectedly on the day Adam, in what seemed like a routine task, took little Emily, the district attorney’s daughter, to the preschool where Eva taught. In that moment, a spark ignited, awakening in both of them a desire they didn’t know existed. But not all love stories are destined for a happy ending. As their lives intertwine, the dark secrets of Adam’s world and the light that Eva tries to maintain become opposing forces, dragging them into an abyss from which there is no return. The passion that unites them will also be their downfall, revealing that some souls, no matter how much they need each other, were never meant to meet. In an inevitable twist of fate, Adam and Eva will discover that love can be as destructive as hate, and that sometimes, the price of following your heart is losing everything.

One-Shots.

Sunflowers and Carnations.

Adam and Eve life in Eden

Harmonic Laments.

Adam misses his wife.

[human-still-developing]

Okay so there's a lot of discourse about here on how The Secret History condemns the intellectualisation of emotions and human relationships but can we just talk for a moment about how much literature and words shape all of Tartt's characters? Yes, the ancient greek class' obsession with Greek mythology leads to their downfall but the entire novel Tartt argues that humanity is inherently defined by the writing they surround themselves with.

There are so many overlooked moments of this...we see that at the beginning of the novel, many of the tight connections that the greek class makes with each other are during translations of ancient poetry. Translation is an interaction with literature that humanity has had since its creation and what is its inherent purpose? Accessibility! Making literature more approachable to people who are isolated from it. Isn't it gorgeously poetic then how through assisting Bunny and friends with their translation, Richard is able to gain 'access' to this elite society and understand their world?

What's ironic then is how Henry's translations of ancient greek poetry isolates him from the rest of the world (even through small moments like when he sits alone to translate Paradise Lost or the view that the rest of the university has of him as aloof and untouchable). It's this transgression of the nature of literature to connect that can be linked to his downfall.

Another example is how both Bunny and Richard are frequently mentioned to have other literary interests apart from ancient greek poetry. We see this quite often, the most memorable time for me was when Richard was delirious in hospital and asked a bewildered Henry for a magazine. What an elusively clever moment that truly shows the healing and nourishing nature of writing? In his pain, it's not the unfamiliar but delightfully challenging greek that Richard reaches for but a familiar magazine. Writing; a reflection of humanity. Writing that serves to comfort and hold rather than to challenge.

Even Richard in his letters to the others during the winter writes to share his experiences, showcase his world and emotions. It's literature's ability to connect, rather than to isolate, that makes it truly powerful.

So, even though the idea that 'Tartt condemns intellect' can be considered true, I think that the nuanced view that 'literature should inherently be used to connect and the transgression of this law leads to individual's downfall' is more accurate in emulating Tartt's message over the novel. Greek literature, Judy Poovey's magazines, Bunny's trashy novels, Richard's letters -- all literature that reflects humanity through different lenses (with none being more powerful than the other).

It is language that connects, heals, saves and destroys humanity.

[duxwriter]

Ahem, more Ava's Demon cause brain rot theories/information

I supported the Kickstarter, and pointed out by another user (@fanlovedlt) Wrathia gets covered in snakes (though in the same chapter she speaks through a snake as well)

This is during Ava's dream and mind meeting after committing her act of wrath (more on why that means something later)

Now, Wrathia is covered in snakes

Snakes have a meaning (as most animals do)

With a shedding of their skin through sloughing, they are symbols of rebirth, transformation, immortality, and healing, but also are known as a creative life force and fertility on their own.

Now, Wrathia here, very Satan-esqu

Titan is even god coded

Chapter fifteen (called the first sin)

The following chapters (sixteen and twenty) are called "Hellfire" and "Paradise lost"

(Fun fact! Paradise lost is an epic poem written about the fall of mankind by John Milton featuring a very different version of Satan compared to how he was depicted at the time in old art and literature as well as making god the antagonist)

Now, why might this be important to what I have to say?

Snakes in the daytime mean good things, but in dreams, it's very different

Snakes in dreams typically represent a person in the dreamer's life who exhibits low, dirty, toxic, or poisonous behavior.

But they can also mean health or healing!

It can mean a sense of healing, personal transformation, or that you are moving forward.

But it also deals with the context of Ava and Wrathia in these scene's

Now, Wrathia speaks through a snake

If you know the story of Adam and Eve (note, Adam and Eve were both naked before eating the fruit from the tree of knowledge, the snake is in a tree and both Wrathia and Ava appear "naked")

Ava even calls Wrathia a "snake"

Usually a term to call someone false, fake, etc.

(very fitting for Wrathia's character)

Now, Wrathia doesn't have typical Satan horns

But they are known as demon horns (goat/sheep like, especially with the eyes)

Wrathia is regal, a demigod (as explained by Odin's peoples thoughts on how the universe happened, again, a very bible/god related story)

(note, there are seven sins, and it took six (the seventh to rest) days to make the world, there are also seven sins and seven virtues)

Satan was "regal" and "royal" as he was depicted now and (sorta) then

Where does this all lead?

Ava commits an act of wrath (term used in lieu of acts of many different religions concept of gods acting against mortals for slights or divine retribution, take the story of Niobe from Greek myth, where she says she's better than Leto so Artemis and Apollo slay her children in an act of wrath against her)

Ava basically makes hell (on titans planet) for people, and herself (note, she thought it was a dream, many people who commit or have been committed against think it's a dream/wish it was a dream)

Where I'm going with this is, It's very bible coded (as well as Alice in wonderland with the rabbit hole Ava basically sent herself down)

It both shows Ava's growth, Wrathia's horrid personality

Wrathia and Ava talk about a high, which often is said how hubris feels (or an act of defiance or fight/flight response when you pick to fight)

(also little tidbit, snake Wrathia is in a tree, which looks like a fig tree, fig trees are symbols of wisdom and success in abundance, but Jesus also cursed a fig tree in the bible, as a warning for people not to be hypocritical. Basically "Jesus Christ warning Christians that they must bear fruits after their conversion worthy of repentance or risk being condemned to Hell." Is how it's interpreted to many churches, but it also has several different meanings in the bible (like hunger for true worship, as it bore no fruit)

(also, the fruit of knowledge was never described, many simply assume it's an apple from paintings and modern media, but, it's very possible it could be any fruit, like a fig)

(we see here the tree is snapped, as in, it's been cursed/destroyed, again, the bible says Jesus cursed the tree)

(I also need to say, Fig trees can represent happiness in dreams)