#damnation of adam blessing

[pupyr0arz]

Thinking…serial killer reader x priest price. Am I cooking? Murder, religious/Christian themes cw

Divinity is something you find under the knife. It’s the last, brightest gleams in a man’s eyes as he bleeds his last breath, the moment of surrender beneath your fingers. The moment you and they are one, blood turned to ichor in your veins as they kiss your palms and leave for the holy gate. You dispense mercy in God’s vision, a heavy hand and mournful eye. In a world so rotten and sick, sons and daughters of Adam fall astray, crying silently for angels to lead them back to their flock. Pain is cleansing, and cleanliness is holiness. God’s janitor, you call yourself when you are feeling particularly egotistical.

You work quietly, as any agent of a higher power should. Demons outnumber you, staring back with jewel bright eyes and false promises, begging you to overstep. You find beauty in routine, cleaning yourself and disposing of any marks of sin. The police call you a hundred names, but never your own, and you take each paper as they come and fold them neatly into the trash.

you find joy, beauty in your work. It sends you higher than any satanic touch could give you, polishes you into a gleaming weapon wielded by holy beings. Yet, your favorite day is Sunday, the day of rest.

each Sunday, you walk to church. It’s the third closest to your home, you’d have an easier time to go to them but if you did things merely because they were easy you’d be dammed for your laziness. The two other churches are rot filled, disgusting vestiges that you’d burn down and watch cleanse the ground they were built on if it wouldn’t interrupt your duties. But the third, the third.

God, in His infinite wisdom, has laid his hands upon another in your time. You could nearly cry. You did when you found him, his voice, his eyes, his sermon…it felt as though you were in your workshop, on your knees with bloodied hands praying and being heard. Hope has blossomed within you at the mere sight of the priest, that other agents of God existed, that your war was one that could be one. Father Price, and wasn’t that a beautiful name? The price you paid to see him, that humanity paid to be absolved of their sins, the price the two of you would extract by pound and pound of flesh from demons.

You’ve seen him for a month and four days now, you’ve been counting. You wouldn’t dare approach him too quickly, too fervently, lest you be mistaken for some kind of trick. You could hardly believe the Father existed at all yourself, you wouldn’t blame him for doubting you, but it would unravel your plans. You had to move slowly, integrate yourself with his flock.

Wasn’t that a difficult ask. You weren’t blessed in the way Father Price was, with infinite patience and words sweeter than any sugar on Earth, no Heaven-kissed smile comes from your lips. You are shaped to the words of the oldest books, of wrath and hellfire, storm and lightning. The two of you are counterparts, damnation and salvation, and it makes you adore him all the more. But the hours spent sitting with the inane, idiotic sinners that stumble over themselves to dirty Father Price’s feet send your fingers twitching.

[zzoomacroom]

(Uhhhh apparently this has been in my drafts for months and I forgot to post it? Whoopsie. And I've changed my url since then. 🤦‍♀️ Screw it, I'll post it anyway)

URL Song Tag Game

Thanks for tagging me @valiantstarlights and @4typercent!!!

Rules: spell your url with song titles and tag as many people as the letters!

(I'm not gonna put links because I'm on mobile, look them up if you want to hear some dad rock)

A: Apocalypse Dreams by Tame Impala

U: Under Pressure by Queen and David Bowie

G: Gimme Shelter by the Rolling Stones

B: Back to the River by the Damnation of Adam Blessing

E: Electric Slim and the Factory Hen by T. Rex

S: Staring at the Sun by Wooden Shjips

I: I Feel Free by Cream

A: Anemone by Brian Jonestown Massacre

N: November by the Psychedelic Porn Crumpets

Tagging @duckland @garnetcapricorn @goofygooberton @blue-eyed-giant @tryan-a-bex @pavlovianfuckery @rooftopwreck @ghostboyjules @cheesefleetwood and anyone else who wants to play

[randompandabaewrites]

Blood Like Honey

Radioapple Week — Blood — Hazbin Hotel

Explicit: blood (duh), biting. Angel blood has healing properties.

//Inspired by the gorgeous art this lovely RadioApple week! First time I’ve participated in anything like this and holy shit this fandom is talented~ Song: Closer by Nine Inch Nails//

4.4k

Alastor slipped away from the frivolity in the freshly rebuilt lobby of Hazbin Hotel. Usually he enjoyed some revelry and clinking glasses after a hard fought victory—but as the night went on, he felt his ever-present grin start to wane. 

Because the radio demon had not won this day. 

Alastor’s eternal damnation had flashed before his eyes at the end of an angelic blade, and it seemed his humiliation would not soon be forgotten. The blessed wound seared through his chest even now, and when he lifted his hand from the breast of his crimson coat, and saw blood welled on his palm. 

The demon retreated back into the shadows before his predicament was noticed. 

With a flick of his wrist, Alastor attempted to vanish, to escape to the solitude of his radio tower. But his powers faltered, the darkness sputtering and depositing him unceremoniously on the second floor.

Alastor cursed his weakness with a hiss through his clenched teeth. 

His long fingers curled in the collar of his coat, summoning his sickly green magic to try to seal the wound once again as he leaned heavily against the wall that still smelled of fresh paint and plaster. 

His grin remained fixed, that twisted rictus gaze betraying nothing of the searing agony threatening to claim him. The Radio Demon would not be felled so easily, not by some sanctimonious prick and his holy tantrum. 

Alastor’s claws dug into the wall, charred magic sizzling from his fingertips as he fought to remain upright.

A ragged cough ripped through him, flecks of ruby speckling his lips as he tried to focus his gaze and his shadows upward. The radio tower was so achingly close, and yet leagues away with his powers in their current state. 

Alastor dragged himself to his feet. Forcing one foot step after another, an agonizing trek unmitigated by every shallow breath that felt like a new slice out of his torso. 

He stumbled, leaving a streaked, bloody handprint in his wake as he slid down to the plush carpet. 

The clack of approaching heels drew Alastor’s unfocused gaze—he had no desire for any company in this state, but hissed when he saw the shadow of his least favorite hotel occupant down the hallway. Lumbering into view with a casual, arrogant swagger came none other than Lucifer himself. 

The fallen angel paused mid-step, red eyes narrowing as he caught sight of the bloody trail. “Well, well...it seems someone had a bit too much ‘fun’ at the celebration.” His lips curved in an amused, like the sanguine stains were nothing more than spilled wine on the floor. 

Alastor forced himself to his feet, covering the bloody handprint he’d left moments ago. 

“Or perhaps the infamous Alastor can’t hold his liquor?” The petite blonde arched a single eyebrow and gave a smirk that the radio demon would love to rip right off of his face. 

“It’s remarkable how such a petite parcel can contain an astonishing degree of irritation.” Despite his predicament, Alastor couldn’t resist a taunting rasp. “I would greatly prefer the pleasurable company of the younger Morningstar.” Implication laced his tongue behind his manic smile, unable to help but needle a little more at Lucifer’s ego. Even if the jab was punctuated with a wheezing chuckle.

 Maybe he should be more concerned with self-preservation at the moment, but the searing pain was robbing him of his senses. 

The flair in the archangel’s eyes might just be one of the final joys Alastor had. 

“Don’t let the packaging fool you, pal.” The shorter man sneered, reaching for the lapels of Alastor’s coat—before slamming him against the wall with enough force to rattle the demon’s bones. “I pack quite a punch, enough to pick up your slack with Adam, remember?”

A pained shriek of static tore from Alastor’s throat, causing the lights in the hallway to flicker and the blonde to wrench his hands back. 

“What the fuck…?” Lucifer’s smug triumph morphed into stunned disbelief when he saw that his palms were slicked with blood. “What in Dad’s name happened to you?”

“I do believe you have just ruined my coat.” 

Realization flickered in the angel’s eyes as he stared at the scarlet stain marring Alastor’s chest and continuing to spread. 

“Fuck your coat, you’ve got an angel blade wound! You do realize that won’t heal, ever, right?!” 

“I was coming to that conclusion, yes.” 

Lucifer looked up at the demon that was now slouching down the wall with the effort to stay upright, seeing the hand print now smudge into the wallpaper behind him. 

 The angel seized the soaked edges of Alastor’s coat, wrenching the material apart and sending buttons flying down the hallway. The scarlet button down he wore was drenched in his dark blood, and Lucifer was about to rip that fabric away too—

When a long-nailed hands wrapped around his wrists. “It’s hardly decent to disrobe me without so much as a dinner invitation.” He teased with dark amusement despite his failing strength. 

“You are so about to take the cake in the ‘pride before the fall’ department, buddy.” Lucifer snapped. “You want me to heal it, I need to see it—unless you wanna bleed out in Charlie’s hallway.” 

“Funny.” Alastor’s smirk was a ghost of his typical smile. “I do suppose pride and exhibitionism go hand-in-hand, Your Majesty.”

With a growl of pure annoyance, Lucifer snapped his fingers, whisking them away from the hall in a swirl of divine light. 

When the demon could see again, he knew they were in the lavish yet garish confines of Lucifer’s sweet. 

The fallen angel released his grip, and Alastor crumpled gracelessly onto the plush sofa with a grunt that sounded like microphone feedback. Lucifer ignored him, pacing around his cluttered room to snatch up supplies. A basin of clean water materialized on the sofa’s side table, followed by a stack of crispe white towels. 

Alastor had just managed to sit up enough to watch the whirlwind of activity through narrowed eyes, his permanent smile and ominous slash across his paling face. 

“What exactly are you doing?” The radio demon asked, suspicion swirling in his eyes and his tone. “And, for that matter, why?”

Lucifer came to a stop in front of Alastor’s splayed legs, rolling up his sleeves to show the black skin of his hands went all the way up the elbows. He squared his shoulders “Are there radio dials where your brains should be—I said I was healing you.”

Alastor watched him with increasingly heavy eyelids. “The latter question remains; why? We’ve made no secret of of our disdain for each other—what’s your ulterior motive in not letting me die?” 

He spoke the words with his characteristic smoothness, belying the desperation and the toll the injury was taking on him. Each syllable strained him and the filter crackled at random. 

Lucifer rolled his eyes heavenward, as if entreating a higher power for patience. 

“Is it so damn hard for a demon to believe an angel just wants to help?”

Alastor answered with a derisive snort. 

“Fine…” Lucifer ran a hand through his blonde hair, mussing it, as he averted his gaze and folded his arms. “I have a reason. But it’s nothing to do with you, so can we get on with this?”

The radio demon continued with his pointed stare. He’d rather die than owe his skin to anyone else. 

Lucifer’s jaw tightened, visibly steeling himself, before something raw escaped in his expression. “Look, it’s because of Charlie.”

Alastor’s expression stayed painted on. 

“I’m still working my way into her good graces again, and for some reason, she likes having you around.”

Alastor blinked slowly, the rapid rise and fall of his chest the only indication of his surprise. Not surprise that the petite blonde was trying to win Charlie over—but that he, a demonic overlord, mattered enough to either of them to want to keep around. Sure, he’d tried to make himself invaluable to the princess, but clearly he’d failed during the fight to protect the Hotel. 

For an eternity, a heavy silence reigned between them, broken only by the faint crackle of radio static. 

Well, even if the angel was wrong, at least the demon would be alive to find out. 

Then, almost imperceptibly, Alastor inclined his head in a minute nod of acceptance. Lucifer’s shoulders sagged in naked relief.

“Thank fuck.” The angel sighed, rather dramatically. “Now, can we get on with saving your wretched life before I’m accused of ending it?”

Despite the fragility of his condition, Alastor’s permanent grin stretched taut with grim amusement. “Well...” A chuckle reverberated from somewhere deep within the demon. “When you put it like that...” With a magnanimous sweep of his hand that cost him precious agony, he acquiesced. “By all means.”

Lucifer wasted no more time, though his motions were just slightly more gentle than ripping Alastor’s clothes open in the hallway. 

He began to peel away the blood-soaked dress shirt and pushed his suspenders aside, exposing the gash across his chest. 

The radio demon stiffened, a low, warning growl reverberating from somewhere in his ribcage—but it was more instinct than true protest. Or, he couldn’t move to stop the angel’s movements.

As more of Alastor’s torso was revealed, the slashes and lacerations of various vintages across his ashen skin. 

Lucifer’s brow furrowed at the sight, but he made no comment. 

His dark fingers were already ghosting over the fresh, jagged wound with reverence, probing the ragged edges. Angelic poison pulsed and seethed. 

Alastor watched every move warily, radio feedback bristling like a impotent force field around him. 

When Lucifer’s palm pressed flat against his gory wound, the demon went rigid. Something…sparked between them. Their eyes met for a moment, energy igniting and crackling between them like a live wire. 

Before the demon could process, Lucifer was moving again. 

Alastor thought the magnetic feeling was fleeting and gone—until Lucifer swung a leg over his lap to straddle him. The demon recoiled with a sharp hiss of breath, every muscle gone taught. 

“What the devil do you suppose you’re doing?” he snarled through gritted teeth. “…darling?”

The angel shot him a look at the provocation, but his pulled focus pulled right back to the gaping wound in the demon’s chest

“Bracing you, because this is about to hurt, tough guy.” Lucifer said, calm as could be, reaching behind Alastor to grab the back of the sofa. “And I suggest you grab something—this is gonna fucking hurt.” 

Alastor’s arms felt too damn heavy to grab much of anything at the moment, and his dignity was suffering with the archangel so intimately in his space. He took the arm of the sofa, leaving his clawed hand resting limply on the cushion beside Lucifer’s thigh.

The angel’s warning became abundantly clear as his other hand pressed to the slash through Alastor’s flesh. 

A searing white light blazed and pain etched into every fiber of Alastor’s being. His teeth clenched so hard they might shatter—anything to keep the scream from clawing its way up his throat as holy fire lanced through his veins. The demon’s hands clenched on instinct, claws sinking into the nearest thing he could grab. 

Piercing the arm of the plush sofa, and Lucifer’s leg. 

Alastor’s bright red nails sank through fabric and flesh with sickening ease. 

The fallen angel hissed but refused to relent. His palms pressed harder, searing ever brighter, as he cauterized the divine wound with his own sacred power. 

Alastor’s awareness contracted into one agonizing pinprick of existence. The room around him roiled, chaotic colors and sounds and torturous sensations. 

Lucifer’s eyes blazed like a solar flare in the haze. 

Alastor’s claws shredded deeper, molten gold seeping from the ragged punctures and between his black fingers. 

But it was nothing, less than nothing compared to the scouring inside him. 

He was nothing but the agony. 

And, if there was one thing that Alastor knew well, it was agony and suffering. He’d seen hundreds, thousands of souls experiencing loss of life and limb—often at his own hand. 

Blood shed between two people was an excruciatingly intimate experience.

Alastor could feel it, even now, with this angel holding him together as he tore apart. Things he’d never felt. His was never the blood being spilled. Until now. 

“Nope, you’re not dying on me now deer boy!” Lucifer’s voice called him from the white void the demon had fallen into, the brilliance of the light blinding him with more torment. 

Someone yanked on Alastor’s antlers, tugging his head forward. Until he could smell apple sweet breath. Could taste it on his tongue. 

Then, as abruptly as it started, the ritual crescendo and fell. 

The brilliance subsided, leaving pulsating shadows dancing across the demon’s vision. He became aware that he was panting for every scrap of air, his chest spasming under the pressure of Lucifer’s hand. 

When Alastor’s eyes finally became useful, he found himself locked into the gaze of the devil himself. 

And Lucifer was looking at him with an expression he had never seen before. 

“There, easy big guy.” The angel’s grip moved from Alastor’s horns to cradle the back of his neck, laying him back gently against the back of the sofa…as if he were something worth treating with tenderness. 

Alastor blinked slowly at the ceiling of the room as his senses gradually reasserted themselves. 

The pain had receded, leaving a dull, throbbing ache throughout his body. 

Gingerly, he pulled his right hand from the remnants of the shredded sofa arm, drawing his fingers along the newly formed scar tissue. It tingled with residual celestial might, but the wound itself had finally closed. 

Knitted together and still giving a faint golden glow from Lucifer’s power. 

It was only then that the demon realized said fallen angel was still sat in his lap. A quip was on Alastor’s tongue, when his gaze drifted further downwards, to his claws still mangling the other man’s thigh. 

Lucifer’s pant leg was oozing trails of vibrant ichor, and the angel made no move to free himself from Alastor’s grip—though if he had, the demon’s instincts would never let him release his bleeding quarry. 

He could not help the smile that split his face, an unholy sort of rapture pulled from the depraved depths of his soul as he unsheathed his claws, just to see them dripping with divine blood. 

“Out of curiosity.” Alastor purred, feeling his darkness welling in him fresh and new. “How does an angel feel when we make them bleed?” his voice distorted with the return of his powers. 

“Huh?” Lucifer looked down at his leg, like Alastor’s morbid curiosity was only slightly of interest. “Cute.” 

Alastor blanched, his reverie broken as he stared at the blonde. And watched with utterly fascination as he casually swept a hand over his thigh—and the flesh mended and the blood seeped back into his alabaster skin. 

Fury and fascination ignited in the radio demon all at once. 

The angel stood, and the shredded fabric hung loose around his perfectly whole leg. “But it takes more than some demon’s claws to leave an archangel with a lasting injury.” 

Something in Alastor trembled. Not pain, not fear, but something far more…primal.

Lucifer was already busying himself darting around the room again, mopping up the blood—the demon’s, as it was ruby red. Perhaps a little slower than before, or perhaps that was Alastor’s wounded ego supplicating. 

Unbidden, Alastor raised his hand, examining the rivulets of golden essence dribbling down his fingers. His mouth watered. But he refused to indulge in that particular vice in front of the already smug angel. 

“Tell me, Your Majesty.” His voice was heavy even in his own flicking ears. “What am I meant to do with this?”

The archangel’s brows pulled, glancing at Alastor’s hand, before a lascivious smirk grew across his lips. Lucifer leaned back over him, closer to Alastor’s face than he allowed anyone else. “You should lick it off.” 

“I…beg your pardon.” Alastor jerked back, affronted. 

“Oh come on, what’s a little sanguivory for a demonic overlord?” He waved a dismissive hand. “I bet you’re into all sorts of weird shit”

Alastor felt his upper lip twitch with contempt. 

On the one hand, yes. On the other, fuck him. 

The demon flicked the blood off his fingers, flicking it back at its owner. 

It can heal you, you fucking pompous ass.” Lucifer rolled his eyes, his hand on his hip. “Don’t tell me you’re a straight from the vein snob.”

That struck a nerve. 

Alastor’s gaze narrowed dangerously as his smile carved deeper into his features. With a tilt of his head and a cock of his brow, he called the other’s bluff. “Afraid to lose any more blood, my dear?”

“Fuck you.” 

The demon was ready to give a laugh at the smaller man’s expense, when, when he had to hide the surprise before it could manifest across his face. 

Lucifer brought his wrist up, slicing across the artery with one of his razor sharp teeth. Golden ichor welled up instantly, trickling down the dark skin of his forearm. 

A wickedly beautiful sight, indeed. 

Alastor stared, stunned into a rare silence as the archangel offered his bleeding wrist. No demand given, no conditions set, and no chains attached. He couldn’t fathom it. 

Yet, there it hung between them, dripping celestial vitae onto the demon’s slacks. 

Alastor curled his long fingers around the angel’s fist, as if the offer may shatter and the hand wrap around his neck. The bright red eyes stayed locked on the angels, as his tongue flicked out to taste the first exquisite drop. 

The flavor was like nothing he’d tasted on Earth or in the pits below it. Rich, heady, sweet as nectar but far from the cloying sugar the demon despised. 

Distilled rapture, a taste of heaven without the affliction of holy light. 

A low rumble echoed from deep within Alastor’s chest as his gaze turned heavy-lidded again. He fastened his lips to the cut and drank deep. Savoring every drop. 

Lucifer shifted his weight from foot to foot, a shudder rippling through his slight frame at the feeling of Alastor’s lips. By the time the radio demon pulled back with a lingering swipe of his tongue, the wound sealed itself without a scar. 

“Satisfied?”

Alastor fixed Lucifer with a stare of unadulterated hunger.

 “Hardly.” 

The high of angelic vitality blazed hot in the demon’s veins. When the clawed hand reached for him, tangling in his vest, Lucifer wasn’t sure where that sinful mouth would land. 

Until lips crashed into his. 

That first kiss was a tangle of teeth and desperation. The thrill of the razor sharp and the sweetness of angel blood on his lips—until Lucifer’s forked tongue slipped into Alastor’s mouth, and sliced the inside of his cheek. 

The iron taste joined the nectar, sparking a groan of approval from the radio demon’s throat. 

Alastor’s shadows, fully restored, surged up to engulf them both, and yank Lucifer off of his feet. The tentacles slammed the angel bodily into the plush sofa. He let out a breathless laugh as Alastor loomed over him. 

“Why, Your Majesty. Letting a lowly sinner get you on your back?” Alastor purred, his knee wedging its way between Lucifer’s thighs. 

“Shut it strawberry pimp.” Lucifer shot back at him, grinning a challenge in his fiery eyes. “I’ve handled bigger and stronger demons than you.” 

Baring his teeth in a feral smile, Alastor leaned down until they were nose to nose again. “Is that so, darling?”

With a yank of clawed fingers, Lucifer dragged Alastor’s mouth back to his own in a bruising kiss. “Less talking,” he growled against those smiling lips. “More biting.”

A low, rumbling chuckle spilled from Alastor’s chest as he nipped sharply at Lucifer’s jaw. 

Merciless claws rent through expensive fabric shredding the archangel’s shirt and vest to bare his chest. Divine blood welled up in the shallow scratches, only to knit themselves closed before the demon’s eyes. Alastor’s gaze drank in every tantalizing inch of newly exposed skin with ravenous delight. 

He grasped Lucifer’s chin, tilting his head aside to expose the tempting column of his throat.

 For a breathless moment, the radio demon’s teeth hovered a hair’s breadth away, mouth aching with the urge to sink his teeth right into the vital artery.

But something held him back. Not the angel who was squirming all too willingly under him—Alastor found he couldn’t bring himself to risk draining this delectable wellspring entirely. 

An unexpected tendril of concern gave him pause as he looked upon Lucifer’s powerful yet achingly fragile form.

Instead, Alastor’s lips trailed lower, canines finally piercing that perfect pale flesh at the juncture of neck and shoulder.

 A tremor ran through Lucifer’s body as he arched up into the vicious bite with a breathless keen of pure ecstasy. 

Hips rutted shamelessly against Alastor’s thigh, the hard line of the archangel’s arousal leaving the demon’s slack dampened.

Arousal made his blood impossibly, deliciously sweeter.

When the demon pulled back at last, a low rumble was rolling at a constant frequency from his chest, and he realized…he was purring. 

“My, my... Seems an angel’s ardor makes for quite the delectable vintage.” His smile was luminous. 

Lucifer could only pant softly in response, too lust-addled to muster words through the hazy fog of desire shrouding his senses, though he managed to raise one of his hands. 

Alastor realized only a breath before that the angel was snapping his fingers, divesting them both of the shredded remains of their clothing. 

The demon froze, feeling exposed yet again, and unsure what exactly he was meant to do next. Hazy with want for more, whatever more was. 

Lucifer’s hands scrabbled desperately at the demon’s shoulders, pulling him closer still until legs wrapped around his waist. 

The demon had half a mind to call his shadows and wrench the angel’s limbs away from him—but he didn’t want to. He’d never been so taken with someone, body and blood. When Lucifer’s fingers curled into his hair and pulled their mouths back together. 

“Just, move. Please.” The angel begged. Like music to the demon’s ears. He could very much get used to that pretty little sound. 

In one sinuous motion, Alastor rolled his hips, pinning the archangel bodily beneath him as their aching cocks ground together, slicked no doubt with their mingled blood.

 An unholy growl rumbled up from the very depths of his being in a resonant snarl. “Is this what you want, Cher?” The old, adoring term from his human life fell from his lips like honey. 

This Alastor could do. Rut gracelessly together, seeking their tangled pleasure, chasing it into the unknown. 

At last, Lucifer found his voice on a strangled groan. “Shut up and bite me already, you insufferable tease!” 

Well, far be it from Alastor to deny such an enticing demand.

He sank his teeth back into the base of the archangel’s neck, feeling the man arch into the pain and the drag of his mouth, writing desperately against him like a pinned viper. 

Alastor tasted the bliss in Lucifer’s blood before he was prepared to be sent tumbling into his own. 

When he finally surfaced from the haze of gratification, Alastor found himself sprawled bonelessly against the plush sofa cushions, every muscle deliciously lax

A warm weight pressed flush against his chest, and he cracked open one eye to find Lucifer draped over him in a tangle of pale limbs, clinging with surprising tenacity.

As Alastor made to extricate himself, the archangel merely tightened his grip with a soft protest. “Stay,” Lucifer mumbled, nuzzling closer with a contented sigh that ghosted over Alastor’s collarbones.

The radio demon arched one brow in faint surprise. “I’m not one for... cuddling, darling,” he pointed out, lips quirking in a wry smirk as he carefully peeled those insistent hands away.

But Lucifer was having none of it, stubbornly resisting Alastor’s efforts as he shot the demon an exasperated look through half-lidded eyes. 

“We’re naked and covered in each other’s bodily fluids, you really wanna leave now?,” he countered dryly. “I’m not letting you go anywhere just yet.”

Alastor held that pointed stare for a beat, considering.

 True, the archangel had not only saved his life by purging the angelic poison from his veins, but had freely offered his own sacred blood to aid in the healing. 

An act of vulnerability and trust that shouldn’t be taken lightly, even for one as distrustful as the radio demon. 

With a barely perceptible huff, Alastor relented, settling back against the cushions as Lucifer pillowed his head back into the man’s chest.

 Almost immediately, the archangel melted against him, one hand idly tracing the myriad of scars and old wounds that crisscrossed Alastor’s torso. 

He expected revulsion. For this to be the straw that made the unblemished angel finally pull away—Lucifer’s touch held only a gentle sort of curiosity, mapping out each ridge and valley with delicate fingers as though committing them to memory.

It should have set Alastor’s instincts on edge, allowing someone—an angel, no less—having such intimate access to his vulnerabilities.

 But, strangely, he found the soft caresses almost... soothing in their tender exploration. 

A tiny furrow formed between the demon’s brows as unease flickered across his features. This strange sense of comfort, of safety in the archangel’s presence... it was wholly unfamiliar. 

Unsettling. 

And yet, when Lucifer let out a jaw-cracking yawn and proceeded to snuggle closer with a contented murmur, Alastor couldn’t find it in himself to protest. 

Instead, his gaze drifted down to the faintly glowing imprint of the healed wound in his chest, the scar still ting/ed with a hint of liquid glow that seemed to pulse in time with Lucifer’s steady breaths.

Despite himself, the barest hint of a genuine smile tugged at the corners of Alastor’s lips as weariness began to tug insistently at his mind.

 Just this once, he decided as his eyes slipped shut once more. Just this once, he would bask in the warmth of this inexplicable connection. 

Consequences be damned. 

[villainsimpqueen]

Echoes lost in paradise

Adam x reader x Eve.

reader is intersexed.

ALL MY FANFICS ARE 18+

chap 10

Greeting her perfect creation should have been peaceful, an exciting exchange with him praising the heavens blessings. 

To be grateful of all of her hard work she did to make sure his faith was strong for the pearly gates..

But Adams reawakening into the realm of heaven's blissfully peace was anything but blissful nor peaceful. 

It was wrong. 

He had woken up in a panic, screaming at the cherubs and angels that were there to aid him and comfort him instead of praising them with thanks for their generosity. 

Screaming the names of the damned ones. 

“Where's Eve?! Where art my children? My family!?” Adam had shouted in his panic state as his bright golden eyes as bright as the halo that crowned above his head shimmered as he looked around, Newly formed and shimmering gold wings uncontrolled spreading and jerking, slapping away cherubs who tried to calm him. 

A wave of her hand had them flying away leaving them as Sera had glided down from above to handle the situation, her hands grasping the freshly dead and blessed first man by his shoulders. 

“Adam.” Her tone soft but strict with warning, she watched as his gold eyes filled with his unnerves filled with familiarity of her face, for she had seen him a few times before his falling from Eden, She did create him in god's image after all. And while she had never once told her creation of her name, he was now in paradise, free of all sin and corruption from that damn temptress and snakes, He now knowingly knew of her name. 

“Sera…” He muttered before the worry filled his bright golden eyes once more.

“Eve?...Seth…my family…” He muttered in questioning, she would break that habit from him soon enough. 

No one should question heaven. 

“"Thou art my creation, and thou alone hath remained unstained, unlike the others whose destinies are now set; they held not the pure and perfect virtue thou dost possess.” She had hoped to ease him, not understanding why so much more worry furrowed on his brows. 

“"She was virtuous, Eve was virtuous, She had faith in me, She bestowed upon me life, not from the hand of angels but from her own flesh, her own toils, She was a tender and devoted mother, My wife was virtuous. She ought to be here by my side. She is unblemished!” He spoke back against her.

Her eyes had narrowed at him as she stared down at the little tantrum he was throwing. 

"She had partaken of the forbidden fruit, Letting damnation devour her soul—” Her words being cut off by her creations temper.

"I, too, had consumed the forbidden, yet found myself cradled once more in the arms of heaven! Why am I permitted to return to paradise with the fruit lodged in my throat for so long, yet my virtuous wife is condemned? She has endured your harsh retributions, has heaven not exacted enough suffering from her? Have her thighs not been dyed with crimson torment enough to appease heaven’s cruelty? You claim she is impure, yet I have witnessed impurity, and she is far from it! So why is she not here beside me?” Adam had snapped back, lips curling like a snare. 

Questioning. 

Defying Heaven's natural order. 

Who was he to seek questions from? 

To be so ungrateful of what she had to do to ensure he was to stay perfect? 

She watched how quickly that snare turned to fear as her wings all rose, expanding and the feathers ruffling to double the sight of them in size. The many eyes of the divine on her person opened and glowing brightly as she glared at him. 

"Thou dost forget thy station amidst these heavens. Thou art but a tender of heaven's praise and nothing beyond; for while thou beholdest a single grain, I perceive vast fields of bounty. Thou art as a sheep, to be led by a shepherd, fortunate to receive my guidance and protection. If thou darest question the judgment of heaven once more, thou shalt be cast out to dwell with the serpent and the demoness in eternal night.” She silenced her creation, expecting him to obey like he had always done, however seeing how brightly the gold in his eyes. She saw there was just one slight flaw in him that went against her. 

"Is that where she dwells? Once cast out from paradise for my failure to protect her, I fear not another banishment, but dread her anguish.”

She made him ever loyal to the needs of those he loved above his own. 

An honest and good trait when it isn't being applied against her.

she needed a way to break that sense of loyalty to the damned. 

He was her creation afterall, the very soul she built in the lord's image. 

He was to be loyal to heaven and heaven only. 

“‘You dread her pain? Adam does nothing but takes pleasure in the damnation. Feeding off their sins as if it was a devine course filling the darkness that she had become.” She changed her voice and tone sounding saddened and hurt, watching how those golden eyes burned with such passion she would correct.

“Lies! I know my wife, I know my sun.” He had snarled back at her in the damned wrenches defense. 

Such passion, such confidence, yet….

“Dost thou truly comprehend, Adam? Art though aware of how readily she didst embrace another betwixt her thighs? How she ne'er beseeched the heavens after her exile? Dost thou grasp the shadows she didst unleash upon biting into yon apple? The whispers of corruption she didst impart unto thy progeny? The seeds of doubt she didst sow in thy children and their progeny? And what manner of being hath she become in the wake of her demise?” 

 She spoke down on his condensation on the tip of her tongue as she scolded down on him. 

Her eyes watching how he went to move to speak but she lifted a hand.

“Perhaps showing would be better” And with a snap of her fingers she forced her own views of what the damned wench had become. 

Swirls of hallucinogenic visions would swarm him, filling his eyes full with white blinding light as they worked their imagery onto Adam.

He looked better when he feared her more. 

Darkness had filled Adam's vision, blinding him in its thick void. 

A coldness evolved around him that made his bones ache in stiffness. 

He felt exposed in such a familiar way that not even his heavenly robes could shield him away from. 

Eyes staring at him, from all directions, their pupils following every small movement he made as he tried to run, escape the darkness that surrounded him, escape it all. 

The eyes opening wide pupils transfixion into transparent pools of visions.

Visions of humanity deprivities, 

the cruelties they learned and knew they could inflict on one of another.

A sickness that allowed them to consume them and feed a darkness that he had once thought seemingly appeared from nowhere, in bad apples which he had banished away to protect the good.

He was no longer alive, no longer there to protect the good from the bad. 

The saints from the sinners.

And he fell to his knees and these endless eyes, the endless revealing pools of humanity sinners. 

Men inflicting such atrocious deeds onto women, to children, the very beautiful creatures they were always meant to protect and love.

Deeds that he could only comprehend to be worse than death itself and it sickened him. 

It sickened him and filled him with a greater anguish than he had when he found the dead body of his second son and his blood on his firsts hands. 

Such acts made bile fill his throat. 

and it wasn't just the men, The women too, failed to protect their spawn by turning their cheeks the other way choosing a deranged man over the innocence of their  sons and daughters. Some even beat and throw out their children over the most inhuman logical reasons.

Then it was imagery of human societies pillaging each other, killings of all in their path, men, women, children, all for  that could be shared, and those killed in such genocide did not had to face being taken from their homes forced into chains, forced to preform acts against their will, forced to work with little promise of their freedoms. 

To the imagery of His wife and Son sitting on a beach, tear stains dripping down his boy's cheek as he turned to his mother for comfort.

Eve turned her head with a wicked smile on her face as she patted the top of Cain's head, whispering words of one truly damned.

“Heaven does not care for those who are mortal, therefore who are we to care for their judgment?” 

the first seed of doubt planted into his young son's mind only to be watered and flourish with each doubt against heaven, with each sin that led him to killing his kin. 

His wife turned to look at him but he was not met with her soft sweet features that he always knew off, but with a haunting silhouette of darkness that whispered about in a mocking form of his wife's image. Eyes covered the feminine figure and they all stared into him. 

His stomach began to curl as the hair on his body began to rise in the instinct of knowing when it was being preyed upon in the face of immediate danger. 

This darkness formed a mouth that grinned splitting wide from ear to ear as its body grew and grew with a large eye covered hand reaching out him, to grab him, to capture him, to force him to see what had became of their legacy, their greatest mistake, the curse they allowed to infect the earth humanity.

He scrambled backwards, his wings somehow shimmering off such little light in darkness so thick he clung to them, frilling the golden feathers nearly ripping them out as he forced his wings to close around him as he curled into them. 

The haunting dark laughter of the woman he once knew and loved surrounded him as he held his wings tighter, a broken sob leaving him.

“Make it stop…Please make it stop.”

She had watched him cowardly, listening to his pleading as the visions started to shatter him. 

 She would allow them to torment his mind a little longer until he was screaming his pleads to be helped, breathless sobs choking from his throat as his hands pulled out clumps of his puffed up feathers.

She had only stopped once his nails found their way to his hair, with broken pleading whispers to be helped. 

with a wave of her hand she stopped them, watching him shake in the ball of false security he had created for himself out of his wings. She kneeled down to him, placing a soft hand on his back, feeling him jerk with a sob. 

“Do not be afraid, child, you are safe.” She softly tells him as she rubs his back to his hair.

“Behold now the fate that hath befallen thy wife. Understand why she is barred from the embrace of heaven once more?” She did not get a response from him as his broken sobs were all that came from him. Yet she smiled to herself as she kept petting him, giving him that false comfort  as if she was always a friend. 

She would later answer his quiet questions of his son Abel being here and she would bluntly state that Cain had smitten his soul completely erasing it from existence, that Abel was gone forever and it was because of Cain's hatred of his brother. 

Answered his questions of if another human would be able to cross into heaven's gates, with a simple response that if they were pure when they passed then surely they too will join him in the heavenly paradise. 

Where he would live amongst the heavenly clouds was easy as well, simply wherever he wanted.

What purposes he would have now he was in heaven, why another simple answer, he had no purpose but to fully relax and enjoy the spoils of heaven for he had earned it. 

“Then... I crave to dwell amidst my echo, my y/n, within the gardens. May I depart to them forthwith?” he had meekly asked, hopefulness and pure desperation.

That 

She was not prepared for it, She had thought he had forgotten them. 

Why would he bother remembering when he was banished? When he was focused on so many more important things like surviving and tending to his family's needs? After so long? Why did he remember them when he had forgotten so many other things during his lifespan of nine hundred years? 

And yet with a calm emotionless and collected face she turned looking down on the much smaller man. Such a hopeful expression on his face,

It was a shame, really.

For she would not ever risk anyone finding the gardens. 

finding You. 

especially in the state she left you in. 

You, The vessel of the sins she had done to gain her high position and power. 

It took all in her to not let out a laugh at the irony of everything. He could have all he ever wanted in Paradise and he asks for the one thing she would never allow to be seen in the time of day or night again. 

“They are gone Adam.” She states bluntly, a lack of compassion as she stares at him watching how so many emotions moved across his facial features.

“huh?” Was all that left his lips in disbelief as he looked up at her, in confusion. 

“They exist no more, for they too have forsaken us. Their existence was solely to maintain the blissful love between thee and Eve, and maybe it was because thy love was not…” 

“No..” His words cut her off, but it was not so outrageously against her, but one of broken tones, as if he was shattering even more, his eyes watery as he looked at her with grief.

“I loved them, I still love them so much..” He whispered as if he was swearing his honesty, and she knew his words were true. 

she moved a hand to his shoulder softly squeezing in comfort for him.

“But did Eve?” 

and seeing how the look in his eyes crumbled, she knew he would not question her again. 

And so she spun her silken lies, telling him that Eden existed no more and So did you. Gone, Lost in paradise. 

And having nothing else to prove her words wrong he believed her like he obediently should. 

She had brought him to her home watching him crumble in a corner of her public space and she left him there as she moved to her room. She expected silence but wails chiming out had greeted her instead making her rush to a most comfortable nest peering down at what once was a heavenly egg now a screaming wailing little seraphim. 

A daughter just for her to raise in her perfection. 

She decided to give the child a good name, a heavenly name. 

Emily. 

[skiplo-wave]

Adam wasn't the only angel to die in the season finale. And if his actions are enough to condemn a soul to damnation, surely, the same could be said of all the other exterminators. You get what I'm saying?

Vaggie seeing her ex sisters pull up to hotel:

Knowing Charlie, bless her heart, she think at least one wants to be redeemed ( if that’s even possible )

Man lowkey wished Lute stayed in hell with Vaggie that be some crazy development there

[lisabrueckner]

Tree of Life, Panel, c. 1310-1315

From the Convent of Monticelli in Florence

The subject is inspired by the poetic composition entitled "Lignum Vitae" (The Tree of Life) written by Bonaventura da Bagnoregio, a Saint of the Franciscan order. It refers to the verse of the Apocalypse (22, 2) stating the Tree of Life yields twelve harvest a year and provides man with the gifts of God. Jesus Christ is shown crucified on a tree whose twelve branches are filled with medallions symbolizing these fruits. At the base of the tree, Stories from Genesis are illustrated, from the Creation of Adam and Eve to the Expulsion from Paradise, reminding us that Christ died on the Cross to save man from eternal damnation. The register right above these scenes contains depictions of four figures: Moses, Saint Francis, Saint Clare, patron saint of the Convent of Monticelli, and Saint John the Evangelist. The medallions on the branches illustrate various episodes from the life of Christ, His Passion and Glory. The image at the top depicts the Virgin and Christ enthroned amidst a multitude of Angels, Saints and the Blessed. Below these images, flanked by Prophets Ezekiel and Daniel, a pelican rips open its breast to feed its young, symbolizing the love of Christ who died for the salvation of mankind. On the large far wall of the refectory in the Franciscan Convent of Santa Croce, a fresco by Taddeo Gaddi presents the same iconography: a central image of Christ crucified on the Tree of Life. At the foot of the Cross, among several Franciscan saints, Saint Bonaventura is shown intently writing his "Lignum Vitae". Pacino di Buonaguida, author of this painting and also a illuminator, was one of the most prominent artists in early fourteenth-century Florentine painting.

[a-typical]

SOME TEN THOUSAND MEN had come to participate in a solemn service, including the Blockälteste, the Kapos, all bureaucrats in the service of Death.

“Blessed be the Almighty…”

The voice of the officiating inmate had just become audible. At first I thought it was the wind.

“Blessed be God’s name…”

Thousands of lips repeated the benediction, bent over like trees in a storm.

Blessed be God’s name?

Why, but why would I bless Him? Every fiber in me rebelled. Because He caused thousands of children to burn in His mass graves? Because He kept six crematoria working day and night, including Sabbath and the Holy Days? Because, in His great might, He had created Auschwitz, Birkenau, Buna, and so many other factories of death? How could I say to Him: Blessed be Thou, Almighty, Master of the Universe, who chose us among all nations to be tortured day and night, to watch as our fathers, our mothers, our brothers end up in the furnaces? Praised be Thy Holy Name, for having chosen us to be slaughtered on Thine altar?

I listened as the inmate’s voice rose; it was powerful yet broken, amid the weeping, the sobbing, the sighing of the entire “congregation”:

“All the earth and universe are God’s!”

He kept pausing, as though he lacked the strength to uncover the meaning beneath the text. The melody was stifled in his throat.

And I, the former mystic, was thinking: Yes, man is stronger, greater than God. When Adam and Eve deceived You, You chased them from paradise. When You were displeased by Noah’s generation, You brought down the Flood. When Sodom lost Your favor, You caused the heavens to rain down fire and damnation. But look at these men whom You have betrayed, allowing them to be tortured, slaughtered, gassed, and burned, what do they do? They pray before You! They praise Your name!

“All of creation bears witness to the Greatness of God!”

In days gone by, Rosh Hashanah had dominated my life. I knew that my sins grieved the Almighty and so I pleaded for forgiveness. In those days, I fully believed that the salvation of the world depended on every one of my deeds, on every one of my prayers.

But now, I no longer pleaded for anything. I was no longer able to lament. On the contrary, I felt very strong. I was the accuser, God the accused. My eyes had opened and I was alone, terribly alone in a world without God, without man. Without love or mercy. I was nothing but ashes now, but I felt myself to be stronger than this Almighty to whom my life had been bound for so long. In the midst of these men assembled for prayer, I felt like an observer, a stranger.

The service ended with Kaddish. Each one recited Kaddish for his parents, for his children, and for himself.

We remained standing in the Appelplatz for a long time, unable to detach ourselves from this surreal moment. Then came the time to go to sleep, and slowly the inmates returned to their blocks. I thought I heard them wishing each other a Happy New Year!

I ran to look for my father. At the same time I was afraid of having to wish him a happy year in which I no longer believed. He was leaning against the wall, bent shoulders sagging as if under a heavy load. I went up to him, took his hand, and kissed it. I felt a tear on my hand. Whose was it? Mine? His? I said nothing. Nor did he. Never before had we understood each other so clearly.

The sound of the bell brought us back to reality. We had to go to bed. We came back from very far away. I looked up at my father’s face, trying to glimpse a smile or something like it on his stricken face. But there was nothing. Not the shadow of an expression. Defeat.

Night - Elie Wiesel

[buttererer]

JMYMX155 Next Time Around

Mix By SPARETIRE - May 11, 2024 JULIE BYRNE __ PERE UBU __ REYNOLS __ WIRE __ THE 012 __ CHRIS KNOX __ HUMAN SEXUAL RESPONSE __ THE SAINTS __REBEL TRUCE __ RAINY DAY WOMEN __ FURRY COUCH __ THE WITCH TRIALS __ DELILAH DILAUDID __ BONNIE KOLOC __ KATHY McCORD __ SIMON JOYNER __ TIM HARDIN __ THE SINGLEMAN AFFAIR __ THE OCCASIONAL WORD __ CAT MOTHER AND THE ALL NIGHT NEWSBOYS __ CRESSIDA __ DAMNATION OF ADAM BLESSING __ YXIMALLOO __ DEREK BAILEY & JOELLE LEANDRE __ KLANGKRIEG __ WEATHER REPORT __ WILLIAM DeVAUGHN __ SANDRO BRUGNOLINI __ LOU RAGLAND / WILDFIRE __ THE TREMELOES __ CHRIS YOULDEN __ VIC CHESNUTT __ JULIUS HEMPHILL __ SUN CITY GIRLS __ SOLOMONOFF & HOFFMANNSTAHL __ DON BOLLES & OTOMO YOSHIHIDE __ POLITESS __ ROBERT BOLMAN __ THE BASIC FOOD GROUP __ JADE WARRIOR __ KAZUE SAWAI __ SANDY DENNY

[thorntonkrell-blog-blog]

Lazarus was very upset to be removed from heaven and brought back to Earth. What Lazarus didn't know was that he had not gone to heaven. He had gone to Limbo. Still Limbo was a lot better than his deathbed to which he returned.

Christ brought Lazarus back from the dead just before his own crucifixion. In Catholic theology, it is believed that Christ's crucifixion played a pivotal role in opening the gates of heaven. According to Catholic doctrine, humanity was separated from God due to the original sin of Adam and Eve. This separation prevented humanity from entering into the fullness of eternal life with God.

Christ's sacrificial death on the cross is considered to be an act of atonement for the sins of humanity. By willingly offering himself as a perfect sacrifice, Jesus paid the price for human sin and reconciled humanity with God. This act of redemption made it possible for the gates of heaven to be opened to all who believe in Jesus and follow him.

The Catechism of the Catholic Church teaches that through his passion, death, and resurrection, Jesus "opened heaven's gates for the just who had gone before him." It is believed that Jesus descended into hell, referred to as the "harrowing of hell," to liberate the souls of the righteous who died before his coming. Following his resurrection, Jesus ascended into heaven and opened the way for all believers to attain eternal life with God.

We can not be sure if Lazarus died for the second time before or after Christ's crucifixion but let's assume that he died after the crucifixion.

Not only would this make Lazarus the only person to journey from life to death and then the return trip to life and then back to death when death itself had been moved from Limbo to Heaven. Lazarus thought he knew what he was doing and where he was going when he passed for the second time.

He underestimated the experience.

Although Limbo was a place of perfect natural happiness, where souls are free from suffering, they do not possess the supernatural and beatific vision of God that is experienced in heaven. They are not in the direct presence of God, but they are not subject to any pain or punishment.

For Lazarus the absence of pain was heavenly enough.

In contrast, heaven is the ultimate destination for those who have died in a state of grace, having been fully reconciled with God. It is the state of eternal communion and union with God, where the blessed enjoy the beatific vision, experiencing the fullness of God's presence, love, and glory. Heaven is a state of complete and perfect happiness, along with the eternal joy and sense of fulfillment not present in Limbo

On his return trip, Lazarus gained that perfect grasp of joy and fullfillment. He knew the difference.

This was a particularly joyful time in heaven because all of the souls who had been waiting in Limbo for Christ to open the gates after his crucifixion and triumphant descent into Hell had finally gained entry.

In Catholic theology, it is believed that before Christ's descent into hell, the souls of the righteous who died before his coming were not trapped in hell but rather in a place called the Limbo of the Fathers or the "Bosom of Abraham." This was a temporary abode where the righteous souls were awaiting the coming of the Messiah and the fullness of salvation.

The Limbo of the Fathers was distinct from the hell of damnation, which is the place of eternal separation from God for those who have rejected Him. The souls in the Limbo of the Fathers were not being punished but rather were in a state of waiting and anticipation.

Waiting and waiting and waiting and waiting and waiting and waiting Waiting and waiting and waiting and waiting and waiting and waiting Waiting and waiting and waiting and waiting and waiting and waiting Waiting and waiting and waiting and waiting and waiting and waiting waiting and waiting and waiting and waiting and waiting and waiting Waiting and waiting and waiting and waiting and waiting and waiting Waiting and waiting and waiting and waiting and waiting and waiting Waiting and waiting and waiting and waiting and waiting and waiting

Lazarus had only waited four days.

Lazarus was known among his neighbors as a kind and gentle soul, always ready to lend a helping hand. Lazarus led a simple yet content life, cherishing the moments with his beloved sisters, Mary and Martha.

However, Lazarus had always possessed a deep yearning for spiritual enlightenment. He sought answers to profound questions that stirred within his soul, questioning the nature of life, death, and the afterlife. His quest for meaning often led him to engage in deep contemplation and seek solitude in the quiet corners of his village.

One fateful day, Lazarus fell gravely ill, and his condition deteriorated rapidly. His body weakened, and his spirit clung to the brink of the unknown. As the veil between life and death grew thin, Lazarus felt a sense of tranquility enveloping him, as if beckoning him towards a realm beyond mortal comprehension.

In the depths of his illness, Lazarus sensed a presence, a force guiding him through a realm of ethereal beauty and serenity. He felt a connection to something greater, an undeniable peace that surpassed anything he had ever experienced in the mortal realm. Lazarus had come to his true home.

But just as Lazarus began to surrender to this newfound realm of tranquility, a powerful force called him back. He awakened to find himself lying on his deathbed, surrounded by his tearful sisters and concerned friends. Their joyous cries of his revival echoed through the room, but deep within, Lazarus felt a profound sense of loss and sadness.

As Lazarus rose from his sickbed, he found himself caught between two worlds. He had tasted the sublime embrace of the afterlife, only to be abruptly torn away from its loving embrace. The mortal realm now appeared dim and colorless, a stark contrast to the vibrant tapestry of eternity he had glimpsed.

Lazarus struggled to adjust to this unexpected return to life. He yearned for the ethereal realm that had captivated his spirit, where he had felt at one with the universe. The sights and sounds of the village, once familiar and comforting, now felt like an impenetrable barrier separating him from true fulfillment.

Despite the joyous celebrations of his loved ones, Lazarus couldn't help but feel a deep sense of alienation. He longed to share his experience, to make others understand the profound beauty and peace he had encountered. But his attempts at articulating his journey fell on deaf ears, met with skepticism and disbelief.

As days turned into weeks and weeks into months, Lazarus grew increasingly withdrawn. His once radiant spirit became shrouded in a veil of melancholy. He struggled to find purpose and meaning in his revived existence, haunted by the loss of the ethereal paradise he had glimpsed.

Lazarus was filled with anger and resentment. He couldn't comprehend why Jesus had interfered with his peaceful existence, why he had been dragged back into the tumultuous world of the living against his will.

Lazarus confronted Jesus, his voice trembling with emotion. "Why did you bring me back? Why disrupt the tranquility I had found? I was at peace, and now I am forced to endure the hardships of mortal existence once more. I don't get it"

Jesus, understanding the depth of Lazarus' anguish, approached him with compassion. "Lazarus, my friend, I understand your pain and confusion. It was not an easy decision to bring you back. But I did so to show the power of faith and to remind humanity of the gift of life. Your resurrection is a testament to the miracle that awaits all who believe."

Lazarus, still consumed by anger, struggled to accept Jesus' explanation. "But why must I bear the burden of this miracle? Why must I navigate the complexities of life when I had found peace in death? Does this mean that everybody is gonna come back?"

Jesus placed a hand on Lazarus' shoulder, his eyes filled with empathy. "Life is a gift, my friend, even with its hardships and trials. You have been given a second chance, an opportunity to appreciate the fleeting nature of existence, to cherish every moment with renewed gratitude and purpose. Seek meaning in this life, for it is through your experiences that you can find solace and enlightenment."

Lazarus, though still harboring doubts, felt a glimmer of understanding. He realized that his anger stemmed from his longing for the peace he had found beyond the grave. But in the presence of Jesus' words, a seed of acceptance began to sprout within him.

Eventually, Lazarus embarked on a journey of self-discovery, seeking solace and understanding. He traveled far and wide, meeting wise sages and scholars, delving into ancient texts and philosophies. Along the way, he encountered others who had experienced the boundary between life and death, finding solace in their shared stories.

Through his journey, Lazarus discovered that his anger and bitterness were natural responses to the disruption of the natural order. He realized that his second chance at life was an opportunity to appreciate the fleeting nature of existence, to savor every moment with gratitude and awareness.

With newfound wisdom, Lazarus returned to Bethany, transformed by his experiences. He embraced his loved ones and shared his journey with them, teaching them the importance of cherishing each day, for life is a fragile and precious gift.

And so, Lazarus found peace within himself, no longer angered by his return to life. He became a source of inspiration and enlightenment for others, reminding them to embrace every moment and seek the beauty and meaning in their own lives.

As Lazarus ventured forth, sharing his profound experience with those who would listen, his words resonated deeply within the hearts of some, stirring a powerful sense of devotion and awe. News of his resurrection and the ethereal realm he had witnessed spread like wildfire, captivating the imaginations of many.

Among those captivated was a small group of individuals who saw Lazarus as more than a mere messenger. Their minds, clouded by desperation and longing for divine intervention, yearned for a tangible connection to the divine. In their fervor, they mistook Lazarus for a deity, believing he embodied the very essence of God Himself.

Word of this newfound cult, devoted to the worship of Lazarus, reached the far corners of the land. People from near and far flocked to witness his presence, seeking his blessings and guidance. They knelt before him, their eyes filled with reverence and hope, placing their faith in a mortal man who had brushed against the realms of eternity.

Lazarus, deeply aware of the misconceptions that had arisen, felt conflicted within his soul. On one hand, he empathized with the desperation and longing that led these individuals to revere him as divine. On the other hand, he knew the truth of his mortal nature and the limits of his own understanding.

With a heavy heart, Lazarus confronted his followers, urging them to look beyond his mortal existence and seek the divine within themselves. He implored them to recognize that his resurrection was not an affirmation of his own divinity but a testament to the greater power of love, faith, and the mysteries of existence.

Though Lazarus spoke with humility and sincerity, his followers clung tightly to their beliefs, unwilling to let go of the notion that their savior walked among them. They viewed his humility as a sign of his divine modesty, interpreting his every word and action as a message from God.

As the cult grew in numbers and influence, Lazarus found himself torn between the responsibility he felt toward his followers and the necessity of dispelling their misconceptions. He sought solace in prayer, pleading for guidance from the divine forces that had touched his life so intimately.

In a moment of profound clarity, Lazarus realized that he could no longer perpetuate the misunderstanding that had taken root. He gathered his followers and delivered a heartfelt sermon, revealing the truth of his mortal nature and urging them to look beyond him for spiritual connection and guidance.

Some of his devoted followers were heartbroken and felt betrayed, while others struggled to reconcile their beliefs with the truth that Lazarus presented. The cult gradually disbanded, leaving behind a community in search of a new spiritual path, one that would guide them on their own unique journeys.

In the aftermath, Lazarus retreated from the public eye, seeking solitude and introspection. He dedicated himself to a life of service, offering his wisdom and compassion to all who sought solace. He became a symbol of resilience, reminding others of the transformative power of faith and the importance of seeking truth within themselves.

As time passed and the fervor surrounding Lazarus subsided, a faction within his former cult began to question the authenticity of his divinity. Doubt crept into their hearts, fueled by the absence of Lazarus from the public eye and the growing skepticism of those outside the cult.

These disillusioned members, once fervent in their devotion, now felt a sense of betrayal and disillusionment. They started to view Lazarus as a mere mortal who had deceived them with tales of divine encounters. Rumors spread, tarnishing his once revered image and portraying him as a fraud.

Some individuals within the cult, who had once believed wholeheartedly in Lazarus' divinity, became vocal critics. They accused him of manipulating their faith for personal gain and questioned the authenticity of his resurrection. Their discontent grew, and a growing rift tore through the once-unified group.

Lazarus, unaware of the growing sentiment of disbelief and betrayal, continued his life of solitude and contemplation. He remained dedicated to his personal journey of seeking truth and sharing his wisdom, even as the perception of his followers shifted dramatically.

However, there were still those who steadfastly believed in Lazarus, despite the doubts that plagued others. They held onto the memory of the hope and inspiration he had instilled in them, refusing to be swayed by the accusations of fraudulence. These loyal followers continued to seek solace and guidance in Lazarus' teachings, seeing them as a source of personal growth and enlightenment.

Amidst the divided opinions within the cult, debates and conflicts arose, further splintering the community. Some members chose to distance themselves entirely, disillusioned and seeking new spiritual paths, while others clung to their faith in Lazarus, defending his honor against the accusations.

As the dust settled, the once-vibrant cult became a fragmented community, each member choosing their own path based on their individual beliefs and experiences. Lazarus, aware of the discord his presence had caused, found solace in the understanding that truth is subjective and that every individual must navigate their own spiritual journey.

Lazarus with the help of his sisters left the public life forever. Eventually he made the journey back where Jesus and the Father greeted him. Lazarus was truly home again. All the records of his life after his resurrection were stricken from the memory of the faithful.

The story of Lazarus, once overly celebrated for his resurrection, now carried a more nuanced narrative. It became a tale of the complexities of faith, human perception, and the inherent challenges of interpreting divine experiences. While some labeled him a fraud, others continued to find value in his teachings, choosing to focus on the transformative power of his message rather than the doubts surrounding his identity.

In the end, the legacy of Lazarus was not defined solely by the opinions of his followers or the accusations of fraudulence. It rested upon the individuals who had found solace and inspiration in his resurrection, as well as those who had grown skeptical and sought their own paths to spiritual truth. And in the ever-evolving tapestry of beliefs and interpretations, the true essence of Lazarus' earthly and heavenly experience continued to reverberate, challenging individuals to seek their own understanding of the divine.

[reasontowhine]

The John and Buzz Show 11/4/2019

The Mortals - Disintegration

Exploding Hearts - Throwaway Style

Flesh Eaters - The Hammer Hits The Nail

Prisonshake - Always Almost There

Pagans - Little Black Egg

The Bats - I Go Wild

Mike Rep and the Quotas - Fade Away

Lair Matic - Meet Me In A Dream

Naked Skinnies - All My Life

~Punk Pink Panther~

New Salem Witch Hunters - Kiskis

The Clocks - Confidentially Renee

Damnation Of Adam Blessing - Death Of A Virgin

Hawk Baby - Hologram I Am

Spike In Vain - A Means To An End

No Parole - Concentration Camp

Mirrors - I Think I’m Falling

Great Plains - The Way She Runs A Fever

Cold Cold Hearts - ?

Lime Spiders - Beyond The Fringe

[pulpnoire]

Robert McGinnis, cover art for The Damnation of Adam Blessing, 1961

[sofakingmanyrecords]

“Morning Dew” is a brilliant, chilling post-apocalyptic song that’s pretty hard to fuck up, but this 1969 psychedelic hard rock version by the underappreciated Cleveland protopunk band The Damnation of Adam Blessing is probably my favorite of them all.

[woodencup]

Clever Box

https://www.mixcloud.com/woodencup/clever-box/

22-Pistepirkko - [Just A] Little Bit More

Aldous Harding - Old Peel

King Gizzard & The Lizard Wizard - Dreams

Eagle - Pack Up

Natalie Bergman - Talk To The Lord

The Damnation Of Adam Blessing - Last Train To Clarksville

Reds, Pinks And Purples - The Record Player & The Damage Done

Caoilfhionn Rose — To Me

The Feminine Complex - Hide and Seek

El Michels Affair - Murkit Gem

Babe Rainbow - Thinking Like A River

Love - My Little Red Book

[illustratus]

Satan in the Garden of Eden, by Gustave Doré from John Milton's Paradise Lost.

Satan now approaches Eden, which is surrounded by a great thicket wall. He easily leaps over it like a wolf entering a sheep’s pen. Inside he sees an idyllic world, with all varieties of animals and trees. He can see the tallest of the trees, the Tree of Life—and next to it, the forbidden Tree of Knowledge. He perches himself on the Tree of Life, disguised as a cormorant, a large sea bird. Finally, he notices two creatures walking erect among the other animals. They walk naked without shame, and work pleasantly, tending the garden. Satan’s pain and envy intensifies as he sees this new beautiful race, created after he and his legions fell. He could have loved them, but now, his damnation will be revenged through their destruction. He continues to watch them, and the man, Adam, speaks. He tells Eve not to complain of the work they have to do but to be obedient to God, since God has given them so many blessings, and only one constraint: they must not eat the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge. Eve agrees wholeheartedly, and they embrace.

[amuseoffyre]

A few things to bear in mind about our lads in show canon.

Aziraphale has:

performed diabolical temptations regularly for well over a millennia

lied to Crowley, Gabriel and all the other angels at various times. And later, all the demons of Hell so convincingly he was allowed to walk out again

concealed information from his partner-in-crime on multiple occasions

recklessly wandered into danger for the sake of a pancake

spent years casually manipulating a demon into doing good deeds by sheer power of puppy-dog eyes

stood by and watched as said demon offed people on his behalf

genuinely tried to shoot Adam, if it had not been for Madame Tracy

Crowley has:

openly confessed his love for humanity

rescued an angel from death multiple times

performed divine miracles and blessings regularly for well over a millennia

loved kids and hated the idea of hurting them

never once lied to Aziraphale about anything that would cause him harm

patiently waited for his best friend in the world to realise exactly how much he loved him

absolutely trusted Aziraphale even with his life

still mourned his damnation when no one can see it

cried in a pub when his friend died and had a breakdown when his beloved car was wrecked

These two idiots, you guys!

[thelordofdarkreunion]

Magnificent Scoundrels- Explanation of Caution

Part II of “Pariah”.  Sorry it took so long for me to get this out, but I had to re-write it four times.  The first was too boring, the second too weird, the third too long and too boring and so on.  On to the story!

Aboard the Omen

The marines looked up with barely concealed hatred at Cain.  The man in question barely noticed it.  He watched, impassively, as the Valhallan Guardsmen tore through the marines’ personal possessions, tipping over containers, opening drawers, and searching every inch of their quarters and person.  Teams of Imperials were searching the entire ship, weapons at the ready, bayonets fixed.  For what exactly, Adam Vir and the crew of the Omen didn’t know.  Only that every member of the crew, alien and human alike, were being held at gunpoint as Imperial Guardsmen walked through the ship’s long halls.  

“Nothing on the Captain’s logs, sir,” said one of the Valhallan officers.  Vir looked at her with a frown on his face, arms crossed.  He had allowed them to do what they wanted to avoid any bloodshed or misunderstanding.  He was getting rather fed up, though.  If this continued for long, or if things got violent… he still had the Iron Eye suit on under his clothing.  Kill Cain and the guards, if necessary, get to the armory, take back the ship.  Chaplain Tope walked into the room.

“Nothing, Commissar.  Not even amongst the xenos,” he reported.  Cain turned to face him, black greatcoat swirling.  

“You sure?” he asked.

“Yes,” replied Tope.  “They can all stand in the presence of Imperial relics and prayers.”  

“Good.”  Cain keyed his comms.  “Colonel?  Major?  Have you found anything?”  

“Nothing.  No signs.  We used their blueprints to search the entire ship.  Everything is clean.”  Vir couldn’t take it anymore.  

“What’s going on, Cain?  What are you looking for?”  Cain turned to him and seemed to be musing things over.  He spun around.

“You.  Marine.  What is the proper procedure if you’re being charged in battle?”  The marine looked at him strangely.  

“Uh… fortify a secure location or take the high ground?  Fight back from defensive positions?”  Cain nodded slowly.  Good.  

No signs of taint.  No mutations.  No psykers except that Emperor-damned xeno.  The marines don’t show any signs of excessive violence or willingness to get into close quarters.  No murders in training.  No odd cliques or groups.  The entire ship is exceptionally sterile and clean.  No strange blights or markings.  No signs of drugs or orgies, thank the Emperor.  No perverse and blasphemous symbols painted in blood or other… fluids.  They can all stand being around Imperial holy relics and Jurgen.  Nothing.  Nothing wrong or out of the ordinary throughout the entire ship.  Trust them or not.  

You are Commissar Ciaphas Cain, noted for his mercy.  Hero to your men for not cleaning house when other Commissars would have.  You have orders to investigate.  You have already trusted xenos.  You have already trusted Vir.  

Innocentia nihil probat.  Innocence proves nothing.  Trust leads to a poor end.  Your life matters the most, above all else.  Hate the xenos.  Cleanse the xenos.  More trust leads to heresy.  That way the path of damnation lays.  

He came to a conclusion.  Compromise.  

“Admiral Vir, I believe this has once again, been another, uh… cultural misunderstanding.  Forgive me for my thoroughness.”  He looked over at the still put-off stare of the Admiral.  “I believe I told you that it’s better to explain too much caution than suffer for not enough.  If you’ll come back to my office, I’ll be happy to explain.”  Nodding slightly, the same expression still on her face, Vir followed him out of the room.  The Imperial Guardsmen stared at the marines for an eternal, awkward moment before their officer snapped at them and they retreated from the room in an orderly fashion.  The officer presented a salute, then turned on her heel and marched after them.  The marines stared at each other.  

“What was that all about?” asked Ramirez to no-one in particular.  The other marines shook their heads with varying degrees of anger and perplexity.  

“I’m not sure.  But I think I know someone who might…” trailed off Maverick pensively.  

In the (Temporary and Borrowed) Office of Commissar Cain 

Vir followed Cain’s billowing greatcoat back into his office, the place where this mess had all started in the first place.  

“Sit down,” offered Cain.  “Want anything to drink?  Tea?  Re- uh, actually… I believe your word for word for it is coffee?”  Vir rubbed his forehead.  

“Yeah, sure.  Coffee is fine.”  Cain nodded.

“Jurgen!  One tanna, one recaf.”  Cain looked back at Vir.  “Tanna leaf tea from Valhalla, recaf is coffee.”

“Recaf, re-caffeinated… makes sense.”

“I suppose,” sighed Cain as the drinks were brought in.  “Now, on to business.”

“Yes.  I would quite like to know what all of that was about.”  It was more of a statement than a question.

“...yes.  Of course.”  Cain rubbed his neck as he tried to find a way to explain.  “Where I come from there exists… a corrupting influence, is probably the best way to put it.  Uh…”  His hand drummed on the side of his mug.  “Now, again, where I come from, there are… some… who have… unnatural abilities.  They can do… strange, strange things, among them telepathy.  However, to access these… abilities puts them into contact with this corrupting influence.  Without the blessings of the Emperor, the havoc these individuals can wreak is enormous.  It is much, much better to be careful in these sort of situations.  I am sorry that this might have been a breach of trust, but if you or anyone else here were actually corrupted and hiding it, the damage to everyone and everything else would have been catastrophic.”  He paused, and offered a sincere smile.  “If there is any way to repair this mistrust, please tell me, and I shall do my utmost.”  Vir waved him off.

“S’alright,” he muttered into his coffee.  Another damn misunderstanding.  He sighed to himself and looked up.  “Now, what about Jurgen?

Maverick entered the Imperial chapel.  The temperature here, in contrast to the rest of the Valhallan quarters, was quite mild.  While she’d known that the Imperials had built a small chapel on board, she’d never been there, instead meeting Chaplain Tope in the sparse grey of one of the Omen’s conference rooms.   She didn't quite know what she had been expecting, but it certainly wasn’t this.  

The lighting in the room had been toned down.  The normally cheerful white of the rest of the Omen was gone, replaced by a faint yellow glow.  Dripping white candles lit an altar, their flames barely flickering in the ship’s recycled air.  Kneeling before the altar, his head bowed in prayer, was Tope.  A gilded statuette of the golden Imperial eagle was placed reverently on top, next to the candles and a heavy leather bound tome.  The entire room had a dark, almost oppressive, gothic feel to it.  It was such a contrast to the normal Omen it stopped Maverick in her tracks.  

Was that a… skull floating in the corner?  She did a double take.  Yes, indeed, there was a human skull floating in the corner.  Some sort of metal anti-gravity device was placed where the skull normally connected to the vertebrae, and a heavy red prosthetic, glowing an eerie red in the dim light, covered one of its eye sockets.  What the hell…?

Above the altar was a painting of a man.  He wore a suit of strange armor made of gold, carved and gilded to an almost astoundingly impressive degree.  His hair was jet black, and flowed to his shoulders.  A massive flaming sword was held in one hand, and a corona of golden light illuminated his body.  But it was the expression of such utter righteous fury that took her breath away.  This was someone who knew what they were doing was right, and would have no problem utterly annihilating anyone in their way.  This figure could only be one person: the Emperor who the Imperials so fervently worshiped.  

Tope finished his prayers, made some sort of strange symbol with his hands towards the altar, then smiled over at her.  

“Chaplain Maverick.  How can I help you?”  Chaplain.  Not corporal, not just Maverick, chaplain.  Interesting.

“I was wondering… exactly what just happened?  Why was Cain searching the ship?  What was that all about?”  Tope nodded, and smiled again.  

“Ah, yes.”  He paused for a moment, thinking.  “Tell me, chaplain.  What do you believe?”  Maverick looked at him oddly.  

“Uh, well… I’m not with any particular religion.  I’m really just here to attend to any sort of spiritual needs of the crew.”  Tope gave her a strange look.  That’s not what he was asking.  

What do you believe?

“I believe that there are other… things out there.  Spirits, if you will.  I can… feel them, almost.  If that’s… what you mean.”  Tope nodded sagely.  

“Of all the people on this ship, Cain and the Guardsmen included, I feel as if you are the wisest person here.  I think you understand the most.”  Maverick looked at him oddly again.  Tope continued.  “You see, you are a marine.”  He gestured at her physique.  “You are quite strong, quite physically capable.  As a marine, having seen battle, having seen death, I’m sure you are also quite mentally strong as well.  But there is more to that, as you well know.  Spiritual strength.  The strength of faith.  The strength to resist what is beyond.”  He gave a small, kindly, laugh, then a reassuring pat on the shoulder.  

“Faith alone shall save.  I saw your face when I explained our religion to you.  There is a reason we worship the Emperor.  He is the guardian of humanity.  Everything about the Imperial Cult can be summed up with one simple phrase: the Emperor protects.  Always.  And if you have faith in Him, he will protect you as well.”  Maverick nodded.  So, that’s what they were afraid of.  The beyond.  Apparently, it was a lot worse where they came from.  Good to know.  Tope reached over to a side table, barely visible in the dim lighting, and picked up a heavy leather book with (of course) a golden eagle on the cover.  

“If you’re ever interested in learning more, read this.  It might help answer some of your questions.”  Maverick took the book and nodded.  

“Of course.  Thank you for your time, Chaplain.”  He nodded in response.  

“Any time.”  Maverick turned and walked briskly out of the room.  She decided not to ask about the skull.  

Cain pursed his lips.  “Yes, of course.  The reason why this all started in the first place.  Jurgen.”  Vir’s one good eye looked at him expectantly.  Cain sighed.  “Again, if this gets out, I’ll be forced to kill you.  Just a reminder.”  He took a sip of his strong-smelling tea, then began.

“Jurgen is a blank.  The people who I told you about earlier, the ones who can manipulate reality and other such things, are called psykers.  They draw their power from a strange, corrupted place, as I already mentioned.  Jurgen is the opposite of a psyker.  He doesn’t change reality, he anchors it.  Any sort of… things… tricks…” he struggled for the right word, “Things that do not exist in reality, any changes cannot… take effect, if you will, near him.  He shuts down their power, usually with a fair amount of pain for the manipulator.  I’ve seen all sorts of reactions to him, from fear, to pain, to outright secures and unconsciousness.  Usually any psykers cannot bear to be near him,” he finished.  He considered something for a moment, then continued.

“It should also probably be noted that blanks are extremely rare, hence the need to protect what Jurgen actually is.  Also, there isn’t any way to stop this power, so, unless you have any ideas, your alien is just going to have to stay away from him.”  Not that I’m too terribly concerned about it.  

“I understand.  I guess I just have to think of something,” mused Vir.  He stood up.  “It was good to clear things up, Commissar.”

“Of course.  The pleasure’s all mine, Admiral.”  Vir walked out of Cain’s office, nodding to Jurgen as he left.  Wasn’t that interesting?  He’d never heard of anything like that before.  Someone who could block… well, magic.  Knowing some of the things he did, knowing the nature of some threats out there, this was a handy tool indeed.  Yes, this could end quite well if he played his cards right. 

And there we have it.  Unfortunately, Conn is just going to have to stay as far away from Jurgen as possible and/or try not to read the minds of anyone close to him.  As usual, if you have any questions, comments, concerns, criticisms, or requests, feel free to ask!