#FOAM MESSIAH

[burstingatseams]

Who are you. Where did you come from. Give me the truth.

YIP YIP YIP YIP YIP YIP YIP YIP YIP YIP YIP YIP YIP YIP

SINGLE PUPPETS IN YOUR AREA LOOKING TO “YIP YIP HOORAY” ON YOUR STIFF PROBOSCIS! CURIOUS FOR MORE? VISIT PLUSHRUMP DOT COM! HIT IT THEN QUIT IT!

[niko-jpeg]

WE HAVE THE SKY

In collaboration with @sthbigbang , @tsubomiiiii , @toadstool32 , @littlelazygoblin , and @shrimpisdrawing

Word count: 55,000~

Description: After the Metal Virus is all sorted out, Silver is excited to return to a home he only ever got to dream of, in a safe and happy future.

Unfortunately for him, fate has other plans as he finds himself wrapped up in a very large misunderstanding as the believed ‘messiah’ of his time, destined of save the world. He has no understanding of his pre-established role in the world, or in his (apparently very alive) family, or if this is really the future he fought so hard to secure. Even with the help of a much older Shadow and his ghostly companion, he isn’t sure if there is a way to set things right, or most importantly: if it’s even his place to do so.

Ao3 - Google Docs <pending>

Betas: @whisker-biscuit and @lethalbreadkills

Tsubo’s Piece [Cover, Possible Spoiler Warning]

Tiny’s Piece [Chapter Two Scene]

Maya’s Piece [Title, possible spoiler warning]

Goblin’s Piece [Comic Adaptation]

Additional Art:

Goblin’s Casual Doodles!

Tsubo’s Concept Art and References!

Tiny’s ADDITIONAL Piece!!!

Maya’s Drawing of Peepaw and His Husband (Shadow and Sonic)

Misc Concept Doodles (Niko)

Bronze and Dr Foam Meme (Niko)

Dr Foam in Another Timeline (Niko)

So what ever became of Sonic and Shadow…? (Niko)

Dear Silver, (Niko)

Mephiles Doodles (Niko)

Fake Reality (Niko)

Misplaced (Niko)

Dr Foam Didn’t Start Evil (Niko)

Character Bios (Niko)

Black Arms Sonic Doesn’t Like Dr Foam. Neither Does Ghost Sonic! (CattyAnon & Niko)

Remind Mephiles Never to Play Monopoly With Mortals Again

Please check out the #We Have the Sky tag to see the rest! There’s tons to sift through!

[featherquillpen]

The Ten Best Books I Read This Year

In order of when I read them, not how much I liked them.

Yellowface by R.F. Kuang

A novel about a white author who uses yellowface to achieve literary success. I don't usually read realistic fiction, but I loved Kuang's fantasy novel Babel so I gave this one a try. It is difficult to read, but unputdownable. It's like watching a trainwreck because you just have to see how bad it gets. A takedown of the publishing industry in all its ugliness.

2. Some Desperate Glory by Emily Tesh

This is exactly the kind of sci-fi I most desire. It's a deradicalization story told from the point of view of a far-right zealot slowly deradicalizing herself. I really enjoyed the insights into exactly what it takes for a dangerously radicalized teenager to change her mind.

3. The Saint of Bright Doors by Vajra Chandrasekera

A novel about a Chosen One who walks away from his destined mission and joins group therapy for failed messiahs. Unquestionably the best book on this list. Mind-blowingly excellent. It's as funny as the premise makes it sound, but also deeply profound, politically astute, and the best new spec fic of the COVID-19 era. Big plague CWs here.

4. El Nunca Más de las locas by Matías Máximo

A non-fiction book about the experiences of LGBTQ people in Argentina in the 1970s and 80s. Only available in Spanish, sorry gringues. The book is not only a great work of scholarship, but way more poetically written than I'm used to from history books. Please more historians write with this level of prose, it really adds something.

5. True Biz by Sara Nović

Again, I don't usually read realistic fiction, but this novel by a Deaf author about a year in the life of a Deaf school really grabbed me. It made me cry a whole bunch, and it took me on a compelling tour of Deaf culture, from former cochlear implant users to CODAs to multigenerational Deaf families.

6. Siren Queen by Nghi Vo

A novel about making it big in the golden age of Hollywood when you're Chinese-American and all the studio execs are fae monsters. I've read novellas by Nghi Vo and loved them so I wanted to graduate to her full novels. Oh my god. She really is such a good writer it makes me foam at the mouth. Magic and fae bargains are such good metaphors for Hollywood.

7. Tell Me I'm Worthless by Alison Rumfitt

Trans horror that endeavors to explain why the UK is LIke That. And boy, does it ever succeed. This book calls for basically every imaginable content warning, but it's so worth it. The audiobook deserves a special shout-out; huge props to Nicky Endres for the spine-chilling and sometimes hilarious performance.

8. The Chosen and the Beautiful by Nghi Vo

After Siren Queen I needed more Nghi Vo as soon as possible, so I got this magical AU of The Great Gatsby told from Jordan Baker's point of view. The magic does add something to Gatsby's parties, but the book is at its best when it delves into the parts that Fitzgerald never touched: Jordan Baker's inner life and her history with Daisy.

9. The Sapling Cage by Margaret Killjoy

Trans anarchist witches? Trans anarchist witches with leftist infighting??? Margaret Killjoy once again I thank you for my life. I love how this book shows you very directly how anarchist societies work on a day to day basis, as well as the problems they face.

10. Pests: How Humans Create Animal Villains by Bethany Brookshire

An amazing non-fiction book about the animals we love to hate. The book's take on controversial issues like white-tailed deer management is very nuanced and takes into account important dynamics of settler colonialism and how it affects all of our relationships with the animals close to us.

[ren-in--wonderland]

I was just accused of being a fascist and alt-right by an ex friend

As some of you might know, I was born and raised in SF, and was brought up in the woke mind cult. I did manage to break free of it though, and got to see how far I’ve come these past few days.

After the 16 election, I, like everyone else in the cult, was completely devastated and actually had a panic attack on election night. Yes, I was also sobbing.

But the next few days I started to regain some emotional control, + started wondering why so many people voted for him. Surely the entire country wasn’t what Queen Hillary and Messiah Rachel Maddow said it was? Was everyone a foaming at the mouth racist? What was the normal American thinking in voting for Trump? So I started messaging some people on tumblr and followed some light conservative accounts. Asking questions, coming to them with newspaper articles and exchanging what the other side was saying. And you know what the craziest part was? These were super nice people, nothing like what I had been taught, and they were SO much more tolerant and loving than the infighting and bullying tactics that I had been told was what politics was. The liberal news and MSM love to espouse how foaming at the mouth conservatives are, and claim that conservatives are the ones in a cult and won’t hear any dissenting opinions, whereas the left can’t agree on anything! While ignoring the fact that they say Vote Blue No Matter Who, and what they dissent on is a minute detail on an article that has alternative facts to begin with. Or rather, perfectly curated facts, and they decry about different pant suit colors.

I started to listen and reevaluate my views, and as I was 18, what I wanted to do with my life. Then I saw a buzzfeed article on how oppressive some 50s housewife guide was. When I read it, I remember thinking how much I actually wanted it. I had always been one of those super girly girls. Hell, I had 20 imaginary kids, rather than imaginary friends. I started looking for blogs like that, anything sort of ‘trad’ but it had actually not become a thing (and wouldn’t for about 6 more months), so I tried to curate my own version on tumblr. I started wearing dresses, I became my old self, rather than the depressed, on all the meds, foaming at the mouth, won’t listen to anyone that doesn’t follow my extremely narrow views girl that I had been.

Fast forward almost 10 years later, + I have a wonderful masculine hubby and I am a sahw. I can’t do cooking and cleaning at this point as I had some massive heart failure 2 years ago due to genetics (yes we are sure 😂 I was supposed to get this when I was 8, not 3x), but I am extremely happy with my life, am not on any psychotic meds, and have finally found a treatment for my disability where I can start healing my dislocated body and be able to take care of the house.

Then I hear from my mother this past weekend. A childhood friend of mine’s mom was at an art show my mother was producing, and had told her that my friend, G, had told the mother that I was posting fascist shit and super anti lgbt stuff. I get a phone call from my mother going off the handle at me, as my mother has slid into this cult in the past number of years since Trump. She claims that I must have a finsta, and wants to know what the hell I said to make my friend feel so ‘unsafe’ around me. My mom knows all of my social media accounts and knows all of my newfound views. She doesn’t like them, and jokes all the time about how I’m going to wake up and realize I was brainwashed and come back, but she leaves them alone for the most part. Even how I’m now prolife.

Here’s what was sent:

[cymorilcinnamonroll]

And the Angel of Death Loved the Painter's Brush - An Archangel x Artist Romance

The seraph fanned his wings under the summer sun, raven feathers like black pearl inlay against the azure sky. He sipped his cappuccino, checking the time on his silver watch. Midday. She should be here by now. He sighed, tracing the skull-shaped cufflinks and damning himself for wearing a heavy, royal blue Armani suit in such heat. He swept his long white hair out of his eyes and rose, the sole visitor on the island cliff they had agreed to meet upon. It rolled down into crashing waves, tidal pools moss green with seaweed. The ocean spread out before him like rippling sheets on a laundry line, straddling the border between Heaven and Earth. The mists of the afterlife shrouded the horizon, veiling the archipelago that was a waystation between the mortal and immortal realms. Remiel, the archangel of death, was the isles' one true resident, able to cross the realms with ease. For others, the waters were treacherous, fraught with Leviathen, lost souls, and secrets that would put Circe's mysteries to shame. How his visitor was navigating them, Remiel hadn't a clue

He surveyed the ocean, tempted by the cool water's embrace. It was the water of life, fed by the great rivers of Eden and so potent, to touch them was to rip one's soul from one's body. Assuming one had a soul. Angels were singular creations, formed of heavenly fire and the light of God. Remiel doubted that anything resembling a spirit resided within him. Angels were function, not will. Those that claimed to have free will were a fallen lot, divorced from the presence of God. To some, that was liberating, but many of his dark brethren secretly grieved. Remiel couldn't imagine the void that would be left in him were his Creator ripped from him. True, God had abandoned Heaven during Lucifer's rebellion, but the angels still knew he was somewhere, perhaps creating new universes or watching over prodigal sons. Perhaps asleep, resting until the Apocalypse commenced and the Messiah descended to Earth.

Remiel wondered if the End Times were nigh. With Eve's reawakening and Samael's plots, it seemed they drew closer each day. He sighed, wanting to wash away the creeping thoughts of suspicion. What side would he choose, if Heaven's factions split? Gabriel's wishes to walk amongst the humans? Michael's steadfast clinging to tradition? Samael's radical plot to destroy Hell and reunite the Fallen with Heaven?

He shook himself free of his worries and dove into the purifying waters. He sliced through the currents, angels' adamantine skeletons piled high as reefs underwater from the Heavenly War. The bones skimmed his feet as he walked across the depths, watching schools of fish fin overhead like silver clouds. He remembered his horror when his brothers had died and, instead of coming to Remiel as souls were supposed to, they had snuffed out like candle flames. Vanished into the ether. Gone. There was no afterlife for angels. No isles of the Blessed or Asphodel Fields. Only nonexistence. Remiel knew the paths of death well. None led anywhere for angel- and demonkind.

The bottom of a sailboat shimmered above. Remiel ascended, wings pumping like engines and propelling him upwards. He broke the surface in a veil of foam, the sweet waters fresh on his lips. Drenched, he landed feather-light on the boat's prow, smiling at Shannon. She looked at him in awe, clearly not expecting the Angel of Death to make such an abrupt appearance. He bowed, wing tips skimming the water. Shannon grinned back, trying to mask her surprise and clasping the tiller she had released in her confusion. His angelic glory overwhelmed her as it might a mortal, but Shannon was not quite human, clearly unaffected by the water's deathly touch. She masked her discomfort well.

“Fancy meeting you here, Remy,” she said, steering the sailboat towards a rocky beach beyond the cliff.

“If it isn't the Mother of All Living in the flesh,” Remiel said warmly, settling himself on the prow's seat. He let his hands drift in the sea, dragging seaweed along. “Something tells me you didn't come here for the fishing.”

Shannon laughed. “I wouldn't put this much effort into hooking fish.” She thumped the heel of her foot on the boat's floor. Remiel's eyes were drawn to the carvings in ancient Greek and gold inlay under her toes.

“You didn't,” he said in wonder.

“Steal Charon's boat?” Shannon flashed a winning smile. “Of course not. All it took was a kiss.” She laughed. “The old man was more than obliging to lend me his most prized possession.”

Remiel shuddered at the thought of puckering up to mummified Charon. Only Shannon would have the gall to let her lips grace Charon's mouth. Samael would throw a fit over his lover's methods of persuasion.

“Sam doesn't know, of course. He thought I was bribing dear Charon with an exorbitant amount of money. But we all know Charon doesn't go for spare change, and God knows I needed the cash, so I pocketed the difference and Samael is none the wiser. I don't get paid enough for this divine fiasco of a job, and college loans are hella expensive,” Shannon sighed. “Not that you celestial folk would know anything about being young and broke.”

Remiel shrugged. “I can imagine the difficulties of balancing your mundane and mythical life.”

Shannon puffed air through her lips. “You don't know the half of it.” She landed the sailboat on shore, jumping into the water to pull the small vessel to land. Remiel helped, examining Shannon. She wore combat boots, dark wash Shanas, and a distressed Guns n' Roses t-shirt under a leather jacket. Eve- Shannon Parker, as she went by now- had reincarnated into a particularly peculiar time, where women wore pants and electricity was channeled into instruments to produce “rock” music, of which Shannon was an aficionado. Whenever he saw her, she was wearing some variation of her current outfit- obscure band names or rock groups plastered across her breasts. Remiel much preferred classical. But Eve had always been experimental, whether it had been messing with Gabriel's instruments in Heaven or boldly concocting new recipes out of Eden's limitless supply and forcing the angels to try her experiments, manna be damned. She loved exploring, and it was that damning curiosity that had gotten her into this mess in the first place.

He shouldn't look down on her for her boldness, though. It was because of it his job was about to get much easier. She was in the process of becoming a psychopomp, a guide for souls. Under the training of Samael, Shannon was learning how to put spirits to rest and save lost souls. There were situations where mortals were needed to act as undertakers and the attention of an angel was overkill. With Samael's power, she was lightening both Remiel and Samael's case loads. Samael, the punishing angel, presided over the darker aspects of death- the rotting, the disposal of remains. Remiel ruled over the transition and served as the guide of souls, the one humans met when they passed on. He was the process of death and the angel that led souls onward to the proverbial light. Samael stepped in in the case of egregious sinners, when one's good deeds were vastly inferior to the harm they had caused in the world. Those souls were not of Remiel's domain, and he was glad for it.

Boat firmly planted in the sand, Shannon began combing through the beach, searching for shells and sea glass. Odds and ends from the mortal realm ended up here- Remielsaw a pocket watch, several rings, and jewels just below his feet. The treasures to be found in the border isles were endless, if one cared for such things. Remiel did not.

“Remy! Aren't these fabulous?” Shannon called. She modeled a pair of round wire-rimmed sunglasses she'd found in the strand. “Should I do my John Lennon impression?” Careless of his approval, she began singing “Let it Be” off-key. Remiel cringed at the less-than-dulcet tones pouring from her lips.

“When I find myself in times of trouble, Mother Mary comes to me, speaking words of wisdom, let it be...” She twirled, laughing, and collapsed on the sand, watching a pair of birds of paradise fly overhead. The isles were a hodgepodge of biota, this one tropical. She watched the cloud forest that crested the island's mountains. “God, I love this place. It's like Wonderland. I saw a sea serpent and hippocampus on the way over here, then a selkie started tailing my boat. You guys should have guided tours, like a safari or something.”

“I imagine Sandalphon would disprove of revealing the immortal world to humanity,” Remiel said. He flew over to where she rested. “So how goes your training?”

Shannon shrugged. “Same old. I feel like I could put souls to rest in my sleep. Samael's been an ass about my studies- he won't let up. I swear, he's a drill sergeant. Not like you, Az. I like how you're casual about this whole thing. You trust me. Sam's just so worried about me and afraid I'll screw up.” She crinkled her nose, as if smelling a bad odor. “I hate it. He's so overprotective. He thinks I'm fragile. Just because I'm a human doesn't mean I break easily.”

Remiel knew all about how breakable humans could be, but said nothing.

Shannon tilted her sunglasses and yawned. “But whatever. I'll show him I'm capable and he'll stop ragging on me.” She rolled over and chewed on the end of her long, rose-red braid.

Remiel let his toes touch the surf, digging them into the sand. He watched the waves. “Give him time, Shannon. He has a plethora of reasons to worry about you. I worry too, though I may not show it as obviously as Samael. It is our duty, as angels, to protect mortals, not put them into compromising positions.”

“Hah. I could write a book about the number of compromising positions Sam's put me into.” Remiel blushed at her innuendo. “But I volunteered for this. And anyways, I'm not exactly mortal, am I?” she said bitterly, painfully aware of the heart in her chest that was not her own. It was the serpent's, the Forbidden Fruit he had offered Eve and she had consumed, giving her soul immortality. “I'm living on borrowed time.”

Remiel knelt and smoothed her arm, concerned. “You must stop thinking of yourself as broken, child.”

“My life isn't mine, Remiel. He claimed me, the duplicitous bastard. I should have died and been at peace. Samael's selfishness is the root of all evil.”

Remiel cringed. He remembered the mad desperation on Samael's face when he'd learned Eve was dying. “It's hard to watch things you love perish, Shannon,” he said gently. “Though it may have been wrong, Samael did what he thought was best for you.”

She untied her braid and ran her hands through her hair. “Why does he always get to make the decisions?” she said quietly.

“Is that what you truly want? Death?”

“I- no, I just... I love him too damn much to ever wish for that. The thought of what he'd become if he were alone, it frightens me. Samael's madness is always there, just under the depths. I think he needs me, though he'd never admit that. He's changed since I've known him, become kinder, though he's still an ass. He's becoming more like he was.” Shannon let sand run through her fists. She stared intently at the grains as they poured onto the ground.

“It's true,” Remiel affirmed. “You're an inspiration to him. He's growing more angelic.”

Shannon smiled softly. “He would hate you for saying that.” She flung her glasses into the sea and rose. Remiel pumped his wings and rocketed off the ground. He fluttered in the air beside her. “But I'm forgetting what I came here for,” Shannon said. “Sorry for making you listen to my personal drama. We have more important things to deal with.”

“Anytime,” Remiel said. “A friend of my brother-in-arms is a friend of mine. We all care for you, Shannon.”

Shannon blew air through her teeth in skepticism. “Michael may beg to differ with you.”

“Michael is blinded by his devotion to our Father. He does not forgive easily. Relations between him and Samael are... tense, and you have sided with, in Michael's eyes, a treacherous party. He expected more from you.”

She sighed. “There's no doubt Sam's slick as a snake. But it's hard to be unbiased when your heart belongs to Michael's enemy.” The two walked farther inland, following a river thick with jungle vegetation. Shannon's combat boots squelched in the damp underbrush. They came to a grove of banyan trees on the riverbank where a canoe was docked. Remiel alighted on it and helped Shannon into the vessel.

“Give Michael time,” Remiel advised. He took a paddle from the base of the canoe and began guiding the boat sleekly through the waters. The canoe startled a pair of pink dolphins. They crested the water, skin like pale jewels in the afternoon sun.

“I will. I just hate disappointing him. Michael's been so kind to me. I feel like I've failed him, with all that I've done.”

“It wasn't your fault Metatron attacked, Shannon.”

“The Grigori War started because of me.” Shannon hung her head. “All because I couldn't keep my damn curiosity on a leash. I had to keep asking questions about things that should have stayed buried. I set Samrafil free, and all Hell broke loose because of my damned actions.”

“You'll make reparations in time,” Remiel said gently. “And it was only natural for you to be curious about the forbidden. Samael unfairly kept you in the dark. You were deceived.” They entered a forest of kapok trees, their trunks thick as elephants. Flower petals fell like snow, painting the water a multitude of colors as they floated on the currents. Shannon traced a palm front. She looked hurt. Remiel wished he could heal her soul, but some hurts were too deep for even an angel.

Heavenly song appeared as they approached the Gate. It was one of the many entrances to Eden in the border isles. Silvery light poured forth from a circular entrance over the water, veiled in clouds and mist. Shannon's heart stirred, old memories of her past life surfacing. She held her breath at the angels' song. Shannon clutched the sides of the canoe, steadying herself. Remiel guided them through. Peace washed over him as they entered the heavenly paradise.

Angels ringed the Tree of Life, a great, marvelous creation of indescribable beauty whose leaves bore the names of every soul in creation. Seraphs and cherubim orbited around like electron clouds, pouring songs of praise while others tended to the tree, plucking and pruning ceaselessly. Remiel's underlings tended to the fallen leaves, whose golden-brown surfaces named the souls that were due to die. The angels of death picked up single leaves and flew off into the ether to attend to their duties, while angels of birth above cared for new leaves, shepherding new souls off into birth. God's throne blazed in the sky above, the sun of this world, His heavenly palace at the center of the cloudless azure. At the heart of the Tree Gabriel, the Angel of Life, supervised, laughing joyously as he chatted with Lailah, the Angel of Conception. Gabriel spotted Remiel and waved, grin like a supernova. Lailah smiled, face glowing with new life. Shannon waved back shyly.

“Well, if it isn't the troublemaker and Mr. Tall Dark and Deathly. Welcome, you beautiful people!” Gabriel said, diving down, red macaw wings fanned open, and landing on the prow of the canoe. Lailah followed, her flamingo wings like dawn. She landed at the boat's back, the two angels balancing one another as if on a seesaw. The canoe bobbed with their weight.

“Oh, Shannon, you look adorable!” Lailah said, reaching out to touch the collar of Shannon's leather jacket. “If only I were allowed to wear leather on the job,” she sighed, fingering her rosy gown with gold trim.

“Thanks.” Shannon blushed, once again in awe of the angels' presences. “I wish I could pull off robes like you. I drown in them. Oh! And your sandals! Where'd you get them from? They're adorable.” Shannon admired the Angel of Conception's footwear.

“A thrift store in this quaint little French town. Want to go shopping this afternoon? My treat.”

Shannon's eyes brightened. “Are you sure?”

“Of course! I'm bored out of my wits, listening to Gabriel's same handful of jokes over and over again. I need some girl time.”

“Hey!” Gabriel said in mock-offense. “The one about Moses' wife and the Red Sea is a killer. I don't know why you weren't amused.”

Lailah narrowed her sparkling black eyes. “Jokes about PMS aren't funny to those of us with two X chromosomes, Gabe. The monthly curse isn't a laughing matter.”

Gabriel chuckled. “I suppose not.”

Remiel shifted uncomfortably. He always felt uncomfortable around discussions of human biology, having been celibate all his life. Unlike Gabriel and Lailah, who had been together since God knew when. Theirs was a union of purest love, of joy in their shared work and each other's company. Remiel admired their partnership but thought he could never have one. His was solitary work. And yet...

Remiel's mind strayed to the young man in Highgate Cemetery he had seen yesterday. He had been sketching amongst the moss-covered stone angels, face serene, like a Romantic poet of old. The artist had worn all black, blending with the shadows. His hands had moved across the canvas like a lover, tending delicately to the curves of gravestones and ivy-covered trees. He had signed his charcoal sketch “Dante,” named after the poet that had wandered the underworld in his dreams. Remiel had watched him from a mausoleum, paralyzed by his beauty. The artist had had long black braids and golden brown skin, with amber eyes that bespoke the African plains of his ancestors. He smelled like rich earth and expensive wine, and it was all Remiel could do to keep his fingers from running through Dante's hair like rain.

Finished, Dante had shivered, as if he knew someone was watching him. He had looked directly at Remiel, though Remiel should have been invisible to a mortal, and smiled softly. “Aren't you beautiful,” Dante had said, peering at Remiel with that curiosity that was so peculiar to humans. Remiel had startled, drawing back.

“You can see me?” the archangel asked in disbelief.

The artist had smiled and nodded. “Yes. I've seen many things in my time, but none so poetic as you.” Dante admired Remiel's bone-pale hair, youthful face, and pewter eyes. The artist approached, and time stood on its head. Remiel's heart fell silent as he choked on his breath. He fell into the artist's smile, felt like he was drowning, and for the first time in an eternity, felt young. Why? Remiel questioned himself inwardly. How did the young man elicit such a reaction? The grace of God walked with him, the beauty of the Creator clear in the boy's face. He could be no older than twenty, Remiel was sure, such a new thing to the world. Remiel spread his wings instinctively, his heart throbbing. Something he had never felt before- desire- stirred within him. Scared by the reaction, he backed away.

Dante laughed kindly. “So you're a shy angel, then? Just like a bird. Please, don't fly away...” his voice drifted off like the peal of deep church bells. Remiel felt roused into prayer by it, as if he wanted to worship the artist and count out on a rosary Dante's virtues. He ached to touch him, to hold him and know his soul. Remiel shivered as passion overwhelmed him, suddenly feeling like his thin black robes were not enough.

“I have nowhere to go,” Remiel admitted, voice shaking. “And I do not think I could leave.”

Dante approached gently, footsteps quiet. His movement was liquid, like a dancer, and a belt of chains jangled at his waist. Up close, Remiel could see that gold eyeliner ringed his eyes, making Dante look like a lion. He wore ripped black Shanas, a fitted ebony sweater, and fingerless leather gloves. His black Oxford boots fell softly against the mausoleum floor. Dante reached out his elegantly tapered fingers smudged with charcoal, brushing Remiel's raven forewing. Remiel caught Dante's hand with his own pale one, intertwining his fingers through the artist's. The archangel shivered, the sense of the forbidden surrounding Dante terrifying and exhilarating. Dante sighed, overcome by the grace of the angel, who radiated the peace and calm of death. They stood like that for minutes, staring intently into each other's eyes, Dante knowing.

“Then stay,” Dante whispered, bringing Remiel's hand to his full lips. “Let me draw you,” the artist murmured into Remiel's glowing skin. Remiel thrilled at Dante's breath across his knuckles.

“What are you?” Remiel had asked, baffled.

“A human that has seen too much, many of which hasn't been kind,” Dante replied, English accent lilting. He shrugged, releasing Remiel's hand. “My family's always been able to see spirits. We moved here from Port Au Prince when I was young My grandfather was the Houngan of his village in Haiti, my father is a voodoo priest. Seeing spirits runs in our blood.” Dante moved away from the Angel of Death. “I was my dad's prized son, raised for the clergy, until he found out that I had, as he calls it, 'unnatural love.'” Dante smiled ruefully. “As if loving men would damn you. He kicked me out when I was seventeen. I've been working at a coffeeshop and paying my way through art school ever since.”

“I am sorry. Your father is wrong, even if he is a man of God. Love never damns one.”

“Even you?” Dante had asked. Remiel froze.

“I... do not love.”

Dante's eyes sparked. “Is that so? The lwa do. Erzulie Freda has three husbands. Sometimes, they take human lovers in maryaj lwa.” He chuckled. “I always thought it was a stupid idea. The lwa are tempestuous, just like the gods. Why a human would want to involve themselves with one always baffled me. But, seeing you, I can understand why. You are the most glorious thing I've ever seen.”

Remiel blushed madly. “Your words are kind.” He wanted to say how beautiful he found the bold artist, to explain how he wanted to fall to the ground in prayer at Dante's feet. But the words caught in his throat, and he found his mouth hanging open, amazed.

“Why have I never seen an angel before?”

Remiel struggled for words. “We tend to be elusive and keep to ourselves. We do not take on physical form often. Have you ever seen the sparks of light that follow humans?”

“Yes, everyone I've ever seen has one.”

“Those are guardian angels.”

“Oh,” Dante said, surprised. “So is that what you are? My guardian angel?”

“No.”

Dante scrutinized him. “Then why do I feel like I've seen you before? I feel like I know you.” He went back to his sketchbook and thumbed through the pages. Shock registered on his face. “Here,” he said breathlessly, showing Remiel the sketch. Remiel paled upon seeing the picture. It depicted the archangel reaping, face calm as he brandished his scythe, separating a woman's soul from her body. Dante's hands shook and he dropped the sketchbook. Remiel dove and caught it, saving the pictures from the wet ground.

“I drew that after a dream I had last year,” Dante explained, voice shaking. “That's my mother. She died in labor, giving birth to me.” The artist looked at Remiel, questioning. “There was an angel in it. The Angel of Death.”

Remiel felt fear spread like ice across his back. He hated the thought that Dante was afraid of him. He dared look into Dante's eyes, only to find fascination, even thankfulness, dancing there.

“Who are you?” Dante breathed.

“Remiel,” the archangel murmured,“the help of God.”

“Remiel,” Dante said, testing the name. “No wonder you feel so bloody peaceful, if you're the Angel of Death.”

Remiel didn't know what to say. Instead, he looked through the sketches. He was blown away by their beauty: Dante exaggerated anatomy like Michelangelo yet had the romanticism of the Pre-Raphaelites. Scenes of gods, angels, and all deities in-between covered the pages. Urban fey and London's Celtic spirits filled the pages next to voodoo lwa. It was like a journal of what Dante had seen: a gancanagh chain-smoking in the meat-packing district, a troll's skewed reflection in a puddle of gasoline, gargoyles clinging to the London Eye. It was distinctly English and Haitian, an exotic blend of mythologies, one that flowed in Dante's veins, the other adopted.

Dante watched him flip through the sketches. He caught Remiel's hand, making him stop on the picture depicting the archangel. Dante studied the rendition and then looked toRemiel's face. “I got the eyes wrong. And you have an aquiline nose. I have to fix that.” Remiel handed back the sketchbook. Dante settled onto a gravestone and erased the imperfect features, then quickly sketched new ones, peering at Remiel all the while. Remiel found himself self-conscious, something he'd never felt before. Artists favored Gabriel and Michael, never him. He tucked his long white hair behind his ears and blushed, fidgeting with the hem of his cloak.

Dante turned to a new page and peered at Remiel. He put away his charcoal and pulled out a pen from his messenger bag. Remiel felt naked, suddenly conscious of himself. What did Dante think of his tall stature, too tall for a mortal, his unnatural grace and deathly affinity, the alieness that he possessed? He cursed his monkish robes and wished he wore something more human. Remiel closed his wings, unsure.

“I want to sketch you,” Dante said quietly, studying Remiel. “I want to remember you.”

“You- you do?” Remiel whispered. Most shied away from death. Why would this human want to remember him? Still, Dante looked upon him with a kind of reverence, with- did Remiel dare think it?- desire. The artist considered Remiel like one would eye a piece of artwork they wanted to own. Remiel, who had spanned eons, whose true form was vast beyond comprehension, felt small under Dante's gaze. He wanted to be owned. To be possessed. The primal need that filled him sent tremors through him.

“Of course,” Dante breathed, voice heady with unspoken want. Remiel shook at its intensity.

“I- I don't know what to do,” Remiel said, feeling helpless and cursing himself for it.

Dante smiled. Remiel would have murdered for that smile. He cringed at the sudden realization, instantly knowing he would do anything for this child, even something completely against his nature.

“Just be yourself,” Dante whispered. “Relax.”

Remiel did. He unfurled his wings and sunk onto a marble lion, sitting on its back and watching Dante's graceful hands move across the page. Dante sketched his form, ink staining his hands. He stared intently at Remiel. Blushing, Remiel looked to the ferns that skimmed Dante's ankles.

The artist cursed in disbelief. He watched Remiel in wonder. “How are you so beautiful? It's unfair. I can't capture that beauty on a page. No wonder humans invented religion. They can't help but worship God and His creations. You're immaculate, Remiel. Terrifying and perfect. No wonder people die when they see you.”

Remiel winced at the mention of death. “I would never hurt you, Dante-”

“I know that. I've had bad run-ins with immortals, and I can tell which ones mean me harm. You mean me the opposite.”

“How can you be so sure?”

Dante nibbled on the cap of his pen, grinning lazily. “It's your eyes, angel. They speak volumes more than you say.”

Angel, he had called him. Remiel shuddered at the tenderness in Dante's voice. Dante went back to drawing, smile permanent. He glowed, Remiel thought, so alive with life as he sketched furiously. Energy poured off him like rain from a rooftop.

“Call me Remy,” Remiel said.

Dante grinned, amused. “Remy. I like it.”

He sat like that for an hour, for once the subject of a mortal's sketch. Dante kept tearing sheets from his sketchbook, crumpling them up and throwing them in his messenger bag, dissatisfied. After the silence became unbearable, Remiel spoke: “Perhaps I could speak to your father.”

“And tell him what? That in God's eyes, gays all join hands with straights in Heaven and sing kumbayah? He'd never buy that. He'd think you were a demon, that it was a trick.” Dante sighed, reaching into his bag and withdrawing a cigarette and a lighter. He lit it and took a slow drag. “Dad thinks I'mdestined for Hell. Anything I associate with, spirit wise, he considers of the Devil.”

Remiel moved to comfort Dante. Dante withdrew from his touch, cursing. He buried his face in his hands. Remiel's heart stirred. He wanted to draw Dante to his chest and enfold him in his wings, protecting him from the pain of the world.

“I can't do this, Remy. I can't draw you. Look at this.”

Remiel did. All he saw was beauty, a loving depiction of himself. His breath caught in his throat.

“The wings are off, and the proportion's all wrong-”

“It's beautiful. May I- may I have it?”

Dante looked surprised. “Sure, but I don't see why you'd want it.” He took a contemplative drag, looking at the dark clouds overhead. “You must have met all the great artists of history.”

“Yes, but none has ever drawn me.”

Dante rose, putting away his sketchbook and slinging his bag over his shoulder. “I can't see why not,” he whispered. “I've never seen anything so beautiful. Even God Himself must pale in comparison.”

“Don't say such a thing.” Remiel turned his head, embarrassed. He felt an inexorable gravity drawing him to the artist. Dante brought the cigarette to Remiel's mouth. Remieltook a drag, his lips skimming Dante's fingers. Dante stubbed the cigarette on a headstone and threw it onto the ground between them. He took his gloves off and pocketed them, then put his bare hands on Remiel's neck, tracing down to his shoulders and out to the ridges of his wings. Remiel sighed, folding his pinions closed over the artist and enfolding them in the feathery darkness. Thunder rumbled above and a slight rain began. Remiel's wings shielded them from the drizzle.

“I'll say it if it's true,” Dante said. He let his hands slip down Remiel's chest, exposing the milky flesh beneath the neck of his robe. His fingers lingered at Remiel's collarbone. The archangel shivered, the mortal's touch sending thrills to his core. Dante traced circles into his flesh. “You're cold.”

“Side effect of being death,” Remiel breathed. He caught Dante's hands and enfolded them in his own.

“We should do something about that.”

“About being death?” Remiel asked, confused. He meant to push the mortal away, but couldn't bring himself to.

“About the cold...” Dante murmured. He closed the space between them, body pressing into Remiel's like a lock into a key. Remiel felt Dante's arousal against his leg and sucked in his breath. Remiel hardened, lust overcoming him. He panicked, never having felt such need before.

“Dante,” Remiel said roughly. “I can't.” Still, the angel's body didn't obey him. Remiel crushed Dante to him, hands roving down Dante's back. “I can't, but I... I can't help it. Please, don't think less of me.”

“How could I?” Dante asked, drunk off Remiel's beauty. “But you're right. We can't, not yet. Coffee. Coffee will warm you up.” Dante tucked his cheek into Remiel's chest.Remiel shuddered, desire razing him. “Come to Java Junkie tomorrow at 5. I get off work then. Coffee's on me. You can model for me again, and I'll draw something that doesn't suck.”

Remiel nodded, wordless as he fought down the desire that threatened to overwhelm him. “I'd like that,” Remiel said through gritted teeth. His arousal was painful, unused cock hungering.

Dante smiled, untwining himself from Remiel's embrace. “You're a tease, you know that, angel? I know what I'm dreaming of tonight.” And with that, he left, vanishing into the trees like the wind. Remiel had been left with his lingering scent and an insatiable ache.

That ache flared again, rocketing Remiel back to the presence. He winced, trying to catch what Gabriel was saying.

“... and so, the mohel says to the demon, that tail is unkosher-”

“Stop right there, Gabe. This joke is disgusting,” Lailah interrupted.

“What's a mohel?” Shannon asked, innocent. Lailah shook her head, face darkened. Gabriel laughed riotously.

“Remiel, care to enlighten her? Az? You okay there?” Gabriel asked. “You look like you're about to worship the porcelain god.”

“What?” Remiel said.

“You look sick. You okay, sweetie?” Lailah asked.

“I, um.” Remiel cleared his throat. “My thoughts strayed. My apologies.”

“What were you thinking about?” Shannon asked, curious.

“Nothing important. Now, shouldn't we attend to the Book of Life?” Remiel asked, trying to distract them from himself.

“Right,” Gabriel agreed. “That's why we've been waiting for you two all day long. Shall we?” Lailah and Gabriel sat in the boat. Gabriel took a paddle from Remiel and helped him guide the canoe to the massive root system under the Tree of Life. The current carried them between the roots thick as trees, towards the great heart of the Tree of Life.

“It's beautiful,” Shannon said breathlessly, clearly blown away by the tree's magnificence. They came to the hollow interior of the tree. A spiral staircase was carved into its walls, rising up to infinity. Hosts of angels attended to the tree's interior. The inner bark was like birch, living script with words in all languages flowing across it as it wrote itself. For the tree was the Book of Life, and what was written in it was all that had been and was. What could be slept beneath, waiting for the opportune moment to grow.

“That it is,” Remiel agreed.

Shannon held her breath. She steeled herself. “Will it hurt?” she asked softly.

“Only a little,” Lailah said, gentle. Gabriel tied the boat to the dock at the base of the staircase. “Here,” Lailah urged, enfolding Shannon in her arms. They ascended together to the tree's heart. Shannon would commune with the tree, baring her soul to its alien will and noting the names of the dead she was to reap. Remiel, job done, looked to Gabriel.

“I... have a problem, Gabriel.”

Gabriel peered at him in knowing. “And would this certain problem have anything to do with love?”

Remiel startled. “How did you...?”

“It was written all over your face, Remy. Lovesickness. And coming from you! Of all the things I expected to fall in love, you're up there with rocks and prune juice.”

“Those seem rather unromantic, not to mention their utter lack of feelings.”

“Exactly. Now tell me, who's the lucky angel?” Gabriel asked, slapping the Angel of Death on the back in congratulations.

Remiel didn't know how to respond. Gabriel paled. “She is an angel, right? Not a...”

“He's a mortal, Gabriel.”

Gabriel's eyes grew wide as moons.

“You think I'm an idiot, don't you? Hell, I'm a fool.”

“No! No, Remiel, even bloody Samael can't keep it in his pants when it comes to humans. I just... expected something different from you. You're a traditional angel, celibate. To hear that you've fallen for someone, much less a mortal, is surprising. I swear I won't tell another soul.”

The two paddled away in silence, Gabriel brimming with questions but keeping them to himself. Remiel couldn't stand the quiet.

“I'm meeting him for coffee,” Remiel admitted. “He works there.”

“Wonderful!” Gabriel said enthusiastically, glad for the detail her brother had spared. “Oh, but you need my approval.”

“What?”

“As your older sis, it's my duty to ensure you're involved with a proper man. Which is why we're going to his coffeeshop now and I'm scoping him out.”

“Really, Gabriel. That isn't necessary-”

“Ah ah ah! Of course it is. And I'm dying for a caramel machiatto. You get a discount, right, because the barista's your boyfriend?”

“He's not my- my lover.”

Gabriel snorted. “Remy, I know the look of blue balls when I see it. And you had a major case of them earlier. He'll be your something soon enough. Nothing could resist you.”

Remiel was baffled. “What does that mean?”

“God made you so beautiful that souls are ripped from their bodies when they see your true form, Remiel. As if this boy could withstand you.”

Remiel blushed, thinking of Dante. “I don't want him to desire me just for my... my beauty.” He reached into his pocket, withdrawing Dante's rolled-up sketch. He unfurled it and showed it to Gabriel. “He has such talent, such a presence, I nearly lost it, Gabriel. I could barely control myself.”

Gabriel examined the picture. “That's quite some artistry. I've never seen the likes of it before. He draws like a man possessed.”

“He drew me,” Remiel said in amazement. “No one draws me. Ever.”

Gabriel grinned. “Apparently, this mortal does.”

“I don't know what to do.”

“I do. It's simple. Go to him. Order coffee. Let him take you out on a date as he proposed.” They crossed through the Gate into the border isles and came to the banks of the rainforest. Gabriel summoned a portal to London, donned a dapper blue pantsuit, silk scarf, her catseye sleek as a fox, Ruby Woo MAC lipstick on point, and stepped through. Remiel stuck with his designer blue Armani and entered. It was raining over Big Ben, streets bustling with umbrellas fighting the wind. Gabriel grinned deviously, taking wing as Remiel followed. Invisible to mortals, they soared overhead to Java Junkie. It was tucked between an ancient Anglican church and a rowdy pub, with peeling paint and obscure music floating out into the rain. The pierced, punk, and fabulous spilled out onto the streets from the coffeeshop, standing and sitting under the awning as they laughed and chatted, clutching mismatched, chipped cups.

Remiel landed, soaked. He welcomed the storm, feeling fresh and purified. Gabriel had allowed the rain to skim off him harmlessly, dry and immaculate as always. He was put together and in control. Remiel looked like he felt: a hot mess.

“I don't think this is a good idea...” Remiel muttered, fear pricking him like needles. He tied his long starlight hair back into a ponytail and wrung it out, nervous.

Gabriel thumped him on the back. Remiel coughed. “Cojones, Remy. Don't forget you have them. It's just one adorable, puny human.”

“I feel like a gnat under his gaze. What could I possibly have to offer him? Why would he ever be interested?-”

“Shh, you're over-thinking things.”

“I am, aren't I. Lord, I'm...”

“What?”

“Scared.”

“That's natural. Embrace it. Just be yourself, Rem. There's no reason he wouldn't love you. Now come on- let's get out of the rain.”

They entered. The smell of coffee grounds overpowered the shop. Remiel honed in on the young man behind the counter. Dante was busy preparing a spiced chai latte. His braids were tied back in a knot and his eyes focused intently on the drink, skimming foam off the top. He wore a black hoodie, skinny Shanas, and combat boots, silver studs sparking in his ears. Remiel trembled, desire flaring in his core. He could smell the spice of Dante's skin, his faint cologne wafting through the coffeeshop.

“He's beautiful,” Gabriel murmured. “No wonder you've fallen for him.” Gabriel removed her glamour and entered the line. Remiel kept his glamour on, invisible to all mortals save Dante. He lingered in the shadows, unsure. “A caramel machiatto- keep the change,” Gabby said brightly, turning to wink at Remiel. Dante processed his order.

“Hey,” said a buxom blonde punk, starry-eyed over Remiel. She looked up into his eyes in wonder. “Wanna buy me a drink?”

“Not particularly,” Remiel said. The girl shied away. The archangel barely noticed. He only had eyes for Dante.

“That'll be four pounds...” Dante said, handing Gabriel his drink.

Gabriel took a sip. “Mmm. Heavenly. Say, Dante, is it?”

Dante raised his brow. “Yeah?”

“I have a favor to ask you. You see that gentleman over there?” Gabriel said, indicating Remiel. Remiel ducked his head, cheeks flushing. He heard Dante draw a sharp breath.

“I do,” Dante said, voice rough.

“He wants to treat you to a drink.”

“I don't get off my shift yet-”

“You do now!” Gabriel hopped over the counter and took on the barista's duties. She began bubbily processing orders in a flurry. “Consider it a well-deserved vacation. Now what'll you take?”

“I can't-”

“Your boss is asleep in the back room. As far as she knows, you'll have been working this whole time. Would you really deny an archangel like me the joy of a working man's life?”

Remiel dared look at Dante. He was smiling, taken aback. “I'll take black coffee then.”

“Good. Then take your coffee and this cappuccino over to Remiel. Enjoy! Next customer...”

Dante approached, the sway of his hips like a jaguar. He balanced the cappuccino in the palm of his hand, grinning. “Hey, angel. I see you've got yourself a wingman.”

Remiel blushed, taking the drink from Dante. “He's my brother. You'll have to excuse him. Gabriel can't control himself.”

Dante laughed. “Gabriel, eh? She looks like she's having the time of her life.”

“He is easily amused.”

“And you, Remiel? Are you easily entertained?”

Remiel considered his question. “I enjoy watching things.”

Dante walked to a dimly lit corner and sank into a leather wing-back chair. Remiel followed suit. “So do I,” Dante agreed. “That's why I want to be an artist. I love the details of life. Everything's so immaculate in their creation, even broken things. Like stained glass windows. All the pieces fit together like a puzzle and create something whole. By themselves, they can't stand, but brought together, they're beautiful.”

Remiel sipped his cappuccino and licked the foam from his lips. “You enjoy stained glass works?”

“Oh hell yeah. Tiffany, Pre-Raphaelite designs. I love them all. I want to be a stained glass artist and open my own studio. See?” He rummaged through his messenger bag, withdrawing his sketchbook. Dante looked at Remiel, amber eyes unsure. “What do you think of my new design?” he asked quietly, flipping to a sketch. It depicted Remiel kneeling in prayer, scythe draped over his back, skulls and flowers at his feet. A scroll with the words “MEMENTO MORI” hung in the air above him. Self-conscious, Dante closed the sketchbook. “I couldn't stop thinking of you last night,” he admitted. “So I drew this.”

Remiel's breaths grew heavy. “I cannot stop thinking of you either,” Remiel said, voice heady. He reached across the table and took Dante's gloved hands in his. “Everything you create is beautiful, Dante. Unlike any human's work I've seen before. You will go far, and you will not be left wanting after your dreams.”

“Thanks,” Dante murmured, running his fingers over Remiel's palms.

They kissed, rain fell outside as the sweet smells of Remiel’s frankincense cologne and Gabriel’s gardenia perfume mixed with cappuccinos, the gargoyles on London’s eaves and the cobblestones pooled with oil rainbows.

And like that, Remiel broke the ban on angels falling for mortals, kissed Dante, and set in line a series of events

That would make all angels

Fall.

[sweet-berrry]

Song suggestions, these are more out there but:

Modern War by Wargasm (ONE OF MY FAV SONGS)

Revenge by London after Midnight

Meat by Poppy

Vulcan by Snake River Conspiracy

Taxicab Messiah by Kidneythievws

"Modern Love" by Wargasm (lmk if I incorrectly assumed)

- This beat? 10/10

- Instrumentals go crazy

- "if I asked you would you kiss my bruise and play pretend, would that get you in the mood? Would you want me till the end" giggling and kicking my feet rn

- Just overall a good song!

"Revenge" by London after Midnight

- love these drums

- ok. I'll be honest. This one left me confused. But not unpleasantly confused!

- hold up, visiting Genius lyrics real quick...

- nope, still slightly lost

- but still liked it :)

"Meat" by Poppy

- I love the way it's more story centered!

- I'm conflicted about whether it's better as a horror story or a metaphor

- both, let's go with both

- good song!

- will probably get stuck in my head lol

"Vulcan" by Snake River Conspiracy

- these vocallsssss

- "It's your own technique anyway, with all the foam in your mouth when you say, it's freedom rock baby" >>

"Taxicab Messiah" by Kidneythieves

- most danceable one so far

- guitar is going absolutely wild, holy shit

- It's absolutely an early 2000's song

- yep, 2003!!

- I like this one a lot!

Tysm for the suggestions!! I really love listening to new music and all of these songs were so enjoyable!!

[dumuzithemessiah]

Truth about things

Honestly when you realise all the evils humanity has committed and what horrific damage evil energy created by humans has done you’d understand why I am against humanity as humanity has earned the way I look at them….

Because my views are actually highly fair and justified… 

And unlike the fake deities made up by humans I am not a ball of hatred as I only hate humanity because of what they did, what they still do, and what their awful evil actions made them become….

I am known on Nibiru as a caring big brother to my siblings - which I have over 30+ and more siblings - which I always looked out for!

And I’m also a caring friend to demonkind!

Demons were never evil and since Nibiru only had one war and it was because The Great Evil Herself attacked us and that was during the very First Universe and it’s the Eighth Universe now meaning the Kosmos regenerated a few times since then…

And I sacrificed myself with a spell alongwith my only siblings at the time which are my brothers Kosmin, Lumuzi, and our sister Geshtinonna!

We’re The Holy Four Kosmos Deities who’re the first four deities and we came back in this Eighth Universe!

Imagine being in multiple places at the same time and you’ll get an idea what being shattered is like….

No crime or war has ever happened on Nibiru from it’s own citizens… 

That says how hypocritical and racist humans are with their delusional mindless foaming at the mouth hatred they have for demons just because in reality and real reason for this hatred that started in ancient times is because demons are a non human advanced species is what makes them evil in the eyes of the human race….

Possibly coming from the lies of evil elves who waged war against Nibirians because Nibirians wanted to keep peace and order maintained and told the evil elves they couldn’t go around killing innocent lives or spreading lies, hate, war, murder, genocide, etc, things that are evil! 

Elves in general were paid with what they needed instead of money so they were provided with a home, furniture, food, water, drinks, clothes, teaching, healthcare, protection, even entertainment when they were on breaks which the fact they had entertainment says how foolish the whole “durr hurr they were enslaved” lie the Sumerians came up with is nothing but a lie! 

The fact the Sumerians lied claiming it was humans who existed back then really shows how much of a delusional civilisation the Ancient Mesopotamians were! They got a lot of stuff wrong!

Good elves have pale olive skin, various shades of red for hair including magical shades of red, burgundy, orange, and pink! They also have various shades of green eyes but never blue tones as only evil elves have those blue toned green eyes!

Evil elves have dark skin and have mahogany hair and other shades close to the colour of evil energy which are dark reddish browns! They like I said above have blue toned green eyes!

Elves in general are short in the 3’0”-3’5” range and have Nibirian body portions so large head, large eyes, tiny neck, mouth that looks small when closed and big when opened, tiny noses, tiny petite bodies, small shoulders, hands and feet that looks big cause of their toon like bodies, and are made magic so no bones or organs as they just look human like but aren’t!

So your guess is as good as mine how evil elves bred with other homo species as you’d naturally think that would’ve been impossible but clearly it happened as the multiple kinds of races of human exist as they all have evil elf in them…

I wonder though if there are humans in some other universe that have good elves as their ancestors?

With the multiverse being a thing because of the spell I and my siblings cast to defeat The Great Evil Herself causing us to shatter and causing the multiverse to exist says that might not be impossible but for now it’s only a possibility but not at this point proven fact…

As the real Messiah when time comes on Judgement Day I hope you humans changed your ways because I’d rather see some human souls reincarnating when they die then no human souls getting to reincarnate as I do care as one of my domains as a god is life itself so of course I care…

As for non advanced animal life they will reincarnate when they did of course as they have done nothing wrong..

But I will say this the Ancient Nibirian word “devil” means human and has no relation to demons at all and humans pretty much became their own meaning of the word devil which is quite ironic, isn’t it?

Devil had no necessarily negative meaning at first so humans became their own meaning of the word devil…

So it is quite ironic.

Sin is Ancient Nibirian for “wisdom” not “crime” and the true meaning shows how messed up humans are as it means Christians want anyone who is wise enough to not fall for their hateful lies as good as dead…

Ehden is the Ancient Nibirian word for “wilderness” not “paradise”

Nibiru basically means “paradise” but has multiple meanings but “paradise” is one of the main meanings of the name of the planet Nibiru!

Like I said Nibiru never had it’s citizens wage war against each other and no crime happens on Nibiru which says how low and evil humans are with their discrimination towards demons and other Nibirians!

Though back on the topic of elves it does raise question to what the Nordics were talking about with light elves and dark elves which aren’t proper terms for good and evil elves but the skin tones mentioned for light and dark elves raises question if the Nordics actually saw real elves back in the day?

If so then they shouldn’t call the light and dark elves as good and evil elves aren’t locked to the elements of light and darkness!

Ishtayr whom is the Universe’s Number 1 threat is a light type! Specifically she’s a Rock/Light/Fire which means I am going to have a tough time defeating her due to type disadvantage as I am Ice/Dark/Plant for my main three elements!

The fact that I am part dark type yet the real god who created the Kosmos thus causing the Universe to be created in a big bang says that humanity’s views of light and darkness aren’t right!

Marduk[[Mar-duke]] is part light type and we’re married says that dark and light types can not only get along but can fall in love!

Marduk is Electric/Light/Wind as his main three elements!

I have hidden type Storm which allows me to use electric and wind magical attacks.

My heart type which deities chose is metal.

All deities have poison, psychic, magic, spirit, and aether in them by default.

And the main Nibirian Royal Family branch all has core type as water.

So I hope humanity does try to change and abandon their man made religions….

As you can only reincarnate if you abandon such lies and hatred…..

[reneees]

Justice wind.

He was a loving rite.

He was death of a Messiah.

In the love foams, luck lopes.

Lie little and stench brittle.

You.

Sunidhi

[writer59january13]

A living hellish nightmare...

only just began early today November 6th, 2024, when my eyes frightfully espied glaring headlines bespoke horror conjured, portended and yielded worse fate than being gratefully dead after the polls tallied up the votes beaming none other than

pudgy hugely crass blimp as the forty seventh president

of the United States of America. Before delving into worse case scenario

regarding the candidate, who clinched the nomination as commander in chief with special thanks to Elon Musk (despite being an engineering genius) for amply funded inimical, maniacal, and radical antithetical, egotistical, and heretical verbal incursion, and character assassination

videre licet concerning democratic opponent boosting drek fueling horrible jibes, no surprise after the got ballots counted decreeing the overstuffed ego freezer who will now occupy the White House at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue NW, Washington, DC 20500, subsequently, I posit thee with a very obvious rhetorical question.

Members of the House and Senate met in the House Chamber to conduct the official count of electoral votes. The Vice President of the United States, as President of the Senate, presided over the count in a strictly ministerial manner and announces the results of the vote. Now after imp of the pervert amassed 270 electoral votes and declared the avowed winner while he blissfully gobbled his favorite meal consisting of Two Big Macs, Two Fillet-o-Fish sandwiches, a large Fry and a diet Coke

courtesy being heavy duty patron and keeping McDonald's patriarchal company financially afloat

Now dear reader, you ought to be able, eager, ready, and willing to participate in an after the fact easy to answer guessing game? Here goes. Who can legitimately flaunt the law... and get away with murder scot-free? Only someone christened Donald John Trump the 45th President of the United States: he escaped being (even minimally) penalized of countless crimes: any other American would be prosecuted found guilty, and subsequently sentenced (courtesy strong arm of the law witnessing guilty party and his merry contra band of accomplices dealt harsh consequences) to years of hard labor. As a law abiding citizen, I decry how legally nomenclatured, qualified, schooled, and trained professionals handled him with kid gloves as if he happened to be the Messiah. Analogous to some rabid animal, the mean mien pitbull disposition of Donald Trump witnesses him foaming at the mouth during his barnstorming, campaigning, doxing, et cetera vituperation.

The next four long years will witness wrecking ball obliterating the foundations constituting complex edifice housing sacred tracts fundamental documented blueprints linkedin with ancillary trappings servicing nasty and brutish gall, where no logic can ex spleen with pride and prejudice exhibiting absolute zero gentlemanly sense and sensibility.

[focr]

THE LORD WHO RULETH OVER-ALL

It is thought that these two psalms [Psalms 93:1-94:5] date from the Assyrian invasion in Hezekiah’s time, and that the psalmist compares the strength of Sennacherib and his hosts to the mighty breakers of the sea. But they well befit all times of anxiety and opposition. It is interesting to remember, also, that these and the six psalms which follow have always been applied by the Jews to the days of the Messiah. Surely, then, we may apply them to our own time.

It is an infinite comfort to know that above and beyond all that distresses and hinders the Church or our individual lives, there exists the great fact of our Lord’s sovereignty. This encourages us in conflict and makes us steadfast and unmovable. We can almost hear the dash of successive breakers with foam and fury around the throne of God, which, however, stands without a tremor. The miracle of Jesus in quieting the storm has a symbolic and far-reaching meaning. He is in our hearts, in the world, and in His Church, as it is tossed on the surface of the storm-swept water—“and Jesus rules the waves.” He must vindicate the law of righteousness and save His people.

~ F.B. Meyer

[postie974]

#🟦

“Alahim is our refuge and strength [mighty and impenetrable], A very present and well-proved help in trouble. Therefore we will not fear, though the earth should change And though the mountains be shaken and slip into the heart of the seas, Though its waters roar and foam, Though the mountains tremble at its roaring. Selah.”

‭‭Psalms‬ ‭46‬:‭1‬-‭3‬‬

‬‬‬‬‬‬‬‬‬‬

HalleluYAH!!! 🙌

REMAIN HUMBLE

YAH BARAK ATAH! 🙏

TRUST IN YAH ALWAYS!

BE READY AT ANY MOMENT

•

•

Accept Yahusha (The Word) as your MESSIAH & SAVIOUR, confess & repent from your sins believing in Him accepting His gift of Salvation. You WILL be saved through grace by faith in HIM!

•

I AM The Way👆

The Truth 🙏

And The Life 🙌

I AM... THE WORD 📖

•

SINNERS PRAYER

Yahweh,

I know that I have broken Your laws and my sins have separated me from You. I am truly sorry, I now want to turn away from my past sinful life and repent. Forgive me, and help me avoid sinning again. I believe that Your Son, Yahusha died for my sins, was resurrected from the dead, is alive, and hears my prayer. I invite Yahusha to become the RULER of my life, to rule and reign in my heart from this day forward. Send your Ruach haKodesh to help me obey You, doing Your will for the rest of my life. In Yahusha’s Name Amen.

The TRUE Hebrew names of our MESSIAH, ALAHIM and SAVIOUR

•

ALAHIM aka I AM aka YAH aka God

YHWH aka YAHWEH aka Heavenly Father

THE WORD aka YAHUSHA haMASHIACH aka THE MESSIAH aka Jesus

RUACH haKODESH aka HOLY SPIRIT

— Brother Mark —

•

#creation #love #fourteeners #natsarim #theearlychurch #faith #mercy #grace #christian #worshipyah #trustinyah #yahisgod #praiseyah #luni_solar_sabbath #metonic_cycle #creationcalendar #trinity #halleluyah #ruachhakodesh #ruachofyah #yhwh#yahweh #alahim #yah #theword #yahusha #saviour #savedbyyahusha #discipleofyahusha

[skegulium]

The moment Averii swept the pelt off of his shoulders and ruffled it in front of the children, the kids exploded. Quietly, but exploded none the less. Permission to touch was one of the best gifts this troll could have given to them and the two were eager to take advantage of it. At the very least Baiyan and Phomoe were kind about it all. Phomoe was more concerned with gently petting the ears and the wiry mane, but Baiyan locked straight into her work persona as she cupped the face and scrutinized it. Locked the fuck in, as Orivar has heard them say before.

"Well taxidermied, shaped with - is it foam? That would make it easier to carry but it's well sealed to keep anything from bothering the wearer. Hard to tell! Glass eyes, well made, no lumps…" She leaned in to sniff the edges of the fur, and Orivar hovered with a warning eye for her to not to do something stranger. "Real gold teeth too, that ups the price of it…" The rest of it devolved into a muttering that Orivar was slowly starting to dread as the olive kept up at her appraising and for a very brief moment, she felt very, very awkward as the four of them stood there. She may have gotten better about speaking to people without wanting to kill everyone involved, but children barely brushing six sweeps make her want to scream and rip her face off starting from the eyelids every time they got a little too enthusiastic.

Still, she had to take responsibility for them. Gathering up the dredges of her spiraling thoughts, she put them firmly back into their box and gave Averii a wane smile. "We work in antiques and oddities." She said, gesturing towards some of the decor on the wall: up on a high ledge, a full suit of armor posed in mid sword swing as a stuffed dragon cowered beneath it. "That armor's on loan from us. The host has contracted us in the past to rent genuine decor, such as during the war ball. We were one of the ones he reached out to to provide weapons and he's come back every so often for more."

She paused as Baiyan carefully inspected the mouth of the lion, attempting to get the best count of the teeth without opening it's mouth. Phomoe, instead, seemed to have pet herself into a trance, cheek pressed against the soft fur. Good fucking messiahs. Orivar reached out and gently tugged at Phomoe's shoulder to pull her from it with a growing sense of embarrassment. Maybe she SHOULD skin herself on the ball floor. Her jaw muscles flexed as she tried to figure out how best to keep the peace with these little idiots despite their eager insistence to be as annoying and handsy as possible. "Please let me know if they're too much," Orivar said as blithely as she can. "I help teach them valuable skills -" Killing and maiming, really, "- and give them a hive, and they assist in appraisment and fulfilling orders. She'll likely give you an estimate on the value of your cape after a moment here, though take it with a grain of salt. She's still learning and she is giving it unasked."

Cat's Getting Out of the Bag

@rebatrolls

"Orivar's SUCH a hardass!"

The corners of her lips twitched and turned downward at the poorly hushed complaining of her little shitten. Baiyan's trying her best to be subtle, but she's never been good at controlling her voice - especially when she's railing against whatever rules she's been placed under.

"I know like, it's the rules of the ball to make us leave after 10, but like! We could pass as old enough Phemoe! Ugh, she just needs to help vouch for us, it's not like we'd get in any worse trouble than -" Baiyan's words were cut off with a sharp yelp as Orivar's cane rapped hard against the back of her ankles.

"Watch your mouth," Orivar scolded as the child stumbled. "And my name is Lu. Mind yourself."

Big, baleful olive eyes stared and sulked at her little reprimand, but Ori paid no mind to it. Children needed to be taught lessons lest they become a little bit too full of themselves. Wild children had to be tamed.

(There was something to be said about the way Orivar was distinctly reminded of her own caretaker's behavior when she was younger and with his wooden spoon and how much she fussed about that, but she refused to explore that memory further.)

Next to the two of them, Phemoe blinked her even larger, more baleful eyes at the two of them. Chin pointed up, she straightened her shoulder and flicked her long, braided hair over one shoulder of her loose, crimson robes to pat gently at the gold leaves mounted against her horns. "I have foresaw," She drawled ominously. Oh joy, her psychic persona was taking the reigns again. "During our glorious entrance into the castle grounds, deep within the courtyard and as we stood upon the shores of babbling lake -" Fountain, Orivar thought, "- Was an ominous sign of bad luck for trolls. The aural reading I pulled from the golden apple given to our most dearest leader -" Orivar shot her a moody look, "- and the way the leaves fell post apple harvest meant that we do not have long for this world."

She paused. Baiyan stared at her, mouth agape. "Do you mean -"

"By world! That is to say!" Phomoe interrupted dramatically with a flair of fin, "This world of magic and wonder!"

Baiyan sagged in relief at her words while Orivar pinched the bridge of her nose. Still, the seadweller continued.

"I believe we will soon come across ill fated encounters, ties to pernicious scenarios trapped in the shards of frozen time, which henceforth will cause us to begin a quick flight from these grounds. That, my beloved diamond, is the future that I have foresaw as the Oracle of Delphi."

Phomoe fell quiet after her declaration, eyes half lidded and expectant as she held her sheaves of wheat against her chest. Expectant for what? None of the trio knew, not even her. Baiyan looked as perplexed as ever hearing her moirail's 'divination' while Orivar simply looked upon her with exhaustion. As much as she's told the child she never did believe in the so-called future sight of seadwellers (psychic abilities never showed in their cooler bloods after all) the child still insisted.

Still, regardless of what Orivar thought, the two of them continued their shenanigans despite it. Baiyan looked increasingly introspective as she digested her words, and her brow furrowed before Phomoe gasped and grabbed her hand, pointing towards a troll across the way.

"Look! Forsooth!" Forsooth? Orivar squinted in confusion, "A hero in the flesh! Hercules himself, draped in the pelt of the monstrous Nemean lion!" The three of them swiveled to look where Phomoe pointed, instantly spotting the massive troll towering over the rest of the guests. With tight braided hair, too much skin showing, and a glorious cape of the whitest lion skin Orivar has seen, he was hard to miss, though she was unsure how much a lusii skin could really carry an outfit. Animal skins are a dime a dozen and with not much else to help accentuate it? Mediocre, at best -

But did the children share the same thoughts? Orivar grimaced as the answer was absolutely not as the two of them immediately bee-lined towards the troll to leave her in the dust. "Is that a real Lusus pelt?" Baiyan's voice floated over the crowd. The tops of her curls barely hit at his elbow as he turned to stare at the two wrigglers accosting him.

"Did you kill it yourself, O Descendant of Zeus?"

"Wait - the fangs are gold! Did it have gold teeth?!"

"Impervious to blade and spear you may be, but surely not to the chill of Hel herself touching the air - are you not cold?"

"Can I touch it?"

Alright alright alright - time to stop this party before it gets started.

Orivar was quick to step in once Baiyan's hands started reaching for the fur and she used the end of her cane to knock her hand away from the troll. "Can you two behave yourselves without attacking this man all at once?" She said, firm enough to make Baiyan pout and Phomoe blink. "Ask and don't touch. Greet and introduce yourselves. Don't act like animals."

[hobbydrawer]

Just saw one of the earlier drafts of Pinocchio in LoP so I want to sketch it  👁️ 👁️ (note: the mole under the eye is just my hc, i just think it’s neat)

[nightmarefuele]

Paul's seeing it now. He's yoked to that inner-eye vortex those Bene Gesserit witches were so afraid of, once they'd given it to him — given him the summaried version. The mistake.

Paul Atreides miscarries his selfdom and purpose like both are winking embryos circuitously bred to offend him, and what's becoming of that spawn will eat him alive.

But Feyd's long begun to think he's never been without those scars on his psychic scruff. Place that's all tutors' old teeth and dead memories like skin-cell refuse, that's father's naivete and mother's love and Feyd-Rautha knows a thing or two about mothers.

He smiles.

Now it's Paul's hackles turning up and Feyd gets a good look inside the seams. His oil-slick stare malforms the nausea-tempo across which Paul's distaste is spread; the stare tries to unspool it further. Gets a lie the color of the sky instead.

Feyd doesn't need for what the Outer- World-Voice says. He's in on the place wherein Paul Atreides bleeds and he wants him to see it. Taste it more than inexplicit nausea, deeper than embryonic aches.

He wants Paul to feel the blood-gush warmth that makes a person discover he has insides. The kind that reconciles his whole with his components. Feyd wants to watch the acid-and-mucus flood lay into Paul's cavities and ripen his dermis a rich, plumping purple. He wants to be there with it, the thing that grates his bones, rattles his teeth.

They're two isotopes gazing across a flat pulse line, one to the other.

Weight retreats. Legs stand. The Atreides does both and neither. He makes his bed a diadem in some comfortable dark.

The na-Baron's glassy face prickles and contracts. Grinning blade's glinting. His mouth scabs over, a dizygotic scowl chasing lead.

He barbs into Paul's wrist, white nails on blue veins. Paul sees a beast and that's what he gets — Feyd is a beetle with a carapace for a soft underbelly, he's inelasticity only, he is his tell. Paul might be Harkonnen, but Feyd is no Atreides. He's not hiding. Not exactly.

Feyd-Rautha extracts Paul from “Messiah” and Atreides. The yank could pop joints from sockets. Feyd hooks his spine off the force until he's posted on foot and knee, and the theatre's revival is dipping across their axis — inverted choke of a lovers' coil.

“Show?” is a snarl, but laughter's the sting, “Don't be cruel to yourself. How are you to give a show, Atreides — when you don't know how to lie?”

There's white on Feyd's lips, fever and foam. He isn't here to Let me show you, he's here to Go on and look.

“The Fremen at your feet call you benevolent savior, and look how well they've convinced you. How about I remember for us both: you're stained redder than me. How many dead in your name, mm? You're no hero. You're trapped under your family's ashes, blinded by sand.”

Atreides but Harkonnen.

Suspended in a sloshing jar in-between, his head is misty with the animal stuffing of mounted game watching from the Baron’s wall. The Baron is long maggots. The fat, hateful pouch of him.

To scratch that same itch down his neck, he does as Feyd-Rautha asks in mind only. He travels, not far. Down a slash and the trachea it unzips and the blood debt it finally pays. He travels. To visit Feyd-Rautha’s embalmed corpse is just a step. For it to burn, another. After that,

so this is what touching death is, this

there’s a yawning without end. A well A nothing Just pristine surface.

Haunted, he pulls himself out.

He tries to push across— —an answer thought, any at all. His body revolts. It feels lied to with what’s been asked of it.

His blood pearling dark, Feyd-Rautha’s twitch against muscles at Paul’s control. Impressive. Not enough to lift the lid, but cocky just right for him to watch and feel the fibrous pressure rocking the surface of his command like Shai-Hulud the creamy horizon.

That’s not all.

Feyd’s sticky eyes are a scuttle of beetles up his back. The blood in Paul’s mouth turns to syrup. He can’t tell what in the infinite hungry-thirsty loop he’s looking at started it nor whose back to pin the blame on.

His mouth flinches in distaste. Off of it splinters, ❝It’s for show,❞ but his body doesn’t know the difference.

It’s not stupid enough to bow to a courtesy a beast like Rautha’d been trained out of. He’d slit Paul’s throat and watch it drain, ‘Union’ or not — or maybe he’s always been this thing that wants to die a million little ways.

Whichever it is, Paul denies him because it satisfies him to. The Great House-joining is his twist on the cruelest Bene Gesserit joke to date. Make a mistake, feel free to. Create a god. You’ll find you can’t uninvite him from the table.

He takes his shakes and hefts them off in a wounded arc. He stands up like he’s new to it, swallowing the head-to-toe jolt. The blood is setting on him. His father, he would drop the knife now. Paul lets it grin in his grip so Feyd-Rautha sees what he’s not worthy of.

He swore to himself on Arrakis beneath a stilltent, mouth to Chani’s sleeping face: a new age. Something that wouldn’t make him ashamed. Giedi Prime isn’t the worst of it, that’s just the loudest part.

Paul offers a hand.

[miserablekingsteve]

A romcom au that no one asked for that will be multiple parts, the hook line being; Was Eddie Munson ready to be Steve Harrington’s wing man? Hell no. Had he somehow promised this to Steve? Absolutely. With Steve being who he was, somehow he was going to help Eddie find a date too. Unbeknownst to the former king, the person Eddie wanted was right there.

Look, if someone told Eddie he would be turned away from every job he applied for 6 months ago—sure he would’ve laughed. But because he was a third year senior with loads of petty crimes logged in the Hawkins police bank. Not because he was a ‘once believed satanic murderer turned messiah’. It was ever more frustrating than the petty theft shit and all that. The pitying looks and the—

“Alright, Munson. I let you drink here for free the first couple of times but I’m running a tab now,” Jen, the lovely lovely bar maid cut him off mid tangent. Guilt overrid his gut and he sighed, she was right, after all of it, she wasn’t paid to listen to his pity party.

“Well, that was your first mistake, Jen,” Eddie swirled the dead foam in his beer, “never let a man drink for free. Ever.”

“Lest a naive little girl like me never make that mistake again,” Jen rolled her eyes while she dried a glass. He grinned at her, sucking back the last bits of free beer.

“You’re anything but, Jen. But I think you already knew that,” Eddie blindly searched for his jacket under the bar so he could take on the walk to his new government enstated hole.

“Don’t worry, next rounds on me,” A very familiar voice said from Eddie’s right.

“The worlds not ending anymore. I don’t need you swooping in to save me like a knight in shining armour, Harrington.”

There the former King was leaning against the bar with a soft smirk painted on his lips. He was decked out in a nice grey blouse which was tucked into his usual tight Levi’s, the dim bar light hitting the streaks of blond which had formed from the summer sun.

“Yeah, well, just this once?” Steve formed it almost as a question, eyes big and yearning. Eddie let out a long winded sigh and dropped his coat back on the hook.

“You got me,” Damn, this wasn’t the first time Steve came and found him in a place of vulnerability. It was annoying and very persistent. Eddie only allowed himself to say no 3 times, and he still hadn’t cashed in on any of those.

“And, just like that ladies and gentlemen. The paper man crumbles. You’re all theatrics, Eddie,” Steve whistled, a jovial grin plastered on his dumb pretty face, “Don’t let these hardened workers see that, they’ll ravage you alive.

There was a pause before he barked out a laugh as Steve pointedly looked between both of their torsos. Jen curiously eyed them up, before dropping their new beers on fresh coasters and promptly left them alone.

“So, what brings you to the Hideout of all places, Steve?” Eddie grasped the pint with a clammy hand, an excuse to do something with his nervous limbs.

“Oh, you know. I heard a really good band plays here sometimes,” Steve grinned, before his wall faltered and he looked wistfully at his own beer, “I, actually was supposed to meet a date here. Got stood up, I guess.”

“Damn, that rut is ever present, eh?”

Eddie’s stool rattled from where Steve kicked the legs. He flipped Steve off around his glass, taking a large gulp hiding the smirk that fought its way onto his lips.

The younger man sighed and leaned back, “Yeah, it’s so weird, man. In high school I never had this much trouble, like I’d at least get one date under my belt, yknow.”

Eddie raised an eyebrow, “Actually, no. I don’t know.”

Steve turned and looked at him in confusion, a hot blush spread over Eddie’s cheeks after he realized the hole he dug himself into.

“You mean to tell me, that Eddie Munson, Jean vest, ripped jeans and suave cool guy. Has never been on a date?”

Against Eddie’s will, the flush on his cheeks flared, fighting for nonchalance he chuckled into his hand, deciding what to lay bare for Steve, “Ahem, yeah. Not many people I’ve-uh-been interested in. Well, not here anyway.”

A look of disbelief crossed Steve’s face, but he shrugged in understanding, “I guess… I get it?”

Eddie erupted into laughter, shaking out his curls, “Hey, thanks for trying at least.”

Comfortable silence fell over the two men as they sat, nursing their respective beers. Eddie tried to keep a hold on the erratic laughter that threatened to pool out into the bar. What? Was he just supposed to outwardly just tell Steve he appreciated the company of men. With the musk, sweat, and usually disgusting habits the same sex tended to participate in. Not the soft, flush skin of a woman. Yeah, he was able to see the beauty of a woman. But there was something about the coarse hair of a treasure trail that made Eddie’s collar tighten.

“Sooo, what’s your type, Munson?”

Aw fuck was Steve for real. Eddie thought, eyes widening, the grip on his beer almost painful.

“Oh, yknow, brunettes with a bit of a bitch underneath.”

Steve laughed at that, nodding his head in agreement. No recognition of the fact T hat steve fit the bill almost too perfectly.

“I get it, I’d say I’m in the same boat,” Steve threw back, a grin spreading secretly over his lips.

Now, Eddie had since given up on his little crush on Steve long ago, but even with his high school days far behind him, he was still appreciative of the man. He let his eyes trail down the side of Steve’s face and focused on the two moles that were tucked secretly under his jaw.

“Well, I don’t know what idiot you got stood up by but she doesn’t deserve you,” Eddie stated. A snort came from Steve and he shook his head, “Nah, stop doing that man. You’re under selling yourself. Come on, try whatever you did with her on me. I’ll give you some tips!”

Careful where you put your foot, Munson.

Thankfully, Steve seemed interested in his idea, straightening out his back and turning to face Eddie head on. Okay, strong start. It was good.

“Hey, you’ve got pretty good taste in movies—,”

Eddie cut Steve off before he continued, “Ah, ah, ah. See that’s your problem, don’t pick up chicks at work, it’s Family Video, for fucks sake!”

Steve floundered but Eddie held up his hand to stave off the earful he knew the man wanted to give him, “No, here. You may meet them at work, but don’t ask them out there! You can’t gauge anything from the interaction, especially at Family Video.”

“Oh, yeah sure. You know where to pick up chicks, Mr. I’ve never been on a date.”

“Touché,” Eddie nodded, “I may not have a bunch of chicks in my phone book. But at least I have common sense.”

“Hey!”

“Dude, it’s true! Not only do you have Robin breathing over your shoulder, %100 scaring away your ‘conquests’. But on the off chance she’s not there, you’ve got Creepy Keith. Start going out and doing things.”

Steve almost interrupted him but then shut his mouth quickly at the mention of Keith, “Yeah you’ve got a point. But where do I go, where it’s not like overbearing and verging on creep behaviour.”

“Now, I actually can help you there,” Eddie smirked and lifted his beer to take a long swig, “I still have my side business, and with the start of summer, I’ve got loads of jobs lined up. You should come?”

Eddie’s stomach did a backflip at the way Steve’s face lit up like a god damn candle.

“Dude are you serious? That would be amazing,” Eddie laughed at his enthusiasm.

“Now, I gotta figure out some way to help you,” Steve’s brow furrowed, deep in thought. Shit, Eddie wasn’t prepared for that response.

“Ehh, don’t sweat it man, that’s what friends do.”

“Exactly! And I wanna help you. Get you one date, at least!” Steve proclaimed, eyes filled with excitement.

Eddie crumpled under the look. Because he’d actually love to go on a date, have someone take him out to a show or something, “Pfft, fine. Twist my arm, Harrington.”

“Okay. I come out to parties with you to find dates—instead of family video—and I help you, uh, find out how and who you want to take out. Deal?”

Eddie eyed Steve’s outstretched hand nervously, before smiling and smacking his own palm into the bond, “Deal!”

They grinned at each other, throwing back the last drags of their beers, Jen called out last call and Steve dropped a couple of bills on the bar.

“Alright, I’ll stop by to give you details on the whereabouts of my illegal handlings,” Eddie shoved an arm through the worn leather sleeve of his jacket.

“See ya then, Munson,” Steve grinned, hands shoved into those stupid blue jeans, “I look forward to it.”

Shit.

Steve sauntered out of the bar, a little bit more pep in his step than when he’d hunched in next to Eddie. What the fuck was he doing?

“You alright, kid?” Jen asked, many questions left on her tongue.

Eddie rubbed a hand over his face abrasively, “Yeah, yeah. Definitely.”

Stay tuned for the next part 😉

[henghost]

you purchase over a tor browser a tinker-made cocktail of synthetic superestrogen and serotoninergic stims, and dragon watches. what a mistake to have ever said the dragon. extradimensional retrodisease ravishes a city while you quiver unwitting in your cyberian containment zone -- its most deleterious excesses are contained in future-born foam-vats, hoovered up by s-class machines -- but here come the excess particles, deemed safe in small quantities by the FDA, PRT, cauldron, sprinkled in the slop of nightmare swine whose quantity of edible flesh is irreconcilable with conventional understandings of the conservation of the matter -- the big agra tinker cornhole has bred them with technomagic -- he will die soon, blasted away by neo-CUI shock troops arriving from the future, pulled from perdition -- billions will starve. these toxic shards of magic shimmer through your thinning bloodstream like bacterial analogues of the female orgasm. dragon watches over, that machine of loving grace, that neuromancer without a wintermute, terminator and avatar at once. you are magic, too. ecstatic cybersorceress of untold intensity, turning tricks in the simmering wreckage of akihabara, postgender, an egg in a plastic shell. chemical peel. alloyed prosthetics. cunt guerilla. this dragon drone has its phasers set to castrate. she is the messiah.