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rare-clone-fic-exchange · 1 year ago

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Double, Double Boil and Trouble - Part 1

It is I, @dystopicjumpsuit, with a fic written especially for my beloved longtime reader @goblininawig!

Pairing: Clone Trooper Boil x Reader (GN; reader practices tasseomancy/reads tea leaves)

Rating: T but minors DNI as always

Wordcount: 2.2k

Warnings and tags: fluff; minor angst; Star Wars swearing; Boil is canonically a bit of a tool; Boil still has his mustache

Summary: Boil and his friends visit a fortune-telling shop during a night out on Coruscant.

A/N: There will be at least one more chapter coming soon. Don't worry, it ends happily 🧡

Suggested listening: "Reaching for the Moon," by Ella Fitzgerald

https://open.spotify.com/track/1PSpnTbP2TnstBbSpcGWGb?si=efc74bbdd4c34465

Stak, Razor and Wooley were approaching the raucous stage of inebriation as Boil sipped his iazacal liquor and watched them in stoic silence. By his calculation, they had about thirteen minutes left before they all got eighty-sixed from 79’s. They probably would have made it, except some shiny from the 104th got a little overly familiar with the pretty Twi'lek bartender, raising Wooley's immediate ire. The ensuing confrontation got them all kicked out and banned from the club for a week.

Boil would have happily gone back to the GAR barracks and pretended to sleep, but the others were determined to make the most of their first night of shore leave, and so they ventured out into the frigid, rainy night to explore the district around the clone bar in search of further entertainment.

They didn't have to look far; the entertainment district was packed with all varieties of businesses eager to separate tourists from their credits. Unfortunately, most of them also had signs proclaiming “NO CLONES ALLOWED” displayed prominently in their windows.

We're good enough to die for them, but not good enough for them to let us have lives, he reflected bitterly.

“Look, that one allows clones,” Stak said, pointing to a small shop illuminated by lurid neon signs.

“A fortune teller?” Boil scoffed. “Might as well just toss your credits into the underworld portal. It'll get you the same result in the end.”

“Don't be such a kriffin’ buzzkill,” Wooley said. “I want to find out if there's a tall, good-looking stranger in my future.”

“If that's how you describe a super-battle droid, I'd say the odds are good,” Boil retorted.

“Well, I’m not going to stand out in the rain,” Stak said, overruling Boil’s objections.

Thus, the troopers soon found themselves in a cramped, stuffy room that reeked of incense and was cluttered with a dizzying array of mystical and occult paraphernalia. Their damp wool uniforms smelled like wet hounds, and condensation fogged the windows, making the neon city outside look blurry and dreamlike. The four fortune tellers who greeted them were dressed in elaborate, flamboyant robes that Boil highly doubted were authentic to any culture in the galaxy, but they were very effective in giving them an otherworldly—almost fantastical—air.

Stak opted to have his palm read; Razor was intrigued by the card reader; and Wooley opted for runes, leaving Boil alone with the remaining con artist—er, fortune teller. He sized up the civvie before him, trying not to look openly hostile as he searched for the words to politely decline whatever snake oil remained to be peddled. Before he could speak, though, the charlatan—kriff—fortune teller gave him a dazzling smile, and Boil blinked, taken completely off guard.

You weren't particularly surprised when the first three troopers quickly paired up with your partners. Their styles of fortune telling were certainly flashier and more attractive to many customers than your quieter approach. Still, none of them could boast the numbers of loyal repeat customers that flocked to you again and again. The difficulty lay in convincing them to give you a chance in the first place.

The remaining clone did not look like the type to give you a chance. He stared at you and your partners with hard, jaded eyes and a mouth set in a firm line beneath his mustache. As his fellow troopers paired off one at a time with the other mediums, he looked more and more skittish, until it was just the two of you left in the reception room. It was clearly time to break out your secret weapon.

You gave him your patented brilliant smile that walked the perfect line between welcoming and subtly flirtatious. “Welcome. Am I right in thinking that your brothers wanted to have their fortunes read, and they insisted you come with them?”

He blinked at the force of your smile, then gave you the most reluctant half-smile you’d ever seen. “That obvious?”

“I don’t need to be psychic to see that you don’t want to be here,” you replied.

He laughed shortly. “No offense, but I don’t believe in any of this.”

“No offense taken. Perhaps you'd like to join me for a cup of tea while you wait for your brothers. When they're finished, you can pretend I read your tea leaves. No charge, of course.” You gave him a cheeky grin. “I won't tell if you don't.”

Some of the tension eased out of his shoulders at your offer. “Thanks. That’d be… nice.”

You led him into your reading room and invited him to sit wherever he liked. He looked around the room curiously before settling onto the ancient velvet sofa. You began to prepare a pot of tea for the two of you to share.

“Not exactly what I was expecting,” he observed as he looked around the cozy space furnished with soft, somewhat shabby furniture and bathed in the soft light of a few old-fashioned lamps. “Where are all the crystals and tchotchkes?”

“I prefer to minimize distractions during readings,” you replied. “Though as you can see, I do try to make it as comfortable as possible for my guests.”

“‘Guests,’” he snorted. “Is that what you call them?”

You raised your eyebrows at his tone. “Yes. And while I fully accept that you are skeptical of the services we provide, I draw the line at outright rudeness. If you intend to insult me, my colleagues, or our guests, I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

He flinched, realizing he’d overstepped. “Apologies.”

You accepted his begrudging apology as you finished brewing the tea and arranged a small plate of sweet pastries. You had plenty of experience with the clone troopers, and you knew they tended to have a sweet tooth. Besides, you’d smelled the unmistakable scent of iazacal wafting off of him, and you hoped that his sullen mood might improve if he sobered up a bit. Hence, tea and pastries.

He tugged his gloves off and laid them neatly on the low table, wrapping his hands around the cup of tea you passed him. It was a cold night, and his uniform was damp from the rain, so it was no surprise to feel the chill of his skin when his fingers brushed against yours as you handed him the drink. You poured a cup for yourself, then curled up with the other at the opposite end of the small sofa, tucking your feet under you and leaving a small gap between yourself and him. His eyes flickered over you briefly as you sat. At least his expression was no longer actively hostile, though you also wouldn’t exactly describe him as friendly. He sniffed the tea curiously.

“Is this magical tea?” he asked in a faintly mocking tone.

“Certainly not,” you replied with dignity. “I never perform spellwork on someone without their consent. Besides, the magic tea is too expensive to give away for free.”

“I can’t tell if you’re joking,” he said.

You merely gave him a mysterious smile. “I didn’t catch your name earlier.”

“Don’t you know it already?” he asked with a tiny smirk.

“Never heard that one before,” you said drily.

“You’re right. It was a low-hanging meiloorun,” he admitted. “Name’s Boil.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Boil,” you said.

“Now I know you’re lying,” he said with a self-deprecating chuckle.

“Fine, it’s an… experience to meet you,” you laughed. “What are you boys up to this fine Coruscanti evening?”

He shrugged. “Same as every shore leave. Gettin’ kriffed up. Tryin’ not to think too hard.”

You nodded. It wasn’t the first time a clone trooper had said something similar to you, and it wouldn’t be the last. “Is it working?”

He met your eyes. “Might have if those di’kuts hadn’t gotten us kicked out of the bar.”

“Music is better here.”

He frowned. “I don’t hear any music.”

“Exactly.”

He laughed, a genuine laugh for the first time since he’d walked into your shop. “You’re not wrong. What about you? Busy night?”

“Oh, you know, fleecing innocent tourists, bewitching unsuspecting troopers on shore leave, making pacts with the forces of darkness, eating more pastry than I should.”

“So an average Centaxday, then,” he said with a grin. When he smiled, his entire face transformed. His eyes lit; the lines of stress eased on his forehead; and he looked younger, less hardened.

“Maybe a few less blood sacrifices than usual,” you said with a smile.

“We’ve all had to cut back in this economy,” he replied, deadpan.

“So true. We should protest in front of the Senate building.”

“You’d certainly catch some eyes in that,” he said, gesturing toward your elaborate costume.

“Then I must be doing it right,” you replied with a tiny smirk.

“So it’s all for show, then?” he asked, his voice neutral, but his eyes speculative.

You took a delicate sip of your tea and sighed with pleasure at the taste. “People have certain… expectations about the way someone in my line of work will look. Who am I to disappoint them?”

“So you exploit their expectations to manipulate them for profit,” he observed without heat.

“You certainly don’t pull your punches,” you said. It was far from the worst accusation you’d had flung at you by a disgruntled customer, but it still stung to learn that you sat so low in his opinion. “Do you feel like I’m swindling you with free tea and pastries?”

His gaze dropped briefly to your lips, then rose back to meet your eyes. “Nothing is free.”

“And you say I’m the cynical one,” you replied with a level stare.

“Just an observation.”

“And what else do you observe about me?” you asked.

He sat back and surveyed you slowly, raking his eyes down your body. You felt your pulse kick up at his scrutiny; you were accustomed to people eyeing you like a piece of meat—so many would-be guests didn’t seem to comprehend the difference between paying for your services and paying for your body—but rarely did you have the sense that someone truly perceived you. You sat calmly with a slight, defiant tilt to your jaw, refusing to let him know he’d rattled you.

“For starters,” he said, “the fortune teller act is just that: an act. You've gotten a little tired of it, but it pays the bills.”

“I prefer ‘medium.’”

He laughed mirthlessly. “But you don’t deny the rest.”

“Would you believe me if I did?”

He didn’t reply, but merely took a long drink of tea. “I can also tell that you're clever, charming, and very good at reading people. How am I doing so far?”

“You should have led with that,” you replied, adjusting the drape of your robes. “The flattery would have made it easier to swallow being called a fraud.”

“Like I said. Just an observation.”

You smiled faintly. “Shall I tell you what I observe about you?”

“Seems fair,” he said with a confident smirk. “I’m just an amateur, after all. Can’t wait to see the master at work.”

You leaned forward slightly and gazed deeply into his eyes. After a few seconds, he glanced away, setting his half-empty cup of tea down on the low table, then he sat back and folded his arms over his chest, staring back at you with his jaw set in a stubborn line.

“You lost someone,” you said softly.

He huffed derisively, looking away. “We’re in a war. Everybody has lost someone.”

“Not just someone,” you replied, unperturbed by his interruption. “A brother.”

His eyes jolted back to yours. “Everyone knows we clones call each other ‘brother.’ We’re bred to die. It’d be more surprising if I hadn’t lost a brother.”

He snatched up his teacup and tossed back the rest of the tepid brew, his eyes hard and angry.

“May I see your cup?” you asked.

His brows snapped together as he eyed you suspiciously, but he handed it over. You gave him a soft, reassuring smile, but he didn’t relax as you peered down into his cup to examine the leaves that clung to the delicate porcelain.

“There’s a word,” you said slowly. “It’s not Basic or Sy Bisti. It could be a name.”

Despite himself, he leaned closer, trying to see what you saw.

“Boil… does ‘Nerra’ mean anything to you?”

Boil shot to his feet, staggering backward. “How do you know that?”

His voice was hoarse and strained. You set down the cup carefully and rose from the sofa.

“How the hell do you know that?” he repeated, his voice a menacing growl as he advanced a step closer to you.

Quite suddenly, he seemed to tower over you, and your heart raced as you realized that you could be in real danger. You subtly reached for the small panic button that you kept concealed in one of your many bracelets, but before you could call for help, he whirled abruptly and stormed out of the shop into the torrential downpour of the dark Coruscant night.

You sagged with relief and closed your eyes as you leaned against the wall, breathing hard. I’m safe. He didn’t hurt me. When you opened your eyes, the first thing you saw was a pair of leather gloves sitting on the low table. You didn’t need to read the leaves in the bottom of your cup to know that he’d be back.

#rare clone fic exchange #rare clone fic submission #reader insert #clone trooper boil #tcw boil x reader #x reader #clone trooper boil x reader #tcw boil

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a-lovers-remorse · 3 months ago

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Descent Day

(Aka, the Creator’s Birthday!)

To think that on this day, so many moons ago, Teyvat was blessed with the most unexpected surprise- the arrival of you, their beloved Creator! A most joyous day, and since their calender doesn’t quite line up the same as this world’s calendar, you decided to accept it as your new birthdate. Getting isekaied counts as being reborn, right? To avoid a multinational war of nuclear proportions, the birthday is a 2 week long celebration with you visiting every nation for 2 days. So how does each nation choose to celebrate their distinguished guest?

Mondstat

You didn’t think anything could weird you out after waking up in a videogame that you had adored for years, but waking up under the soft glow of stained glass to angelic singing from a choir sure made a lasting impression.

Noelle made you breakfast in bed and together with Klee guarded you through a walk from Mondstat, to the Dawn Winery and back, while preparations were underway for the party.

Mondstat’s celebration is hosted by the knight of favonius and held near the archon statue at the base of the cathedral. Gifts were left inside of the cathedral near your shrine, with tables of games set up around the grounds. Bards take turns singing and leading dances near the archon statue, keeping the energy happy and light. The dawn winery and Cat’s share collaborated just for today to provide the drinks, the bartenders switching off on shifts so they could all enjoy the celebration as well. Each food vendor had their own stand around the edge of the venue and served food until nightfall when they could join the party, exhausted but ready to celebrate.

Officially speaking, the knights-of favonius were keeping guard for unruly behavior. Truthfully, Rosaria, Diluc, and Kaeya were doing most of the outer city patrolling, with Lisa, Jean, Barbara and the nuns from the Church of Barbatos keeping things organized and under control.

The gift table was overflowing with flowers- individual stems, to crowns and large bouquets. Windwheel asters were popular, but there were also large batches of other flowers that were commonly considered windblumes. Small boxes and bags, notes of well wishes filled with dandelion seeds also decorated the table.

Lisa, Jean and Noelle collaborated together for your gift, designing an entire outfit from scratch, with matching shoes and accessories.

A bottle of Diluc’s finest cider was expected, but the carved wooden falcon wine stopper was a lovely surprise.

Kaeya’s gift to you was a moment of respite. The whirlwind of dancing and crowds, people endlessly chattering and touching or petting you was making you weary after a few hours. He snuck you away from the party for a walk along the city walls, content to simply walk alongside you in silence.

When you’re next free, Bennet, Razor, and Fischl come to take you on an adventure. Everyone is still busying recovering or cleaning from the night before, so you follow them out of the city. They don’t often have a chance to see you if you don’t seek them out, so they take the time to regale you with stories of their most recent travels. They gallantly protect you from any monster that dared wander too close, and before you could become tired from the walk, they show you the small waterfall they found. Fischl pulls out a picnic she had been hiding, and spend the next few hours playing in the lake until Barbara and Rosaria come to fetch you all.

Albedo comes down from Dragonspine only to seek you out, he doesn’t have much interest in staying for the afterparty. He gifts you a bottle with a flower inside. It’s petals shimmered and seemed to move, and he promised it would never die. He pretends to act surprise when you mention it’s your favorite color.

Mona calls on you in the early afternoon, welcoming you to her home for tea. She pulled a few favors with The Steambird, offering a few extra columns and exclusive advice, to get you a custom art piece with the alignment of the stars from the night of your descent. She’s nervous, and warns you that she will not make this a routine thing- but if you so wish, she will do her best to look into your future, even if it may be outside of her scope.

On the morning of your departure, Venti woke you with a soft ballad, beckoning you to the window. He snuck you out of the cathedral and across the roof, guiding you with a steady hand that caught you every time you almost slipped off.

Venti uses his wind to glide you two over to the archon statue, both of you taking a seat on the hands to watch the sun rise. The sky lightens, as you begin to warm in the glow of the sun, Venti sings a ballad he’s composed specially for you.

“Happy birthday your Grace!”

#just mondstat for now #genshin imapct x reader insert #genshin impact creator #actually i dont know what to tag this

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thelarriefics · 2 years ago

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BEACH FIC REC: Below are fics that take place on or near a beach.

📖 Tired Tired Sea by @mediawhorefics (113k)

As a B&B owner on the most remote of all the British Isles, Louis Tomlinson is used to spending the coldest half of the year in complete isolation, with his dog and the sea as sole companions. Until, one day, a mysterious stranger on a quest to rebuild himself rents a room for the winter.

📖 Jade by @halohamilton (91k)

Harry was in a shipwreck, lost at sea with an injury to his head that causes him to lose part of his memory. Louis happens to notice the boy and dives in to rescue him, then aiding him to health again with his mother’s help.

Harry may have lost part of his memory, part of his life, but he gained something better than he could have ever imagined; he fell in love with Louis.

But, the life that Harry couldn't remember may just come between them.

The Amnesia AU where Harry and Louis still end up falling in love.

📖 Ace of Spades by @allwaswell16 (78k)

Living as a sheltered omega in a farming village has not prepared Harry for life aboard the most notorious pirate ship to sail the Atlantic.

Or Louis is a pirate, Harry is his captive, and no one is who they say they are.

📖 Si Pudiera Volar by @softfonds (69k)

When Harry’s fiancé leaves him for his cousin, he looks the other way for the sake of his happiness. He’ll do anything to forget about him, including joining a monastery. It isn’t until his cousin’s former lover, a pirate, appears that he realizes everything is not as it appears, and an honest pirate might be the only person worthy of his heart.

Or, a fic loosely based on Corazón Salvaje.

📖 In Four Colours by @ireallysawanangel (59k)

Harry's a workaholic who threw himself headfirst into his work after his divorce ten years ago and hasn't come up for air since. His two daughters and his best friend notice how overworked and stressed he is, so they surprise him with a trip to the coast of France. The last thing Harry expects to do on his holiday is relax, but when he meets the kind, beautiful stranger staying in the cottage next door, his holiday starts to look a little more promising.

Or, the older larry AU featuring sun, sand, and the French countryside with a sprinkling of divorced Harry and silver fox Louis.

📖 Full Moon Dreaming by @jacaranda-bloom (43k)

Every month, Full Moon Dreaming reveals a person’s soulmate. Sometimes it’s an object or a place, or for the lucky ones, the love of their life.

Louis has given up hope of dreaming of a person, resigned to living a life devoid of that kind of all-consuming love for another and receiving the same in return.

But when a new neighbour descends on Louis’ beloved Hanson Bay and moves into the other beach house, could all that be about to change?

📖 Flowers in the Window by @justanothershadeofblue (33k)

Harry is a lonely and depressed popstar who sailed out of his hometown on Eroda years ago to chase his dreams. He comes back to the island only to find his shining childhood best friend Louis just as cold and dreary as the island they grew up on.

📖 Away From Home by @marchessa (12k)

the one, where Harry is a servant to the Tomlinson family and he ends up as one of the lone survivors of a shipwreck. But maybe he can still find paradise in the tragedy.

📖 Tan Lines and Some Memories by @harrieberrie (11k)

It’s summer in California and blockbuster movie star Louis Tomlinson is looking forward to a break and spending his days lazing away at his beach house.

Harry Styles is the indie movie darling he’d been avoiding ever since Louis saw his movie at Cannes and harbored an unreasonable grudge against him.

A unicorn t-shirt finally brings them together in person.

Summer romance ensues.

📖 Heat Waves by @chai-hat-tea (10k)

Louis, a surf instructor by day and a bartender by evening, meets vacationer Harry for the first time, and he knows that he doesn't deserve someone like Harry. Harry proves him wrong.

📖 come my love be one with the sea by @larrydoinglaundry (6k)

Pirate captain Louis gets saved from the storm by mermaid Harry, and grows particularly fond of this mysterious creature.

📖 Climbing The Swells by @cyantific (6k)

One surfer out of his depth amongst some territorial locals makes a bold move and a very unwelcome entrance. After things go wrong, another surfer reluctantly takes mercy on him, offering some first-aid and unexpected hospitality aboard his Airstream. A couple dimples and a few wayward curls go a long way to soften one surly local, and what started out as a rough morning becomes a very sunny spot to the day.

Or… The one where a clumsy Harry and a stubborn Louis reconcile their grievances on the beach with a heartfelt apology from Louis on his knees without saying a word.

📖 The Way You Smile Golden by @moonhusbands (5k)

it's 1967 and two boys find themselves alone on a beach.

📖 beach tits by @jaerie (2k)

Louis catches Harry pumping in the car. He can't help that he's really turned on by it.

📖 wet sand by @ialwaysknewyouwerepunk (1k)

harry and louis are part of the same friend group that's on a trip together. after they play a drinking game, louis and harry run to the beach in the middle of the night, where things get heated.

📖 Oh, Those Summer Nights by @beelou (1k)

An extended scene of the beginning of the movie Grease as a larry au

#beach fic rec #masterpost #1dsource #hljournal #hlcreators

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svsaskbox · 1 year ago

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Hello everyone!

Welcome to the SVS ask box! We are a small group of SVS members/creators where you can ask our OCs all sorts of questions!

here's an introduction to all the individuals behind this blog:

@bamjammy - Hi! My name's Jammy, pronouns he/they, and I like to make OCs and never use 'em!

available characters:

Tarty Hart - Evil scientist smarties

Wizz Fizzy - chaotic pixy stix

Teri Chang - famous sour(?) singer/actress

Valentina Velvet - red velvet cake killer/bakery owner

Carolina Carrot - carrot cake detective

Toast - innocent marshmallow taffy kid/Tarty's somewhat son

@toastygal666 - a gal whos toasty, with only girl OCs cause men are hard to draw :>

available characters:

Delicie - jawbreaker girl

Hecate - pumpkin witch

Vemp - vampire mermaid

@jynxiejinx - I’m Jynxie! I’m a 19 y/o character artist, and your local chill hippie enby. any pronouns are cool!

available characters:

Penny Sucre - peach tea fruity guild leader

Bianca, Barry and Huey Poppins - bubblegum triplets

Fable Frosting - mythical animal cracker unicorn centaur

@kitn3x - Hi hi, I’m Kit, your genderless fool of an artist!

available characters:

Paddie (Rainbow paddlepop ice cream) - sweet local robin hood who eat the rich and feed the poor situation

Milly (Milo nuggets) - a bittersweet member who dream of becoming a mechanic

Bannie (Bandung drink) - A sweet singer who dream of peace between sweet and sour nation through music with her fellow friends and members

Hex (Sparkling honey drink) - ur avg waiter who works in a honey pot tavern in coco cabins

Isbert (Ice shaved dessert) - An ex-knight who now works as a lumberjack to take care of his remaining family member and ensure there's no harm on them

Peps (Hot cocoa Pepsi) - Shark boi who friends with a sweet and dreamt of becoming a famous swimmer

Aurora (galaxy cocktail) - Once a child actor, now a pop singer in the sour nation! She have fallen in love with a famous sweet underground singer

Killian (c1000 drink) - William Fishbert's beloved husband who works in a military with him before the incident :)

Aiden (hot hot pop foot lollipop) - Father of a certain shark boi who works as a bartender at Gobstop! Also his appearance may scare you if its a curse thing or bless you or maybe blursed

@seanthejester - Hi! I'm Sean (he/him)! I'm 19 years old and like drawing silly little guys.

Available characters:

Brandy Butter - He was almost the pastry guild leader and he's all about advocating for peace and integration. He's currently working on creating a peace organization in the Sweet Kingdom

@minibigboy - I’m Fin / MiniShark (he/it). I’m a bit funkee and tired, but I have art and ocs :)

available characters:

Ananas - piña colada

Lucius Sandía - watermelon flash pop

Angel Cake - …angel cake…

Girlypop - sour rainbow strips

William Fishbert - the fishbowl

Joe Cupp - black coffee

@jacket-pigeon - Hi! I'm Pigeon (they/them) and I like making OCs too much

available characters:

Pomelia (Peppermint) - Grumpy ex-soldier

Moxy (Bubblegum poprocks) - Playful troublemaker

Jambo (Sour belts) - Eccentric TV show host

@itayati - Hey! I'm a 19 yo artist (she/her) and an enjoyer of cute things and the colour pink

available characters:

Pea O'Sour (Peach sour rings) - Cheerful photographer

Minty Drop (Mint drops/landrines) - Quiet jewellery maker

Malina (pierogi with blueberries and strawberries) - a bit socially awkward fruit seller

@ikeaunderscorecat - Yo, im ikea (she/they) and i am here also! hopefully you enjoy my funny fellows as much as i do

available characters:

hedron - red velvet oreo, very angry arms guy

@asrielcipher - Hey I’m Ace (they/them), please enjoy my ocs

available characters:

Bea Flutters (Butterfly Pea Tea) - a doctor with no self preservation, who wants to help others at her own expence

Moon Flutters (Ramune) - an influencer and Bea’s younger, meaner sister

#sweet vs sour #nikofergi svs #svs #oc #ocs #my ocs #others ocs #ask #ask blog #oc ask blog

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justfangirlstuffs · 1 year ago

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So... a bartender and a performer eyyyy...?

Not to mention a debt collector...

I am intrigued....

What sort of dynamic do these guys have? Do they all get along? Is it a Sun/Moon Vs Eclipse thing? Or perhaps a free for all?

Oh wow! My first ever Cabaret AU question! :D

Sun and Moon rely on each other heavily since they, in their minds, are the only ones they can trust. They have been a part of each other's lives since their conception, and being without the other is not only inconceivable to them, but would be incredibly damaging.

At the beginning, Sun and Moon aren't even aware of Glitch's presence in the world (to a degree), let alone his involvement in the life of their beloved canary. For Glitch's part, he knows of them and has been looking for them. He too, at first is ignorant of their involvement in Y/N's life. This is mostly in part due to everyone's insistance to keep the other at an emotional distance due to their circumstances and positions.

I will say though that Glitch DOES have a history with Sun and Moon that plays a huge part in how they all ended up where they are at present.

Thank you for the question! <3<3<3<3<3

#fnaf moondrop #fnaf sundrop #fnaf eclipse #glitch #cabaret AU

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mareastrorum · 2 years ago

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WIP Wednesday: TF&TS (Otis)

Here is another snippet from Chapter 1!

Fanfic Summary: Mollymauk Tealeaf survived the encounter with the Iron Shepherds, but a short time later, a spirit had begun hunting him, claiming that he stole his body. This Campaign 2 AU begins with Episode 26 and continues on from there.

This fanfic will go up on AO3 in June or July, then get updated every 2 weeks.

It was a raucous early afternoon in the newest dive bar on Clover Street. The establishment had a name under the prior owner—who met a pitiful and entirely predictable end—but someone had stolen the sign. The new owner had not yet bothered to name the place, and money to be spent on a sign was better spent on protection money to avoid the predecessor’s fate. The bar was instead marked by a crudely painted tankard on the front door, only partially covering some of the obscene carvings that still showed through the newer image.

The interior was no better. The underlying smell of rotted food and spoiled beer had permeated the entire establishment, though it was barely perceptible over the more recent smell of vomit and piss lingering at the edges. Black stains along each corner made clear that no owner had ever bothered with more than a cursory wash. Mismatched chairs, tables, and benches scattered about in a haphazard manner, rearranged by the patrons as they saw fit. Stains of red, brown, and black splattered across the gray wood. A few low booths filled the far wall, running up against the bar on the left.

Ten-odd mercenaries at two center tables were already deep in their cups, gladly tossing down coin to celebrate some recent payday. They had been cycling through several ballads, and they had only just gotten to a local favorite, their drunkenness matched only by their fervor as they hammered the table to keep the beat. Without any accompaniment, the melody was far more menacing, as was appropriate.

“There beside the singin’ river That dark mass of men were seen! Far above their shinin’ weapons Hung their own beloved green!”

One of the scarred men jumped up and bellowed the next lines to rile the others.

“DEATH to every foe and traitor! Forward! STRIKE the marchin’ tune! And hurrah my boys, for FREEDOM! ‘TIS THE RISIN’ OF THE MOON!”

They roared and howled and sang the chorus before continuing to the next verse, some of the other clientèle humming along. The unimpressed bartender did not mind the revelry, so long as they kept the coin flowing. Any patrons that cared about the rowdy band of marauders had long since left anyway.

So when a brawl suddenly broke out between three of them, the barkeep only sighed, the bystanders jeered, and the other mercenaries laughed until one was knocked out cold, the second conceded, and the third—bloodied face and missing a tooth—demanded another round at the fallen’s expense and hoisted the unconscious loser into a booth before the group launched into yet another song.

Days like this were exactly why Otis Brunkel was pleased to have based themself out of Shadycreek Run.

Otis was a halfling with wild, dark hair and bright brown eyes sitting in a corner booth near the bar, facing the door with a crazed grin. They had a gaunt face, and their normally sallow complexion had gone ruddy from drink. Dark leather armor covered their simple cotton and wool clothing, a crossbow at their side. Numerous inch-long scars marked the palms of each hand, though the left had far more.

A mood was upon Otis for now, and it would probably last a few days like the last time. It felt good. Everything would feel good—until it didn’t. Until then, everything was entertaining, a potential fight. That would be so fun. It would be great.

But Otis had to pick carefully without someone else to watch their back. The Run was not the place to go wild alone.

Not in such an open area, at least.

Currently, Otis was whistling along to the song, bouncing a leg and fidgeting with their hands as they scanned the room with manic eyes, keeping watch for potential activities. They had just lifted their tankard for a drink when some jackass that had walked in earlier suddenly took the seat across from them.

“Seat’s taken,” Otis hissed without breaking their smile, taking stock of the newcomer.

He was human, his coloring the only clue that he did not belong in the Run. He was pale, freckled, and redheaded with blue eyes—a Zemnian, so he must have been from the Empire to the south. Otherwise, his sunken eyes, unkempt beard, battered brown coat, worn clothes, and well-worn layer of mud would have him looking perfectly at home in this shithole.

Otis noted that he did not seem to carry any weapons, though there were strange bulges under his coat. There had to be something stashed in there, considering how thin the man appeared. He also had bandages wrapped around his forearms. Maybe a dealer of some kind.

“Ja, by me,” the man replied flatly with a Zemnian accent. Called it.

Otis snickered. A human with a spine! They liked it. They liked it. “What d’ya want, then?”

“You are Otis of the Tombtakers?” the man inquired. “I am Caleb Widogast.”

“Depends on why you’re askin’, Caleb Widogast,” Otis responded with a widening smile. Oh, they hoped it was something interesting. The few that asked for Otis because of the old gang usually had something to do with the Orders or with old friends or with old friends.

“My companions and I need some help,” Caleb explained. “You see, we were traveling with—ah, a mutual acquaintance, and then we ran into trouble. We would like your help in retrieving those we lost.”

Otis scanned the bar quickly and spotted the others without issue. They stuck out so readily. A dark-skinned human woman with a staff and wearing far too much blue; a Cobalt Soul something-or-other for sure. Too much color for the Run. Next to her was a rugged female dwarf in dented plate armor with numerous weapons at her side. She was a local, no question. Next to them was a… what’s the word? Furblog or something. Part-giant part-fey cow person, because sometime a long time ago, some people got really adventurous. Dark fur, and they looked lost as shit. And Otis almost missed it, but there was definitely a goblin hiding in the back. They all looked sad, beaten, and bitter.

Who the fuck did Otis know that would hang out with these losers?

“I mean, you’re not wrong, you look like you could use some help,” Otis cackled before taking another drink. “But who’s this mutual acquaintance?”

“A certain purple tiefling with red eyes,” Caleb replied quietly, glancing around warily without turning his head.

Otis locked their eyes on Caleb’s, all their shifting and twitching stopping as their grin widened as far as it would go, a low chuckle almost leaking into a feral growl. That humming heat that ran through their veins from the mood had collected entirely in their arms, ready to burst into some violence. Oh, it felt like the Pattern had come back for a second, thrumming and tingling in all the best ways in their brain. They missed that.

To Caleb’s credit, he did not flinch away from Otis even when most would. But there’s no way Lucien would spend time with a sorry looking man like this, even if he was alive. What’s the game here? Did he come back after all? Or was that spell-spitter bitch from Rexxentrum up to something? Or the Jagentoths?

“What’s this, then?” Otis pressed without blinking. “How do you know him?”

“We met him a short time ago and had been traveling with him,” Caleb explained quietly, not looking away. “We did not know much about him, but we have been helping each other, and then he was taken. Another acquaintance of his had previously told us about his old gang based out of this town, and asking around got me pointed in your direction.”

“Who said that?” Otis asked rapidly.

“Cree, a tabaxi in Zadash.”

“How long ago did you meet our acquaintance?”

“Perhaps a month or so by now.”

“Say his name, then, if you know him so well.”

Caleb hesitated, now looking around more overtly before turning and whispering, “Lucien. Nonagon.”

Otis cackled madly and clapped their hands together once harshly. They needed the sting, something to loosen the blaze burning in their arms. Yes! Lucien was back! He had to be!

But taken?

“Taken by who?” Otis demanded, their eyes narrowing slightly.

“The Iron Shepherds,” Caleb answered stoically. “They work for the Jagentoths, I believe.”

“Fuckin’ figures it’s the slavers,” Otis barked a laugh, finally breaking the stare. “Was it the bounty or because of Reese? Oh, nevermind, it’s probably both. Lucien’s never been one to get in trouble unless it’s a landslide of bullshit all at once.”

Otis liked this one. Caleb had balls. He didn’t flinch, waver from fear, or shy away from strangeness. Yes, yes, even a sorry group like his could be useful to Lucien with an attitude like that.

“We know a little of the bounty,” Caleb said, “but nothing about ‘Reese.’ What do you know? It may be important for recovering him and the others.”

“There’s an outstanding bounty for blood magic wielders, probably some necromancer up to the same old shit,” Otis explained, interrupting now and then to snicker. “Top coin if you get a live one back to the right people in Rexxentrum, and a modest sum for dead ones. It’s been floating around up here for a while, but only a few groups are riled up about it—like the Jagentoths. Reese Jagentoth is an old thorn that Lucien never got around to dealing with. There was always bigger shit to handle first. So it sounds like both those threads caught up to him. I wouldn’t put it past Reese to try to fuck him up and then turn him in for the pay.”

“You… find this funny?” Caleb asked, looking confused.

“Of course, of course!” Otis giggled. “Lucien’s gotten out of worse anyway, like being dead. Hells, I’m looking forward to seeing him riled up over the offense. Bastard hates slavers, hates the Jagentoths, hates the Orders, and all the problems that come with them. Gather all those in the same place and he’ll carve up everything himself. Ah, it’ll be so fun to watch that.”

“The Orders?” Caleb questioned.

“The Claret Orders,” Otis elaborated. “They’re the ones that train in blood magic. They’re underground because of these sorts of bounties. We left forever ago, but there’s no escaping their crap.”

Caleb sighed deeply and hesitated, “You should know, there is a… there is a chance they may have already killed him. He was gravely wounded when he was taken.”

“Eh, he’s been dead before,” Otis replied blithely. “The Nonagon will return. He said it himself, he did, and it sounds like he already managed it at least once. We’d just need to get him to Cree. She’ll be thrilled to fix him up again.”

Caleb seemed disturbed by that. Interesting. How much did Lucien tell them? Oh well, Otis will find out from Lucien. He’s back! Now there was work to do! Jagentoths to fuck up! Slavers to slaughter! Good, good, yes, this would be good. The burn in their veins felt so fucking good.

And once Lucien was done with these loose threads, the Tombtakers could get to work in Eiselcross.

“So, will you help us retrieve him and our other companions?” Caleb requested. “We’ve already scouted the location. We have one more stop so we can prepare, and then we were planning to infiltrate their nest tonight.”

Otis smiled rabidly, eyes bright and wide, fire coursing in their blood, “I’m in.”

#wip wednesday #critical role fanfiction #TF&TS #otis brunkel #the tombtakers

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narcissastale · 12 days ago

Text

Narcissa’s Tale: The B-Sides

Caryn Nicole Wells (South Carolina, 2023)

“It was just a colour out of space—a frightful messenger from unformed realms of infinity beyond all Nature as we know it; from realms whose mere existence stuns the brain and numbs us with the black extra-cosmic gulfs it throws open before our frenzied eyes.”- H.P. Lovecraft in "The Colour Out of Space"

PART ONE

The smoke was thicker than it had been earlier in the week; this was the first Friday of the month and bills had stolen the last check. The next exhale would cost another fifty hours of toil, so they’d inhale to hold them over while drowning their misery in poison. Narcissa knew why they showed every week as her reasons were the same. She’d picked a thin skirt the color of winter earth and paired it with a white tank top she tucked in at the waist. She painted her lips red because she always did. The color drew jeers of ‘tacky’ but it was her favorite; and tacky, she thought, not to mind one’s own business just the same.

As society chooses to enforce certain perceived social graces over others, she had chosen her set list to fit her own agenda. She’d sing her purgatory for herself and for those whose hearts shared the cell. The lovebirds in the crowd would be transported to a time before their present bliss; falling more in love with their beloved at the end of every song. She stared at herself in the dressing room mirror and took a few deep breaths. The lights flashed in the small damp room; briefly hiding the shag carpet and vintage festival posters to warn five minutes.

She looked into her own brown eyes and did what women do; sending her ear to her shoulder and running her hands down her frame while imaging there’d be more love with less, and less lust. The vanity light hung six bulbs with only three in working order. A fourth flickered yellow, but buzzed the green of cartoon vomit. She’d learned to live with short lived dissonance and was thankful for her gift. She’d paint a master artist’s night sky; under which the crowd would disappear until their time to applaud the effort. It was horrendous, but she’d bow and smile anyway: flirt with the bartender, and head home with or without him.

She overturned the palo santo and crushed the burn to ashes in an ornate shell. She pressed her palms together at heart’s center, closed her eyes and inhaled once more.

She centered herself with a six syllable chant; the effect of which would reveal itself in its own time as she surrendered her will to ancestors who weren’t hers. Wisdom had taught her reverence of all elders (save for the Romans), and she trusted her fate to all who still held court, those who knew better than to pay for salvation in gold-

those whose eyes stared frontward at a forty-five degree tilt, never bowing five times eastward or tracking the moon’s ebb and flow.

A knock on the door interrupted her meditation. She knew it was important, or the caller would not have come.

“Nars….”, the drummer stood at the door with sorrow in his eyes. She was shaken again by his expression. They’d had a fling years back and he never took anything seriously.

“Your mother is on line one…..it’s about your grandfather.”

PART TWO

The wind blew eastward, lifting Narcissa’s long black waves in the flow. She traveled by foot to work every morning, and today would be no different. The cold seeped through her pores, wrapping her heart in the frigidity. She felt everything to her core as if her skin were a broken window that couldn’t close. Her response to the news had been a long night’s sleep and an hour to have her semi-permanent acupuncture needle replaced. She’d upgraded from weekly visits when she moved to the city; still keeping twice monthly appointments for the full work up.

A near-death experience had changed her life; teaching her the weaponization of the body in the silencing of the mind. The wind kissed her cheek and she smiled at the kindness. Still, she stopped into Wise Bean for something warm. She stood in line, glancing down the length of her arm to the local paper’s coverage of the coming city elections. The conservative candidate promised protests if the vote went the other way; this once honored gathering of men seldom heard now reduced to temper tantrums.

She lifted her gaze to meet the eyes of the barista bathed in brown. His chestnut skin glistened under the low lighting of the cafe’. He was of medium build and all the more beautiful in the steam machine’s whistle, blue. He smiled and asked for her order, adding a flash of pearl to the opulence. She ordered a Cubano, no sugar, and he requested her name for the cup. She offered the response and he smirked, but sweetly, asking if Narcissa was the name she’d been born with. She gave a knowing nod; one foot dangling from the cloud she’d climbed in his eyes. Her dream state was restored when he pointed at the plastic attached to his shirt.

His name was Lucius.

He grinned and glanced her over where she stood, in a pink midi satin skirt and cream toned sweater tucked into one side. She paid in cash and drifted to the pickup area. The canisters of caramel were an extension of his arm as they hurried in and out of the sea of steam and noise. He called her name when her order was ready. They lingered in the goodbye and she wondered if he was still watching as she headed towards the door. She looked over her shoulder, finding Lucius with his back turned; rushing to save the neighborhood from the winter air and morning stress.

She continued on foot in the direction of her store, removing her phone from her purse as she walked. She had five missed calls from Isaiah and a text requesting to talk. They’d been friends for a lifetime, but he’d moved on. She was trying to do the same; not to a someone, though not against it. More into a new season of her life and opportunities to rediscover herself. She reached her store’s front door and took the key from her purse. She went to toss the coffee cup into the garbage can by the entrance. She took the last sip and lowered her hand.

And there, under her forefinger were ten digits and the initial, “L”.

—————————————————————————————————

Narcissa began her days as she always did; lighting sage and various incense, holding her hands in padma mudra to open her heart to all who would enter. Her morning meditation was disrupted by the sound of the door hitting the bell that hung above it. She peered from the back as a face she recognized from social media searched the shelves: another girl with a funny name-

Isaiah’s new girlfriend, Zoan.

—————————————————————————————————

PART THREE

TADASANA.

Narcissa stood at the top of her rose gold mat, gripping the polyurethane with the balls of her feet; ten toes pointing towards the heavens. She’d been treating herself well in single life, and enjoying the distance from Isaiah.

He’d call and she wouldn’t answer, so he kept calling. She figured he’d stop eventually, when his uncertainty about moving forward with Zoan dwindled to an ember. But, his wavering seemed to have escalated to pulsing insecurity; made evident by his sending the doe-eyed pixie to her doorstep.

FORWARD FOLD.

Isaiah knew the answer to the question she’d carried. Narcissa inhaled slowly and controlled through her nose and forced the air back out the same way. He’d used his new love to force his way back into her story. She knew his tactics and felt pity for the girl who played tough for the world, seemingly having no idea that she comes of as petulant; the kind of person advanced by circumstance and still believes she’s earned it in earnest.

HALFWAY LENGTHEN.

Narcissa lifted her gaze to the front of her mat, surrendering to the background music’s addition to the sensation. Sometimes, it was beautiful.

FORWARD FOLD.

Narcissa lowered her hands to the ground, shooting her feet back to land in a high plank.

CHATURANGA DANDASANA.

He really sent his unsuspecting mate into her lair.

It was clear that Zoan had no knowledge of their past relationship, or his current calls. Narcissa shined her chest open, tucked her toes, and lifted her hips to the ceiling.

DOWNWARD FACING DOG.

Her phone rang at that moment and she knew it was Isaiah. She stepped her right foot between her grounded hands; reaching high above her head. She reached to the dresser without moving her feet and slid the button on the side to stop the device from sounding.

WARRIOR ONE.

—————————————————————————————————

Narcissa enjoyed cooking for herself, but pitied the pour soul the universe would assign as her soulmate. She didn’t do soul food; the way to his heart, or so she’d been told. She’d marinated a chicken breast for the length of the day and set it in the pan to sear. She turned back to her island on the down count of a lofi beat: ambient hip-hop and jazz with no words. She chopped two kinds of lettuce, peppercorns, cherry tomatoes, black olives, red onions, and a block of feta cheese. She tossed the ingredients one by one in a large bowl that sat atop her rustic wooden trimmings.

She stared at her forest green couch from the kitchen, adorned with a vibrant knit blanket she’d purchased from a street vendor. She had mass canes, peace lilies, and pothos that wrapped around the distance of her living room; warming the tan carpet that returned the gesture. One canvas of various matte and glittering brown stripes hung above the fireplace. Apartments have no yard, so she brought the earth inside. Her moment of gratefulness ended abruptly when her mother called. There’d be a family gathering in the morning. Her grandfather’s condition was worsening and they’d all agreed to come together.

She rolled her eyes and said ‘okay’, ending the call as she transferred the poultry to a plate to cool. Her phone buzzed as she removed the Greek dressing from the fridge. She turned towards the new message from Lucius.

She’d reached out when she’d arrived home, washed up, and dressed out for yoga; sending a text between the bathroom mirror and the unrollling of the mat that read:

“Best Cubano I’ve ever had.”

He’d responded, “Best Cubano I’ve ever made.”

—————————————————————————————————-

Three knocks let Lucius into Narcissa’s apartment. He carried a bottle of wine and a plastic container of garlic bread he’d picked up from the store on the way over. She kindly explained that she didn’t drink. He kindly abstained in solidarity. Through dinner, he flowed between information and flirtation. He was a Casanova of a different kind; being charming without the intentional oozing of bravado. Narcissa put her guard up in response. He’d done nothing wrong but be brilliant, and she wasn’t going to allow herself to be taken by his waves. She responded to his questions about her life, the store, and her inner most self with falsely polite reserve. He peered directly at her; not through her and searching for the truth, but holding her to it without crossing the boundary she’d set. She sighed and opened.

She told Lucius about her grandfather and the gathering set for the morning. She explained that she’d been treating these events as vacation days; taking hot baths, bathing in oils, and enjoying documentaries in her pajamas on knit blankets. She wished she could blame her absence on an excess of drama, but that wasn’t true.

She glanced at the seemingly good man through the flutters of her lashes; waiting for the lecture on the importance of family and being present. Instead, he leaned in, rested his chin on one hand, and told her that she was born an individual; that the creator gives everyone their own space in this world and she owed no explanation for her choices concerning her life gift.

It was then that she decided to allow herself to be taken.

—————————————————————————————————

Narcissa woke to smooth jazz she’d timed to drift from her alarm on the weekends. She turned to Lucius who still slept, and beautifully so. She journeyed to the kitchen, removing her good coffee from its shelf. She matched the tablespoons to water and pressed the button marked “brew”. She traveled to the bathroom as the aroma filled the air. She turned on the lights revealing brown, marble counters and quaint rustic fixings. She smoothed her hair with a brush, took a swig of mouthwash, and applied eye cream to the late night evidence.

She added a touch of liquid rouge to look less like a corpse; finding herself drowning in femininity-

a mood that’d evaded her for some time.

It was then that she decided to move on definitively. She’d take Isaiah’s queen.

She placed a call to the local police, repeating all that Zoan had said about Applewood Cemetery, Mrs. Mudge, and the conversation she overheard. No more visits.

She crept back into her room and into bed; snuggling in towards Lucius who wrapped her tightly in his arms, half sleeping. Narcissa’s phone buzzed as soon as she placed her head on her pillow.

Isaiah’s text appeared on her Lock Screen.

“Who’s the guy in your bed?”

PART FOUR

Narcissa sat at a bar table in the back corner of Wise Bean. It was less busy on Sundays; with the bossa nova whisking by like late winter flurries. She stared into the soul of her coffee cup, contents unknown. Lucius promised a surprise and delivered a cylinder of black woody thunderstorm air and a hint of biting moss. She’d never considered the provenance of the coffee she drank before today; before the last person to know her retold the story in caffeinated prose.

She didn’t feel like the unpaved roads of a country she’d only dreamed seeing. She didn’t look it today, either; pulling a emerald sweatshirt over a linen skirt, platting her hair into two braids that hung from her shoulder, and wearing the oversized square glasses she seldom let people see. Still, Lucius carried the cup with a grin and twiddled the tail of one braid between his index finger and thumb before turning heel and returning to his duties. They’d agreed upon her absence from the family event taking place an hour west. Narcissa was overwhelmed with relief when he’d offered the hideaway.

She’d brought a book for the day; a true-crime story about misdeeds and the small town that kept the secret. But, she made it to page ten before scrolling between the news articles she’d caused, and the text Isaiah sent.

They shared a floor. She kept repeating that to herself to make his intrusion seem less so. She was moving on and knew that while his interference potential was far from benign, his priority was getting inside her head. Narcissa’s next thought was wishing she’d sent Zoan home with some kind of aphrodisiac.

Lucius returned to her table and took the seat that faced hers. She’d not noticed until someone dropped a tray across the room. She jumped and clasped her chest, and was brought back to center by a friendly smile from the handsome barista. He asked her what was bothering her, and she lengthened her posture to conceal the angst.

She instantly regretted the move when Lucius raised an eyebrow. He was smarter than that, and she hoped he wouldn’t be insulted by her paltry attempt at deceit. She lied and said she felt guilty about not showing up for her family, but thanked him for letting her park there for the day. If she and Lucius became a thing and the Isaiah problem worsened, she’d tell him.

This wasn’t the time.

Lucius smiled and stood. His break was over. He said there was no need for thanks, and winked on his way back to the counter.

Narcissa’s phone rang, snatching her from the warmth, as well. She didn’t bother to look at the number and assumed it was Isaiah. She snapped a furious “What?!?”, and was instantly filled with shame.

It was her grandfather.

The family had left for the day, and he’d really like to see her.

PART FIVE

Narcissa moved with the westbound winds as she left Wise Bean as it stood; bustling and unchanged by her lingering. The scene agreed with Lucius as he also remained unchanged; nodding upward and smiling as she left through the crowd, unable to peel himself away to give a proper goodbye. Narcissa inhaled sharply through her nose with a restriction in her throat, forcing the issue. Her intentional conjuring of fresh prana raised her awareness as she made peace with her powerlessness to control Isaiah, her grandfather, or the strangers passing by long enough for the fresh air to be of benefit; and her walk not for naught.

Narcissa set her gaze on the hidden sky that peeked through the manmade loft. With God as man, and man as God the sky fought not at all for divinity. Such surrender, she thought, for the heavens to be silent; the Old Testament was clear about God and these things. He'd wiped others out for lesser expressions of mortal hubris. So, she resigned to believe he was either not, or gave up hope. The priesthood built their communities around vaults of lofty connections.

With signatures as grace, and grace a song, it mattered not.

Her searching the clouds for signs of life came to an abrupt end when the blade of her shoulder met the tricep of a stranger. She turned to beg excuse, but he beat her to it. She smiled and nodded at the brown-eyed, brown gentleman; his white shirt covering the belt line of cargo shorts, and a yoga mat over his shoulder. He smiled back as Narcissa studied the mat; knowing everything about him from the choice. It was the color of ancient emerald with no trimmings but the logo, 6mm or 7mm thick, and suede-topped to the touch. He followed her eyes to the shoulder strap; pointing at it, then her, then it. She confirmed the shared interest with another grin as the stranger outstretched his hand. Suspended in time with the street still going on, he introduced himself as a name Narcissa heard, but didn't hear. He pulled her in and smiled as she coyly shook his hand. His eyes surveyed her entire being, from the top of her head to her toes. His attention lingered at the spots she drilled; his smile widening in appreciation.

She'd been surprised that in her dropping weight, her curves were more pronounced; her rigid abdomen giving way to whispers of teasing invitations. She followed his gaze back to eye level, and heard his tightening grip through the hollows of her ears. She was transported to a time much later than this, with the moon overhead and shining through the heat. She felt his fingers in her back and scratched his shoulder with her nails; a top that spun for hours, churned by shared endurance and duly earned strength.

The wind whipped Narcissa from the musing, and she pulled her hand away. She turned on her heels, inhaling sharply again to regain herself. He called after her, asking which studio she belonged to. She pointed in the direction of his heading to her beloved second home, and he responded by asking if she planned to join his Saturday morning class. He was a guest teacher in town for two weeks; wishing to see her there, and hoping to grab lunch after class. Narcissa flirted that her acceptance of post-savasana outings were always determined by her endorphin levels, which were only high if the class was good. He chuckled, offered a nod in prayer mudra, and promised a quality ninety minutes. They shook hands once again, and turned away at the same time.

Narcissa's nerve endings sang while she bathed in the vision, turning the corner to colder winds as her pace quickened home. The people passing by seemed less busy than before, and the outdoor restaurant patrons ever gleeful. The temperature dropped and brought her slowly back to her unfortunate reality. She'd promised to drive two hours to the country in the morning. She sighed as the thought settled in. Her grandfather made no effort to sound feeble, which only made her feel worse. He was being strong and fair; knowing her well and giving her the choice. He was smart that way; giving her space, to bend her will.

Isaiah never caught on. He'd push without ceasing, tire himself, and call her exhausting behind her back. Lucius was smarter, and it didn't take him long to figure it out. He'd have to go, soon. She didn't know him well enough to let him be that comfortable quite so early.

She kept going down the street, backing slowly from the idea; dangling just over possibility of cutting ties, resigning to let it play out and trust the universe to speak in its time. She smiled at the lights as they danced through the patrons; food parishioners under awnings, making toasts and grabbing at bread plates. The golden flecks of light bounced through a set of curls she recognized as belonging to Zoan. She slowed her pace to a labored stride as she approached the back of her new acquaintance's head.

Zoan sat across from a man Narcissa knew to be Isaiah's boss. Their body language was unromantic, but friendly. Narcissa quickened her pace to not seem out of place, and scurried by with an ear to their conversation. Zoan reassured Mr. Taylor that Isaiah had no interest in opening his own firm. If offered the promotion, he'd take it. Mr. Taylor responded, certain that Isaiah was married to his entrepreneurial intentions.

Zoan promised she'd 'take care' of any remaining distractions.

Mr. Taylor should proceed with the offer.

PART SIX

The house at the far end of the street stood silent as words unspoken; pondering its contents and praising its value in anticipation of a response to the revelation. The morning sun would relieve the night as it always had through time, so the wise knew well not to waste moonlight with the day's impending truth. Through the window, from down the quiet street, a woman could be seen standing over her stove. She stirred a pot with a wooden spoon. Her labor was slowed as there was no rush, so preparation was assumed. Her brown skin glowed over the low, open flame. Her coils brushed the shoulders of the thin plaid dress she wore. The apron tied around her waist was stained, frayed, and aged. Only love could leave that kind of mark, as it does in all its work.

She swayed from left to right, appearing to hum over the rising steam. It blew in the direction of another room lit with a warm light emanating from the floor. A child with curls like her mother slept soundly, her blankets rising and falling to the rhythm of her breath. She drooled silver dreams as she clung to a blue, fuzzy bear that appeared to have lost an eye. Only love could leave that kind of mark, too.

The mother leaned in over the stove and sniffed the pot's damp air. She nodded once, seemingly pleased with her work, and walked over to a box in the corner. She lifted it with audible clangs of glass and set it on the table; lifting her head sharply and to the left as if she'd heard something in the distance. Her shoulders relaxed as she dropped her gaze back to the work at hand while men in black surrounded her house, the spectator's secret and chagrin. One kicked in the door with no warning and held the woman at the end of a gun. The others rushed down the hall as she pleaded that her child be unharmed. The woman was handcuffed and led out of the door as the child was snatched from her bed. She screamed after her mother who was stuffed into the back of a car, powerless to soothe the frightened wails of her daughter.

Narcissa woke from her dream, sitting straight up in her bed. Beads of sweat cooled her forehead as she heaved. The little girl's cries echoed in her mind as she placed her feet on the ground. Her damp hair clung to the back of her neck as she fought to catch her breath. She turned on the lamp and walked to her bathroom; turning the sink knob marked "C" and splashing the water on her face. She stared at herself as her breath returned to normal and pulled the shower curtain back to reveal the tile. She turned a second knob until steam filled the bathroom, and stepped in to wash the dream down the drain.

She stood under the torrent and stared into the eye of the shower head. She'd hung fresh lavender and eucalyptus from the steel and waited for the steam to stir the scent. She sighed and reached for the soap as she dreaded the day ahead, sure that the dream was born from her mind running in anxious anticipation of the family visit.

PART SEVEN

The highway was busy as ever with people going and coming from their routine destinations; accepting the open road as liberty while paying taxes to be told how to live. A mile into the stretch, traffic came to a stop and the six lanes of drivers sat in brewing frustration. Narcissa turned the radio off as the outside noise began to swell. She never understood the honking with each car in front of the next no less able to force mobility. She thought of listening to sounds of rainwater set to ambient harmonics, but she was stuck and that choice would only make her want to sleep or have to pee. The gridlock provided no allowance for either urge. She sat and moved an inch when able until an hour revealed the wreck. She drove past slowly, as everyone did, to see four cars smashed into the backs of one another; panicked drivers on the side of the road speaking frantically into their phones.

She took the next exit out of town and was glad to see calmer seas. She turned to the folk station and played it low, removing her sunglasses as she drove away from the sun. She checked her rearview mirror to see the same car she'd been in front of for the past ten miles. She'd have thought nothing of it but, the vehicle's behavior was strange. They followed at a distance, but not as a tentative driver. It seemed a watchful creep that made her shoulders tense and rise. She turned the music up and did her best to shake the thought, but her efforts proved futile as her discomfort only heightened. She took a left away from her path to test the car behind her. It took the same left a few beats after, so she took a random right. The car followed again and slowed its speed. Narcissa pressed the gas for distance. The car sped up for the first time the whole trip, and she took another unplanned turn. The car followed and slowed again, seeming to know it 'd been made. Narcissa pulled into a gas station a few feet ahead, and the driver sped past the establishment. A man in a hat, shades, and gloves was driving the car. She had no way of telling his race or build, or if it was a man at all.

She thought of dialing an emergency line, but it'd probably do no good. She instantly thought of Isaiah, and if it was him, she'd deal with him later. She backed out of the station and made her way to correct the path. She sighed relief as she kept on her way without the disturbance of strange road fellows.

She turned into the neighborhood that she rarely ever saw. It was nothing like the city and the quiet made her miss the concrete. She grown accustomed to the noise, having trained herself to befriend it. The suburbs were the enemy now, leaving too much room for thought and providing little inspiration. She made a left onto her grandfather's street and gasped as she approached. Emergency professionals pushed a gurney carrying a body that was covering from its feet to the crown of its head. She pulled over and ran to the scene, asking the medic team for a report. They told her they'd received an alert after her grandfather pushed the call button he wore around his neck. She walked up to the gurney as they pulled back the sheet. She burst into tears and placed her forehead onto his. One of the medics stroked her back and said they'd called the family. They'd be arriving soon and they were sorry for her loss. The other asked if she was "Narcissa" and pulled a letter from his jacket when she confirmed. He'd died with it in his hands, and they saw no need to give it to estate personnel with her standing there in person. She took the letter and stood in the driveway as the patriarch was wheeled away. She wiped at her tears and hurried back to her car. She closed the door and sat in silence.

She thought of opening the letter there, but didn't want to risk of seeing anyone else. She started her car and drove back home with regret filling her entire being and no blankets to hide under for the next two hours.

PART EIGHT

To Narcissa, my favourite and most beloved,

In these final hours, I've not the strength to cover the past. Just know that I cherish the memories of your growth from your birth. You've become so beautiful and brave and independent. And while that has taken you away from me, I feel your spirit when the wind blows and I am honored to call you blood.

(Narcissa sat in silence as the tears began to flow; the sun wrapping her in warmth as she leaned into her bedpost for support.)

You are of me, as I too swam against the violent tide; every man marching towards the moving post, catching pennies from the sky. And with my having done it for so long, it is my responsibility to impart to you this wisdom.

There are wolves in these streams.

As you push forward with your comrades in white, with their greasy hair, linen clothes, and their guitars, only you will be hunted. Your skin will betray you as you try to rise above; as you separate yourself from the conversations that feed the profitable dissent. There is no separation without our participation, no factory workforce without our submission. Your meditation will be your sin, and your magnetism, your crime. You are too powerful, beloved. And so, you must now make a choice. You can turn and succumb to the riverbend, or you can take flight. Fighting is always and ever an option, but it'd be a waste of your time and your gifts.

There is a man who lives at the edge of town. I've given him your name. He brokers the freedom of our independent minds. He is an ally. He can be trusted. And, he is expecting you. I've held onto my one favor in this town, and saved it for this purpose. If you so choose, your number will be called, and you will Migrate. If you so choose, you will be fine and free so long as you don't left the comforts of freedom return you to the stream.

You have five days beyond my lowering to find yourself at the construction headquarters behind the labs.

Ask for Eli.

All my love,

Pop

PART NINE

Narcissa opened the studio door and caught a nose full of incense and floral-based cleanser. She wiped her feet on the welcome mat and walked to the front desk. Wooden and stately, it stood at the center of the entrance dressed with oak floors and walls that matched their docking. The blonde-haired receptionist offered a chipper, "Hey Nars!", and Narcissa returned the greeting. She preferred her name be uttered in full and couldn't remember who had shortened it. But, "Nars" was better than "Cissy" or "Cissa", so she let it slide. She tapped the kiosk screen to reveal the classes and selected the time of her arrival. She walked past the sea of winding pothos and down the hall to the classroom on the right.

Light, ambient music met her at the doorway as she scanned the room for her favorite spot. The back corner by the window was waiting for her as always. She loved this studio for many reasons, but the distant yet courteous camaraderie of the natives was the main selling point. She placed her water bottle onto the floor and rolled out her mat and towel. Her skin was beginning to warm in the heated room as she sat at the center of her nude colored mat. A few more joined the waiting class as the clock hand inched toward the minute.

When it did, the stranger she'd met on the street graced the crowd with his presence and offered affirmations and invitations of challenge and reflection. He rolled out his own mat and took a seat at the front of the class. He led the class in the three-part breath and began the flow in child's pose. As Narcissa relaxed her heart space closer to the earth, it shattered and memories of her grandfather flooded her entire being. She'd expected to be emotional today, but not at the start and not quite so violently.

She recalled his chili and cornbread recipe, their weekends in the forest where he taught her the scientific names of plants and how to use them, and the way he taught her to believe. He kept a copy of the King James Version on a bookshelf by a framed Four of Cups displayed reversed in a frame. "The love of money is the root of all evil," he'd quote, and nod in agreement of the sentiment. She stopped short of tears as she transitioned into Warrior II. The music that usually eased her grew louder as her heartbeat quickened; pounding mercilessly into her ears. She thought of leaving but was too far from the door and didn't want to disrupt her classmates.

She closed her eyes to still herself and felt a hand at the bend of her waist. The instructor, whose name she now remembered to be Bodhi, slid his bare foot into her back instep and gently corrected her posture. He lifted her foot with his last few toes and placed it back down as the ambient chords resolved. She felt his breath on the back of her neck as he buoyed her arms to release them. She opened her eyes, immediately sending her energy into her back foot. "Breathe", he said, giving her waist a light squeeze; his hand traveling to her hips to gently guide them square before drifting away. She exhaled the tension and stored the memories in the recesses of her mind, and all that was left was the love. She settled into practice and surrendered to weightlessness.

Practice ended with a unison "Namaste", and the students all headed their separate ways. Narcissa headed to the community showers, slid into her waterproof slippers, and stepped in closing the curtain. She peeled her sweaty leggings from her body and stood motionless under the hot water as the music continued to play. She reached for her sponge and goat's milk soap, and scrubbed as the suds washed down the drain. Once everything was clean from her hair to her toes, she rinsed herself and stood there motionless once again. She could still feel the light pressure of Bodhi's hands on her frame. Physical touch was her love language; her healing and her downfall. And she knew he was the same by the thoughtfulness of his reach. He hadn't stressed to be appropriate, nor had he crossed the line; speaking the language the gift-givers, wordsmiths, clingers, and servicemen do not know. She wrapped herself in the her towel and hugged herself to dry off. She quickly covered herself in lotion and her armpits in deodorant. Narcissa slipped into a loose dress, changed into a pair of sandals, sprayed "Nomade" by Chloe into the air, and walked through the scent.

She emerged from the dimly lit bathroom and onto the pathway out, nearly turning the corner to the exit when Bodhi called after her. His invitation for lunch still stood, as he slung his gym bag over his shoulder. He smelled of pine and patchouli having just showered himself. She stared into his sparkling eyes and pondered the invitation. She had a lot to consider and much to do. Her grief was still fresh, she thought of Lucius and what it was and wasn't, and then there was this Eli character to look into. But, something about Bodhi brought her ease, and she needed that in the moment. She agreed, and he placed his hand into the small of her back, gently guiding her out as they bid farewell to the fellow yogis.

The air was crisp as he opened the door, and the smile on her face disappeared instantly at the sight of Isaiah standing beneath the awning.

"We need to talk", he said.

PART TEN

The sun bore down on the confrontation as the former lovers stood in silence. Narcissa stared into his irises and felt everything at once: anger for his being there, fury for his tracking her, sympathy from knowing that he'd made the wrong choice, and more sympathy for this being the result of his moment of realization. His eyes were pleading as they always did when he didn't know what to do next. He had a bad habit of betting the lot on greener sod; with no center of his own to lean on. So, he'd power forward and realize that, too, that she'd been his lighthouse on turbulent seas. Then, he'd put her through hell to change the truth of her necessity and convince himself that he alone was the source of his stability.

She didn't know what he wanted, but she knew exactly what she wanted. And for the first time since she met him, that's what mattered.

"Bodhi, this is my....cousin, Isaiah", she said. Isaiah's face fell as he shook Bodhi's hand; the gesture carried out with his eyes still on Narcissa. "Isaiah has a lot of exciting things going on," she smiled, and forced her eyes to light and took a breath to make it true.

".....a great job and a great girlfriend."

Bodhi nodded, smiled, and congratulated a now glowering Isaiah on his bliss with a chummy pat on the arm. "Everything's happening so fast," she grinned and continued. "I told him to try yoga and mediation to help him find center in transitional times; to help him move forward and start anew."

Bodhi smiled back at Narcissa, his pupils widening as he wrapped his arm around her waist. He looked back at Isaiah and smiled, "Absolutely.....but this studio is at capacity, so you may want to try the studio on Elm," he smiled at Isaiah, then Narcissa. "It's great, and they have a drop-in option. No membership required."

Isaiah blinked a few times, smirked, and nodded.

"Shall we?", Bodhi said as he offered Narcissa his arm. She took it and smiled, waving back at Isaiah as the two headed to the cafe across the street.

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

He ordered for them both; an act of chivalry she never understood. But, she allowed it and stared at the beautiful selection. A kale salad with basil dressing, and a lavender hibiscus tea topped with a purple flower. They talked about the class, his home studio, and the weather. He was a climber and felt it was a perfect day for a hike. He talked about his upbringing with his father, the librarian. He didn't speak of his mother, but had a sister who worked in agriculture, and a brother who taught middle school aged kids.

He kept reminding her of her beauty and that it'd been his pleasure, their chance encounter. He was glad she'd come to the class and even more that she'd joined him for lunch. In the wake of his perfection, Narcissa had never felt less deserving. She spent her weekends in jazz clubs as he slept under the stars. She'd washed the smell of cigarette smoke from her hair as he swam in frigid, hidden lakes. She listened as he spoke and wondered if her sudden self consciousness was from proximity to him or a remnant of the past; an emotion stirred from having just seen Isaiah with her now feeling Bodhi was out of her league. She was trying, ardently so, every single day for wholeness. She was working. She was striving. She was trying to be better. But even her best seemed like it wouldn't be enough. She knew he hadn't said it. He may not have even had such a thought, but that didn't stop hers from haunting the moment. She'd be the girl who nearly fell apart in class. And he was the knight who helped a stranded damsel on the way to fetch his princess.

He grabbed the check at the end of the meal and helped her from her chair. He held her hand as they walked out the door. And she squeezed his fingers to savor the moment; his interest, she was sure, would be short lived. His was a yogi's world and he had options; beautiful girls throwing themselves at his feet. And despite her hard work, she hated her curves again. Her mind fast forwarded home to either the mat or the fridge. She knew she'd react one way or another; either with more determination or resign.

Bodhi kissed her cheek as he bid farewell, offering to walk her home. It wasn't far, so she declined with a smile meant to conceal the truth; that she'd be placing a call to her acupuncturist who also served as a decent shrink in moments like these. He reached both arms around her waist and pulled her into his chest, and she clung to his defined and solid arms for life itself. She inhaled sharply as he pulled away, agreeing to see him in class tomorrow and have a cup of coffee after.

She walked towards the wind and realized he hadn't asked for her number. She stared at her phone and exhaled her disappointment; she hadn't figured he would. She adjusted her postured, lifted her chin, and decided that would be the last time she saw him. He was guest teacher and would return back to his burrow. She'd skip tomorrow's studio class, practice alone, and avoid the mirror even if it meant showering in the dark. Her phone buzzed in her hand as she turned onto her street. It was a number she didn't recognize, but the caller ID read, "Lower Third Construction". She answered and a male voice asked her name, "Hello, Narcissa?". She confirmed. "This is Eli."

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cymorilcinnamonroll · 1 month ago

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"The Temptation and Hatefuck of Satan"

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It was Christmas Eve. Rain fell as Michael drank a beer in Scott’s Edition. It was a Double IPA and he had just finished using the rain to wash off some fucking Nephil brat demon gore Samael had sired on yet another VCU art student slut. Probably some weed whore that prostituted herself out to his twin - the King of Rot and Shadow - for some satvia.

Now, Michael didn’t like to mix his suppliers with family. The weed Samael offered Michael was never bought. He planted it on the bodies of the women Michael executed as God’s Right Hand that had dared fuck an angel. Only demons and the unclean bought weed off his fucker of a brother.

Michael’s weed from Samael were serial killer gifts.

Now Ha-Satan could tempt. And Ha-Satan could while. But like Dexter, Samael also collected samples from the human whores he fucked.

Little toes, always chopped off them after they had delivered the child, and Samael had stolen the Nephil brat away to age in Moloch’s clone vats with Samael’s genes into shadowside Satanic golems. Besides Emet, Samael put toes in the Nephil golem ears – always the left pinkie. Little unhinged love notes to the Son of God. Michael unrolled the last one. It was Akkadian, a line of furrowing a woman’s mound like good soil. Ishtar and Dumuzi or some raw ass pagan shit.

Michael downed the beer – too skunky – in one fetid, holy gulp.

“Bartender, just a Corona.”

“This is a gourmet ecobrewery. We don’t serve corporate shit.”

Michael summoned his holy petersword from the ether, blacked out reality around the hipster bitch bartender and him, and siphoned the edge of the blade through her right gauge, then plucked.

Blood, hanging ear off like his old beloved fuckbuddy and Chosen One, Peter.

“Do I have to ask, darling?” Michael said kindly, voice dripping with southern gentility.

She wept softly, clutching her ear. “You’re a monster.”

“God, you mean. Get me that Corona.”

Satan – Samael – was out schmoozing at the meadery. It was Black Heath. He stank of cheap Indian food and women’s piss. Cuban cigar, sharp lips. Michael was drunk off his ass, and stumbled over to Black Heath.

“Akkadian, really?”

“Yeah, whatever Mike. Like the bitch I fucked? She’s a blonde. Like your Joan. Little present for you, asswipe.”

“Stop fucking the mortals, Sam.”

Samael’s red viper eyes slit to poison, and his black asp curls writhed like Medusa. Lucifer Rebelling.

“Stop fucking with me, Mike, and stop lusting after fucks with me.”

“I’ll fucking dogshit murder you if you sire another Nephil.”

“Then what, fuck my corpse again and wait until handy old Father old fashions me into revival, and I end up waking up from the Abyss with your rancid gold dick in my ass? Midas’ touch, you both have. And you have angel lust. Never did like the girls, Michael. The only girl in your garden, you cut off her hair and made wear armor, then when she kissed you, left and had burned at the stake. You were so repulsed, a woman’s touch. You’re too Roman. Like your fucking Vatican, diddler of altars boys. I was the first altar boy. Lucky how that ended, Father kicking me out cause I wasn’t some prepubescent ephebe slutshow taking it up the ass from Metatron anymore-“

Michael slapped him. Samael bit. Michael punched and strangled. Samael kicked.

Michael kissed. Samael groaned. Out of Richmond, out of the alley of the oversweet alcohol, mead on Michael’s lips, some shit Corona and lime on Samael’s.

The truth, left better to the sages. This was a dirty fuck.

They went to the Cave of the Bees. Where Adam and Eve were buried. Fucked on Eve’s grave, dug up her corpse and played with her ribs. Lucifer licked her skull, threading the pink serpent tongue out her jaw, placing it on Michael’s dick to suck him off, pretending it was Eve’s blowjob.

“Fancy the women now, Mike?” Lucifer hissed, eyes now burning blue. Michael was gold, all gold, all brass and polish and lighthouse. Samael was pale as the moon.

“Shut the hell up and kiss my balls, fuckface.”

Samael bit them.

“Ouch, you fucking rotting pigshit bastard. Those toes had been rancid fly food for a month. How do you pick your whores Sam?”

“Blondes. Blondes give the best head, like you. Your skulls are empty, more room for my huge, girthy dick you want in your mouth-

Michael wrestled Samael like Jacob at the foot of Peniel. The rabbis never knew if Samael or Michael had blessed Esau or Jacob, who had the more cursed life, after all? Some bitch wife Leah, sons that sold off Joseph. Maybe it was better to be a reject and redhead and eat pottage in rot all your days.

Michael shoved his shining, burning foot onto Lucifer’s face, crushed his jaw until Lucifer was nothing but a bloody pulp. Samael moaned, jerking himself off as Michael stomped and stomped.

“M-o-r-e, holy boy.”

Michael took his ass, breaking his hips with violent thrusts. Samael was just whipcord, tall, pale snake. Michael was always the buff lion, Aslan or some shitshow sold to little children: No, God never made the whale swallow Jonah. No, God loves all creatures. No, God doesn’t cut the clits off half the women in Africa and the Middle East.

No, angels don’t fuck. Especially the Left and Right Hand. Hands are only meant to jerk off the Father, not a handshake, which is technically what Michael and Samael were doing.

Michael came in the bloody pulp of Lucifer’s broken limbs. His seed, burning, shoved the soul out of Samael and into the Abyss, pouring out his lacerated intestines into Eve’s corpse. Eve bloomed into life again, a mewling baby, from the holy seed of God.

“Shut up, Samael’s first whore,” Michael sighed, weary, cradling the baby. He nursed her with some of Samael’s gore, kissed her cheek – repulsion, even at a girl this small, like that fetid creature Joan kissing his stubbled cheek. He had tried. He had taken the shame of flame. But the rot grew, and she did not

Look

Like Sam.

Michael ate Eve, then vomited the baby bones. Lucifer gasped back to life with the digested carapace of his first and only love, Eve. Lilith was way too fucking lesbian with Agrath and Eistheth and Naamah, after all. And Eve was a lousy fuck, the way Sam liked them. Easy to control.

“You killed and ate her. Funny. You know, I saw Noah in the Abyss. He’s building an Ark for the disembodied Nephilim I always summon in the clones of my sons with those Richmond whores. Trying to pull a bosom of Avram and save them. It’s some kind of new plan, more soldiers from Heaven. He told me I’m serving God even by making bastard sons. I told him, you were the first bastard Son of God, Christ-Michael. Wouldn’t bastards be the best anyway? Then Noah spat at my feet, and I cut out his eyes. Lucky that, regenerating with Mary’s tending. She’s no good with eyes, can’t even help poor Lucy.”

“I hate myself, Lucifer.” Michael cried, sobbing, collapsing in Lucifer’s arms.

Lucifer-Samael held Michael-Christ, tender, sang B’shem HaShem to him.

“I love you, Michael. More than you’ll ever know. Let’s go get some Thai. Night sweats and night fucks and night kills make me want curry.”

So Michael dried his tears on Samael’s Armani, donned some Valentino, and they went to Manhattan, but sadly ended up going to Serafina. The Thai dive was full of vampires and elves, not a crowd angels liked to mingle with.

Samael spooned gnocchi into Michael’s mouth, Michael curled in his arms like two CEOs in love in some kind of fantasy world where CEOs were not old and gray. The silver viper and the gold.

Michael fed him puttanesca, critiqued the olive quality, and said San Marzano tomatoes were overrated.

“But they’re the best, Mike.”

“You’d know.”

#samael #lucifer #archangel michael #Youtube

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