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#tw free will baptist
jessesajoke · 1 month
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for those of you on here wondering why so many evangelical and right wing Christians, including political figures, are in support of Israel, it is because many churches teach that revelation cannot happen unless Israel is a nation.
it is not right wing Christians caring about Jewish people, they dont. they think they are going to hell. many churches even teach they killed Jesus.
A Zionist christian doesn't give a fuck about Jewish people, they just hate Muslims a little bit more and want the world to end.
i grew up southern baptist, and i was literally taught that Israel has to be a real nation in order for the end times to happen.
this post is anti evangelical not anti Jewish btw
also i will delete any anti-Semitic and islamaphobic comments on here, dont even pull that shit.
and this is not the place to debate whether or not Islam oppresses women, in the context of this post that is irrelevant. i am tired of people starting that argument in the comments whenever i post about religion.
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inbabylontheywept · 9 months
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The Condom Bomber
The crux of the story is Brother Dean. Brother Dean was…is…a hate preacher. Red or blue, everyone agreed on that. His origins and his motivations, those were a little more mysterious. Different groups had their own legends. I had a class with a guy that was part of the campus pro-life movement, and the tale he gave me is the one that I give the most credence to. According to him, Brother Dean had started out as a “normal” pro-life preacher. He’d gone around campus, led parades, given speeches… And then he’d gotten punched in the face.
This led to a lawsuit against the school. Something about failing to provide adequate protection? The main result was that he got something like half a mil. Half a mil is an incredible amount if you’re still working, but he’d tried to use the money to fund a sort of pro-life career, and it had just… trickled down. Ten years later he was running dead low on funds, and had taken to the particularly dumb strategy of trying to get punched in the face again. You know. For economic reasons. It had become kind of a vicious cycle: He’d started off saying some objectionable shit to try and goad someone into taking the punch. The worse the shit he said was, the harder it became for him to find work doing anything else, and the harder it became for him to find work doing anything else, the less he had to lose by saying really objectionable shit. Throw in two years of living on ramen, and he was so desperate to get punched that he was quoting the Westboro Baptists. If you know, you know. The pro-life group, to their credit, hated him the most out of anyone. They viewed him as the ultimate sellout, someone who was actively making their positions and beliefs look worse by the day, solely for his own enrichment. The other conservative groups held him in the same regard. The rest of the campus hated him for simpler reasons. It would be difficult to find anyone more detested anywhere else on site. Brother Dean’s antithesis was the Trojan Warrior. TW was a normal student by day, but maybe once a month or so he’d don his hoplite armor and roam around, handing out free condoms. Trojan condoms. It was kind of his shtick. Between the costume, and the whole character that he had going on, most people didn’t really recognize his alter ego. I myself am pretty good with faces, so one day I noticed he was behind me in the foodcourt and decided to thank him by paying for his smoothie. Small tangent, but if you’re looking to get good stories, buying lunches for interesting people works like magic. TW decided that he was going to thank me for thanking him by giving me something like 10 feet of condom roll. I was mortified, aggressively single, and on SSRI’s. He was not sure how many of those were permanent. I wasn’t either. He wound up giving me just a handful, and said that if nothing else, they could probably be used as water balloons. I accepted. Who doesn’t like water balloons?
I finished my lunch with the warrior and left, considering targets for the "balloons". I passed by Brother Dean near the main commons and had my lightbulb moment. I spent a few minutes watching him from a distance, trying to find the optimal angle to get him without getting caught on camera (he always had someone filing in the background, it was a necessary thing for his hopeful future lawsuit). The time delay was useful for helping me realize that it really wasn't worth it. The sun had been bearing down so hard that the glue in my shoes had melted, and getting him wet would be a favor that day. 
So, mildly disappointed, I shelved my dream and left. 
A week later the monsoons hit. I left one class and ran to a campus computer commons to try and get some shelter and study between classes. Just before I got through the door, I saw Brother Dean, umbrella in hand, setting up his speaker and mic. He wasn't technically allowed this far into campus (the commons were owned by the city) but he'd gone to where his audience was and security was probably holed up somewhere cozy. I could hardly blame them. 
I made it up to the second floor and started studying when the mic picked up. All glass buildings are not very soundproof. He was loud, and he was annoying, and he was outside a library, under a balcony, and-
And I had condoms. Water balloon condoms. 
And he was under a balcony. 
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I put my laptop away, pulled out my condom roll, and went to the bathroom. I wasn’t sure how big a condom could actually stretch, so I just kept filling it until it was about the size of basketball. Maybe a smaller watermelon? And thus armed, I waddled my way out into the halls. I cannot emphasize enough just how unsubtle this was. I was cradling this big, overfilled condom like some sort of phallic ghost baby, and it was so heavy that I sort of had to squat as I went. People saw me. Lots of people saw me. I passed by one room full of computer science students, all learning C++, and three of them waved at me. And I waved back in that my-arms-are-full-but-I’m-excited-to-see-you-too way, where you jut your wrist up a little bit and flap your hand around excitedly. I did, eventually, make it to the balcony. The building’s high ceilings made the second-floor thing kind of a misnomer: I was easily forty feet up. I scooched my way to the edge, and the view I had… it was perfect. Brother Dean was directly underneath, thank God. If he’d been even seven or eight feet out, I’m not sure if I could’ve shotput the condom-bomb far enough to hit him directly. Better yet his cameraman was only a few feet away from him, far too close to catch any action going up 40 feet above. I managed to wrestle the payload onto the balcony, and with a gentle push, I sent it and Dean to destiny. I realized that I’d made a mistake almost as soon as the condom began to fall. You know that sound that bombs make in cartoons, that long drawn out whistle? The condom made that sound. I had a second education in the seriousness of my mistake when the condom hit Dean’s umbrella. It did not pop. Of course it didn’t pop. I had no experience with condoms, I swear to you, I promise, I did not know how much they could stretch. You can fit your whole leg into them. You can fit them over whole park benches. A gallon and a half of water was nothing compared to that. It broke Dean’s umbrella. It hit the top, and it snapped the stem like a twig, and then-
Violence. Unspeakable violence. It clipped Dean’s shoulder and stretched down to his knees before recoiling back to its original shoulder height. It did not bounce. It floated in space, no wasted energy in the collision. One hundred percent of the kinetic energy, all 3300 Joules of it, were discharged into this sad wretch of a man. He did not collapse. There was no time for that. He rotated on his axis. It was as if the hand of God had reached down and grabbed him about his waist, only to twist. In a fraction of a second, his head filled the space where his ass had been and his ass filled the space where his head had been, and then his cheek, carried by the shuriken motion of his body, slammed into the pavement with a noise like Shaq slam dunking a porkchop. Maybe wetter.
He did not move.
I panicked.
I want to make it clear: I did not mean to assault this man. I meant to get him wet and embarrassed. But I also have to confess that this was a beating. Mike Tyson himself can only put about 1600 Joules into one of his punches, and if he hit me I would bounce off five walls before I fell. I would not wish 3300 Joules upon anyone.
I walked into the building and sat myself in the back of the C++ class. The people next to, to my immense and eternal gratitude, did not question why I was wet.
A minute later, Brother Dean stormed into the building with his microphone.
He yelled. He screamed. He hollered. He informed the entire world that he had been assaulted, with a condom, by someone on the second floor. I was ecstatic that he was alive. 
Every person in that class knew who had brought this hell upon them. Every single one of them knew it was me. And if I’d done this to someone else, some Steven Crowder, some Ben Shapiro, someone would’ve thrown me to the wolves. It would have only taken one person in that room of sixty. But Brother Dean was hated by everyone, literally everyone, and so the entire class sat in silence.
Some of that silence was gleeful, and some of it was bored, and some of it, a very small amount, was directly disapproving, but even the disapproving silence carried an understanding. A note of, “Yes, yes, that was very irresponsible, and you should not do that again, but who could blame you? Something needed to happen. Not that something, but…something.”
Security could be given grace to ignore the man when it was raining, and he was just outside the building, but they were not given such grace when he was inside with a microphone. Just a few short minutes later, a golfcart pulled up, and he was summarily marched out. There was maybe a minute of silence after that before the professor announced that his class was not open to visitors.
I left. He’d made his point.
It was a few weeks before I saw Brother Dean again, and his black eye still hadn’t healed all the way when I did. He was, however, still preaching the same old things as always. Percussive maintenance works better on vacuum tubes than human brains. I will say that he definitely made a point to stay away from balconies after that. And the next time it rained, I actually went out to watch him put his speaker and his mic into the back of a wagon and wheel it off the campus.
It appeared that he’d developed some opinions about the kind of weather he was willing to preach hate in.
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riken-leather-co · 6 months
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Bapzo Whumptober 2022| I decided to try and play catch up with whumptober by combining a few prompts | Day 1 & 2: “How many fingers am I holding up?” And Aftermath of Failure | TW: Panic Attacks
Hanzo had been making leaps and bounds during his hunt for redemption. At least, that’s what others had been leading him to believe. Specifically his brother and one or two other members of Overwatch. He didn’t believe them. But, he’d kept his mouth shut and let them assure him as they wanted to. The ten years of isolation had barely made a dent in the list of wrongs he’d committed. Maybe another ten wouldn’t as well. Joining Overwatch - even against his will, and at his brother's insistence - felt like a step in the right direction. And, though it took some time to speak to anyone other than his brother with his own free will, he’d found himself fond of Baptiste. Hanzo was not privy to the man's backstory. But, the man had been quick to assure Hanzo that he was not the only one trying to redeem themselves.
“It is not easy,” he’d said, laying a heavy hand on Hanzo’s shoulder. “To try and come to terms with your choices.”
Hanzo paid little mind to the hand on his shoulder, though he usually detested being touched. Instead, he watched the man’s eyes closely. The deep, hardened look to them that remained even as an easy smile graced his face. Laugh lines in the corners of his eyes along with a small scar along his cheek. His eyes drifted along his arm and then to his scarred hand. Yes, this was a man that knew war, like the rest of them.
“It is even harder to right those wrongs.” Baptiste squeezed Hanzo’s shoulder and left it at that.
Later, he’d learned from Genji who’d heard it from Cassidy, that Baptiste used to be a part of Talon. That was all Hanzo needed to know, to understand.
Yes, he’d been making leaps and bounds. His brother and Baptiste continued to make sure he knew so. However, that did not mean that Hanzo was not his father’s son. Hanzo was prideful, emotions were a struggle, mistakes weren’t allowed, and failure was taken roughly. There should have been no issues with the mission - there should’ve been no room for slip ups. And, yet, somehow Hanzo had managed it. It’d been him, Baptiste, Winston, his brother, and Tracer. Hanzo’s job was what it’d always been - providing cover fire while ensuring the coast was clear for them to proceed. There’d been a few hiccups, nothing dire. Genji and Baptiste had cracked a few jokes over comms. He chided them both, but felt his muscles relax minutely as he listened to them both.
In fact, he’d opened his mouth, prepared to joke back - even knowing it likely wouldn’t land. It’d been his first mistake - allowing himself any sort of relaxation. An enemy had snuck up on him, resulting in a struggle. Of course, the team had heard him over comms and despite his grunted assurance that he had it under control, his brother had said he was on the way. Hanzo paid it little mind. After dispersing the first agent, he’d quickly found himself in a tussle with another. He was irritated. This shouldn’t have happened in the first place. Hanzo rolled away from the agent, loaded an arrow, and fired a shot just as a flicker of light drew his gaze for a split second. But, that’s all that was needed.
The arrow missed his intended target. Instead, he watched as the arrow embedded itself into his brother - right behind the agent. His brother, who was only a cyborg, and very much still had human parts to him. Hanzo remained in the position he’d been in when he’d fired. Knelt on one leg, bow raised, and fingers poised close to his quiver to draw yet another arrow. The agent fell to the ground after Genji dealt with him. Genji was speaking, Hanzo knew this, though it sounded like his head was dumped under water. He blinked slowly and watched Genji pull the arrow out his shoulder and toss it aside like it was nothing. For a second, he saw the bloody and battered face of Genji from ten years ago.
“Aniki?” Concern colored Genji’s voice despite being the one that'd gotten shot. Hanzo blinked again, seeing him hovering nearby, a hand held out to him. “Are you alr-”
“I’m fine.” Hanzo snapped. He rose to his feet himself and ignored his brother's hand. “I told you I had it handled.”
“Sure you did.” If Genji noticed Hanzo’s lapse in response and change in attitude, he let it drop. “Let’s join the others. It didn’t hit deep but your arrows still hurt, you know? You didn’t do that on purpose did you?”
A joke, obviously, judging by Genji’s mechanical laugh as he turned away. Hanzo was glad he’d turned away. It made it easier to pretend his fingers weren’t shaking as he grasped his bow in a sweaty grip. The others didn’t make much of a fuss once Genji explained what happened. Hanzo took his seat on the Orca as far from the others as he could. He didn’t notice Baptiste’s concerned glances sent his way as he’d checked on Genji’s shoulder.
No, he was more focused on internally arguing himself down to notice that, or the state of his own body. It was hard to recognize the oncoming signs of a panic attack when you deemed yourself above them. Instead he kept seeing the playback of that night ten years ago when he’d faced his brother, sword in hand. He tried talking himself out of it, disputing details of that night against the current day. ‘It was raining that night’ he’d thought, then quickly tried to conjure up the sunny day he’s sure he’d just seen but found himself unable to. ‘Only Genji’s shoulder was injured by the arrow’ he tried to rationalize, but recalled the blood that covered Genji nonetheless. No matter what he did, he was still there.
It was hot on the Orca, he thought vaguely. He could feel his body wracked with chills and the sweat dripped down the side of his neck. The rock of the airship had him nauseous, and his chest tight from the altitude. It was hard to breathe.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
“Hanzo.” It was the third call that slowly roused his attention. The Orca was empty (had they landed?) and Baptiste was knelt in front him with a pinched expression. “You with me?”
It dawned on Hanzo, hazily, that he’d bent over at some point. He held his bow with a tight grip and he struggled to draw in air. Like his throat was swollen, and his mind in the air. All was quiet except for the blood pounding in his ears.
“Can I touch you? Is that okay?” Hanzo jerkily nodded his head. He watched, like a spectator, as Baptiste carefully pried Hanzo’s hands off his bow and set it aside. Baptiste allowed Hanzo to grip his hands instead.
“Do you know where you are?”
‘The Orca’, Hanzo’s brain helpfully supplied. Quickly replaced by ‘Home’. He shook his head.
“The Orca. We just landed,” Baptiste said. He kept his tone low and even, holding Hanzo’s gaze the entire time. “Genji -”
Hanzo’s breath hitched and the corners of his vision darkened. Baptiste removed one of his hands and squeezed the one he still held. “Genji is okay. You’re not back in Japan.”
Baptiste placed Hanzo’s hand on his chest and gave him a gentle smile, “Try and follow my breathing, okay?”
For a second irritation flared at the treatment, like he was a child that needed direction. But, when he failed to draw air into his lungs to be snippy, he shut up. Hanzo closed his eyes. It took far too long for him to actually copy Baptiste’s breathing. His breath was too quick, too sharp, and heartbeat too jagged. Then it was too slow, Hanzo holding his breath until it hurt to try and stop himself from breathing too rapidly. Baptiste made no other comments, letting Hanzo finally work it out himself. When he finally did and slowly opened his eyes, Baptiste was waiting for him.
“How many fingers am I holding up?”
Hanzo looked at him blankly. His nerves were still fried and tender. He felt opened up in ways he didn’t like - exposed. Though he tried to draw himself up and seem put together, he didn’t think he succeeded. Despite the immediate want to close up, he didn’t tear his hand out Baptiste’s. The warmth was grounding. “You aren’t holding up any.”
“See? Trick question.” Baptiste winked - Hanzo could see the relief in his eyes. “...Are you okay?”
“....,” Hanzo did not answer. Instead, slowly he leant forward, waiting to be pushed away or redirected, and rested his forehead against Baptiste’s. “...A few more minutes, please.”
“Take all the time you need.” Baptiste rested his free hand on Hanzo’s back, and Hanzo allowed his eyes to shut. “...Or as much time as your brother would allow us. It was a fight to get him to leave the Orca.”
“What did you have to offer him?” Despite the exhaustion tugging at his entire body, there was a faint amusement in his voice.
“You don’t even want to know.” Baptiste huffed. Hanzo opened one eye and took a peak at the side of Baptiste’s face. There was a small smile on his lips and a gentle look in his eyes that Hanzo’s sure he wasn’t meant to see. “But, it doesn’t matter. The choice was worth it.”
Hanzo would never accept the string of failure or the things that followed it. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever truly come to terms with his past choices, or that he’d reach redemption. But, he figured if people believed he could, it wouldn’t hurt to put a bit of trust into their belief in him.
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anderfels · 1 year
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list of ocs:
dragon age —
julien tabris. hero of ferelden, warden-commander of ferelden, arl of amaranthine, and a bunch of other titles he has no desire to keep track of. a man of few words. he can come off as aloof and cold to those that don't know him well, but he does care deeply for his friends and family. a 5'6" can of whoopass.
garrett hawke. the champion of kirkwall. his morals for that day are decided by him blindly throwing a dart. most people want to rearrange his face but are too scared to do it. doesn't drop his dry, sarcastic sense of humor for anybody. you might hate him but do you hate this stew he just made?
davhalla lavellan. herald of andraste, inquisitor first-thaw, a kirkwall comte, and connoisseur of tiny, frilly cakes. easy to start up a conversation with, but is a total pushover. very proud of his dalish heritage. has two nugs that he cares for with the help of leliana.
mass effect —
rafael shepard. colonist, war hero, paragon, the longest reigning table tennis champion in normandy history. remarkably level-headed and works best under pressure. a bit too blunt for his own good.
nicole ryder. action archaeologist. one half of the ryder twins. lover of books, period dramas, and the color purple. bites into ice cream with her two front teeth just to watch people flinch.
miguel ryder. vigilant vanguard. the other half. he's smarter than he looks. it isn't his fault that he's forgetful! has a dozen hobbies that he keeps saying he'll get back into.
non-fandom —
victoria du bois. wannabe fashion designer who spends way too much time in thrift shops. she funds the mcdonald's runs for her friends (ryan & sebastián). her room is what she refers to as "organized chaos."
ryan choi. you ever wonder how a fluffy cloud would be like if they were a person? look no further. incredibly chill and laidback. the son of two successful doctors who doesn't want to rely solely on his parents' money.
sebastián santiago. the life of the party and the most supportive friend you could have. on a quest to find the best birria tacos in town. stops to take pictures in front of graffiti art and murals if he sees any.
baptiste villemont. a pâtissier whose cafe-slash-pâtisserie is known for being the coziest, comfiest spot in the city. a charitable soul who gives out free coffees and pastries to anyone that needs it.
nathalie villemont. baptiste's younger sister who helps him in the pâtisserie. her art is displayed on the building's walls. she crochets hats and scarves throughout the year to donate when it's winter time.
toya nakajima. a shut-in who has hundreds of thousands of followers on tw*tter for his art. has constant eye bags due to not sleeping much. lives a relatively simple, calm life.
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beetlesacquired · 1 year
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WIP Update
Hi, between work and uni, I haven't been able to write a lot lately, which sucks, but I graduate in about a month (!!) which means that starting about midway through December, I'll have way more free time and creative motivation to get fics out. In the meantime, here's a rundown of all the wips I've got going through my head that will hopefully get updates/see the light of day soon (warning for nsfw fics)
Published WIPs
Promptober
I'm over a month late and only on day 10, so least to say, she's my highest priority. Currently I'm working on day 11: oviposition, and it's almost done, so that should hopefully get out this week! If you're not into that, day 12 is a cute Padme and Luke fluff, so you can look forward to that one instead.
Higher on the Streets
This is a podracer!Anakin and kind of sugar daddy senator!Obi-Wan fic that currently only has one chapter published several months ago, but rest assured, it haunts me every single day. It's not abandoned! But this was my venture into trying to write a multichap where I post chapters as I write them instead of once the fic is complete, and as it turns out, my brain doesn't like working like that. The second chapter is in progress, though it's kinda low on my priority list.
now there are four of them
Sith!Obikin x canon!obikin. This is my favorite of my posted wips, and I'm already several thousand words into a part two, I just have to have the time to really dedicate myself to writing it, because if you've read my smut fics before, you know they're obscenely long. As a sneak peak for part two, Obi-Wan uses the artifact to visit the sith and gets lowkey cucked. ALSO because I've had people ask me, part three WILL be Vader/Anakin, promise promise promise
Omegaverse Week 2021
YES this is still a wip because I'm the WORST. I've had day 7 almost done for over a year. I just need to finish it. Please give me the motivation to finish it. It's body worship, fluffy, so wholesome, I just have to finish it.
will it feel like the end?
Omega prince of the sith Anakin is betrothed to alpha king of the jedi Obi-Wan after the death of Anakin's mother and father. Not only does Anakin want nothing to do with the Jedi, but he has suspicions that King Obi-Wan is behind his parents' murders.
I really did omegaverse week dirty huh, I said over a year ago that I would turn this one shot into a fic, and I got so many comments asking me to do just that. And Yet. It'll happen. I swear it'll happen. I mainly just need to get my thoughts together for it.
Unpublished WIPs
gather ye children of men
TW: religious trauma, internalized homophobia
I, like all the other obikins, watched that angels and demons movie and felt things. Alas, I don't know enough about catholicism to write a priest kink, so I had to improvise. I give you: southern baptist preacher's son Obi-Wan is asked to be a good influence on local bad boy Anakin, who's fallen away from christ in pursuit of tattoos, piercings, alcohol, and *gasp* homosexuality.
all the skins of a life in this world
TA!Anakin who's in love with professor!Obi-Wan. In order to try to get over his feelings, he joins a BDSM discord server where he meets Mod Ben. Possibly trans!Anakin? Still thinking about that one.
if brokenness is a work of art
TW: child abuse, trauma
Master!Anakin agrees to take on padawan!Obi-Wan as his apprentice after Obi-Wan's master, Maul, is deemed unfit for duty in the aftermath of the Clone Wars. Obi-Wan has some strange habits, however. He only speaks when spoken to, doesn't keep any personal possessions, and has cast off all the friends he'd made when he was a youngling. At first, Anakin puts it down to the stresses of going into the Clone Wars too young and being reassigned to a new master, but as time goes on, Anakin starts to question what really happened to Obi-Wan when he was with Maul.
This is probably my favorite one here, but it's a newer idea, so I'm still working through the planning process to make sure that everything works out the way I want it to. More likely than not, it'll actually probably be platonic Obi-Wan & Anakin rather than shipping just because of the nature of everything.
currently unnamed fic
My newest idea, as is apparent by the lack of title, so I don't completely have a summary yet? But it's modern/magic au, definitely a darkfic, lots of whump for obikin especially but also everyone else they drag into their problems.
Those are my wips! I greatly anticipate the day that I can write about things that aren't ancient scandinavian poetry and the effectiveness of college entrance exams. If you've gotten this far, asks about wips or any of my other fics are always welcome <3
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astrosfaerydae · 9 months
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Love is the Death of Peace of Mind
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Chapter 1: In the Beginning
[Ongoing fic]
[word count: 4.1k]
"Demons?" Felix said questioningly out of the blue.
"Yes they exist," he confirmed, "you can ask me anything you want ok? Whatever helps you process this."
"So that means angels… right? Wait you said 'all the things that go bump in the night' does that mean ghosts too!?"
Chan held back his laughter; he forgets sometimes that not everyone grows up with this knowledge. Not that it's funny, just everyone has relatively the same reaction as they rattle off all the creatures he's faced at some point in his life. "Yes,” he sighed, “ghosts, vampires, werewolves, etcetera etcetera. Just about anything you ask me the answer is going to be yes."
Tags/Warnings:
TW: religious trauma & guilt / homophobia / transphobia / mild violence / weapons
Chanlix supernatural AU, supernatural (tv) crossover, Chan is Dean coded, Felix is a good boy or at least he's trying to, demons
Notes:
A few housekeeping notes: -if I mess up the supernatural lore no I didn't this is my world 😂 no but seriously I'm gonna try to stick as close to the lore as I can if I can -Chan has a firebird because there's only one Baby and that's Dean's -there's a church scene I feel like I need to make a note on before yall read. Most non traumatized people would just get up and leave, yes I know. But if you've grown up in it and have had the fear of god put into you you'd understand. If you don't understand, look up angry southern baptist preacher talks about the rapture and I believe that will be enough to explain. But uh maybe don't subject yourself to that and just take my word for it. Also I have nothing against religion in general, just this specific fear and hate based type of religion. (Ps. The tampon thing was said by a preacher at my former church. My grandma told me about it thinking it was the funniest thing. I informed her very quickly otherwise) -if you are reading this and know nothing about supernatural that's ok I'll do my best to not leave things too vague but also feel free to comment and ask if you need clarification on something. Also if it's something I think is vague I'll put it in notes. -I have included tags that are currently relevant so people don't get disappointed. (read as: yes there will be smut no it's not going to be for a while) so just keep an eye out for those to update! -Title is from Death of Peace of Mind by Bad Omens -lastly, Always keep fighting <3
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boyette47tarp · 2 years
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Different Equipment
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p8tientred · 2 years
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A long post. TW for domestic violence. Today I’m 32. That means my golden birthday was 20 years ago. My life was full of chaos and trauma as a kid. And by the time I was a teenager, I didn’t really get to just be a teenager. I’m the oldest of 5 in my immediate family(I have other siblings because I have a different bio dad). So I took on a lot of responsibilities and boundaries were enmeshed. I stopped asking for birthday presents because my younger siblings may have needed something instead. Skipped prom because we couldn’t afford it at the time. Make mixed CD’s to sell to classmates because we didn’t qualify for free lunch even though it was just my my mom raising at times. And watching my mom go through domestic violence via my siblings dad(and still going through today because they got remarried, unfortunately) was/is a lot. As the oldest, I tried to protect my younger siblings and keep them calm. But he would start to target me as I got older by pointing out that I was not his bio kid and that I didn’t know who my bio dad was(I just found out who my bio dad was last year and that’s a whole other topic. I’ll just say AncestryDNA has those warnings for a reason). That made me believe for s long time that everyone was judging me.
So when grad school came around, I left Arkansas and went to West Virginia University. First time away from home on my own. First time with peace in a very long time. It was strange because I wasn’t used to that and didn’t know how to handle that. But I had a chance to just be and get to know myself better. Came to terms with being Bisexual and letting go of the guilt that growing up in Southern Baptist Church made.
I could have went back home to Arkansas after grad school in 2016. Probably would have avoided debt and saved a lot more money. But I wanted peace. So I went to Baltimore instead because we lived in Maryland when I was young and my mother & siblings dad were still in the Army. And I’ve been in Baltimore since then. I love it here.
I love my family, but I’ve learned to set boundaries. I don’t talk to my siblings dad at all anymore. Kinda got tired of faking the funk when I still have to call the police when I live thousands of miles away because he’s acting a fool. And I’m not afraid to tell my mom about how I feel about that relationship anymore, but well aware that it’s dangerous to try to leave. He’s stalked and tried to kill her before.
Looking back to my golden birthday, I wish I had a chance to just be a teenager. I didn’t want to be a Superwoman or wise for my age. The past can’t be changed. But I strive to make my present and future as peaceful as possible. Try to avoid additional chaos because life will provide enough on it’s own. Been processing things in therapy and started back on meds in May. Both have been super helpful, especially when I got COVID-19 at the end of May.
To wrap this up. I hate that I had to go through the things that I did when I was younger. But I’m trying my best not to repeat mistakes that I saw made and to live the life that I want to live. Even if that means boundaries and space with family. One my favorite quotes is from Song of Solomon by Toni Morrison: “You wanna fly? You got to give up the shit that weighs you down.” And I’ve been learning to do that since my golden birthday back in 2002. And I continue to learn to be comfortable with peace instead of being comfortable with chaos. I think 12 year old me would be surprised. But she would also be proud that I remain kind, patient, and optimistic in spite of everything.
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tran16swanson · 2 years
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stevefinnellhope · 2 years
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▼  February (60)
The Tree Of LifeGEORGE L. FAULLInterviewer:       ...
DOES GOD APPROVE OF MANKIND COMMUNICATING WITH THE...
ARE MAN'S OPINIONS IN HARMONY WITH GOD'S VIEW?  by...
Are 'The Ten' Binding Today?by David Vaughn Elliot...
EVERY WIND OF NEW TEACHING?  by steve finnellImmat...
IS PRAYING TO GOD WORSHIP? by steve finnell Is pra...
BIBLE QUOTES VERSUS BAPTIST INTERPRETATIONS by ste...
IMPERATIVES FOR SALVATION?  by steve finnellDid Go...
FAITH ONLY- IS FAITH WITHOUT OBEDIENCE  BY STEVE F...
HOW WAS THE APOSTLE PAUL NOT SAVED? by steve finne...
DISCREDITING GOD'S WORD by steve finnell The Phari...
Dear Brother Faull, Who is the antichrist?  I have...
CONFIRMING GOD'S TRUTH   by steve finnellIf you ar...
MILLIONAIRE PREACHERS? by steve finnellIt is not u...
THE GOSPEL IS THE GOOD NEWS by steve finnell The g...
THE RAPTUREby David Vaughn Elliott    They tell us...
DON'T BLAME ADAM FOR YOUR SIN   BY STEVE FINNELL A...
AN INTERDENOMINATIONAL   CONVENTION?  by steve fin...
WILL A NON-BELIEVERS BAPTISM WASH AWAY SINS?  by s...
IF RELIGIOUS LEADERS DO NOT UNDERSTAND SALVATION R...
Dear Brother Faull,Is there ever reason for a pers...
Does Jesus Have Two Bodies?by David Vaughn Elliott...
WHAT IS THE SALVATION TIMELINE?  BY STEVE FINNELLH...
CONCERNING EASTER IN ACTS 12:4   by George L. Faul...
ARE THE UNSAVED COVERED BY GRACE? by steve finnell...
THE MAJORITY HAS NEVER BEEN RIGHT by steve finnell...
THE MEANING OF "FOR"? by steve finnell Is the mean...
A Different Look at the Inquisition --George L. Fa...
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HERESY IS ALIVE AND WELL IN THE DENOMINATIONS by s...
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IF YOU NEED AN INTERPRETER by steve finnellIf you ...
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parseisflat · 3 years
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yes i agree the correct way to respond to homophobic hate groups is to call them gay
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esrah-rah-rasputin · 3 years
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today on Weird Songs From The Cult That I Now Have Stuck In My Head Even Though I Haven't Sung Or Even Thought Of Them For Years:
♪♫ OOooh put ʸᵒᵘʳ ᵗʳᵘˢᵗ iN David's God, and wATCH THE giANTs fall, fOr God is bigger thAN giants are, and hE ᶜᵃⁿ ᵏⁱˡˡ ᵗʰᵉᵐ all ♫♪
I have absolutely no idea if anyone else will know this song but whatever. Ngl though this was really fun to sing if you weren't paying attention to the fact that it was a weird children's song about killing people. If any of y'all want to read the rest of the lyrics, I found a copy of them here
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absentsdream · 3 years
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* you know juniper rothschild, right? they’re twenty-five, and they’ve lived in irving for, like, one and a bit years? well, their spotify wrapped says they listened to siren 042 by lala lala like, a million times this year, which makes sense ‘cause they’ve got that whole unending expanse of forest coming alive with dread, a loneliness corroding the soul as acid ; splinters in the plush muscle of the palm circled by a blush of irritation ; at the true centre of a tarnished crucifix pendant, a worn pit thumbed from habitual nervousness thing going on. i just checked and their birthday is february 2nd, so they’re an aquarius, which is unsurprising, all things considered.
AESTHETICS.
bloody nose and a split lip to match, ladybugs crawling over the hand, heavy morning fog, creased linen, reading a novel until two a.m., nearly-empty diners, tarnished silver, words kept silent on a bitten tongue, dull sunlight, half-melted novelty candles, pitched ringing in the ear, tattered comics, ivory, nineties sci-fi television, chlorine drying stiff on the forearms.
CHARA INSPO.
carrie white ( carrie ), tender branson ( survivor ), sara sidle ( csi ), annie landsberg ( maniac ), iris ( the student ), toru watanabe ( norwegian wood ), abby ( blood simple )
BACKGROUND.
bethany ellis grows up an only child in manchester, new hampshire. free time is spent cycling around town to pick strawberries from the front garden of a house down the street, becoming lost in state parks over the weekends where pine needles roll underneath her sneaker soles; everything a young girl does. with two loving parents, it is an idyllic childhood.
her parents were happy for a little while. sucked neck-deep in debt from identity fraud, it had slipped their grasp as quickly as it had come about. they did an about-face nearly overnight. classmates signed her a goodbye note before relocating to an odd little commune some ways out of a town up north when she is nine.
she’s now home-schooled, taught more domestic skills than science. she struggled to accept the change; while she wanted to learn about physics and literature graced by the hands of long-dead poets, she was taught to sew until her fingertips were pricked with blood, to take out stains from clothing to the point her hands were raw and angry, and memorise bible verses until they were the only thought left in her head. she would often act out, much to the embarrassment of her parents. too young at the time for any real punishment, they bore the brunt of it at times where she couldn’t see it.
RELIGIOUS FANATICISM TW initiation is on her sixteenth birthday. there’s many details of it she refuses to let known. for some time, the commune stays in the realm of town speculation and wild rumours, a potential church fundraiser for the baptists who think everyone needs salvation, before another girl her age, battered and bruised, manages to flee through miles of forest into town and the sheriff’s department catches wind. 
POLICE TW she’s almost seventeen when torchlight winks through the gaps of the barn’s ant-ridden wooden beams. it’s not a full moon that night. disoriented and huddling with other children on the far side of the barn as the adults chant and float across the dirt floor in a trance, there’s a deafening noise as the rusted iron grooves of the door is forced open and police pour in. many are taken away, her parents included. she’s gifted a crisp new manila folder. in it, a new identity. juniper rothschild. TW END
a family in the middle of nowhere, nevada, take her in. the caseworker overlooks the fact a crucifix graces the wall above her bed’s headboard. they’re nice enough, but to the point it makes her stomach turn. as soon as she’s old enough to, she leaves. 
desperation pushes her far enough to apply for college in new york. there’s one place generous enough to take her, hardship bursary and all; the other is the community college some ways west in carson city. the decision isn’t difficult. but the cold of the city settles into her bones in a way she never comes to accept. eventually, after a grueling engineering degree that tests her organisation limits she moves south. north carolina is warmer. the sun on her face at the pier in irving makes her forget life isn’t as hollow as it often appears.
TRAITS & QUIRKS.
wears long sleeves on the hottest day of the year, and lives in a hoodie, jeans and tattered converse to the point others question whether she’s a glitch in the matrix
makes a conscious effort to cover up, avoid being seen altogether. she’s grown familiar with the idea to draw as little attention to her as possible
following her swim and water polo team years in college, she’s now a junior swim coach for the high school. swimming lets her centre herself
guarded and distrustful. won’t divulge in her family history easily, and keeps the odd urge to journal hidden under lock and key beneath her mattress
lives in a fairly run-down beach shack along dorado road, she thinks the several rats in the roof that call it home are her pets. she talks to them through the ceiling
reading and writing are not easy things for her. numbers come a lot more naturally, with a natural aptitude for it. because she knows she’ll never hold a full time job in her current state, she’s a part time cadd technician at a boutique architecture firm in charlotte
naturally a blond, she rigorously dyes her hair with the cheapest box dye available. it’s fried to death and resembles straw more than actual hair
in more extreme measures to be someone else, her voice has been trained to speak lower than what it is
was dead certain about being a lesbian in her teens, got pissed off when she ended up dating a boy at twenty-two.
paranoid. like, the government is listening into conversations via robotic birds in nearby trees, paranoid. she thinks she’s probably right.
has a gun she bought from a dodgy shop in texas whilst on family vacation in her underwear drawer
almost always reeks of chlorine
horny for class warfare
has a thing for drew barrymore
thinks online mbti quizzes are a military-designed hoax designed to control the masses 
WANTED PLOTS.
cryptid hunting buddies. she’ll pack the coffee thermos, u bring the sandwiches
a previous, fleeting relationship. someone juniper used as an effort to feel more anchored in irving but soon realised it was ugly for her to do people dirty like that :/
she’s fairly lazy, so a person who often sees her like clockwork at cutie’s for midweek dinner
literally anything. let’s plot baybee !
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bisexualjohnseed · 2 years
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OC Profile
I was tagged by @yeetslovescheese to do this OC profile thing! Thank you <3
ANYWAYS! I am tagging literally anybody who wants to do this and uhh... the rest is under the cut! Enjoy ig!
GENERAL
name: Gabriel Evans
alias(es): Gabe, the various nicknames for the deputy (Deputy, Dep, Rook, etc.)
gender: Male
age: 31 
birthdate: November 23rd
place of birth: Hope County, born and raised
spoken languages: English
sexual preference: Men
occupation: Junior Deputy
APPEARANCE
eye color: Black
hair color: Dark brown
height: 5'10-ish? Maybe?
scars: Gabe has a scar on his right arm from breaking it when he was younger, among many smaller scars on his arms and hands from various other things.
There’s also the markings John gave him (do those count as scars?). Wrath across the chest, lust down his ~happy trail~, and sloth down his right arm.
FAVOURITES
color: olive greens and orange
hair color: He doesn’t have much of a preference, but I don’t think Gabe’s very fond of blondes
eye color: Again, no real preference
song: Can’t think of a specific song, but he likes classic rock. I think 1940s-60s crooning type music is a guilty pleasure.
food: Some kind of soup with cornbread
non-alcoholic drink: He’s not picky
alcoholic drink: Beer, a simple choice
HAVE THEY..
passed university: Nope! Never even attended. Gabe grew up wayyy too poor for college to be an option- not that he was interested in it anyways.
had sex: Yes
had sex in public: No <3
kissed a boy: Yep!
kissed a girl: No
gotten tattoos: Gabe has sooo many tattoos. He was literally an aspiring tattoo artist before he joined the sheriffs department. His favorite tattoo is a pill bottle done on the side of his right wrist.
 Other than that, he has various other tattoos covering his arms, a couple done by John (pre-reaping), a couple done by old friends, but most of them done by Gabe himself. John probably also did a tattoo of a deer skull on Gabe’s ribs. 
gotten piercings: Yup! Gabe’s also super into piercings. He has his ears stretched out some, he has a helix piercing, among a couple other ear piercings he’s done on himself over the years. I think he used to have more, maybe an eyebrow piercing and a septum piercing, but they’ve since closed up.
been in love: Unfortunately
stayed up for more than 24 hours: Too many times.
ARE THEY…
a virgin: Nope
a cuddler: He likes some cuddling, but he also gets uncomfortable really quick- unless he’s tired, then it’s free game.
a kisser: Yep
scared easily: Not... really??? I think Jacob scared him, I think Faith scared him sometimes. 
jealous easily: It depends, but once Gabe’s jealous he becomes very angry and volatile. Not the best at dealing with that emotion.
trustworthy: Absolutely. Even when a secret is painful for him to keep, Gabe will stay quiet about it until he no longer possibly can.
in love: Not currently, no
single: YEP! And for some time.
RANDOM QUESTIONS (tw for self harm/suicide mention)
have they harmed themselves: Probably, but he never made it a habit.
have they thought about suicide: Yes
have they attempted suicide: No
wanted to kill someone: Not really? Like, he has, but he didn’t particularly enjoy himself. I think the only person Gabe really felt good killing was Jacob and even then, it was very bittersweet for him. He didn’t WANT to, he had to.
have/had a job: Gabe’s had various odd jobs. He worked at the packing plant for some time, he probably helped out at a couple tackle shops, and then of course the sheriffs department. I also think he’s done some (technically illegal) body mod work as well.
have any fear(s): As I said, not a lot scares him. I don’t think he’s a big fan of driving in the mountains at night, maybe he finds spiders creepy... 🤷
FAMILY
siblings: A younger sister named Winona. She was younger than him by seven years. She died at 19 from an overdose.
parents: Both Gabe’s mother and his father are still in his life, though he stopped keeping in regular contact with them after his sisters death. It’s not that they don’t love him anymore or he doesn’t love them- it’s just that a lot of guilt surrounding Winona’s death made him feel like there was some kind of divide between them.
children: Absolutely not
significant other: He’s had a few boyfriends over the years, one of whom being a certain Eden’s Gate baptist 😒
pets: He probably had a childhood dog, but other than that he never really had time for pets. Probably really wanted another dog though, so when Boomer stuck by him it was kind of a dream come true- despite the sad circumstances.
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theholycovenantrpg · 3 years
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In the beginning was SALOME, a DEMON loyal to the cause of the DEMONS. She is said to be IMMORTAL and uses SHE/HER pronouns. In this New Testament she serves as a MEMBER of the VICES. Blessed be her name.
THE INDELIBLE MARK.
She was the first mortal to be welcomed into the horde of Hell, the first mortal to be granted wings. Prior to her demise, Salome had been regarded as something of a witch during her time on earth, and it seems that her gifts grew ten-fold as she flourished within the infernal realm. They say she bewitched Herod into doing her bidding, and that it was by witchcraft that she had seated herself beside Lucifer’s throne. But it isn’t with disgust that they speak of this, but admiration. Many soon learned that it was not only the living that she manipulated, but the flesh and bones of the dead as well. Salome is able to animate them -- to make them dance for her at her leisure and for this gift of hers she has been anointed as the Vice of Pride, for she crushes any notion of it by making the dead dance at her will and whim. To her, they are nothing more than unsightly pets and ghastly lap-dogs -- to be used as she so desired. And it is only at her say-so that the horrific nightmare of serving Salome might be ended.
THE HISTORY.
GORE TW
When she descended into Hell, it seemed to sigh -- as though it thought the devastation that spilled from her was something decadent, something sweet. What could be more delectable than the blood of the holy prophet that stained her fingertips? What was richer than the devastation she wrought by doing nothing more than dancing? She was born a princess and her parents had always let it be known that she would want for nothing, that she not need to lift a finger in order to have her every desire met. They say that a child is their parent tenfold. From her mother she inherited the taste of power and Herodias suckled her daughter on it until she was intimately familiar with the hunger that came with it; a boundless one that grew more brutal with each passing year. From her father she inherited a wicked talent for getting onlookers onto their knees for her, groveling and crawling -- hoping to brush their fingers against her skin or to hear from her a single word, whether it be tainted with affection or abuse. It was an incredibly potent concoction of avarice and maliciousness that they bestowed on their child, and none would be the wiser. How could they look into such a beautiful face and see anything aside from the Aphrodite-like beauty that was bestowed upon it? It did not matter the wickedness that one could suffer at the hand of Salome, because they would undoubtedly beg for more so long as they knew that they would be able to hold her gaze, even if it meant for a fraction of a second. There was no doubt that she could have the blood of the innocent stain her lips and still, many would beg to kiss them.
Her hands would do just as well, though. Bestowed with these blessings at such a young age, she had not known what it was to do without -- or what it was to be slandered for wielding the god-given ( or devil-cursed ) talents that had been granted to her. He thought himself as something holy, that putrid stain known as John the Baptist. There was no doubt that he was, but that did not mean his words were golden and his abuse of her family’s name should go unchecked. Though she knew he was likely bound for the promised paradise, it was upon her ground that he walked and her air that he dared to breathe -- so really, she was ushering him on his intended journey. Why should she be condemned for that? It was with a smile upon her face that she danced, the image of his demise dancing before her eyes as she twisted and turned, as her feet alighted upon the gilded floor rhythmically. When asked for her trophy by the man who called himself her father and the land’s king, she did not hesitate. The head of John the Baptist, she cooed. It was the first time that she had seen fear glint in her father’s eyes -- the first time she saw true pride shine within her mother’s. The head of John the Baptist is what was put at her feet, upon a silver platter. As she beheld it, she could not help but admire the trophy that had been given to her, for what better way was there to be rendered in history than spilling the blood of a holy man and condemning the soul of a king?
When she met her own demise, it was not with fear or remorse. No, the minute her mortal heart stopped beating and she opened her eyes to the fires of Hell, there was only laughter to be heard -- pouring from her lips as melodic as a lark’s song, a stark contrast to the wailing and grinding of teeth. For her infamy, she was granted the gift of wings -- the first mortal to ever achieve such a metamorphosis, but what a fitting thing it was to see the wings which sprouted forth from her unblemished skin. The infernal hordes welcomed her, harkened her coming in riotous celebration, as enthralled and enraptured by her as the mortals had once been. Lucifer sat her beside him, thinking nothing of the wicked mechanisms that whirred and turned over within her mind as she sought out ways for making the most of her new kingdom. The hungering abyss within her was just as boundless in her infernal existence as it had been when her heart was beating rich and red. It seemed only to be satiated when blood was spilled or when she was able to witness adoration and fear war in her subjects’ eyes whenever they turned to her. But even that grew tiresome after one century bled into the next -- so much so that she toyed with the idea of ripping the Morningstar from his lofty throne, if only to have something diabolically interesting to temper her hunger. How she pouted when the merriment was torn from her fingertips, the great betrayer Judas and his liege lord the son of Lucifer upending the king of Hell from his throne.
This new world that was bright and shining, glimmered like a loose gem for her, ripe for the taking. And let it be known that she did not hesitate to take. She was the first to spill blood upon this new earth, curious to know in what ways her starvation might be tempered. The angel was like a fawn, stumbling along -- what predator would she be if she let such an opportunity pass her by? Once the creature’s wings had been torn off, Salome stood above her, marveling at the way that the celestial blood shone against her skin. Was this finally it? The answer to her hunger? The satiation to her starvation? There was no one to see her dance and laugh by the corpse of the fallen creature next to her, no one to witness the blissful laugh that spilled from her as she stepped in the blood that gleamed in the light. None were the wiser, all too easily swayed by Salome’s tale of how she had seen the Heretic, stumbling away from the corpse of the divine being, the angel’s dying words too despairing to utter aloud. It was because of her that the Heretics fell, just as John the Baptist had, thinking that they might survive the devastation that she wrought -- it was because of her that the Holy Land was taken, that it grew, flourished, and thrived. And if they will not give her the throne that she has earned, then she is more than content to dance upon the city’s ashes.
THE CONNECTIONS.
MICHAEL: Instrument. Salome often finds herself wondering whether it is a deliberate decision on Michael’s part to truly personify the definition of drab. Stick in the mud, square, wet blanket, mediocre, boring, rigid -- there are so many words that come to mind when she thinks of Michael the former Archangel, and not a single one of them could ever depict them as interesting. But tools were never meant to be a point of fascination, were they? They were only ever meant to be wielded and utilized, they were only ever meant to be practical -- and what is Michael, if not that? With proper strategy she knows that she can utilize them effectively so as to ensure that the unacknowledged throne of Infernum is vacated, allowing a power vacuum that can be filled by her and her alone. It’s just a matter of patience, poise, and precision -- all of which Salome has in abundance.
BASTIEN AVALOS: Delight. He looks at her like a man starved, like a man that thirsts, like a man that has not seen the sun. She is his feast, his goblet of rich wine, a creature far brighter than the sun. And she didn’t need to do much more than casts her eyes in his direction and let her gaze caress the more enticing aspects of his frame. It was nothing more than a breadth of a moment and he practically threw himself prostrate at her feet -- none could blame her for being utterly delighted by this long-sought-for form of devotion. It stemmed the ache of her longing for adoration. Not entirely, mind you, but just enough to delight in Bastien’s company when she felt a need for it. Even more delectable is the gossip that seems to rally in their wake whenever they are seen together, contemptuous glances from mortals and raised brows of demons. Though, in truth, nothing could keep her from indulging with him -- at least just a little.
EPHEMERA: Obsession. She hangs at the edges of Salome’s mind at all times, constantly just out of reach. Ephemera is both the moon and the sun, necessary and ever-present, inescapable in the worst of ways. There is nothing more frustrating, more ire-inducing, more vexing than having a creature of fascination so tantalizingly close and ungraspable. The only thing that seems to draw Ephemera nearer is the poison that slips from Salome’s tongue -- like honey to the taste but acid to the throat as one digests it. She stirs within the bellicose angel something reckless and ruinous but just when she thinks that the chaos of her fury might break free, she finds the angel stepping back from the precipice when Salome drags her too close. The beauty of annihilation is robbed from Salome, but time and time again she coaxes Ephemera still. She can’t seem to stop. She doesn’t even think she wants to.
RYUK: Mark. Salome remembers how those thieving little street rats worked -- how they had their dirty little posse target their victim, also known as their “mark”, and steal the coin purse right beneath the unwitting mark’s nose. They were always quick about it, eyes wide and innocent, hands quick and steady. Salome has designated Ryuk as her mark, and what she wants to steal from them? Power. She frequently visits them under the guise of companionship, a smile ever-present on her lips, feigning interest in the wide expanse of their existence and the many lessons that they have accumulated over the eons. And just when they well and truly find themselves entrenched in their obligation to her, she will take from them everything that they are worth. Their power, their will, their heart. And she will wield them as they were meant to be -- as a harbinger of doom.
Salome is portrayed by La'tecia Thomas and was written by ROSEY. She is currently TAKEN by PHOEBE.
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