Jonathan Joss was an Indigenous, gay man who was murdered on the first day of Pride month as well as Indigenous History Month. He died protecting his trans husband. Homophobia and racism aren’t marks of the past, and this is a heart breaking reminder of that.
Praying for a safe journey back to the spirit world, Uncle ❤️🩹🦅
Today is the anniversary of the death of Jonathan Joss (King of the Hill, Parks and Rec). Jonathan Joss was an Indigenous, gay man who died protecting his transgender husband, on the first day of Pride month. Today we remember him and how he protected his family.
wdym john silver's hand prints are at animation courtyard at Disney world awww.... his handwriting is so pretty too... aww...
wait does this mean someone could realistically measure him and get like his definitive height based off the size of his handprint compared to the tile and get the general proportions his body from there oh lord
The Supreme Archangel does not sleep. Angels, as a whole, do not sleep, and so neither does she.
The King of Hell does not get nearly enough sleep. Demons love sleep; it’s kinda Belephegor’s whole thing.
Abigail Morningstar only sleeps when she is on Earth, where she can avoid any bad dreams caused by the realms she rules. She very rarely spends her nights on Earth.
And the dreams come anyway.
The nightmares of Falling, at least, didn’t scare her anymore. She’d stopped being afraid to Fall when she took over Hell. Working with demons greatly diminished the fear of becoming one. Once she’d developed the demonic pain medicine, those nightmares had simply stopped altogether. There was simply nothing to frighten her in the visions - and besides, it’d make her life easier if she no longer had to rule Heaven.
The rest of her dreams, however, still often resulted in her waking up in a fit of panic. All her endless powers could not stop her from ending up in a tangle of blankets, sweat, and tears.
The easiest of them, surprisingly, were the dreams that were clearly meant to be premonitions. Heaven and Hell, both burning, Earth vanishing in massive chunks beneath her feet. The end of the world was something she very much did not want to happen, and becoming King and Supreme Archangel had allowed her a tidy way to prevent it from happening. There was no point in going to war against herself, after all. The dreams didn’t seem to care about politics, though, only about the potential future. They left her antsy for the next day, but the feeling was often quick to fade, easily combatted by double-checking security and Michael’s mental health. If you ignored the images of her friends dying in Armageddon, those dreams were nearly a reprieve.
When she dreamt of losing, she was really more angry than frightened. The fool who had tried to kidnap her before she became an angel, who Uriel had destroyed. The vampire who had broken into the penthouse, who had nearly ripped off her wings, who could have killed her if Lucifer hadn’t been there. The echo of an angel who once was, determined to avoid his fate, angry that she dared to fight back, who only let her go out of some demented form of guilt. The scholar who had summoned her, who tried to dissect her like a frog for his own gain, who Lucifer also destroyed to save her. Her failures, thrown back in her face, unable to change her own actions in the dream. And no one would come to save her, despite knowing how things had actually happened. Her wife never appeared; her father never swooped in; the Archangel Samael never let her go. She couldn’t win, no matter how much she tried. It was torturous and she’d often have a shorter temper the following day, as if daring someone to try their luck.
It was rare for her to dream of her wife. When she did, it left her out of commission for an entire week, pacing her cottage in tears and refusing to return to her marriage bed. She always did, eventually, but Abby wouldn’t sleep for months whenever she dreamt of Uriel.
The dreams of the late Archangel would vary. She’d never had the same dream about them twice, a stark contrast to the repetition of the rest of her nightmares.
Dreams of their death were the most stressful. She always woke screaming, pleading with someone who wasn’t there; begging Death not to reap them, God to return them, or Uriel themself, to just hold on a little longer, please, don’t go, just hold on! The pleading never worked. Sometimes she still expected to be covered in their blood when she woke up, a golden mess that she couldn’t forget.
Sometimes the dreams were just memories, hazy reminders of what once had been. Occasionally, things didn’t line up right. Had she really been so nervous to spar with them, or was she just terrified to see any weapon raised against them, even her own, which wouldn’t even hurt them? Had she truly cried that much during their vows, or was she just crying now, heartstruck by “Til death do us part”? Had she really clung to them so desperately, or was she just trying not to lose them again? She hated those dreams, hated the way they made her doubt her memories. She’d spend days going through her photo albums, just to assure herself that she still remembered everything.
A few times, she had dreams that insisted Uriel was still alive. In those dreams, there was a Queen of Hell sitting beside the King. There were no rings on a chain around her neck, because there was still someone around to wear them. Once, she had dreamed that they had taken on the power of the Supreme Archangel, taking the burden from her after the bookshop had been restored. They had been quite the power couple, this dream version of her and her wife, ruling Heaven and Hell and returning to their cottage on Earth each night. She’d wept horribly when she’d awoken, longing for a life that had never been hers. Between her tears, she asked her Grandmother why She couldn’t have given them more time.
Once, she had a different kind of dream. She and Uriel, sitting together, both wrapped around each other until you couldn’t tell where one angel ended and the other began. She was sobbing into their shoulder, clinging to them. It wasn’t a memory, she knew that much. It felt different than the rest of the dreams. Everything was calm, peaceful. Even when she dreamt of happy memories, there was an underlying grief to them, tainting the memory with the knowledge of the present. But, despite her tears, there was none of that here. It was odd.
“I’m sorry,” Uriel had said, their hands running through her hair. “You know I didn’t mean to.” She hadn’t responded, although her tears had slowed slightly. “Are you horribly upset with me?”
“Never,” Abby had whispered, her grip on them never wavering.
“Then why does my wife refuse to look at me?” They were smiling, she could hear it in their voice. She’d missed their smile. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt her heart this time.
“Oh…” Uriel was glowing. Not actually, or maybe they were. Their true form seemed to be peeking through, or perhaps it was an odd layering effect from her subconscious. There was so much love in their smile, it was overwhelming. She couldn’t tell if they had multiple eyes or if her vision was just blurred with tears. “I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve missed you too.”
There had been more to the dream, she knew, but when she woke up, it had all gone rather fuzzy in her head. She couldn’t quite remember what else had happened. It was an odd feeling. She’d spent most of the day in bed, drifting off here and there but never quite falling back asleep. Try as she might, she couldn’t return to the dream.
The Supreme Archangel is not supposed to be plagued by visions of destruction. The King of Hell is not supposed to yearn for what once was. And so Abigail Morningstar does not sleep.
