Ibrahim Hussein And His Wife, Yasmina, Were Married Only Three Years Ago. In January 2023 They Welcomed

YES EXACTLY YOU GET IT YOU UNDERSTAND

Aren't most angel wings actually like swan wings or somwthing like?

We need more angels with colors, design, and wings based on all manner of winged beasties. So ok "demons" get bat wings. Fine. Whatever. (If they're fallen angels they should get "corrupted whatever they were as angels" wings) But Angels could and should be all manner of birds from peacock to finch to any flying feathered beastie.

Yes this is sparked by @practically-an-x-man. And now I wish I could draw a heavenly host based on this concept.

And now this is canon in my universe.

I saw this fuckin... Temu ad... Im ashamed but it was such a cutesy swimsuit it urged me to draw @paradoxspir1t and I's girl Veryl. The vibes of the sunflower swimmies are just too good...

The photo ref under the cut

Also i finished my goober yayyy! Look at him go

Down to ONE openly queer person at my job lmao, the other one got fired for being hours late all the time and talking shit

I love going over to my buddies house and talking about how soft their sheets are and supple their toilet paper is. They're always so shocked and weirded out but like!!! I notice this!!! This is fancy is it not?!?!?!

A veiled lady mushroom fairy for @feefal 's funguary <3

sketch request for @jessica199616

D is for deez

Dees nu- *shot*

Anyways its my friends iterator Distorted Reflections but mer

@threefinefellows @duothings

Something something mermay

Memory of a Soup

In my kitchen bubbles a soup.

Simmering around a bundle of scraps

are pieces of a meal left to remain.

Sitting in a bag for months at a time,

Meals that I shared with people,

Ones that aren't here now.

It sits alone now,

with me, like my soup,

in a room with no other people.

Sitting in tinting water are the scraps,

steeping liquid with the essence of time.

There is a deep gold as remain.

Golden memories remain,

And they are made liquid now.

A pot containing fragmented time.

Is soup really about soup?

Is it about the scraps,

or perhaps about the people?

I think about the people,

as I strain the golden remain

from the old, useless scraps.

They are a piece of it now,

a droplet of warm memory in soup.

A way to contain months of time.

The golden stock burbles over time.

Still, there come no people,

and I am alone with my soup.

Within its quiet flavor, I remain,

tasting pieces of memory in the now.

But all I feel like is discarded scraps.

I put new scraps

in a bag to freeze time.

The soup boils now,

and yet there are no people.

A pile of ingredients remain

alone in a pot of unshared soup.

There's no memory in these new scraps

because there are no people.

It boils away for hours at a time,

until theres only ingredients that remain.

I eat alone and quiet now

as the warmth of love leaves my soup.

-------