Of Heaven and Hell

by Anthology

  “You suffered from pride and envy, and they cast you out.”

  He nodded, refusing to meet my eyes. “And now lust.”

  “How do I know you’re not waiting for a moment of weakness?”

  “Because we’re lost without you.”

  “The hosts?”

  Armaros looked up at me as if I should already know. “Ozzie and myself.”

  “Explain.”

  “Ozzie’s desires have tainted my own. I cannot bring myself to hurt you.”

  My resentment faltered in the face of confusion. His kind were incapable of lying, but I didn’t want to believe him.

  “When did this happen?”

  “Almost at once. Bonding with him was taxing, and his connection to you was all-consuming. It drowned me. I was unprepared for the joy he felt during your unions, and his guilt when he punished himself for his lustful dreams and desires. The duality, it is intoxicating. I’ve only become strong enough to speak since last night. My earlier attempt to assert myself, after you last met, failed.”

  “Is that when you broke my spell over his memory?”

  “Yes, although that was unintentional.”

  “Is Ozzie still in there?”

  “He’s sleeping now, but the barriers between the two of us are weakening. Before long, there will only be one of us, a blend of the originals.”

  Hearing all of this brought a wave of insecurity into my chest. In some ways, Ozzie wasn’t the man I met, or was he? I wasn’t sure whether I needed to hear an actual answer, but the question seeped out of me.

  “Ozzie’s attraction to me was real?”

  “Yes. His desires are genuine. And with our souls twined together, so are mine.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I never knew desire or lust, and his filled me. Our longing for you is epic. It’s why I abandoned my mission. How did you phrase it? Because hurting you, will hurt me. It’s as simple as that. It required last night for me to see it clearly.”

  My stomach began to twist as I forced myself to ask the question, even if it killed me to know. “Was that you last night I was with? Or Ozzie?”

  “It was not me, but I was aware of it all.”

  “When you two become one, will Ozzie still want me?”

  “I know of no power in heaven or hell with the power to change that truth.”

  I kept reminding myself he couldn’t lie. Ozzie was still mine, but now he was more. I wasn’t sure I wanted the more. However, there was no going back.

  Armaros appeared penitent enough. The prospect of watching an angel lose his righteousness and become human intrigued me. Not enough to forgive him at this point, but I couldn’t let him walk away without knowing the final outcome. Would he be an ally? Even as a human, he would wield a dangerous level of power. I couldn’t risk allowing him to be an enemy. Controlling him into being what I needed... A heated shudder came over me. My body remained in a state of urgency, the aftermath of my ritual.

  “You realize you’ll have to stay nearby. Stay with me. I’m not about to let a man bound to an angel walk the earth unrestrained.”

  His melodic voice became timid. “Jacob, I look forward to you restraining me.” Armaros blushed and averted his eyes. The move was identical to the way Ozzie reacted when he couldn’t face his own wants. It was one of the conflicts he enticed me with. My fallen angel was already more like Ozzie than he realized.

  Wrapping his arms around himself, his skin began to shimmer, washing away the evidence of the damage I’d inflicted. He reached out with an open hand, and I felt warmth in my palm. The slice that started the ritual sealed and vanished. He sighed heavily, and the light dissipated as quickly as it had appeared.

  Before me stood a nascent being with unexplained power in the body of the man I wanted, and he was offering himself to me. Armaros kept glancing at my unwavering erection. I was more keenly aware of our nudity as I watched the first hint of swelling in his cock. Brow furrowing, he chewed his lip, other signs of Ozzie’s influence. My cock strained when I imagined him dangling from chains bolted to the ceiling while our arcane energies clashed in a rutting frenzy. The siren song of unsatisfied urges drew me closer, but I planted my feet. I couldn’t bring myself to touch him while Armaros was dominant. Not yet.

  “Give me back Ozzie.” My voice sounded rough through my gritted teeth. “I don’t want to talk to you with the thoughts in my head right now. We’ll have this conversation again when Ozzie can hear it too.”

  Armaros lowered his head as he nodded, a submissive move my dick and I were having a hard time ignoring. There was none of the arrogance I associated with their kind, he almost looked sad I dismissed him. His humility was refreshing and surprising. He walked past me to the bedroom, and resumed his place under the covers. I followed him, stopping in the doorway, not trusting myself to take another step. The sight of him in my bed tested me.

  “Someday I hope you will forgive me for my deception, and learn to embrace me as you do him.” Armaros cleared his throat and partially hid his face in the pillow, a fresh blush staining his cheeks. “In all the ways you embrace him.”

  My breath caught as I held my ground.

  Closing his eyes, he let out a decadent sigh and settled. When his eyes opened again, they were the familiar chocolate brown I looked forward to. Ozzie’s voice was graveled, and blissfully human, as he stretched.

  “What are you doing way over there?”

  The sleepy growl urged me forward, and I climbed all over him. He seemed undamaged. I reached out with my senses, searching for a trace of heraldic energy, and found nothing. Armaros was buried deep; this was definitely Ozzie. Everything about him felt and smelled right. I couldn’t have been more relieved. A joy I’d forgotten I was capable of beat down all the darkness. The heat of Ozzie’s skin stoked the red-hot coals as our rigid organs ground against one another. I licked up his neck, and sank my teeth into the dense muscle with every intention of leaving my signature.

  Ozzie gripped my head, holding me in place. “Yes,” he hissed.

  I had Ozzie back. We could deal with the rest later.

  LIKE MANY gay men, when MANN RAMBLINGS grew up, there weren’t any heroes he could relate to. The world held him back while he tried futilely to hide the real person inside. So much has changed since those hollow days. He finally found his voice, the voice that says it’s all right to revel in the so-called inappropriate joys, laughs, and loves that storm inside a man’s head. It took a long time to find that courage and now that it’s here, he plans to use it well.

  While spending years more focused on visual arts, he never let go of his innate passion for storytelling—he wanted to write and draw comic books when he grew up. Once he discovered M/M fiction, a whole new world opened with new possibilities. Why couldn’t you have fantastic and dynamic tales with an M/M cast? He started reading the online tales of authors like, Night Tempest, Rob Colton, and Alicia Nordwell, which only fueled within him the need to create. Eventually he found GayAuthors.org, and with a little coercive nudge from Night Tempest, started sharing his tales with an unexpected level of positive response. That experience and support gave him the courage to cross his fingers and aim for the world of M/M publishing.

  Born and raised in Michigan, Mann Ramblings continues to type away, wishing it was practical to use a noisy, old fashioned keyboard that clacks with each strike, if only to annoy his loving partner and spoiled miniature dachshund.

  MANN RAMBLINGS can be found at:

  Email: mannramblings@gmail.com

  Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/mannramblings

  Twitter: @mannramblings

  IT’S TOUGH being a demon in this day and age. Times are hard and souls just aren’t what they used to be. I should know; it’s my job to collect them. Or try to, anyway. What I wouldn’t give to go back to the good ol’ days when you could buy a soul as easily as an apple at the market place. And I mean a proper apple, plucked straight from the tree that morning. None of this mo
dified, refrigerated crap that passes as fresh fruit nowadays.

  I know what you’re thinking. Trust me, I’ve heard it all before. You’re wondering how it could be so hard to get someone to sign away their soul in an age where everything can be obtained for a price, where everything is for sale. Actors, bankers, politicians. You’d think rich pickings, am I right? Well, you’d be wrong.

  Problem is no one believes anymore. Picture this: I walk up to someone and offer to grant them anything their heart desires in exchange for their soul. Now, in times past they’d either tremble in fear and drop to their knees, praying to the guy upstairs (my cue to leave), or they’d tremble in fear for a moment, and then they’d sign on the dotted line. Simple. Everyone knew where they stood. But if I were to try that today, most people would laugh in my face and walk off, or else they’d look uneasy and slink away from the “deranged lunatic” as soon as possible. Hell, I miss the fear.

  The faith is gone, you see, supplanted with technology, gizmos, and gadgets. An age of information. Everything you want, obtainable with the press of a button. What is there to long for anymore? What is there worth selling your soul for that you couldn’t get another way? Sure, you still have the old favorites—riches, power, and sex—but as I said, the belief is sadly lacking.

  Every passing year it gets harder and harder to fill my quota. I have the big boss breathing fire down my neck—both metaphorically and literally—and damned if I know how to get around the problem. It’s not just me. My colleagues are equally exasperated. It won’t be too much longer until it’s impossible to sign up even one new soul to burn in everlasting Hell. Then what’s a conscientious, hard-working demon to do?

  Anyhow, I guess it’s about time I introduced myself. The name’s Saul. Yeah, I know, but it’s not like I picked it. We get what the boss dishes out, and I drew the short straw that day. Guess he was in one of his funny moods. I’m here today following a mark. I’m actually pretty stoked I found this guy as he’s shaping up to be the most promising potential soul-seller I’ve seen in several months. Hey, try saying that three times faster! The trick now is not to rush things, not to push him too hard or too fast.

  Oh, here he comes. See if you can pick him from the crowd. No? Hard, isn’t it? Everyone looks the same these days. It used to be so much easier to tell a sinner from a saint. Now the line is so blurred it barely exists at all.

  But I digress. Just wait a moment.... There! See the guy heading into the pub? The one in the Marvel T-shirt? With the blond curls? That’s our man. Bit of a stereotype of a comic book nerd, isn’t he? Unlikely to sell his soul, you think? Well, we’ll see. So, are you coming or not? I haven’t got all day, you know.

  I WALK up to the bar and settle on one of the stools. The barman waddles over. I’m planning on plumping for a reliable half-pint of Old Peculiar, but then the guest ales catch my eye.

  “A pint of the Green Daemon, thanks,” I say as I place a tenner down on the sticky bar top.

  What can I say? I have a sense of humor—sue me. Besides, I love the little devil figure grinning out at me from the label. And, hey, I am wearing green today. It must be serendipity.

  The barman sets the beer in front of me and drops a handful of change beside it. I scoop the coins up and thrust them into my pocket, and then I lift the glass to take my first sip. It’s not bad: a fruity aroma. I’d probably pair it with an Asian fusion dish, if that sort of thing interests you. But I’m not here to entertain you, or offer culinary advice. I have work to do.

  The mirror behind the bar gives me an excellent, if slightly smeary, view of the room, and it doesn’t take me long to spot my mark again. He’s in the corner seat, darkest spot in the pub, and is nursing a half-pint of something that looks suspiciously like a girly cider. Geez, the guy is staring into the glass like it’s a fricking crystal ball. What is it he expects to see in there—a masterpiece by Dalí?

  Hey, I’m not mocking the guy. He’s actually pretty cute in all his dorkish glory. If you like that sort of vibe. One look at him, sitting there like a dejected puppy dog, is enough to convince me I’m on the right track. I can even guess his wish. Oh, yes. Numero tres for this dude. Sex, sex, sex. The poor sap looks like he hasn’t been laid in a lifetime—if ever—and as a fellow man—or close enough—it’s my duty to help him out. If he happens to sign a little contract in the process, all the better... for me anyway.

  I’ve decided on my play, but I watch the guy for a few more minutes, choosing the best approach. The trick to a successful signing is to make the initial contact count. I should probably have an honorary psychology degree since the most important part of this job is reading your mark. You have to know what they want, but more than that, you have to know how they want it. You’ve got to understand how people tick. Know what I’m saying?

  Take this guy. We can see he desires sex, but what does he like? Is he into blondes or brunettes, curves or willows? These are all vital questions because I need to know how to alter my appearance before I go over to him. Yeah, you heard me right. The things I do for this job! Believe me, temporary loss of my favorite anatomical parts is the least of it.

  Once again it makes one long for the good times past. Back then it was a simple matter of two choices. First, male or female, depending upon my target, and second, handsome or deformed. Most wanted the devil to be handsome. I guess it was easier to sin if you looked upon a pretty face while you were about it. However, there were always a few who wanted to be truly horrified by what they were doing, to feel the weight of it. In those cases, the traditional horns, cloven hooves, and tail were required.

  Nowadays people are so picky. So many choices, so many new and convoluted kinks to work into the equation. This guy doesn’t seem to be the kinky type on the surface, but you never can tell. Does he want the sweet girl next door? Does he want a dominatrix, all whips and leather? Does he want... a man?

  I temporarily lose my train of thought, and my jaw drops quite of its own accord.

  Even as I jabber away, I have been keeping half an eye on my mark. He completely ignores the young waitress attending the couple two tables down from him, but his gaze is captured by a waiter who’s just exited the kitchen. The man is lean but toned, and he flicks his head to shift choppy brown locks out of his eyes as he adjusts his grip on the plates he carries hurriedly across the room.

  I confess, I didn’t see that coming. Not on this occasion.

  My guy’s practically salivating as he follows the man with his gaze. Given the flush in his cheeks I wouldn’t be the least surprised if he had a hard-on; although, it’s impossible to verify that with the table in the way.

  One thing is clear: this wasn’t a chance encounter. No, he’s been waiting to catch a glimpse of this guy. Suddenly I understand his reasons for choosing this otherwise completely hideous pub. No, scratch that. They do have a good list of guest ales. A semi-hideous pub.

  The waiter-god, his work completed, strolls back into the kitchen, leaving the door swinging to and fro in his wake. My guy watches it like a hawk long after it ceases to move, no doubt hoping for a repeat performance. When the door stays resolutely closed, he shifts his attention back to his untouched drink.

  Well.

  I confess that the revelation threw me for a moment. Even a seasoned professional such as myself can occasionally be caught off guard. No one’s perfect, after all. But I’m nothing if not adaptable, and it doesn’t take me long to bounce back and rethink my plan of attack.

  I’ll be able to keep my man-parts for this one—always a blessing—but one thing still needs to be decided: how should I appear to him? The obvious option is to turn myself into the waiter. I’m guaranteed a good reception that way, and yet I’m tempted to try something different and approach him in my own form.

  Now, I don’t like to brag, but I consider myself to be quite the looker. Well, you’re looking at me now. Wouldn’t you agree? And I’m actually not too dissimilar from the object of our guy’s affections. Sure, my hair’s
darker, closer to black, but I have the same toned, compact figure and the same sharply defined cheekbones. Why not give it a try? I can always make a second approach as the waiter if this one goes pear-shaped.

  My mind made up, I hop down from the bar stool and amble toward the gents. I move nice and slow, with a good sway of the hips that stays on the right side of being camp. I want to make sure he gets a good look at me as I pass.

  I spend a couple of minutes in the gents just waiting, entertaining myself by reading the graffiti (mostly misspelled) and avoiding the many dubious wet patches on the floor, some of which I don’t even want to contemplate. I’d drag my stay out a little longer, but my nostrils can’t bear any more, so at the count of one hundred I head back out to the bar.

  I pretend to trip over the leg of a chair as I pass his table. Clichéd, I know, but sometimes the classics are the best. I shoot out a hand to steady myself, and the table wobbles, spilling his drink. (The glass is still so full I don’t even need to go for a full knock-over move.)

  “Aw, geez, I’m sorry, friend.” I right myself and offer an apologetic smile, running a hand through my hair at the same time to give him a flash of my biceps.

  “It’s fine. Really.” He looks a little like a deer caught in the headlights. It’s actually pretty cute.

  “Let me buy you another. No, I insist,” I add when he opens his mouth to protest.

  I wander to the bar and place the order; then I carry the two drinks over and set them on the table.

  “Mind if I join you? It’s so dull to drink alone, don’t you think?” He’s still looking a little startled, but I take the lack of resistance as an affirmation and wriggle into the seat next to him. I push his drink across the short space between us. “The name’s Saul.”

  “Thomas. Thomas Ives.”

  “And do people call you Tommy?”

  “No. Tom. Sometimes.”

  “Well, a pleasure to meet you, Tom.” I take a sip of my drink, and the action makes him reach for his, although all he does is nurse it between his hands. I nod toward his T-shirt. “Cap or Iron Man?”