#sinuses forgive me i have sinned

[veradune]

From the AUArts crawl with the bro last night (I CALLED IT: the wrestlers were outta the painting program)

[dipperscavern]

Dippy, I am currently staring at the full moon (which looks awfully large mind you) and though of Reader who practices witchcraft and does lil rituals on full moons. Wanted to see if you could write a little something like that? If not that's cool, not sure what your religion or practice follows and I know some people may be uncomfy writing that :)

If you do write it, could you maybe do it where Bolton!reader finds an old witchy book in the library of Winterfell and takes great interest of it and Jon catches her doing a silly little ritual to keep the North safe. I just thought that would be real cute lol

- Bolton anon <333

absoloutely!! thank u for requesting <3 (this is buns forgive me)

jon snow x bolton!reader

the air of winterfells halls is hazy with smoke.

sage burns, leaving a fiery smell in its wake. one that invades the sinuses; your brain signals its scent familiar. a faint memory, the draft of the kitchens ovens’ wafting through the castle on a late summers afternoon. tip-toeing to the door, trying to steal a peek of what’s prepared for supper — being thrown out before you’re able to grasp any traces of a hint.

some practice sage cleansing, others call it folly. you weren’t allowed freedom whilst you lived in the dreadfort under your fathers rule, and being forced to start your craft late, you oft don’t know the customs of those practicing long before you.

after you took winterfell from your half-brother, you felt as if you had a personal debt, one that could be paid only by personally restoring the castle to its former glory. sure, everyone was contributing in their own way, but for you this meant sage burning & candle lighting, some odd things put in some odd places (a line of salt on the windowsills). while your people have long since known what you practice, known and understood are two different melodies — but you’re grateful regardless the song is sung.

you had been searching for a different book when you found it.

in each library of all the great houses of westeros, a record is kept of all the maesters who’ve served & for how long. works can be dated back to the maester who wrote them, and maesters who lose their chains often have their works discredited.

some may call it a silly thing, but sansa wanted to know exactly when maester luwin had been killed. if she hadn’t vouched for you when she did, you would be in a very different position. you’re inclined to heed her every request, no matter how minuscule — and you have an inkling she needs the closure.

semantics regardless, that’s how you wound up scouring the many rows of winterfells library. it wasn’t your fault, really. records and restricted are kept much too closely together.

you reached for the book front and center under the restricted title, the record of maesters tucked tightly under your arm. flipping it over, the title is sufficient in its attention grabbing.

Words of the Accursed

your interest is easily peaked. your father had always said your curiosity would get you into trouble. he was right, of course, but it’s never held any relevance to you.

once you begin to turn the pages, you quickly see why it was labeled restricted. jinxes, rituals, hundreds of ingredients used for things unheard of. you look up, eyes scanning around to see if you’re truly alone. you want to sit down and flip every page, but you’ve far too many duties unable to be abandoned. sansa counts on you.

you bite your bottom lip, thinking, and you tuck the book under your arm along with the other. indulgence is sin, and you need absolution.

━━━━━━━━━━༺✰ ━━━━━━━━━━━

jon knows somethings up when he doesn’t see you try to climb the weirwoods.

you had always wanted to in your youth, but your fathers stern brow had always forbade it. you had promised it to be one of the first things on your schedule after your duties, but instead, he sees you moving to complete your tasks with unprecedented speed. what could have you skipping out on your fun and rushing through your work?

he finds out later that eve.

the sun sets, and you’ve been absent all day. you don’t gather for supper as the sky darkens, and jon worries until he sees a faint glow emit from the godswood. a candlelight glow.

why you waited until the absence of the sun to climb the weirwoods are beyond him, but as he notes ghosts absence, worry fades to the back of his mind & curiosity takes forefront. he’s able to slip away easily; once northmen get their first sips of ale in, drinking games begin and everything else fades from their view.

as jon traces the familiar path to the godswood, a burning question nags at him. if you’re only climbing, why is there candlelight? when it comes to climbing, even at night you and bran were unquestioned in your skill.

he approaches the entrance to find ghost laying dutifully in front of it. he stops, crouching to meet him. ghost raises his head, putting himself in reach of jon’s waiting hand. jon finds himself smiling at the direwolf.

“Is she here? Hm?” his habit of speaking to ghost shines through his brooding exterior. he isn’t offered answer — as is expected. the white wolf merely licks his chops, before moving out of reach of jon’s touch. ghost was always expressive.

jon takes the hint, sighing, and returning to his full height. he looks at ghost for a moment, for a split second wondering if he’d be allowed access to your sanctuary. it seems so, for ghost is watching the area in front of him; paying no mind to jon himself. jon steps inside.

the godswood is easily navigated when you’ve grown up playing beneath its leaves. regardless, the candlelight easily shows the way. as he gets closer, he recognizes the weirwood as the very tree his father befriended so heavily. to think, to pray, to clean his sword — lord eddard stark was known for his time spent with the gods.

but the weirwood isn’t all that’s seen, quite the opposite. you’re knelt in front of it, candles scattered around you. jon spots an unforeseen book on the bench his father used to warm, and he can’t deny the certain feeling that stirs in him at the sight. he doesn’t fully understand your practice, but you’ve always used it for good (to jon’s knowledge).

you seem to hear his footsteps, for your head turns slightly toward him. not fully, you’re entrapped with whatever you’re doing. but you still call out to him all the same.

“Ghost is at the entrance,” you say. “I mustn’t be interrupted.”

your tone misses its usual cheer. there’s no malice in it, there never is; it’s only dampened with the heaviness of concentration. part of him is relieved you take your craft seriously, and another part aches for the bright, bubbly tone you often carry. he can’t see your face from his position, but he’s sure you’ve got your bottom lip tucked between your teeth. the way you always do when you focus. “He let me through.”

“Traitor.”

his lips quirk up in a smile. you always seem to do that to him. “Can I come closer?”

you reach for things around you that jon can’t see, fiddling with them in your lap. “Watch your step. And don’t pass the salt.”

his brow furrows at your salt mention — the same salt lining every windowsill he’s come across? he’s heard of it being used to ward off bad omens, but those are only septa’s tales. aren’t they?

you weren’t joking, jon sees as he approaches. you’re sat in a circle of salt, a small glass bottle in your hands. he couldn’t tell you what was in the bottle if his life depended on it. he’s caught you as you’re finishing, putting a cork in the top and reaching for the candle nearest to you. you tip it toward the bottle, and the candle wax drips on the cork.

jon is captured by how smoothly you work, as if it’s no big deal. if he was made to perform in front of the gods, he has no doubt his hands would shake.

yours don’t. as the wax engulfs the top of the bottle, a gust of wind blows out all the candles. all except for the one in your hand, of course.

jon turns around, looking for potential threats. he finds nothing, but feels a pair of eyes on his back. when he turns around, you’re still focused on your craft. strangely, his eyes find the own of weirwood tree. he hears a crow caw in the distance. “Does that always happen?”

“Sometimes. Maybe it’s the winds greeting.” you say, moving dirt aside. you reveal a small hole, dropping the bottle in, and covering it up just as quickly.

jon ventures to step closer, and once you’re done burying your secret, you stand up yourself. you begin to step out of the salt circle, and jon offers his hand. you don’t need it, but you take it anyways. you smile at him, reaching to press a kiss to his cheek. his lashes flutter shut at the feeling.

you depart from him much quicker than jon would like, but the candles must be picked up by someone; and your lips have just rendered jon useless.

“Shouldn’t we clean this up?” he asks, and you turn to see him gesturing to your salt. you shake your head, picking up the last candle. “The rain will.”

you turn away from him to retrieve your book, and jon feels pulled — stepping closer to the weirwood. how you can have a conversation with something without lips, jon’s unsure; but it speaks. he and the tree gaze at one another, silence unbroken except by your pretty voice calling his name.

“Jon?” he hums. “You’re stepping on my salt.”

[carrickbender]

TT

Here's me in green. I love green, in all of its colours. Please be kind, it's that kinda day...

🎶 sinus infection, my old friend; You've come to mess with me again. My sinuses feel just like con-crete; the misery I feel is not discreet. And the pressure that is building in my brain, will remain, without some an-tibiotics🎶

We have has a crew here at the house putting in the new mini split system, and while they are cool, I'd rather they be done. We are at the mercy of a 70-something electrical supervisor who gained notoriety when he got caught stealing campaign signs during his 2016 election campaign for county commissioner. Now mind you, this county is notorious for having burn pits in the middle nowhere off logging roads usually filled with burned up democratic campaign signs, so I can jokingly forgive the theft(I mean, he stole GOP signs and God only knows how many thousands of dollars the GOP stole of mine in 2000 and 2004), all is fair in love and Washington state political campaigns). But to get caught is a sin that is unforgivable.

I'm exhausted, can this week please end already?

[ethereousdelirious]

I finally wrote something!!!! It's just a little bite-sized (1k) snzfic about some OCs. I am currently working on a book that I'm hoping to publish, so I have changed the names in the interest of not screwing over my future self 😅 The premise is around reincarnation, so it flashes back and forth between past (1700s West Coast USA) and present. I hope that's not confusing!

It was never a good sign when Professor Lehman asked everyone to drag their desks into a circle. Gabriel hefted his backpack into his chair and dragged his desk into place, shoulders tense with anticipation for what was about to come.

He ended up sat down next to a girl he only vaguely recognized. He thought her name might be Brandy, or Briana, something like that. She had a flower bouquet on her desk, small golden flowers interspersed with white roses and baby's breath.

She caught him staring and smiled. "Aren't they pretty? The Agricultural Club is selling bouquets down by the library."

"Oh," said Gabriel, making a conscious effort to not flinch back in surprise. He drew a hand through his tight curls, noting with some annoyance that he needed a haircut. The urge to sneeze snuck up on him and he barely registered it in time to turn his head away, let alone stifle it. "Hh'sch!"

--

"Bless you," Emilio said, looking up with mild concern painted across his features. The breeze blew his dark hair and made the hem of his habit dance around his ankles.

Matías opened his mouth to thank him and drew in a gasp instead. "Eh'chf!"

His horse let out a snort, obviously annoyed with the way Matías was jerking her lead.

"Are you alright?" Emilio asked, peering at him with wide brown eyes.

Matías sniffled and felt in his pockets for his handkerchief. "Yes, I'm f-- Hh'schf! Eh'tsch!"

"Go on?"

"Actually, I'm dying."Matías sniffled again to no avail and leaned into the side of his horse. His handkerchief, if he'd even brought one, was evidently stowed away in one of the saddlebags and he couldn’t be bothered to search for it. He wiped his eyes on his sleeve. "It's time for last rites; I'm done for."

"Go sit down," Emilio said with a fond smile. "I'll mind the horses."

"Keep an eye out for any priests, would you?" Matías handed the reins over and stepped a few paces away. He found a flat rock and sat down on it, admiring a nearby patch of golden blooms. Emilio had told him it was mustard and it marked the paths between missions.

The warm breeze made the flowers sway. Matías grit his teeth, feeling the familiar tickle and ache in his sinuses. "Hh'ksh!"

--

"You gonna live, Gabriel?" Professor Lehman asked.

Gabriel sniffled and resisted the childish urge to wipe his nose on his sleeve. Unable to keep eye contact, he stared down at his hand, studying the way his dark skin contrasted the white plastic of the tabletop. "Sorry, it's just allergies. I'll have my roommate bring me some Claritin."

"Alright." Professor Lehman clapped his hands once. "You can go last, then." He turned to the girl sitting beside Gabriel. "Brinley, why don't you start us off? What conclusions did you draw from last night's reading?"

Brinley started to speak, and Gabriel pulled out his phone to shoot Inti a text.

Gabriel: Pls bring Claritin. Main building room 203. I'll buy u a coffee'

Inti: omw

Gabriel shoved his phone back in his pocket and tried to pay attention to the discussion.

It was difficult, when his head throbbed and his nose kept trying to drip. He was sniffling so often he was sure everyone around him could hear it and only just managing to stave off sneezing fits by shoving his finger under his nose. It worked, but the pressure buildup in his sinuses was so intense it made his teeth ache. His shoulders shook with the impending fit, and he nearly shot out of his chair the moment Inti texted that he had arrived.

But that was rude and would put more eyes on him, so Gabriel sat there with shaking hands and trembling breaths until the discussion hit a pause. Then he slipped out.

Inti was waiting a little ways down the hall, lounging in one of the alcoves. Gabriel swallowed and tried not to notice the stripe of golden skin that peeked out above Inti's waistband.

"Allergies?" Inti asked, sweeping his gaze down the length of Gabriel's body.

Gabriel shuddered. "N-no, I--" He tensed and the sarcastic quip died on his lips. "Hh'tschf!"

"Bless--"

"Eh'tch!"

"Bless--"

Gabriel took in half a breath and stopped short. "Oh, I think I'm done."

"You sure?" Inti tapped the tip of Gabriel's nose.

Gabriel flinched back and shook his head. "Yes." He wiped the tears off his face and sat down next to Inti with a groan. His head ached.

--

"We can take a longer rest, if you need," Emilio said.

Matías waved his hand in dismissal, already clambering to his feet. His head spun with the motion and he swayed into Emilio's shoulder. "No, no. Don't waste time on my account."

"It's not wasted time, especially if you're feeling unwell." Emilio caught Matías' chin in his hand and used the other to wipe the tears off Matías' cheeks.

Matías' face went warm. He wondered if Emlio could feel it against his palms. "I'm alright."

"You're sure?" Emilio asked, his dark eyes wide and searching. "Santa Barbara can do without me for a few more days."

Matías didn't even have time to screw up his face before the next sneeze sent him reeling forward. "Hh'kschf!" His forehead hit Emilio's chest with a muffled thump, his face nestled against the somewhat scratchy material of his habit. It was more contact than they'd ever shared and Matías almost relaxed into it before the dawning comprehension filled his mind with horror. He stepped backward, eyes downcast. "F-forgive me, Padré, I--"

"Forgive you for sneezing?" Emilio sounded as lighthearted as ever, so Matías chanced to look up. Sure enough, Emilio only looked bemused. He cocked his head like a puppy. "It's not a sin. Come, let's rest a while longer." He wrapped an arm around Matías and guided him to a shady spot beneath a pine tree.

--

"I have to get back to class," Gabriel said.

Inti took the hint and produced the white-topped Claritin bottle from his hoodie pocket. "You sure that's a good idea? You sound awful."

Gabriel dry-swallowed the pills with a wince. "It's group discussion day."

"Alright, alright. You'd better keep the bottle, then." Inti got to his feet and extended a hand to help Gabriel up. "You wanna wipe your nose on my sleeve?"

Gabriel chose (diplomatically, in his opinion) not to answer that. "I gotta go. See you."

"Do blow your nose, though. You really do sound half-dead."

"Will do. Thanks, Inti."

"No problem." Inti smiled brightly and swept his long hair back. "Remember, you owe me one."

"Sure." Gabriel turned to go back to class, a strange, warm feeling in his chest.

[lady-divine-writes]

A Dish Best Served Cold - A Prince of Omens Inspired One-shot (Rated NC17)

Summary: Starmakers rarely Fall. Crowley was the first. But every time one does, Crowley feels it, like razor sharp thorns throughout his body. When the latest one does, Aziraphale offers to accompany Crowley to Hell to make certain they're all right. But while they're there, Aziraphale decides to settle a score on his husband's behalf. (3689 words)

Notes: All right, I said I wasn't going to do this again, but I couldn't help myself. So this is inspired by @whiteleyfoster 'Omens of Egypt' mini comic 'Down' about Crowley's Fall from Heaven, along with their Bastille torture implied pic, which you can see here . I know there's a contest going on. This isn't about that. There's better writers for that. It's just something I've been working on since the end of 'Down'. I needed some BAMF Aziraphale sticking up for his demon husband against his former managers, so to speak. Warning for angst and mention of torture (not explicit).

Read on AO3.

“N-no … s-stop … I … I didn’t … I didn’t do … anything wrong … I … I’ll stop! I … swear!”

Aziraphale closes his book and sets it aside, then rolls on his hip to face his husband grabbing at the sheets covering his body, gripping so hard his knuckles have begun to turn white.

“Dearest?” Aziraphale whispers, brushing aside strands of hair from Crowley’s face with careful fingertips. “Wake up, dearest. Please wake up. You’re safe, my love. You’re all right …”

“N-no … no, you can’t … p-please …”

“Crowley? Dear? Can you hear me?”

“N-no … no, please …”

Aziraphale sighs as his husband continues to whimper. He rests a hand over one of his to anchor him, give him something tangible and familiar to hold on to, even in sleep.

An anchor is all Aziraphale can offer because there is no consoling him.

Crowley had once confided to Aziraphale that as much as he loved sleep, he had nightmares pretty on the regular, and they got worse as time went on. They’re rarer now that angel and demon sleep together, but they still crop up from time to time.

Unfortunately, Aziraphale can’t always tell which torture he’s reliving - being tossed out of Heaven into a steaming pit of sulfur, or the various punishments he endured the second he became a demon.

Having the down torn from his wings over the sin of being vain and naive.

Or having symbols of degradation burned into his skin with hot irons for the treachery of rescuing an angel.

Aziraphale didn’t even know that was a possibility until he’d discovered them.

The burns had faded, but the malevolent power that created them remained, its vile signature seared into Crowley’s skin. Aziraphale stumbled across them one night while they were making love, when they were close together, mouth to chest, with Crowley sitting in Aziraphale’s lap, riding him. Aziraphale blew hot air across Crowley’s chest and there they were.

Aziraphale’s divinity had brought them to light.

The way Crowley covered them, the shame in his expression when he confessed what he’d gotten them for, speared Aziraphale to the depths of his soul.

For that, and for a hundred other things (including blessing that blasted Thermos of water) Aziraphale has never forgiven himself. Crowley tells Aziraphale there’s nothing to forgive, especially when they’re in the throes of passionate embraces and a single puff of breath from Aziraphale’s lips brings those marks to the surface. Despite the consequences of his decisions, they were Crowley’s decisions, and the ones pertaining to Aziraphale’s health and safety, he’d repeat a thousand times.

Yet, the nightmares continue.

“Sleep easy, my love.” Aziraphale leans over and lays feather-light kisses on his demon’s sweaty forehead. “Sleep, and dream about whatever you like best.”

Crowley’s breathing slows. The furrows in his brow smooth away. His hands begin to loosen, let go of their vice hold. He melts into the sheets, eyelids fluttering slowly.

A small smile even manages to tilt up the corners of his mouth.

“That’s it. Relax. Be calm … at peace. I’m here with you. I’m not going anywhere. I won’t leave you alone.”

Crowley hums behind his lips, finally happy in his dreaming.

Aziraphale exhales with relief. It worked … thank God.

…

But for only about a minute.

Aziraphale goes back to his book, but a second later, Crowley jerks, jarring the bed as if the mattress had saved him from a terrible tumble. He sits bolt up, fist clutching his chest over the shadow of one particularly gruesome burn, his eyes wide and unblinking like those of a frightened foal.

“No!” he gasps, staring straight ahead, the remainder of his nightmare fading where Aziraphale can’t see.

“No what, dearest?” Aziraphale asks, careful not to speak too loudly in case it takes Crowley a moment to remember where he is, and that he’s not alone. “Which nightmare was it this time?”

“A … an angel … will Fall,” Crowley reveals in a voice that trembles. “A … a Starmaker.”

His answer stuns Aziraphale into closing his book and setting it on the table beside the bed without saving his place first. “Is that … will that really happen?”

Crowley swallows hard. “Yes.” He runs a hand through his sweaty hair, on the verge of tears. “Yes, I … I feel it. I could see it. It’s happening now. Tonight.” His eyelids pinch shut. He shakes his head, trying to dislodge the image from his brain, but Aziraphale knows it will be difficult to erase.

Starmakers rarely Fall. Maybe one in a thousand years. Crowley was the first, and for some reason, he can feel when another does. It rips through him like shards of ice, makes the return trip like tongues of fire, and haunts him for days after.

Aziraphale has often wondered if Hell did that on purpose - found a way to curse him with that foresight as one of their many forms of discipline.

Or perhaps it was Heaven’s doing.

Aziraphale wouldn’t be surprised either way. It seems like something they would both come up with.

“Do you have any idea when they will …?”

“Any second now,” Crowley says on a single breath, eager to push the knowledge from his mouth.

“Well then …” Aziraphale lifts the comforter off his legs and makes to get out of bed “… would you like to accompany me to Hell? Make sure they’re all right?”

Crowley’s eyelids snap open, blown pupils finding Aziraphale’s smiling face. It wouldn’t be the first time they’ve traveled to Hell together. Crowley looks like he might jump at the offer, but something holds him back.

Things are different now. They’re different now. They’re free agents. Crowley doesn’t answer to Hell anymore. As for Aziraphale, it’s not like Hell welcomed angels too freely downstairs with open arms before the Nope-ageddon. Angels’ visits to Hell have always been procedural, planned ahead, with paperwork involved. Heaven holds the keys to the bottomless pit, after all. It’s their job to tend to the prisoners there.

What Aziraphale is recommending they do is more than a little unprecedented.

If Aziraphale gets himself in a tight spot, Heaven more than likely won’t help him.

Is one Starmaker worth that chance? Worth the Guardians of the Gates treating Aziraphale the way they treated Crowley?

No, Crowley decides. For all it does to break his heart, it’s not worth putting his angel in danger.

“I’m … I’m probably overreacting,” he says, forcing himself to calm down. “There’s … there’s no reason to drag you down there. They’ll be fine. They … they don’t need me.” He closes his eyes again. Aziraphale can see the pain on his face, the memory of that poor angel’s Fall, or maybe his own, playing behind his eyes.

The harsh reality is that those angels that Fall need to learn the hard way that Hell is a terrible place. No one is waiting in the wings (so to speak) to rescue them.

No matter how slight their sin.

But this is important to Crowley. Aziraphale knows it is.

And Crowley means the world to Aziraphale.

Aziraphale puts a hand beneath his husband’s chin, coaxes his eyes open with kisses to his lips. “It never hurts to check, my dear. I’ll go get my coat.”

***

Hard-packed dirt where very little grows.

Thick clouds of black, acrid smoke.

Yellow-orange sulfur seeping from the earth, super-heated and bubbling, popping, releasing noxious gas into the air.

Aziraphale pops the collar of his coat, holds the ends tight over his nose.

He hates the smell of Hell.

The pools of sulfur fallen angels nosedive into are located right outside the gates, so they’re still far from the mildew infested basement that is Hell’s head office.

But this outdoor landing pad is probably worse: surrounded by air that burns the sinuses with every breath, the breeze swirling around them hot and oppressive instead of cool and refreshing.

Looking up and seeing a Heaven that no longer welcomes you, stars you will never touch again.

He envisions Crowley here - scared, confused, emerging from the pits for the first time to see his beautiful, snowy-white wings blackened and singed, covered in this foul-smelling ooze.

All alone.

Consigned here by those he loved.

Aziraphale feels a long-building contempt for Heaven rise up in his chest and does everything to keep it at bay. This isn’t him, he reminds himself. Not really. It’s Hell’s influence. It’s too easy to surrender to anger here, which is why the Almighty sends the Archangels to conduct Heaven’s business in Hell.

They’re more immune to the air here.

“There they are!” Crowley says, rushing towards a pit about fifty feet from where they materialized, where a drenched and bedraggled set of wings sits atop an orange mess, attached to an angel … a demon … lying underneath the surface.

Aziraphale doesn’t rush to help. Best to let Crowley lead that charge. Instead, he keeps watch. He’s only been here a handful of times, but that’s definitely enough.

One time in particular, he could do without.

Aziraphale peers through the black smoke, trying to decipher their bearings. Crowley snapped them here. It’s the easiest way to come. Which means that Hell should know they’re there. Every time Crowley performs a miracle, they receive a fax. So there’s a fifty-fifty chance a welcoming committee of some sort might arrive.

The wind blows.

The smoke shifts.

Vacant mold-gray eyes catch his.

Bingo.

As the smoke continues to clear, Aziraphale gets a better view, and he smiles.

Luck, oddly, seems to be on his side.

“You stay here, my dear,” he says, not bothering to raise his voice since he knows Crowley will hear him. “I’ll take care of this.”

Aziraphale isn’t a vengeful angel. His job is to inspire humanity, to spread love.

Wrath is normally reserved for Archangels.

But as in most things, Aziraphale doesn’t feel they’ve done their jobs right for close to a millennium.

And besides, this is personal.

Aziraphale strolls up to the demon hopping through the sulfur pits in his direction.

“You’re Dagon, right?” he asks.

The demon slows, approaches warily, not expecting to meet Aziraphale (of all entities) after the memo they received.

Not expecting to see an angel flash a smile that is eerily at home here in Hell.

“What’s it to you?” Dagon asks.

“Come on. Let me preen these for you,” Aziraphale hears Crowley say to the new demon he’s helping out of the sulfur. “And take my advice … learn to do it for yourself. You don’t want to ask anyone down here for help.”

“Nothing, my dear.” Aziraphale steps to the right, blocking Dagon when they try to blow past. “I just like to know whom I’m addressing. I’ve heard a lot about you.” Aziraphale sashays left - another block that leaves Dagon gnashing their teeth in frustration. “Crowley says you’re a rather creative demon … when it comes to cruelty and violence.”

Dagon squashes their plan to leap around the angel and grins proudly at that remark. “Did he now?”

“Indeed,” Aziraphale returns, the words as dry as the ground beneath his feet. “In fact, he told me that from the first day he Fell you couldn’t keep your hands off him. I almost got jealous … until he elaborated.”

Dagon’s face falls, their eyes blank, but they snicker when they catch on.

Every time Dagon tore at Crowley’s wings.

Every time they put a hot iron to Crowley’s skin, tied him up and whipped him for his treachery.

Or worse …

That’s what the angel is referring to.

Dagon can’t help noticing the loathing in Aziraphale’s eyes, the undeniable rage.

And Dagon smiles.

Anger feeds demons like well-roasted mutton. It intoxicates them like wine.

And the anger of an angel?

That’s about the finest vintage any demon can find on earth.

Hence why calling off the war disappointed them so.

It makes Dagon long to stab Crowley in the back with their claws to see how angry this angel can get.

What Dagon might be able to convince him to do.

Dagon tries to dash past again, but Aziraphale is surprisingly quick. This time, Dagon walks straight into Aziraphale’s chest and stops short.

It’s like walking into a brick wall.

Dagon sniffs. They refuse to be intimidated by an angel. Especially a plump and useless little Principality like this one. Dagon remembers Ligur talking about what the Archangels think of him, how they have no respect for him.

Thinking of Ligur reminds Dagon that that demon is gone. Gone at the hands of Crowley, who doused them with Holy Water.

Holy Water he got from this angel.

The only angel in Heaven that can withstand Hellfire, pudgy or not.

Dagon’s face goes pale. They swallow hard. Those memories of torturing Crowley, the times they’d been so proud of, flood their mind with vivid sound and color.

Staring at this angel’s cold, hard expression, they begin to regret every single one.

“You look parched,” Aziraphale says with an unexpectedly warm smile.

“Yeah, well, it’s hot down here,” Dagon growls suspiciously. “Otherwise it wouldn’t be Hell.”

“True, true. That’s why I brought this.” Aziraphale reaches into his inside coat pocket and pulls out a tartan Thermos. Dagon stiffens at the reveal, but they’re too curious to back away.

It’s just a Thermos. How much damage could Aziraphale possibly do with a Thermos?

“It’s … it’s a Thermos,” the demon points out.

“Yes,” Aziraphale says in a condescending tone. “Very good. And what do you think it’s filled with?” He pulls off the cup and puts it in his pocket, then unscrews the cap. “I’ll give you three guesses and the first two don’t count.”

Dagon scoffs. “How the Heaven should I …?” Their eyes blow wide as context melds together in one harrowing spark of realization. “That wouldn’t be … Holy Water? W-would it?” Dagon takes a step back, but Aziraphale’s hand shoots out, grabs the demon by the wrist. Thick, sausage fingers wrap tightly around, solid as stone.

“You know,” Aziraphale says in a low, gravelly voice to match, “I don’t like the way you’ve treated my husband.”

Dagon pulls, trying to break free, but Aziraphale has a grip like iron. “We’re … we’re demons! It’s what we do! Wot did you expect?”

“Doesn’t matter what I expect. It matters what I’ll tolerate.” Aziraphale lifts the Thermos to his mouth and takes a drink. Dagon stares as Aziraphale gulps the blessed liquid, licking his lips when he’s done. But from the sound of sloshing, there seems to be plenty left. “Oh! How rude of me,” Aziraphale says, holding the Thermos out to his captive. “Fancy a sip?”

Dagon’s eyes nearly pop out of their head. “You … you wouldn’t!”

“Wouldn’t I?” Aziraphale lifts the Thermos over Dagon’s wrist where it’s caught in the angel’s fist. “By the way, I wouldn’t tug too hard if I were you. I am clumsy. I might slip. It only takes one drop to dissolve a demon.” On cue, a single drop begins to form on the silver lip of the container. Angel and demon watch it grow, dangle like a trapeze artist lowering themselves down the rung of their swing, preparing to jump. Aziraphale looks on in amusement; Dagon in utter horror. The drop lengthens, heaves, the tenuous connection thinning as it threatens to break.

“N … n-no! “ Dagon stutters, lurching backward, but Aziraphale holds on impossibly tighter.

“What was that you said?” Aziraphale asks, taking his eyes away from the precarious drop, not caring a whit for its fate.

“It … it’s going to fall!”

Aziraphale shakes his head, inadvertently shaking the Thermos as well. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t quite …”  

Aziraphale doesn’t finish his sentence.

He sticks out his tongue and catches the drop seconds before it falls.

Dagon makes a strangled sound as they struggle to recoil.

Aziraphale watches the demon flail in his grasp and laughs. “Phew! Will you look at that? That was a close one!”

“You’ll … you’ll start a war!” Dagon cries, utilizing this momentary reprieve since the Thermos is still there, held aloft by the angel, his loathing brewing into a full-fledged flame. “A war between demons and angels! You didn’t want that, re-remember?”

Aziraphale shrugs. “Perhaps I’ve changed my mind. You wanted a war, didn’t you? Well, now you’ll get your wish, provided doing away with you is impetus enough to start one. Pity you won’t be around to join in. I’ve heard you give some rousing pep talks.”

“N-now, listen to reason, angel …”

Aziraphale’s grip around Dagon’s wrist ratchets from tight to bone-crushing, almost bringing Dagon to their knees. They lose their footing, but Aziraphale drags them closer, holds them upright by that one thin and straining joint.

“You … don’t get to call me that!”

“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry! I …”

“Aziraphale …” Crowley’s voice creeps into Aziraphale’s ear. It sounds distant for the pounding in Aziraphale’s head, but it’s mere inches away “… don’t ...”

Aziraphale doesn’t turn to look at his husband, the full force of his anger trained on this one pathetic demon, ready to turn them into dust with the weight of that alone. But Aziraphale pictures Crowley’s amber eyes in his mind - doe wide and pleading.

Begging for no more.

“Are you sure, my dear?”

“Yes.” A hand finds Aziraphale’s shoulder and squeezes gently. “I’m sure. Don’t do this. For me?”

Aziraphale shudders. He would do anything for Crowley, give him anything he wanted … but he can’t seem to do this. For all his posturing, all of his simply wanting to put the fear of God into this demon for everything Crowley said they’ve done, he can’t just let go. With his Thermos poised over the green-gray and fetid skin of their arm, he’s so ready to pour.

And it would feel good.

It would feel like righting a wrong.

The wrong of Aziraphale not being around to protect Crowley when he truly needed protecting.

But the kneading of his shoulder muscles loosens his grip ever so slightly. A kiss on the crown of his head loosens it more.

“Angel,” Crowley whispers against his scalp, his cheek pressing there to enjoy the softness of his hair, “please?”

“Urgh! All right!” Aziraphale grumbles, releasing his grip. He’d been holding on so tight, it takes a few seconds for his corporal form to actually detach, sending Dagon stumbling back, landing undignified on their tailbone in the sulfur. “But just you remember, Dagon,” Aziraphale adds, straightening his waistcoat, “the next time you get it in your empty head to try and do something … anything … to my husband, that he’s the only reason you’re not a puddle right now. Yes?”

“Y-yes,” the demon stutters. “I-I’ll remember.”

“In that case, I do believe some appreciation is in order.”

Dagon shoots a glare Crowley’s way. Not an inch of conceit can they see on Crowley’s face, only concern for his angel. And that makes Dagon furious. Despite themselves, Dagon scowls. But seeing as Aziraphale has put no cover on his Thermos and could always change his mind (that’s what Dagon would do) Dagon has little choice. “Thank you,” they grind through pointed teeth.

“Thank you what?” Aziraphale stresses.

If Aziraphale weren’t both immune to Hellfire and carrying a Thermos of Holy Water, Dagon would bolt out of that pool of sulfur and rip him to shreds.

At least, that’s what they tell themselves.

“Thank you … sir.”

“Better. Now run along. My compassion only lasts so long in this place, and it’s getting rather hot out here.” Aziraphale swirls the Thermos in Dagon’s direction, taking another drink as the demon scurries away, mumbling under their breath. The sulfur pits become tensely quiet, thicker and heavier than the black smoke stinging their eyes.

“Aziraphale …?”

“How’s the fallen Starmaker?” Aziraphale asks before Crowley can finish. Whether he intended on thanking Aziraphale or lecturing him, Aziraphale isn’t ready to hear it.

Crowley sighs. “As good as can be expected.”

“Well, that’s the best we can hope for, I suppose,” Aziraphale says with a sympathetic smile.

“Don’t you think that was going a little too far?” Crowley asks, lowering his voice and gesturing toward a sulking Dagon with his chin.

“Not at all. In fact … would you like to make your friend Dagon over there lose their bowels, so to speak?”

“Only always.”

“Do you trust me?”

“Without question.”

“Take a nice long swig out of that, my dear,” Aziraphale says, handing off the Thermos.

Crowley knows this Thermos. Knows it well. He pauses when Aziraphale offers it to him. Touching it gives him a jolt, fills his brain with the echoes of Ligur’s screams, but he can’t betray fear for one second. He’s supposed to be the demon who can withstand Holy Water, after all.

Plus he trusts Aziraphale … more than anything.

He brings the Thermos to his lips and throws his head back, taking the biggest mouthful he can before his survival instincts can force him to stop and spit it out. He hears Dagon curse from across the sulfur pits, and Crowley almost sputters. His eyelids squeeze, preparing for the burn of the righteous.

It burns, all right, but it doesn’t dissolve him into the dirt.

“It’s … it’s not Holy Water,” Crowley comments only loud enough for Aziraphale to hear, helping himself to another hefty mouthful. “It’s not water at all! It’s vodka!”

“Oh dear. Look at that,” Aziraphale says in a dry, sarcastic tone. “I brought the wrong Thermos. I’ll be more aware of how I pack next time.”

Crowley shakes his head, wrapping his arms around his angel’s body and holding him tight. “You know, you’re pretty sexy when you’re being all guardian angel and stuff.”

“Yes, well, it’s only for you, my love,” Aziraphale says, resting his head against Crowley’s chest and hugging him back, more than ready for his husband to snap them back home. “Only for you.”

[peridot-gladioli]

2, 11, 21, 36 for the writer ask meme!

2. Where is your favorite place to write?

Lying on my sofa, a V-shaped pillow supporting my back/head against the arm, a notebook on my lap.

11. What are you planning to work on next?

All the The Witcher stuff has got me really interested in my original fantasy novel again, but that’s kind of “currently”... *Next* might be actual Witcher Geraskier fan-fiction.

21. What aspect of your writing are you most proud of?

I’m not, really. Maybe, like Computer Studies at school, persistance in the face of lack of talent? (Every time I turned the school computer on it informed me, “You have made a fatal error”. I got given the class award for somehow managing to complete my project anyway.) Although, otoh, I actually finished that project and I can’t remember the last time I finished a work of fiction. I get bored.

I do want to write the Evander story, but I also still care about the SGA story where a Pegasus-nation clone Sheppard for his gene and Mckay ends up rescuing a kid!Sheppard he doesn’t know is a clone, or the BBC Sherlock AU where Moriarty “burns the heart out of” Sherlock by blinding him---and they’ve both been stalled for over a decade.

36. Post a snippet (Evander’s Story b/c (a) you’ve shown interest and (b) my orig fic I’ve scrapped back to development notes.)

Matt tugged the couch blanket around himself and curled up. Elektra. He hugged himself against the feelings--too many of them, too complicated, too tangled for him to parse and label--filling his torso, pushing against his lungs and his stomach, forcing out the air, as he curled over a pain as real as a punch to the solar plexus. His throat and sinuses and the back of his nose burned with pressure, but his eyes stayed dry.

He could not cry: not for Elektra, not for himself, not even for this kid who was dealing with the death--murder--of the only parent they had ever known. He felt it all, but could do nothing for it, nothing about it, nothing with it. Elektra.

His memory conjured her: that time, only weeks earlier, when he had sat on this couch with her, tending her wounds, comparing scars. He could still feel her fingertips ghosting over the scars Nobu had left on him, her skin under his hands. He could remember the scent of her--exertion sweat and blood and adrenalin and excitement and the lingering base notes of her perfume, body lotion, shampoo, and soap--he thought could still detect a trace from his bedsheets, unchanged ever since, even from out here.

The sound of her living beating heart, the rush of her blood, the gusts of her breath. Her voice.

Why had he held off? Why had he not kissed her, tasted her, made love with her once more? Why had he rejected the miraculous second chance she had offered him? Why had he let his own arbitrary rules keep them apart; alternated in drawing her to him and pushing her away again? Was it Stick’s insidious teaching about the need of a warrior to have no emotional ties? Was it the teaching of the Church? His nascent relationship with Karen? Or was it his fear of himself, of the devil within, the denial of the darkness?

She had said he had a light within.

He had told her they corrupted each other, feared they brought out the worst in each other--the anger, the aggression--hoped that thy could save each other.

She knew the worst of him and not only accepted it but loved him for it. She freed him rather than limited him.

She had always seen more than Matt Murdock, blind guy, lawyer, safe guy, good Catholic boy; she had recognised that Matt Murdock was the mask forced on him by society and religion and other people’s expectations. She had seen all of him. He had been known, but still loved.

Unlike...

He realised he was keening, the tears which burned his eyes still not falling.

God, it hurt. And he clung to the agony, even while it felt like physical torture, cutting deeper than Nobu’s blades.

He could regret his decisions and actions, regret keeeping them apart, regret how little time they had been granted, regret her death and how it ended. He could not regret this pain. He paid the price gladly for having known a taste of earthly paradise. It had been worth whatever price God now extracted for the bliss, to keep the balance. She was worth it. God forgive him. God forgive him. He adored her when adoration belonged to God alone. He had given her his bodily worship. He had sinned with her: sin of the body, sin of the mind, sin of the heart. And punishment followed sin.

But God was Love and to know Love was to know God. He thanked God that once in his life he had known what it was to love and be love; to know the joy of Solomon: kisses sweeter than wine, love strong as death, two human souls as twin halves. How many people ever got that?

[canalstreetbaker]

Prompt #30: Darkness

@sea-wolf-coast-to-coast

I could probably write a book on this scene.  Or at least a third of a book.

Go on and save yourself for someone else.

---

Everything hurt. 

Above her, a twinkling blanket of lights glittered in the yawning void.  Smoking balls of earth and flame descended as if called into being by providence, lazily falling to the sphere below.

Home.  

To hear Emet-Selch describe it, the things C’arliani Khilo was experiencing were portions of the Doom of Amaurot, when the laws of reality became warped and the Star itself decided it would wipe itself clean of the masters of Creation.

These, of course, were things she already knew.  

The Miqo’te lay on her back, staring upward.  The blast from Emet-Selch’s magic had torn open an earlier wound and she could feel her life’s blood ebbing from a new rent in her body - contained, as it was, by her armor.  The rest of the Scions were down, but Holuikhan was making her way towards the Ascian.

Step.  By agonizing.  Step.

It’s nearly time, a voice said.

Indeed, said another.  It is time for our part to be played.

In the periphery of C’arliani’s vision, she could see three sets of feet.  One passed her by, the Hyur they belonged to giving her the barest of nods as he walked to the Xaela who was collapsed in a heap, the Light she had absorbed from the First trying to break free.  Without assistance, she would clearly fail.

She won’t fail, the voice said.

C’arliani could feel her breath catch in her lungs as Fray helped her up.  Shattoto lent her cane - and her power - and the Miqo’te could feel her pains subside.  

“Are we certain?” she asked.

“Yes,” Fray said.  “You know what we must do.”

---

To the Hurricane, the stillness of the Doom of Amaurot was anathema.  

To her empty palm, the grit of dirt and crystal prevented the flow of aether to her chakra.  The slick earth prevented her feet from finding purpose.  

To her sight, the Light that she had been tricked into taking, the Blessing-Yet-Curse that had been delivered to her - blinded her.  

Holuikhan collapsed.  The collective efforts of the Scions had met with failure as their impassioned pleas for survival - coupled with their efforts, as they were - came to naught.  The Ascian would have his due, and for the sins of another this lone Xaela would bring a second Doom to the First - and perhaps to the Steppes from whence she came.  

Such thoughts were enough to fill her with rage, but her body - broken, Light-swollen as it was - betrayed her at every moment.  The saccharine taste of pure Light-aspected aether caused her to choke, filling her sinuses with mucous the consistency of honey inexplicably gone rancid.

And yet, as she lie there with her vision turning white, Holuikhan saw a familiar pair of feet.

Ardbert had returned.  The Shade of the First.had stood next to Holuikhan as she spat up pure, concentrated Light and asked the simplest of questions.

If you could take another step and save this world, would you do it?

“What could I say but yes?” Holui said.

Then let us do this together.

A blinding flash enveloped the Xaela, blinding all who beheld it.  

---

C’arliani took step after confident step towards the Ascian and the Warrior of Light, strength flowing back into her limbs as the shadows of her soul fed her the aether required to remain alive.  There was enough of it in the air, after all - and Light-aspected aether was ideal for keeping things in stasis.

Things such as wounds, for example.  

She stood next to Holuikhan as the Xaela closed her eyes and dropped into the most basic of unarmed stances.  Around her, the Light swelled and twisted, forming great clouds of pure energy.

The Hurricane had come to Amaurot, and Holuikhan Borlaaq was its Eye.

“You yet stand,” she said, eyes still closed.  Ardbert’s focus had given her a keen insight as to the workings of the aether within her, and while it took all of her focus to twist it, the Xaela could see beyond her sight.

Emet-Selch would not take this lying down.

“I do,” C’arliani replied, shouldering her battle-scarred blade.  “What do you need from me?”

“Can you keep him in place for six heartbeats?” Holuikhan asked.

“If you aim for his heart,” C’arliani said, “Yes.  I will give you six heartbeats.”

Holuikhan nodded.  “I will remember this.”

---

Hades was furious.  These upstart things had bested his memories of the Doom.  His friend was a split, shattered thing - and the one beside her was no better! He had shot the one when he took the Exarch, but the cat.  Yet.  Stood.

Even now, as he looked at them both, the spot of darkness and the point of light conmingled, shifting into one and then the other.  Yet, even as he looked, he could see the darkness step forth, formless void taking shape into-

“No,” he spat, horrified.  “It couldn’t be you!”

“Hello again,” C’arliani said, letting her blade fall to the earth.  “Old friend.”

“I can’t believe it!” Emet-Selch thundered.  “I shan’t believe it!”

“Allow me to disappoint you,” the Miqo’te replied, and she moved with a speed unlike anyone considered mortal.

---

While nether one of them held weapons, the Ascian and the Miqo’te battled as if they were heavily armed.  They moved and weaved, seeking and exploiting weaknesses, only to be blocked away as either grew close.  

This will not do, C’arliani thought.  It is time.

“How does it feel,” she asked as she parried another blow, “To murder your old friend?”

“How dare you!” was the response.  “You are nothing!  She died before the very thought of your species’ existence was a speck of imagination!”

“And what will you do about it?” she asked.  “Hades, who carries the false memories of millions?  Hades, who failed?”

There was no response but rage.  Darkness swelled around the two as the Ascian grew two, three, five times in size.  Bare hands grew to claws that grasped for C’arliani, slashed at her, pulled at the armor, and crushed.

Ah. There.

With a burst of energy from a failing body, the Miqo’te slipped through, bursting past the Ascian’s guard, her own arms slipping through the unholy form to find the being underneath.  From the outside, all one could see was a glimmer of light in a swell of pitch black.

It was the only signal Holuikhan required, and with a step, reality shifted.

---

Time slowed to a crawl.  

C’arliani came face-to-face with Hades, eyes locked.  Blood dribbling from wounds too terrible to mention, she could only smile with bloodstained lips, tears crinkling from mismatched eyes.

“Listen to my voice,” she said.

"What is this?” Hades asked.  

“Listen to our heartbeats,” she whispered.

What?  What are you doing? came the response inside.

“Listen,” C’arliani said with a smile as the Light swelled within and without.

Holuikhan Borlaaq’s fist met with flesh, and then passed through.  Augmented with the full Light absorbed from a world out of balance, the energy was forced into a single point, penetrating two beings out of time.

“I forgive you,” she told Hades.

“I forgive you,” she told Hydaelyn.

“I forgive you,” she told herself.

In Hades’ eyes, there was understanding.  And, perhaps, relief.

Light filled C’arliani Khilo, and in those moments she thought of the place her heart called home.

---

A woman appeared on a snowy bluff overlooking the towering spires of Ishgard.  Crafted as if by the Lifestream itself, she was clad in naught but thick hooded robes, though the hood itself was pushed back to let russet hair and furry ears blow in the chilling winds.

Alighting upon the snow, she made her way to the bluff’s edge where an Elezen man sat, gazing in serene wonder at the spires below.  With an exhausted sigh, the woman flopped to a seat next to him, and worked an arm around his waist.

“I’m home,” C’arliani Khilo said.

“The things you do to be remembered,” Haurchefant Greystone said with a smile. “Will you be staying long?”

“I have all the time in the world,” she replied.  

Both sat upon the edge of the bluff, locked in each other’s arms, while behind them were a pair of gravestones, their script long faded.  All that remained, preserved as if by the will of the star itself, was a shield broken by lance. 

And a leather-bound tome of poetry, author unknown.

[itsyourchoicedevotionals]

Kill The Infection

“Wash me thoroughly from my iniquity …cleanse me from my sin. For I know my transgressions, …my sin is ever before me” Psm 51:2-3NASB

My granddaughter took one of her twins to a pediatric lung and asthma specialist, associated with the Riley Children’s Hospital. He carefully looked over our little guy’s medical records, testings, and then his body. The doctor’s learned opinion was a sinus infection lurking in my Buddy’s body for a long time. Instructions were: Follow up with thirty days of antibiotics to kill the infection completely.

As I was thinking about my little buddy’s health, God spoke into my spirit. “Sin lurks in the hearts of My children. It comes in like a germ through a thought or a sense. Because it’s not washed out with the Word of God— it grows, causing first lust, then committing the sin.”

Pre- Christ, my life was sin-filled. Every thought drifted around sin’s domain. After my new life began in Christ, some of my ways changed. Deeply rooted in abuse and behavioral disorders, some sins remained. They lurked in my character like a bacteria in a sinus. Even today, I’ll think, ‘I’ve got victory over everything,’ up pops a different hidden sin.

If, I were alone in this fight, I would succumb, crying ‘uncle.’ “But thanks be to God, who gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ”  1Cor 15:57NASB. I’ve been— you’ve been given victory over this evil, sin germ. Rom 8:37NASB “…in all these things we overwhelmingly conquer through Him who loved us.”

Holy Spirit’s antibiotic for these hiding sins is three-fold: **Our new Christian spirit is housed in a sinful body, more obedient to the flesh than the spirit. The mind reprograms the flesh, aka body. Paul wrote to the Romans in 12:2NKJV “…do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind…” ***Minds are renewed through Eph 5:26NKJV ”…sanctify and cleanse her (the mind) with the washing of water by the word.” Washing through God’s Word reminds me of the sinus treatments, I received as a child. The ENT doctor would wash my sinuses out with a special medicine, burning like fire. The pain meant healing to raw sinuses. Afterwards, I always felt better. Sometimes God’s Word burns sores in our hearts, as we see what’s really in us. End result is always feeling lighter, joyful and free. **Freedom comes while praying the prayer of repentance. Very familiar territory for me— ‘Hello Papa God, it’s me and boy did I ever mess it up this time!’ Be quick to repent. Reason? Sin cuts off relationship and open communication with God. No fellowship hurts God’s heart and ours. “If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness” 1Jn 1:9NKJV.

Back in Eden, Adam sewed leaves together to hide his nakedness, (see Genesis 3). We too try to hide, what we’ve done from God. Give it up. Hiding is impossible. He was with you— while you sinned, during His time in Gethsemane.

Do as David did. Admit before the Father your sin. Ask for His cleansing restoration to fellowship.

Of course you don’t have to follow my advice. You can keep your sin germ infection. Before long you’ll spread your germs.  It’s your choice. You choose.

PRAYER: Papa God, thank You wanting us to fellowship with us. Please help us to desire fellowship with You, in Jesus’ name I pray.

by Debbie Veilleux Copyright 2017 You have my permission to reblog this devotional for others. Please keep my name with this devotional as author. Thank you.