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queenlucythevaliant · 1 year

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PERHAPS Mary was not, as some would later assume, particularly gentle or serene. Perhaps she tried to be sweet and patient, but failed nearly as often as she succeeded. Mary had a personality, after all: her own set of quirks and failings, for all that the annals of time and church history would try to cleanse her of it.

So, for lack of more definitive information, allow us to imagine a spitfire Mary who struggled with a temper all her life. Not a doe-eyed, pleasant woman who mutely moves through the motions of the Christmas story, nor a perpetually-grieving marble statue; a Mary who was human.

This Mary gave her parents fits as a little girl. She answered back to her elders and got in fierce arguments with her siblings until she was old enough to know better. As she grew up, she learned courtesy and responsibility, but she never quite managed to live up to the ideal her own mother set.

Yet one day when Mary was fifteen and recently engaged, she turned and suddenly saw what could only be an angel of the Lord standing a few paces away. His clothes were lightning-white and his tawney wings jutted up from his back in vaulted arches. It was difficult to look at his face straight on, yet she could not look away. When she blinked, Mary thought for an instant that she saw many eyes looking back at her.

“Greetings, favored one, the Lord is with you!” the angel said. His voice echoed like nothing else, like a thunderclap or a crashing wave. Mary squeezed her eyes shut and took a step back.

“Do not be afraid,” the angel said in a softer voice. Then, smiling, “You will conceive in your womb and bear a son, and you shall call his name Jesus. He will be great and will be called the Son of the Most High, and of his kingdom there will be no end.”

“How?” Mary demanded at once. She was overwhelmed, and perhaps it was this feeling alone which prevented her from voicing any of the objections which coursed through her mind in that instant, save for the most obvious: “I am a virgin.”

The angel—“Gabriel, who stands in the presence of God”—gave her answers equal parts lofty and lovely. Mary had not quite made up her mind how she ought to respond until the angel declared in a voice fierce with joy, “nothing is impossible with God.”

When she heard those words, it felt to Mary like a challenge. She was hungry to see God do something really impossible, wanted to be party to whatever miracle He was finally going to do after so long. “Let it be to me according to your word,” she said, dimly aware that they were the most dangerous words she would ever utter.

IT was not fear of what people would think that drove her haste to visit Elizabeth, she told herself, nor was it anger at her family’s incredulity when she told him about the angel’s visit. No, the urgency with which she made her preparations to visit her cousin was driven only by a desire to share her joy—and, indeed, the rational part of her mind asserted, it would not hurt to confirm the angel’s words.

She was not intent on leaving Nazareth because of her father’s reaction the night she finally tried to explain things. His hard glare had made her want to run off and earn the epithet that he couldn’t quite manage to spit at her, but instead she had merely stood there, silent in her righteous rage. She did not want to see him again for a long time, but this alone would not have driven Mary to Elizabeth.

Likewise, her mother’s conviction that Elizabeth’s influence would be good for her made things easier, but it was not the reason. Mary did want to visit Elizabeth in order to experience the proof of Gabriel’s word, God’s promise; she did. But, as she ventured off into the hill country, she admitted to herself that the other things might have been factors in the decision too.

“My soul magnifies the Lord! He has shown strength with his arm; he has scattered the proud in the thoughts of their hearts; he has filled the hungry with good things, and the rich he has sent away empty,” she proclaimed to her cousin. There was power in her voice which Elizabeth said reminded her of another Miriam singing prophecy on the shore of the Red Sea.

Yet to Mary, it felt not like prophecy but like catharsis. Her prayer was an expression of all of the good things that had been brimming up in her soul since the angel had visited her and a cleansing of all the bad. Her soul magnified the Lord. It was the right response, the outpouring of her heart; it was all she could do.

WHEN she returned to Nazareth, nearly halfway through her pregnancy now and the shape of her figure impossible to overlook, most people greeted her with awkwardness. “Oh,” most of them would say when they saw her, eyes and mouths going wide. Not, “Hello, Mary, it’s good to see you” or “How did you find the hill country?” Then, once she had gone, the whispers would begin. Nazareth was a small town, after all, and thus rife with gossip. Occasionally, childhood friends made pointed comments in Mary's presence and angry words scalded her throat, but at least—at least it was better than the blatant staring and the whispers. How dare they? Mary thought. This is God’s child!

Joseph spoke to her father about plans to break their engagement privately (kindly) and Mary was less angry at him than anyone. Joseph was a good man; this proved it, and wasn’t that ironic? The thing that gave her the most insight into her fiancé’s character was the way he broke their engagement.

Yet Joseph appeared outside her father’s house early one morning, quiet but animated with dreams of angels. “I will take Mary as my wife,” he was saying, and Mary was so relieved that she nearly wept there on his shoulder.

IT was no easy thing, to be so heavily pregnant and travelling amidst so many men with only Joseph at her side. At night, she loudly enumerated each of her aches and pains to her poor young husband, who could do little but nod sympathetically to ease them. Her sleep was restless and she could not remember the last time she was cool and comfortable. Even the nighttime breezes did not make her feel any less sticky.

In the day, travel was painful and strenuous. She was exhausted and irritated and tired of the winces Joseph involuntarily made when she cursed under her breath. Joseph was patient, though, and his carpentry-rough hands were good to grip when the pain became too much to bear alone.

The long days of travel also left Mary too with too much time to think. She didn’t know what she’d done to deserve such a precious honor from her God, fifteen and frightened and frail as she was. Yet in her best moments, Mary rested her hands over the places where she could feel God’s son kicking and she sang for joy.

MARY started snapping at Joseph well before they arrived in Bethlehem, as soon as she saw the sheer mass of people who had arrived there ahead of them. She had a throbbing headache and hadn’t yet had supper, and the city was far busier than either of them had expected. When the innkeeper gave them use of his stable, it was not so much out of sympathy for an expectant mother as fear of a couple who both seemed dangerously close to devolving into an open shouting match in his doorway.

Not long after arriving in the innkeeper’s little stable, Mary’s contractions began, hard and fast. Joseph was saying something about going to find a midwife, and Mary bellowed, “Don’t you dare leave me!” But he only squeezed her hand and took off running, leaving her alone with the cattle. Mary panted and screamed and cursed until at last someone was at last behind her— “push,” the woman murmured, “and breathe. That’s the way of it. I’ve had four myself, you’re doing fine. Don’t be afraid."

"Don't be afraid! Like hell." Mary was terrified down to her very marrow.

Yet when all was over, the child was dearer and lovelier and tinier than she had ever imagined him. His fingers were impossibly little, barely enough to grip one of her fingers, and his soft head fit in the palm of one hand. Her lips lightly glanced over his soft tufts of hair and Mary did not think much about the fact that she was kissing the face of God. He was only her baby; she had carried him nine months, had delivered him there on the hay, and saw her own nose there in the middle of his little, scrunched-up face. He would save her from her sins one day, but first she would be mother to this little seven-pound bundle that cried and blinked in her arms.

WHEN she saw the shepherds making their way towards their stable in a stinking, noisy crowd, Mary turned to Joseph and moaned "make them go away." Exhaustion made her bones heavy and the baby had finally, finally nodded off to sleep in his makeshift crib. Yet before Joseph could respond, they heard the word angels and froze.

The shepherds were a rowdy bunch, but their voices glittered with joy as they tripped over the story of what they had seen. It was not a very well-told story; no one was able to get through more than a few sentences before another voice cut in with more detail, another perspective, or even simply to add emphasis. Their voices woke the baby soon enough and Mary rocked him in her arms until he quieted. Yet then one of the older shepherds asked tentatively if he might be allowed to hold the child and within minutes, they were passing the Son of God around the tiny stall between eager pairs of sun-worn arms.

By the time the shepherds departed, Mary was overjoyed into silence. Everything, every word and moment and gesture of the evening, was tangled together to form a beautiful, messy knot of wonder in her chest. “Later,” she thought, “I’ll think about it later. Maybe tomorrow I can make sense of it.” So, she did not speak as she finally drifted off to sleep.

MARY and Joseph took their child to Jerusalem, of course, to the temple and, although she did not know it then, to Simeon. Mary marveled at the words that Simeon spoke over her child, peppered him with the questions that she had been wanting to ask someone, anyone since Jesus’ birth. Simeon quoted the law and the prophets and told Mary about the promise that God had made to him so many years ago.

Mary opened her mouth to ask another question, but Simeon was not finished speaking. “This child,” he said, one wrinkled hand resting on her shoulder, “is appointed for the fall and rising of many in Israel, and for a sign that is opposed (and a sword will pierce through your own soul also), so that thoughts from many hearts may be revealed.”

“But what does that mean?” Mary cried in frustration. Angels notwithstanding, no one had given Mary any information for bringing up God’s Son. Simeon did not really understand it either, for all his years of study, but Mary felt somehow as though she had a right to know what God had planned for her child. It is frustrating to have the son of God dropped into one’s arms and then for the angels to disappear.

IT was said that nothing good can come out of Galilee, but Mary’s family did. (Her family! Even as time passed, sometimes she still felt like a stranger to the word.) Her family was good, and their home was in Galilee, and that was all there was to it.

Joseph worked hard in his workshop and came in to meals with wood shavings caught in his beard. Her boys took turns learning the trade while her girls cleaned house and baked the bread and answered back when they felt contrary. Mary did her best to corral all six of her unruly children, including one Messiah. She would have liked to say that she ran her household with good humor and patience, but she snapped at everyone when she was cross, forgot important things that they told her, and called Jesus ‘James’ and Jude ‘Simon’ more often than not.

Her other children resented their oldest brother before they were very old and it felt like Mary’s failure. They accused her of favoring him, of always siding with Jesus in disagreements, and she could not dispute it. Sometimes, when Mary was alone, she thought that she could have been a better mother to her other children if Jesus had never been born. It was a horrible thought and ordinarily she kept it in a secret corner buried deep in her chest. On her best days, she would open herself up and offer the thought up to God with a song and a prayer. Most days were not her best days.

Yet Mary raised her children (all of them) on stories of their forebearers: David and Hezekiah, Ruth and Rehab, Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, and Judah. They all went to the local synagogue for Sabbath and to the temple in Jerusalem for holidays, sat quietly in their seats, and once, memorably, even lost track of Jesus for a few hours. But when all the children were young, Mary told them the stories of Scripture in her own words. You come from a chosen lineage, she would say. God has already used this family mightily. And yet I think the best is still to come.

Jesus grew in wisdom and stature and began explaining the Scriptures back to his mother before very long. As he grew, Mary was mildly disappointed to discover that he never really grew into his looks. Her other sons were handsome, but Jesus was unfortunately rather plain.

But let it never be said that Jesus was ugly. Smiles and laughter came over his face like rain in summer, and that made all the difference. He was like his mother in that way; they were both of them so rarely expressionless, always laughing or thoughtful, furious or incandescent. Yet where Mary could be mercurial, Jesus was simply honest and open.

Mary had known the mother of the bridegroom all their lives; they had played with dolls together and gossiped about boys and gone to the synagogue and commiserated about their children as they grew. As a result, when the wine ran tragically short before the celebration was over, Mary felt a certain responsibility to do something about it. So it was that Mary found herself marching up to her oldest boy, who also happened to be the Son of God, and rather pointedly telling him, “Jesus, they have no wine.”

HE gathered followers gradually at first. Mary noticed new faces appearing in her son's orbit: young men who believed him when he spoke without the benefit of angels as proof. Mary wondered sometimes whether she would have had faith enough to take Jesus at his word if she had only seen him in the temple or spoken to him on the shores of the sea. Some days she imagined that she would, could, might; others, she sincerely doubted it.

Then, at the wedding of a family friend, Jesus performed his first miracle.

“Woman, what does this have to do with me?” he asked.

Mary raised an eyebrow at her impudent, holy son. “Oh?” she replied. “Are you sure that’s how you want to address your mother, boy?”

Jesus laughed, a full-bodied, warm sound, and said in a softer voice, “Mother, my hour has not yet come.” It was exactly the response he had given the last half-dozen times Mary had insinuated, half-joking and half in frustration, that she wanted her son’s supernatural help solving an impossible, if rather mundane problem. She gave him a nod of understanding, though, and, still within his earshot, instructed the servants to do whatever Jesus asked of them.

Much to her astonishment, Jesus decided to humor her that day and turned pitchers of water into the best wine she had ever tasted. As they left the celebration that night, Mary reached up to fondly ruffle her son’s hair and said, “I suppose your time has come at last.”

A FEW months later, Jesus returned from the cliff where the people of Nazareth had wanted to kill him and found Mary back at home, preparing to excise several long-time friends from her life with a vengeance. When she turned and saw him, her jaw was set dangerously, eyes flashing and back straight. She did not want to listen as her son patiently explained to her exactly which Scriptures were being fulfilled in their scorn; she knew only How dare these people hurt her child? How dare they threaten Jesus when he came before them with God’s truth? How dare they?

She had been there, of course, in that lovely old synagogue which had been more constant in her life than any other place she could think of. She had watched, giddy with pride and anticipation, as Jesus unfurled the scroll of Isaiah and proclaimed himself the fulfillment of God’s promises. “He has sent me to proclaim liberty to the captives and recovering of sight to the blind, to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor,” he had said, “Today the Scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing,” and they had laughingly called him Joseph’s son and refused to listen, those foolish, hateful people.

They had driven him from the village where she had raised him—friends who had doted on him as a baby, who had passed him in the streets and commented on a recent growth spurt, whose tables he had sanded and whose children who had played with—and they had actually tried to kill him. Never acknowledging those people again was too kind, Mary thought.

But Jesus was still speaking, and the words were registering in her mind somewhere now, even if she wished that they wouldn’t. Mother. Oh, mother. I am sorry for your pain. This will not be the last time. It is written that the Son of Man must be despised and rejected by man in order to save his people. He was looking at her and speaking so gently, and Mary only barely met his eyes.

MARY sobbed hot, angry tears at the foot of the cross. She was furious all that night while they waited for her baby’s broken corpse to be taken down off the cross, furious the next day as there were Sabbath rituals to carry out, and the next as funeral preparations were made. What an awful price must be paid for those foolish, dangerous words she spoke to the angel so long ago. It was appalling that such a price must be paid for loving her son, the way a mother does. How could God think to demand it of her, to demand it of him? Wasn’t God supposed to be her son's Father? How dare He?

She stubbornly refused to speak the words of the Sabbath liturgy aloud. She moved her lips in pantomime and tried to stuff down her anger at God for ever giving her Jesus, for daring to call it a blessing. She dug her fingernails deep into the heels of her hands.

The disciples tried to give her kind words and gentle touches, but Mary was angry at them too. She knew the name and face of every one of them who had fled from the insinuation that they might know Jesus. So many of them had not stayed till the last, and all she had left was how dare they?

Jesus had given her to John, and the boy made good. Mary went back to stay with him and his brother James with no notion at all of what she ought to say or do. She was mostly drowning in her own thoughts, and so were they.

In the still of the second night, John sat beside her, gazing into a dying fire. “If you could go back—I mean—knowing how it ends—do you regret—” He wasn’t looking at her, and Mary was glad of that.

“I don’t know,” she replied. The corners of her chest felt like open wounds. “I don’t regret loving him. But I—I think I might have said something different to the angel.”

WHEN she first saw Jesus again, Mary didn’t think Messiah or Savior first. All that would come later, sitting among the disciples and pulling apart all the things he had said and done in their midst. But when Mary first saw him, the first thing she thought was my baby.

She hugged him and kissed him and held him, all the while certain that his body was different than she remembered—somehow brighter and truer than before—yet not caring a whit. Mary knew every line of her son’s face and they were all precious to her. Somehow, in spite of the differences, his nose still looked like her own.

After that, it was all Mary could do not to start yelling at Jesus. There was a monumental need in her chest to demand answers of her son and to scold him for upsetting her so. In the end, though, she managed to tamp it down. All she said was, “don’t you dare do that to me again. Do you understand? Not ever.” She said it in her don’t-cross-me voice to show that she meant it.

Jesus laughed, and Mary fairly vibrated with the joy of it.

#this was the first of the various Biblical pieces that I started work on #something like five or six Christmases ago #i was listening to a sermon on the Magnificat and the pastor was discussing Mary's sense of justice and sort of as an aside he was like #'we don't really get much about Mary's personality in the text. maybe she had a really keen sense of righteous anger'#and then discussing in the car my family was like '#'she could have been a total spitfire. wouldn't that be a change from how she's usually viewed!'#i started writing this piece that day and I've returned to it and revised and added things every Christmas since #and now it's sharing time #Bible humans #pontifications and creations #Leah stories #unto us a child is born

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fairygal11 · 2 years

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Okay guys! Ultimate has a point! IF WE CAN KNOCK OUT $33,000 within one day when the kickstarter started, we can knock out $152,829 in 11 days by following this method! We are at $297,171 out of 450,000! COME ON! Whatever cash you got! Whoever you know! Whatever your connections-GET THEM TO SEE THIS AND PLEDGE!

#epithet erased #epitheterased #kickstarter #brendan balber #brendanbalber #jellypocalypse #christmas #christmas miracle #epithet christmas miracle #operation epithet christmas miracle #PLEDGE!#GIVE!#MIRACLES!

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strawbebe-dk · 4 years

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Molly is the only star you need

🎄 Merry Christmas 🎄

#molly blyndeff #a Christmas miracle #connection went bloop for the 10th time #molly #ee #epithet erased art #epithet erased #my art #see ya next year!

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burgundyquills · 2 years

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Hey! For anyone who didn’t know, Epithet Erased is currently having a Kickstarter for a second season! Well, mostly it’s a fund for the book BUT another episode is one of the stretch goals!

The first season of this show was absolutely wonderful, and I would love to see it come back. I’m sure those of you who have watched it agree with me; this is a fun series that deserves to continue. C’mon, let’s make a little christmas miracle happen!

https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/epithet-erased-pop/epithet-erased-prison-of-plastic/description

#epithet erased #kickstarter #signal boost #art #animation #writing #books

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dragoni · 4 years

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Trump hates Americans who don’t worship him — worship HIS America.

To stay in power; Trump abuses the Oval in plain sight with the blessing of Republicans, he lies, he invokes fire and brimstone — even if it leads to a Civil War — care of White Evangelicals and Trump’s self-righteous supporters #EndTimes

Putin: Mission Accomplished. #RepublicansComplicit

What has he done to us?

During the past two weeks of impeachment, my stocking has been stuffed with good cheer from President Trump’s supporters. They describe me variously as a woman, unprintable epithets for a gay person, a Democrat, a “f---ing clown” and an “intel mouthpiece,” a hack and a fraud, a “scumbag” and a “s---head,” a hater who is insufficiently grateful to “white people” and who performs certain unmentionable sexual acts.

So I replied to each abusive impeachment email I received over the past two weeks with two words: Merry Christmas.

The replies show that, in the Trump era, even gestures of peace and goodwill have become sources of bitterness and insult.

“May this Christmas be your last,” a fellow named Ron from Missouri replied. He had previously called me a “partisan hack,” dispatched me to my “favorite queer bar” and offered to give my “sorry ass a good kicking.”

“You people do not know Merry Christmas,” replied Dennis, who had earlier informed me that “God sees your hate” and those of my Post colleagues.

“You liberals ruined Christmas,” responded somebody named Wyatt, who had previously said he has no pity for my fraudulence and wrote: “May the fleas is [sic] a thousand camels descend on your sorry ass.”

And on and on.

Only a couple of them apologized after receiving the “Merry Christmas” wishes. Explained one, James: “The current political climate has me frazzled.”

How could he not be, listening to Trump? Even since the president’s mockery last week of a late congressman and his widow, Trump’s Twitter stream has poured venom: “crooked,” “corrupt,” “dirty,” “CRAZY EXTREME,” “phony,” “fake,” “spied,” “disgrace,” “sham,” “contorted,” “charade,” “shameful, “unethical,” “horrendous,” “witch hunt,” “hoax,” “socialist/communist.”

At a speech Saturday night, Trump imagined political violence, saying “we have the toughest people,” but “hopefully” it won’t come to that. He continued the invective: “whack job,” “crazed lunatic,” “vicious,” “oppressive,” “raging left-wing mob,” “deep state,” “sabotage,” “dumbest human beings.”

“We have reason to be angry, folks,” he said.

“I’m not optimistic. But one can always hope for a Christmas miracle.”

November 3, 2020 can not come soon enough, Happy Holidays

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summerofspock · 4 years

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Day Three: Nutcracker

tags: explicit, historical omens

On AO3

1934

Aziraphale took his seat next to Jonathan and folded his hands in his lap. It wasn't that he didn't enjoy the ballet per se. It was simply less enjoyable than say...opera.

Or anything else.

Jonathan leaned in and said in a low voice, "I hear Markova is brilliant in this."

Aziraphale nodded like he had any idea what that meant. This show was some import from Russia. Something about nutcrackers and fairies. Not exactly Aziraphale's preferred entertainment for a given evening even if it was supposed to celebrate the Christmas season.

Jonathan's wife appeared at the door to their reserved box and gave Aziraphale a little wave. Behind her another woman appeared out of the shadows and Aziraphale had to bite his lip to suppress a gasp.

Miriam approached the row and said, "Sorry I'm late. Aziraphale, I don't think you've met my dear friend Miss Crowley."

Of course it was Crowley. It was always Crowley. Crowley emerging from the shadows with his golden eyes hidden under dark lenses and draped all in black like some villain from the pictures. His hair was done in soft waves that barely kissed his shoulders, and he was bedecked in a low cut evening gown, nipping in at the waist and flowing nearly to the floor.

Of course.

"I haven't had the pleasure," Aziraphale said, standing so Miriam could move past him and sit next to her husband. Crowley sauntered up to their chairs and shook Aziraphale's hand. He was wearing elbow length black satin gloves that felt delicious under Aziraphale's fingers.

Crowley slipped into the seat between Aziraphale and Miriam and said in a breathy voice, "Tell me about this Nutcracker."

Jonathan leaned in and said, "It's supposed to be quite the sensation. Just in from Russia."

The house lights blinked once and the milling audience began to take their seats. The lights blinked again.

The music began to play and Aziraphale tried to relax into his seat. A difficult venture with Crowley so near. When had they last seen each other? Aziraphale was fairly certain it had been in passing some time during the Great War. It didn't matter. It wasn't as if they were on speaking terms. But Aziraphale could be polite. It was just one evening.

The ballet was magnificently boring, but the music was good so Aziraphale allowed himself to drift a little and enjoy the rising strings.

"Interested in ballet now, are we?" Crowley asked, voice a hiss in Aziraphale's ear.

He nearly jumped out of his seat. Sinking his fingers into his thigh to focus on something besides the heat of Crowley's body so close to his own, Aziraphale directed his gaze to the stage and stalwartly ignored him.

"See, last I remember, you hated the stuff. Called it drivel, I believe," Crowley drawled, each word sending goosebumps down Aziraphale's spine.

"I'm here on assignment, if you must know," Aziraphale said in a harsh whisper before turning his attention back to the show.

"Ah, same here," Crowley replied before leaning back in his seat, relaxed as anything. It made something dark rise in Aziraphale's gut. How dare he be so casual about this? Acting like they were friends. Like nothing happened and that Crowley hadn't tried to use him for his own ends.

The longer the ballet drew on, the angrier Aziraphale got. When the lights came up for intermission, he was out of his seat and making his excuses to Jonathan before rushing out of the theater to get his coat and leave. He didn't want to be in the same room as Crowley. He wanted to go home and make a nice hot cocoa with plenty of whiskey and get on with his work. He could do his blessings on Jonathan later. It didn't need to be here.

Aziraphale was waiting for his coat to be returned to him when Crowley drew up beside him. "Where are you rushing off to, angel?"

The endearment - or epithet or whatever you wanted to call it - was the last straw. Pulling himself up to his full height, and with every ounce of angelic rage he possessed, Aziraphale said, "Don't follow me out here as if you care. You made it clear what you think about our relationship and I won't have you pretending otherwise."

Crowley's eyebrows shot up his forehead as his mouth twisted cruelly and Aziraphale found himself abruptly grabbed by the collar, shoved into the coat check closet as the attendant promptly found himself needed elsewhere.

"Unhand me," Aziraphale said, slapping at Crowley wrist. The door slammed shut.

The demon held fast and said, "And what, exactly, did I make clear about our relationship? I wasn't the one that stormed off."

"You tried to use me," Aziraphale spat and with Crowley's hand wrapped tightly in his shirt and Crowley's mouth barely inches away from his, he began to feel like he was losing control of the situation.

"Is that right?" Crowley sneered, his red lipstick emphasizing the harsh curl of his mouth

"I'm not an idiot, Crowley," Aziraphale said. He found himself breathless for some awful reason.

"Yes you fucking are," Crowley hissed before crushing their mouths together.

Aziraphale froze but the press of Crowley's tongue against his had him yanking Crowley's hand from his shirt and pushing the demon back between the hanging coats until they crashed into the nearest wall. Crowley tore his mouth away and hissed, "The biggest bloody idiot."

"Stop talking," Aziraphale said, that red, rising anger from before cresting even higher as he grew hard in his trousers and heat curled in his belly.

"With pleasure," Crowley replied, sinking his hands into Aziraphale's hair and pulling him back into another kiss that lacked any of the violence of their first. Aziraphale couldn't have that. This couldn't be tender. This was a fight.

Slamming his knee between Crowley's legs, Aziraphale yanked up his satin skirt and grasped at the hardness he found beneath it. Crowley gasped into his mouth. And in that moment Aziraphale felt powerful, more powerful than he'd felt with a flaming sword in his hand, and certainly more powerful than he'd felt on a sunny day in St. James staring at a terrifying piece of parchment.

"Let me touch you," Crowley said, hands ghosting over Aziraphale's belly trying to undo his braces. Crowley's tender kiss flashed through his mind. He imagined Crowley's hands on him, soft and edging into something awful like care and love. Crowley falling to his knees and taking Aziraphale into his red mouth so he could worship him. Aziraphale couldn't have that.

"No," Aziraphale said, bracing one arm over Crowley's chest to hold him in place as his used his other hand to stroke him slowly. Crowley struggled against the pressure but Aziraphale was stronger than him - he'd always been stronger than him - and managed to hold him in place.

Watching Crowley come undone was beautiful, glorious. The way his cheeks turned pink and his mouth dropped open, yellow eyes closed as he gasped, thrusting up in Aziraphale's fist.

"Fuck, Aziraphale, I'm -" Crowley gasped as his hips stuttered, cock pulsing hot over Aziraphale's hand.

Still hard in his trousers, Aziraphale stepped back even as Crowley reached for him. He miracled the semen from his hand.

They stared at each other.

The haze of his anger was starting to fade and Aziraphale -

Crowley pulled away from the wall and let his dress fall back to the floor. His lipstick was smeared over his chin and Aziraphale was certain he didn't look any better.

Pushing his sunglasses up his nose, Crowley tilted his chin up defiantly, cheeks still pink and chest still rising and falling rapidly. He was angry.

Good, Aziraphale thought viciously. That made two of them.

"Best wipe off that lipstick, Aziraphale. People will talk," he said coolly, passing a hand over his mouth and fixing his own lipstick with a thought.

Crowley turned and snapped his fingers, the coat check door swinging open as he sauntered through it.

Aziraphale watched him leave as the house lights blinked once. Twice.

#this is a lemon #31 days of ineffables #pain in the ass nutcracker fic #azcrow fic #my fic #advent

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benito-cereno · 6 years

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The Alphabet of Christmas, by Benito Cereno and Chuck Knigge, day 14: N is for Nicholas, tamer of beasts

Saint Nicholas of Myra is the fourth of the “big five” gift-bringers and indeed maybe the biggest of them all. The fact that his feast day is actually December 6 means that he is frequently celebrated in addition to whatever Christmas and/or Epiphany gift-bringers a culture might have.

Nicholas is the most venerated non-apostle saint and is known as Nicholas the Wonder-Worker among other laudatory epithets. He is the patron of children, sailors, thieves, prostitutes, the falsely accused, pawnbrokers, and many many more.There are innumerable tales of his miracles, his long-standing rivalry with the cult of Artemis in his home of Asia Minor, and the time he got arrested for punching a guy in front of the emperor until baby Jesus set him free.

The two best known stories of Saint Nicholas are of how he surreptitiously delivered three bags of gold through the window and into the stockings of three young girls who could not otherwise afford dowries, thus saving them from a life of forced prostitution (hence the patronage of prostitutes), and the time he resurrected three murdered boys who had been butchered and placed in a pickle barrel by a greedy innkeeper (hence the patronage of children).

For this reason, children around the world set out their shoes on December 5 hoping that Saint Nicholas will come by and fill them with treats and gifts. Depending on the culture, he may come on a white horse or a gray donkey or down a golden rope, or something else. He may come on the eve or the morning of his feast day, depending on the culture. He is frequently accompanied by a helper or dark companion, whose job is generally to punish the wicked while the saint rewards the good. Frequently these companions are beasts, monsters, or criminals that Nicholas encounters, bests, and impresses into his service in order for them to turn to a life of good. There are literally dozens of these; some have already been featured on the alphabet, and there are more to come.

Previous letters here.

#christmas #alphabet of christmas #saint nicholas #st nicholas #benito cereno #chuck knigge

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uncleeddy · 6 years

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St John the Evangelist and Apostle

Dear Jean,

My guards have become especially repulsive recently – it requires all my willpower to remain civil when they accost me with their tales of social degradation seeping through the very fibers of what used to be “Christendom”. It’s hard to bear not only because they bait me so obnoxiously, but because, unfortunately, it’s so true. I can’t help thinking of the friends I have had, and the friends of friends, who were the victims of this degradation. I think of them especially at this time of year, the season “to be jolly”, yes indeed, but also the season with the most suicides. Many consider it a conundrum: how can Christmas season inspire the most suicides, isn’t it the “happiest time of the year”? Today’s saint decodes this dilemma.

John, along with Andrew, was the first of the future Apostles to follow Christ. (You can read about their first encounter in Chapter 1 of his Gospel – the most spiritual and intriguing of the four.) He was a fiery fellow, passionate. So much so that Jesus nicknamed him and his brother “the Sons of Thunder” (you can see the Lord smiling as he pronounced the ironic epithet). He was the only Apostle to recover from the shameful abandonment of Jesus in Gethsemane and stand courageously beneath the cross on Calvary. He sat next to the Lord at the Last Supper, where he leaned close to the Lord’s heart in intimate conversation. He was the youngest of the Apostles, and lived a full seventy years (so it seems) after our Lord’s Resurrection. He became St Peter’s closest companion at the beginning of their labors to spread the Kingdom, spent much of his time in Jerusalem and Palestine, and eventually relocated to Asia Minor (Turkey) where he continued building up the Church and combating heresies (this was when he composed his Gospel). There he was arrested and taken to Rome around the year 95, in the second general persecution. Upholding the faith, he was condemned to execution in a cauldron of boiling oil, but it did him no harm at all. The persecutors attributed the miracle to sorcery, and the Emperor exiled him to the island of Patmos, where he wrote the last chapter of the New Testament: the Book of Revelation or The Apocalypse. There is little agreement about when and where he wrote his three Epistles, also contained in the New Testament.

Unanimous agreement, however, is expressed about the central message of his canonical writings, and it is that message, in my opinion, which solves our riddle. It can be summed up in two little verses from his first Epistle: “Love consists in this: it is not we who loved God, but God loved us and sent his Son to expiate our sins. My dear friends, if God loved us so much, we too should love one another.” (1 John 4:10-11) It also rings out with special eloquence in an even more famous verse from his Gospel: “For this is how God loved the world: he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life.” (John 3:16)

With that message we can crack our conundrum. At Christmas time, the general atmosphere powerfully (though implicitly) reminds us about the real meaning of life: to love and be loved. That is what we were created for, and that is what is at the heart of exchanging gifts, which is a way of symbolizing and exercising our love for others, and receiving their love for us. This brings joy, because when we do what we were created to do (love and be loved) life suddenly “clicks”. Unfortunately, today’s world has tried to redefine the meaning of life, putting pleasure in the place of love. And of course, that doesn’t work; it leaves the human heart forlorn, vitiated, barren, and it also propagates a host of social ills – divorce, abuse, infidelity, addictions, consumerism… Those people who are especially sensitive, and who have been especially damaged by this state of affairs, when Christmas confronts them with images and whiffs of what their life ought to be, are often driven to despair. And that explains why the Season to be Jolly, is also the season where suicide hotlines need to pay a lot of overtime.

Which gives me an idea. If I can GIVE something to my guards, maybe that will begin to break through their shell, and open them up to Christ’s love. But what can I give them? I have nothing. Wait, I do have – well, I have to go. Write soon.

Your loving uncle,

Eddy

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