On the longest night of the year, Cassandra goes to the chapel to pray.

For two weeks straight he dreamt that he was meeting a little boy. The child had red-brown hair and dark eyes and laughed when he saw Dorian. He would launch himself at Dorian, hug him tightly around the waist and say how much he’d missed his brother. It varied more after that, sometimes they’d play and Dorian would be able to think he’d just dreamed about having a little brother- But sometimes they went flying and spat fire. Sometimes they looked down on battlefields and wiped armies away with a roar. Fill for the Kink Meme prompt 'Dorian is an Old God reincarnated.'

“You’ve heard the rumors,” Mustang says, looking at Ed over the top of his latest report, “about the angels.” Ed scoffs and rolls his eyes, “Angels don’t exist, don’t be ridiculous.” “Of course, of course,” he murmurs, gaze sliding back down, “There have been multiple eye witness accounts, however.” Ed slouches into the chair and doesn’t bother to keep the contempt to from his voice when he says, “Don’t depend on anything with wings to save you. Things that were made to leave always end up doing so, in the end.” “Yes, well,” he says, “sometimes they come back.”

It's the first Bright Season of the sweep, and you've set out to make an offering at the temple of Pulse and Haze. Your name is Equius Zahhak, and you should have done some theological research before this endeavor.

“What kind of pleasure do you want to offer the Lover?” Sid asks. People usually want sex, of course, but not always – Sid’s had supplicants who just wanted to make out, or cuddle, or flirt… and one memorable supplicant who wanted to give him a massage, which was awesome. She confessed to Sid afterward that she’d gone in intending to have sex, but “when I saw those muscles, I was like, damn, I need to get my hands all over that!”

RainyForecast)

“No one told me what prayers to recite,” Johnny forces out, trying to summon the well of anger that usually burns within him when he enters the church. “‘Spose they’re not used to trussin’ up somethin’ that can talk back.” Father Simon says nothing, his footsteps echoing out on the stone; growing louder as he approaches. “I can baa for ya if that’d make it more familiar,” he spits, some remnant of himself flaring and he strains his arms, struggling in vain against the ropes binding his wrists. He follows the hem of his robe as he circles him; his keen eyes heavy as they study the sigils on his skin until he finally comes to a stop behind him. He’s not even to see his death. Johnny curses himself as only now does grief come at being denied a final look into his eyes. Even now, you can’t help but chase sin.