#the power of sappho flows through me

[eldritchenoch]

So I’m a DM for a D&D campaign right, and I sometimes write little interactions between NPCs and such to send to my friend (his character is a weird scene emo divination wizard so he gets random visions) and like

I started writing how these two complicated history sapphics with one-sided beef are getting over their drama and

like,,,

I started writing less than four days ago

My total writing time is maybe ten/fifteen hours tops

[fictive-fodder]

|| Steven Grant vs. You : III ||

A tiny story where you discover that your sweet, handsome coworker is just as much into Egyptology as you are into ancient Greece- and the playful battle that ensues.

PART I - PART II - PART III

Word Count: 2.9K

Tag List

Read this on A03!

Referenced works- Hesiod. Theogony and Works and Days (Oxford World's Classics) OUP Oxford. Richard Mayde. Ancient Egypt, Dodd, Mead Gerald D. Waxman, Astronomical Tidbits: A Layperson's Guide to Astronomy

Let us begin our singing. It will haunt this great and holy mountain, and we will dance on our soft feet round the violet-dark spring and the altar of the mighty son of Kronos. We will bathe our gentle skin in Permessos. Then, on the highest slope we will make our dances, fair and lovely, stepping lively in time. From there we go forth, veiled in thick mist, and walk by night, uttering beautiful voice. 

So said mighty Zeus’ daughters, they breathed into me wondrous voice, so that I should celebrate things of the future and things that were aforetime. Come now, from the Muses let us begin, as they tell of what is and what shall be and what was aforetime, voices in unison. The words flow untiring from their mouths, and sweet. 

“I mean… just wow…” Steven sighed, eyes twinkling at you from across your desk. 

“I know.” You nodded with deep satisfaction. 

“You’re right, too.” he continued, “You really do get this sense that they were there.” 

“It feels like it, huh?” you agreed, “With ancient Egypt, you have Pharaoh as the representative of higher power, but there isn’t this deep and messy interaction with the gods that I’ve come to love so much out of Greek myth. Especially when historical artists made work where they themselves interacted with gods, or were at least in conversation with them, like this or like Sappho.” 

Lately, when Steven worked mornings, he had taken to peering into your cubicle on his breaks to see if you weren’t too busy for him to visit. It was quickly becoming your favorite ritual, and you found yourself often looking past your cubicle’s entrance as if you could will his curly head of hair to appear. 

“I think the closest equivalent I can come to is the temple of Philae…” Steven thought aloud, he leaned over your desk excitedly. You smiled, nodding as you thought of the description of it in the book Steven lent you. 

Close by this temple of Osiris at Philae was a small one, dedicated to his queen and sister, Isis. A later writer speaks of it as “the most strangely wild and beautiful spot he ever beheld. Here spreads a deep drift of silvery sand, fringed by rich verdure and purple blossoms; there, a grove of palms, intermingled with flowering acacia; and there, through vistas of craggy cliffs and gloomy foliage, gleams a calm blue lake, with the sacred island in the midst, green to the water’s edge, except where the walls of the old temple city are reflected.”  

“From the little I’ve glimpsed so far, it seems like Osirus and Isis’ marriage is a very popular story?”

“Oh, yea, super.” Steven nodded significantly. “And for good reason too- I mean sewing your husband’s body back from fourteen pieces is quite a testimony to your love, I think.” There was a quiet pause as you took a moment to make sure the two of you were still being ignored, before Steven continued, “Is there a love story you like from Greek mythology?” 

“Oh-” you took in a deep breath, overwhelmed by the question. “There are so many… I mean so, so many. You have the big ones, you know- like Odysseus and Penelope, Patroclus and Achilles, Hades and Persephone, the love triangle of Aphrodite, Ares and Hephaestus… the Greeks adored a good love story. They had 8 different kinds of Love, after all.” 

“Eight, really?” Steven asked, leaning even further over your desk, his smile unfading. 

“Yes! You have Storge, familial love. Philautia, self love. Agape, which I quite like, that’s love for everyone.”

“Ooh that’s very grand.” Steven chuckled. 

“It is! Philia is also lovely- that’s deep friendship.” 

“Alright, that was four.”  he counted, tilting his head as he looked into your eyes. If there were any emails or phone calls incoming you would have never known. You met Steven’s gaze, smiling back at him and feeling, strangely, as if you couldn’t inhale as much air as you would like to.

“Mhm… then we have Mania, which is obsessive love. You know, when you can’t stop thinking about someone and you’re just-” you shook your head, grinning, “kinda like when you first fall in love for someone, really hard, and you can’t think about anything else, you’re just tortured?” 

A change passed over Steven’s face that was initially hard for you to read. At first, you thought the brightness of his eyes dimmed at your last words, but as you searched his face you realized that his eyes weren’t less bright due to dismay or boredom, they were less bright because his pupils were dilating as he watched you. Steven was so close to you that you could even see your own silhouette in his widening gaze. 

“Um…” you continued on, swallowing dryly, “A..Another favorite of mine, Ludus… which is playful love, or like- young love. Eros, probably the best known, as it’s the spicy one. And lastly you have the love I’m certain Osirus and Isis shared…”

“What’s that one called?” Steven asked, eyes widening. 

“Pragma, longstanding love… kind of the end goal, really.” 

You jumped with a start as your desk phone began to ring loudly. Steven cleared his throat, pulling himself off of your desk and back into his chair, rubbing the side of his face with one hand as you twisted to pick up your phone. You frowned as you recognized the number on caller i.d. to be the gift shop’s extension. “Ut oh Steven…” you mumbled, picking up the phone. “Reception- how can I help you?” you answered as neutrally as possible, but you almost lost your professional composure as you glanced nervously at Steven, and found him staring at you like a child caught with their hand in the proverbial cookie jar. 

“Hello- could you please tell me if there is a gift shop employee in the office? His name is Stevie?”

“Stevie?” you repeated, confused. Steven rolled his eyes, exasperated. “No, there is definitely no Stevie here I’m sorry to say… office is pretty empty. Is there something I can help you wi-” the phone clicked in your ear. Frowning, you pulled the receiver away from you to look at it, before hanging up the line and looking at Steven.

“Did Donna just hang up on you?” he asked, startled. 

“I think she did?” you replied laughing, aghast. 

“Oi- I hate that, I’m sorry.” Steven grimaced, standing up. “I don’t want you getting into trouble.” 

“I’m not concerned, we work in two totally separate departments.” you shrugged. This seemed to reassure Steven as he patted down his pants pockets and made sure he had everything.

“Time to go sell some plastic ankhs?” you teased, grinning. 

“Oh yes.” Steven replied lamely. “Some Nike of Samothrace snow globes as well.” 

“Ouch- you got me.” you laughed, standing up too. You opened your mouth to ask about seeing him for lunch before you stopped yourself- what if you were being too demanding of his attention? With these new visits, any free time Steven had was being claimed by you. It felt presumptive to assume he wouldn’t like some time for himself. “Um… do you have any plans you're looking forward to, today?” 

“Finishing the Theogony, that’s about it.” Steven replied, stepping out of your cubicle. “Talk about it over lunch, yea?” 

You felt yourself blush. “If you want to!” 

“Cheers!” Steven exclaimed, before darting away. 

You sat back in your office chair and swiveled to face your computer, smiling to yourself. Steven was good. He was so, so good. Sighing dreamily, you refreshed your email and watched your screen filled with messages. 

As you clicked through your emails you couldn’t help but to keep thinking about Steven, how lucky you were to become friends after only a few weeks of working at the museum. Even though Donna and Steven’s relationship didn’t seem great, part of you envied the amount they got to interact as a team. Your role was mostly emails between curators, accountants, marketing agents, and the Liaison Department. 

You straightened in your chair as something occurred to you, hadn’t Steven said that he wanted to be a tour guide? You opened an email from Marketing briefing the Liaison Department on a new collection of work that would be showcased soon, asking the liaisons to study up on the attached pdf’s of art history so they could speak about the collection. You still hadn’t figured out why you seemed to be CC’d on every single email from any department under the museum roof, but now that didn’t seem so bad. They were all there- any branch manager you needed was available to you… even the curation team for the ancient Egyptian collection.

“What have you got today?” you asked as you sat down beside Steven in the break room. 

“I think what you mean is, what have I got us today!”’ Steven said triumphantly, as he pulled from his bag not one, but two lunches. 

“What!” you exclaimed, eyebrows raised. 

“Yea dove I made you lunch!” Steven grinned, all the more satisfied by your surprise. “It’s not bad either, we’ve got apples, some crisps, and avocado sandwiches! They’re quite good really, they’ve got lettuce and tomato in, and this spicy mustard.” 

Steven set your lunch before you with a level of excitement equal to a conductor beginning a symphony. All you could do was stare, and make some strange smile with your mouth partly open, as you looked between him and the slightly crumpled, but still appetizing sandwich before you. 

“I wanted to try and make this vegan caramel for the apples but I rather bungled that…” he continued, reminiscing on his caramel attempt with a cringe. 

“I’m-“ you started to say, but you didn’t actually know what you were. Aside from the obvious attributes: deeply flattered, touched, and surprised. There was a tightness in your throat that you’d only usually felt when you were about to cry, but there were no tears forming in your eyes. You stared at the sandwich as if it held monumental power. 

With a crunch, Steven bit into his apple. He nudged your arm with his elbow as he took another bite. You jumped a little and picked up your own. 

“Cheers!” Steven said, tapping his apple against yours. Chucking, you took a bite. 

You couldn’t have known how strange it was for Steven to be eating a lunch he made with a friend. He was nearly as surprised as you, that he was able to sit down with you today and provide this meal. Steven had never been very good about remembering to make himself up a lunch to take to work, but the idea of also making one for you, however modest it may be, was so exciting that it stuck in his mind. Instead of only remembering he should have packed food by the time he was clocking out for lunch, he had stopped at the market on the way home last night, imagining how this very moment would play out. As was usual, he had been hesitant to fall asleep, but the thought of having time in the morning to carefully assemble sandwiches gripped him with excitement and so he’d done his best, making sure his ankle restraint was tightly fastened to his leg no later than midnight, and stared up at his dark ceiling, silently begging it to let him sleep peacefully. 

When Steven woke up it was nearly dawn. He was so bewildered by the unique light of early morning that for a moment he thought he’d only slept for a few minutes. His ankle was still securely fastened to its brace, and even more profoundly, he felt rested. Steven felt like he had won, but there was also a bitter sweetness to realizing his night had gone exactly as intended- that it was unlikely to happen again, or consistently.

He tried to brush off that anxiety though, as he watched you take the first bite of the sandwich he made. Whether you were just being angelically polite or genuinely enjoying it, he appreciated your attention nevertheless. What was better? To try and have some plans, some gifts, some special moments never materialize- or to never meet the opportunity to surprise you and make you smile? 

That was an easy answer. 

“You failed to mention earlier,” Steven started, chewing through a large bite of bread, “what your favorite ancient Greek love story is?” 

“Oh right! Well that’s so difficult!” you groaned, grinning. “The reason may be nuanced, but I love Selene and Endymion’s story.” 

“What is it?” 

“Selene is the Moon goddess in the ancient Greek pantheon, and Endymion was a mortal shepherd Prince that would take his flock over hills and mountains at night. They fell in love, but because she was immortal and Endymion was not, Zeus extended his life by casting an eternal sleep upon Endymion.” 

“Alright?” Steven responded, gesturing for you to keep explaining. 

“That’s pretty much the whole story.” you laughed.

“Why is that your favorite then?” Steven asked, more spellbound than anything. 

“Because! Okay this might sound a little cheesy but-”

“Sorry, I can’t do cheese. I’m vegan, remember?” Steven said with mock severity. 

“Wow.” you replied flatly. You leaned back a little to watch Steven have a very hard time not laughing at his own joke. “Proud of yourself?” 

“Go on, keep telling me why-” he choked out, bringing his hands to cover his mouth. 

“No, no…” you replied, you resisted the twitch of a smile on your own face. “I don’t think I can after being eviscerated by your lactose free wit.” 

“Please-” Steven wheezed faintly, nodding encouragingly, “Please, tell me.” 

“Well-” you sighed haggardly, “What I was going to say is that I like it, because to me it feels metaphorical? No one should really ‘see’ the moon because it is at its best when we should be asleep, and yet we have and we do- and we have done for hundreds of years? Cultures with no connection all over the world have fallen in love with the Moon, which appears in its highest glory when our eyes should be closed? And I just think of that when thinking of Endymion. I think of how the night sky infatuates us, how humankind has always been so rhapsodic about it, even though as creatures we are useless in the dark and the night does little for anyone in a practical sense.

“Endymion is in this eternal sleep, induced by his love for the Moon… again, metaphorically, he’s fed by his affection for something so lovely? It just so simply encapsulates this understanding that people had way back then that even in a time of hardship, beauty was longed for and nourished humankind?” 

Steven had stopped eating. He was simply staring at you, eyebrows raised. 

“I know it sounds like I’ve thought about it too much- it’s because I do.” you qualified, embarrassed. 

“No-” Steven replied, voice soft, brow furrowed. “You’re alright… that was, that’s good.” 

You were not convinced that Steven was genuine in his reassurance. You cast your eyes downward, mind racing. This was an overstep on your part- you got a little too romantic, waxed a little too poetic about your favorite topic. You wanted to try to ground your thoughts. “Um… there’s an… there’s a quote from this book.” you offered weakly, pulling your phone out of your pocket for reference. 

You read aloud, “There is a fundamental reason why we look at the sky with wonder and longing—for the same reason that we stand, hour after hour, gazing at the distant swell of the open ocean. There is something like an ancient wisdom, encoded and tucked away in our DNA, that knows its point of origin as surely as a salmon knows its creek. Intellectually, we may not want to return there, but the genes know, and long for their origins—their home in the salty depths. But if the seas are our immediate source, the penultimate source is certainly the heavens… The spectacular truth is—and this is something that your DNA has known all along—the very atoms of your body—the iron, calcium, phosphorus, carbon, nitrogen, oxygen, and on and on—were initially forged in long-dead stars. This is why, when you stand outside under a moonless, country sky, you feel some ineffable tugging at your innards. We are star stuff.“ The quiet you were greeted with felt unbearable. Quickly tucking your phone back in your pocket, you smiled, and sighed. “I mean those are the words of an astronomer, but the ancient Greeks were saying the same thing- We can’t help ourselves. We’re all in love with the moon.”

Mania.  Steven thought.

“I…” Steven started, before stopping himself with a shake of his head. He still hadn’t touched any food. Sighing your name, Steven glanced into your eyes, head still shaking. “You… um, you think- You think very beautifully.” 

“Hah-” you breathed, it was a sound of deepest regret. Why? Why had you been so open. You could have probably cooked an egg on your cheek, it felt so warm. You were desperate for some way out of being the talkative one. “You know, I don’t actually know if there was a Moon god in the Egyptian pantheon?” 

“Oh-” Steven’s tone changed to something significantly less enchanted. “Yea. His name is Khonshu, god of the Moon, protector of those who travel at night.” 

“...not a fan?” you asked, unable to help smiling at how personally offended Steven seemed by invoking Khonshu. 

“Not really.” he replied, shrugging. 

“Aha!” you grinned, taking a triumphant bite of your apple. “And there it is.”

“What?” Steven asked.

“The beginning of the end, Steven.” you hummed, “Greek god versus Egyptian God, Selene beats Khonshu.” 

“HAH!” Steven laughed so loudly the rest of your coworkers in the break room glanced over. Why did this always happen to you two? Steven grasped at his chest, his eyes closed by the strength of his giggles. “Alright dove, that one you can have.”

TAG LIST:

@oliviagreenaway​  @then-he-was-wrong-about-me​  @b0xerdancer

[mdzs-owns-my-ass-i-guess]

Women's business

Happy Lesbian Visibility Week to all those who celebrate and identify as such!

I don't think I've ever written anything Sapphic before, so I hope this is enjoyable nonetheless!

There are some implied suggestive themes here but it's nothing outright explicit. This AU makes no sense canonically, but I love powerful women who deserved better, so that's why I came up with this!

Special thanks to @apho-sappho for enabling me to write this.

Enjoy!

"Sect leader Wen." The servant calls out, "Sect leader Jin wishes to see you."

A nod is all the confirmation it takes, and the servant disappears behind the ornate doors, returning seconds later with the guest in tow. A respectful bow later, the two are left alone in the silence of the late evening.

"I did not think you would be visiting me anymore tonight." Sect leader Wen says, smiling warmly from her seat at the large, mahogany table in the center of her room. She seems to have been reading some paperwork, annotating it with the brush resting between her middle and index finger, rings and bracelets glimmering in the candlelight. She has discarded her outer robe, heavy with jewels and golden thread woven through expensive silk, in favor of a light, nearly see-through cream-colored dress.

Her hair flows down her back and shoulders in long, shining strands, and Sect Leader Jin cannot help admiring her. Delicate, red powders enhance the beauty of her eyes, and her lips still shine with remnants of lip stain, her youthful face showing no signs of aging.

She has worn a beautiful pair of ruby earrings that day during the discussion conference proceedings, but she seems to have abandoned them in favor of a pair of simple, golden studs. There is a matching, thin necklace resting atop Sect Leader Wen's chest, a single, round pendant decorating it. Sect Leader Jin knows the symbol of Sparks Amidst Snow has been etched into it, delicately enough for it to only be visible up close.

"A-Su," Wen Qing begins, a playful smile on her lips. "It is quite rude to request an audience this late at night and only spend it staring at me."

Qin Su blinks twice, shaken out of her stupor. She has almost forgotten that is her name, so used to being called "sect leader Jin" all the time, and her cheeks dust pink.

"Can you blame me?" She replies, and sheds her own sect leader's robe, "Any seeing person would be enraptured with the sight of you."

Wen Qing laughs. "Flatterer. If I didn't know any better, I'd say you're trying to earn my favor for tomorrow's proceedings."

Qin Su makes a displeased face and helps herself to the bottle of wine on Wen Qing's table. "I'd rather not think about that. I've had enough of arguing with entitled men for one day."

Wen Qing lets her pour a cup of wine before taking the bottle for herself. "At least you're not the Chief Cultivator."

Qin Su lays down on Wen Qing's bed, and gingerly sips at her cup. "How long do I have to wait until you join me here?"

Wen Qing's eyes flick towards her, and she just so happens to have been loosening the sash of her robes. "Be patient."

Qin Su rolls her eyes as she finishes her wine and reaches to free her hair from its imposing ornamentation. She lifts an amused eyebrow when she notices Wen Qing watching her, ink dripping from the tip of her brush onto the documents.

"You're making a mess of those." She laughs. "Maybe you should be making a mess of me instead~"

But Wen Qing has played this game before and she has never once lost it. She returns to her paperwork, and hides a smirk as she notices Qin Su frowning at the obvious challenge. "Sect Leader Jin, you would need to prove yourself more interesting than these records from our very controversial Yao sect for me to abandon them."

But Qin Su's interest is piqued. "What records?"

"Well, let's just say I received an anonymous suggestion from an anonymous source-"

"Nie Huaisang?"

Wen Qing smiles, fox-like, and Qin Su feels herself flutter everywhere at the sight. "Precisely. It seems like the Yao sect has been duplicitous using the funds we have given them to extend their cultivation schools, so I got a hold of some records-"

"Wei Wuxian?"

"Who else? That sneaky paperman spell of his always comes in handy." She drinks some more of the wine and does not pretend like she didn't purposefully leave a few drops to slide down her chin into her cleavage. "So now I am comparing what I've been told with what appears to be the actual list of expenditures."

Qin Su stretches on the bed like a cat, and cannot hide a hint of devilish satisfaction. "I fear I may not be able to make myself more interesting than those. Can you imagine the scandal if word got out of this right as we're about to decide on the budget?"

Wen Qing smiles, one of her knowing, vengeful, dominant smiles, "It would be truly unfortunate, wouldn't it? I fear the Yao sect might become politically isolated... Even from its close friend, the Jin sect."

Qin Su laughs, heartily. "How I'd love to get rid of that parasite! I don't know why my... predecessor" she spits the word like it's an insult, "has insisted to ally with them. But anyway, I wouldn't cry about losing them, just so you know."

Wen Qing places her brush in its holder and finally stands up from her table. "That's wonderful, I'd hate to see you cry."

Qin Su can't help a wolfish grin. "I thought you said I'm pretty when I cry."

"Only when you cry for me."

[derangedrhythms]

Any quotes about flying? Whether it's normal flying or mythological creatures like dragons and humans with wings aka harpies. Thank you 💜 I adore your blog. Your aesthetics are to die for.

That’s incredibly kind of you, thank you 🖤

"We ate the birds. We ate them. We wanted their songs to flow up through our throats and burst out of our mouths, and so we ate them. We wanted their feathers to bud from our flesh. We wanted their wings, we wanted to fly as they did, soar freely among the treetops and the clouds, and so we ate them."

— Margaret Atwood, The Tent, from 'Eating the Birds'

"I described the immense iridescent wings of Pegasus, his golden hooves and his wild fire-colored eyes, his mane and tail of stars. I described his origins in the wise blood of the moon goddess, his sacred mating with the white mare Aganippe, “the mare who destroys mercifully,” and his digging with his crescent-shaped hoof the famous Hippocrene—the well of poetic inspiration. On Mount Helicon, the home of the muses, was the sacred spring from which all poetic inspiration was fed, and Pegasus had opened it up for all the singers of the world. It was said that whoever could ride Pegasus through the skies would possess forever the key to poetic power."

— Erica Jong, from 'Sappho's Leap'

"Icarus he stands; his silken clouds of glory / Trailing behind him —a bird's broken wing— / Still trembling from his fallen angel's flight / Down the sky weeping death."

— Dylan Thomas, The Collected Poems of Dylan Thomas: The New Centenary Edition; from ‘Parachutist'

"This Angel is flying / Through skin, bones, bricks and dusty mortar. / A hag with bat's wings / That are silky soft as caul tissue."

— Ted Hughes, Rain-Charm for the Duchy; from 'A Birthday Masque'

"My armour is like tenfold shields, my teeth are swords, my claws spears, the shock of my tail a thunderbolt, my wings a hurricane, and my breath death!"

— J. R. R. Tolkien, from 'The Hobbit'

"Up then, fair phoenix bride, frustrate the sun; / Thyself from thine affection / Takest warmth enough, and from thine eye / All lesser birds will take their jollity. / Up, up, fair bride, and call / Thy stars from out their several boxes, take / Thy rubies, pearls, and diamonds forth, and make / Thyself a constellation of them all; / And by their blazing signify / That a great princess falls, but doth not die. / Be thou a new star, that to us portends / Ends of much wonder; and be thou those ends."

— John Donne, Complete Poetical Works; from 'Epithalamion on the Lady Elizabeth and Count Palatine Being Married On St. Valentine's Day'

"The thing was a great bird the size of a vulture, with the face and breasts of a woman. Will had seen pictures of creatures like her, and the word harpy came to mind as soon as he saw her clearly. Her face was smooth and unwrinkled, but aged beyond even the age of the witches: she had seen thousands of years pass, and the cruelty and misery of all of them had formed the hateful expression on her features. But as the travellers saw her more clearly, she became even more repulsive. Her eye-sockets were clotted with filthy slime, and the redness of her lips was caked and crusted as if she had vomited ancient blood again and again. Her matted, filthy black hair hung down to her shoulders; her jagged claws gripped the stone fiercely; her powerful dark wings were folded along her back, and a drift of putrescent stink wafted from her every time she moved."

— Philip Pullman, from 'The Amber Spyglass'

"Where has she been, / With her lion-red body, her wings of glass? / Now she is flying / More terrible than she ever was, red / Scar in the sky, red comet"

— Sylvia Plath, Ariel; from 'Stings'

"When through the old oak forest I am gone, / Let me not wander in a barren dream, / But when I am consumed in the fire, / Give me new Phoenix wings to fly at my desire."

— John Keats, from 'On Sitting Down to Read King Lear Once Again'

"Your lungs fill and spread themselves, / wings of pink blood, and your bones / empty themselves and become hollow. / When you breathe in you'll lift like a balloon / and your heart is light too & huge, / beating with pure joy, pure helium. / The sun's white winds blow through you, / there's nothing above you, / you see the earth now as an oval jewel, / radiant & seablue with love."

— Margaret Atwood, True Stories; from 'Flying Inside Your Own Body'

[pettyprocrastination]

Legacy of Love

Pairing: Fem!Reader x Fem!OC! Dometnzia

Warnings: fluff, talk of death and what we leave behind, wlw pining and smooching.

Quote: "Someone will remember us, I say, even in another time" -sappho

tagging: @captainsamwlsn @thesadvampire @cinewhore @captainsamwlsn @humanransome-note @madhyanas @ficsilike-reblogged @thecrimsonsquire @rae-gar-targaryen @autumnleaves1991-blog @mostly-megan @alexisinorbit @daffodin

Notes: take this as my apology for my slow ass updates with The Princess and the Viper im SORRYYY!!!! I promise you I'm still working on it so please take this soft little non-canon fic as a gift!!Also Florence as Amy March is such a CUTIE she has domentzia energy.

-----------

"Do you think we'll be remembered?"

The question pulled your eyes away from the full moon and to the woman sitting at your side. Domentzia had been a heap of shaken nerves the past few days. Not that you could blame her.

With the wedding approaching with only a few days to spare, you knew exactly why she was so scared. You had done everything you could to distract her. Order the servants to make her favorite meals, tell her stories of your past as a mercenary, get her new paints and brushes, and even post for some yourself.

At night, you took to accompanying her on walks. The Martell palace was grand and complex, which was helpful. The endless halls were easy to get lost in, the pair of you would be so busy with trying to find your way around that the prospect of marriage wilted away from her mind.

Tonight, you sat with her in the courtyard, staring at the dornish sky in silence.

"What do you mean?"

Her brows furrowed together. "I mean..we all leave something behind, don't we? Nymeria was known for her bravery and strength as a warrior and the founder of Dorne. The Targeryns have a legacy that is lifetimes long, renowned as conquerors and fearsome rulers. What will I be known as? A foolish unwanted princess?"

"Legacy-" you brought your hands behind your back, stretching and sighing in satisfaction as they popped and cracked. "-is something I could never care for, even if I were paid."

"No?" Domentzia's lips turns down into a pout as you shook your head. "Why?

"Why should I?" You turned your eyes back at the sky as you spoke, marveling at the stars and trying to pick out what shapes you could find in it. A habit you had kept since childhood.

"A legacy only takes true power once you're dead, doesn't it?"

"Yes I..I suppose so. It's what you leave behind-"

"-Well why should I care about what's left behind of my reputation? I'll be dead, so it won't affect me at all."

You turned and let your body fall, colliding with Domentzia's lap with a soft 'thwump' that made the woman giggle.

"Legacies, my dear princess, are a novelty that is only worried about by the privileged noble-bloods."

She hummed in response. Her hands began to run over the scars of your skin and slope of your nose. You had such a regal profile to her, like that of a queen.

"And what, my dear knight, do the common folk concern themselves with then?"

"Simply living."

Your words shook the princess to her core. You were right after all. Such concerns of future reputation past your own demise was something only high-borns concerned themselves with. To be so selfish to want worship past your own life, while others are simply content to focus on the day to day of true life. Did that make her selfish? To wonder what others thought of her.

The truth was that person's words she cared the most for was yours. Oberyn could despise her and all dornish folk could proclaim her a wretched shrew, the only words that mattered to her were the ones that flowed from your lips.

"But if I had to speak on legacy, I think you would leave behind one of true beauty and kindness."

You pushed yourself up with your hands, rising so close that your noses nearly brushed as you sat up.

"You would wager so?"

Domentzia felt her heart sing at your words. Though it was night and a breeze blew through her nightgown and chilled her skin, she felt like she had begun to melt at your praise.

"I know so. All anybody would have to do is look at your paintings and they would see the truth. Only somebody truly kind in heart would be able to see such beauty in the world and capture it on canvas with such skilled hands."

In that moment, Domentzia didn't care anymore.

She didn't care about reputation, or legacy, or trying to gain her fiancé's approval or the wedding that was only a few days away.

She only cared for you, and the way the moonlight seemed to cast a crown above your head.

"Do you think that-" she took a trembling breathe, watching your confused state as she leaned so close you could count the freckles on her cheeks. "-do you think that they'll remember us?"

Oh.

Your confusion was replaced with sweating palms and a wide smile, one that grew onto her own face as well when she saw your joy. "Yes, Dom." You wrapped your hands around her waist and savored the way she fit against you like you had been made by the saints for each other.

"Someone will remember us, I say, even in another time."

Domentzia never again worried of legacy or of reputation. All she concerned herself with was the way your hand fit with hers and the way you'd dip your head back as you laughed and whispers of "i love you" against her neck each night.

But..your words did hold some to truth.

Thousands of years ago. When the iron throne was nothing but fable and all noble houses had become nothing but a page in a textbook. You had been remembered, and could be relived, right next to her.

Her sets of oils and paintings had taken up an entire hall in the museum. Some of landscapes, some even of Oberyn and Ellaria, but many were of you.

Your sword, it's hilt now covered in a fine layer of dust, was encased behind glass and next to a painting of your likeness. You were not painted like a queen, standing rigid and noble, but instead you had been painted like a fighter. Your blade raised high above your head and muscles flexed.

Passerby's could see the black signature on the bottom from the princess herself, and the smudged title of the painting. My Beloved.

Figures passed each day, stopped to stare at the painting and object on display and the read the plaques throughout the exhibit. Some held hands with another as they past through the moment in history, momentarily squeezing their lover's hand with a soft smile as they looked on at the women of their past. Lovers who walked proudly that felt tears brim in their eyes as they read of those who loved in secret.

Yes, you were both remembered well. For your bravery and beauty and your love for each other, stronger than any legacy of cruelty by a Lannister or that of a Targearyen.

A legacy of love.

[achubbydumpling]

[unfinished] Good Boy Bucky (Part 2)

Ok... So, I set myself this self-imposed challenge of writing/posting something every day in July, mostly for Get Beached. Up until now that's worked out to a few complete ficlets (yay me).

However, muses wax and wane and I've been blessed by Sappho the past few days—everything is fragments.

Posting my writing was just a way to set myself a deadline, but it's great to see some of you want to follow me. Since I'm the Captain of this ship I decide where we go and I set up this really nice calendar to cross off every day I post and I don't want to ruin my streak. So, this unfinished thing is me keeping my streak, because I make the rules!

Once again thank you to @wotvagyok for cheering me on and discussing many great chubby!kink ideas with me.

Rating: Explicit Words: 1850 Relationship: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers Additional Tags: Dom/sub, Belly kink, Gainer!Dom Steve, Daddy kink

Read on AO3

(also, I've been reading too many fics by howdoyousleep which is why Steve's suddenly Bucky's daddy.. surprise 🎉) They’d played those games before. Bucky asking Steve to control him, use him, hurt him. After Steve’s transformation he’d begged him to really damage him. Use that supersoldier strength to bite bruises into Bucky’s skin that he’d feel for weeks. That was easy for Bucky. Pushing for more, asking for pain. He didn’t know when those wires had gotten crossed in his head, but as long as he could remember pain and pleasure had been linked in his mind. First time he could remember jerking off, coming with his hand in his mouth. Tooth marks on his skin that lasted all night.

This, however, was something new. Something that had only started when he’d found his way back from the Winter Soldier into his own mind, Bucky’s mind���whatever was left of that. There he’d found this. This squirming, insecure little thing that wanted to be good to Steve, didn’t want to push him, but slide against him. Move when he moved, like they were one instead of two separate halves.

Bucky could feel his legs tingling, slowly starting to go numb on the hard wood floor. Steve was still working his way through the entire pot of food. Bucky smiled when he saw the way his belly was starting to really strain the buttons on his shirt. That had started a bit after Bucky had found Steve again. When he didn’t think about finding Bucky all the time, he’d let himself indulge in the new foods of the 21stcentury.

When those first ten pounds had settled on Steve’s hips, he’d wanted to slim back down immediately—stay at fighting weight. Bucky had sniffed out that little bit of apprehension though. After Steve had really used his weight to throw Bucky around, he’d teased that out of Steve.

He’d admitted it made him feel powerful, even bigger than Bucky, felt that dominating strength even outside their bedroom when he felt his waistband biting into his skin and his belly rounding out against his shirts. When everyone’s eyes first went to that pudge Captain America had put on. He wanted more of that.

Bucky had soothed his mind of being useless for fighting the morning after. Pulling out all stops, using every aspect of the Winter Soldier training. Steve still managed to pin him within a few minutes. That little paunch under his belly button laying heavily into the small of Bucky’s back, having him rut against the mat underneath.

Steve’s voice pulled Bucky out of the memory, “You back with me, Buck? You looked a little lost there” Bucky could feel that warm smile spread on his face, didn’t even have to nod for Steve to understand.

Bucky scooted closer to Steve, resting his head against Steve’s right thigh. Steve must’ve made a good dent in the food. His belly was rounding out almost spherical. Bucky could see his belly button through the undershirt that showed through the widening gaps of the button down. The button of his trousers was slightly obscured by his belly, but by the way Steve dug his finger underneath the waistband every few bites, it must be getting tight.

Bucky finally moved after spending so long in the same position his legs had started falling asleep. The buzzing rush of pins and needles running up and down his thighs made him shiver. Instead of rubbing the sensation from his legs, he moved further up and buried his face against Steve’s belly. His hands came up to frame Steve’s ball gut on either side. Steve groaned with Bucky’s hands finally on his belly.

“Don’t pull the shirt too much. Don’t want help popping the buttons, you understand?” Bucky hummed agreeable and began digging his knuckles into Steve’s belly. He wasn’t quite full enough yet, that Bucky had to be careful with his touch.

He could just enjoy that heavy feeling of Steve’s belly in his hands, the way it pushed out against him. Steve really must’ve indulged every offering at the banquet. However, his supersoldier metabolism was working through the food fast. Would Steve also put on fat four times as fast as the average human?

Bucky didn’t have another moment to contemplate that question. Steve groaned above him, and Bucky eased up on the pressure he was rubbing his gut with. The pot must almost be empty by now.

+++

There’s barely anything left of the curry. Steve has been working steadily on eating everything, but now his pace was slowing down, and his breathing was getting heavier. Bucky continued rubbing large circles over Steve’s gut, concentrating on the stuffed upper belly.

Almost finished. Just one more bite. Just one more. Steve hadn’t asked for Bucky to speak and encourage him, but a constant stream of it flowed through his mind. So proud to see Steve indulging like this. To see him grow. Growing heavier than Bucky by the day. His titanium arm had weighed a full forty pounds, but even the vibranium arm gave him a leg up by about ten pounds. Still, he was nowhere near as heavy as Steve, and he relished in the difference when Steve held him down.

+++

The shirt grew tighter and tighter. The fabric groaning with the strain, loud enough now for even unenhanced humans to hear, but the buttons just wouldn’t budge. High-quality materials kept Steve from ripping through the buttons with his stuffed gut. He gulped for air, there was nothing left to eat, but he needed something more.

“Get me something to drink, Buck.” He jumped up and almost ran to the kitchen, coming to a skidding halt in front of the fridge. Something to drink. Bucky defaulted to a glass of water, but then thought better of it. Steve had left the decision to him. He grabbed two of the beer bottles at the bottom of the fridge and raced back. Steve took both bottles from Bucky’s hands and quickly opened one with the other.

He put the first bottle to his lips and downed it within a few seconds. He slammed the bottle on the side table to his right and heaved a few heavy breaths, just as it seemed like Steve would have to open that second bottle as well. The button on the roundest part of his belly popped off.

His belly sagged forward filling the bit of space. Time seemed suspended in the moment until a chain reaction started popping the rest of the buttons and tearing the fabric where the buttons wouldn’t give in fast enough. Steve’s overstuffed gut surged forward, but not by much, weighing high and tight on his torso. He was heaving shallow breaths trying to work around the spasming muscles in his belly.

+++

“Wanna get those pretty pink lips on me.”

“Got myself all ready, so you can fuck me.” Steve’s expression soured into a frown.

“Didn’t you say you wanted to be a good boy for me?” Bucky nodded meekly. “Do good boys talk back when their daddies tell them what to do?”

Bucky’s mind caught on that word—daddy—they’d discussed a few names for the position Steve would be in, in this scenario. However, Bucky had not anticipated the dizzying headrush he’d feel hearing that word out loud. Having Steve say exactly who he was to Bucky.

The feeling shot straight to his dick. His hips involuntarily snapped forward. He let his head fall with the shame that burned on his cheeks.

“Oh,” Steve cooed, “you like hearing me say that?” He shoved another spoonful of curry in his mouth, savouring the taste, only after swallowing the food did he turn his full attention back on Bucky.

“I’m your daddy, Buck. You see how I gotta keep you in check, hm? Just there. You’re always so eager.” Bucky nodded along to Steve’s words. “But when I’m here to guide you, you take such good care of me don’t you?”

Steve clearly expected an answer. Bucky swallowed around the word in his mouth, it felt heavy on his tongue, like a momentous occasion.

“Yes.” He paused and swallowed again. “Daddy.”

Steve pulled Bucky up and up, off his knees and back onto the couch.

“You’re gonna make me come with those pretty pink lips, ok?” Bucky nodded and went straight for Steve’s crotch, eager to please. Once again Steve stopped him. Disappointed frown on his face.

“I try to teach you—” Bucky realised what Steve wanted from him. “Yes, daddy.” Bucky could see Steve’s hand twitch where it was resting on his stuffed belly.

“Don’t interrupt me, boy.” Bucky ducked his head and bit down on his bottom lip.

“I know you’re trying to make this so good for me, but you still have to listen to me, ok?” Bucky sat up straighter and wiggled on Steve’s lap a bit, then tapped his index finger to his ear. Listening.

“Good boy.” Bucky felt that familiar sweet feeling prickle at the back of his neck. He waited for Steve’s next order. Instead, Steve pulled him close by the neck and surprised him with a kiss. He pulled back before Bucky could really get over his surprised reaction.

+++

“Turn around, baby boy. Heard you got yourself all nice and ready for me.”

“What were you thinking about while you worked yourself open like that?”

“Did you come, baby boy?”

“No? Oh, you’re so good, waiting for your daddy to come home and tell you when you’re allowed.”

“Push back a bit for me.”

“Quit your whining that’s not gonna make me give you my cock any faster.”/”Oh, be a good boy and stay quiet, won’t you?”

“Yes, look at you. If I pulled at that little gemstone, you’d be all nice and wet for me. Do you think you should ride my cock right now?”

“Whatever you want, daddy.”

“Good boy. That’s right. I get to decide what you need. Can you sit back for me?”

“Yes, look at that. So obedient.”

“Why don’t you fuck yourself on it? You think you can come on this little thing when you’re used to daddy’s cock?”

“That was a question.”

“Whatever you want, daddy.”

“That’s right, good boy. You come when I tell you to, don’t you? Look at you rutting away on this little toy and leaking all over yourself. Think I can add a finger next to the toy? Oh, look at you taking it so well. Does that remind you of daddy’s thick cock?”

“Keep it up, baby boy. Want you to come just on that toy. ‘m gonna jerk you off to help you a bit, but when you get close you gotta tell me, ok?”

“Already? Ok.”

“I know, I know. Just a bit now. Lean back.”

“C’mon, my fingers not enough?”

“Oh, you need permission, baby boy, is that it?”

“Such a good boy waiting for that.”

“Come for me.”

“Oh, you were so good for me. You gonna be ok leaving that plug in for a bit? Yeah, you’re tired I know. Taking care of your daddy and having your pussy fucked takes a lot out of you. Let’s get you to bed.”

[littleswordmaiden]

Your lips are like honey, my beloved,

Bathed in milk and saffron,

Shining like sun.

You light the world,

letting your sweetnes run through it,

bathing it like a mother does her newborn child,

Coating it's skin in fragrant oils.

Your cheeks, my beloved, are like two pomegranates,

Ripe and red,

Binding me to this world and this world to me,

Hiding the seeds of our secrets in them.

Your nose, a sloped bridge of ancient kings,

an aquiline bow to connect your noble brow.

Brow of Sappho, poet of Lesbos,

Sweet mother, I cannot weave,

I think when I see you.

The wells of your eyes, full of moss and galaxies,

molten sun specks shining,

spots of honey in the night.

Your neck, a pillar that has smitten me,

strong and smooth,

warm marble beneath my lips.

Your nape is a map I know by heart,

yet I want to learn the way over and over again.

Your shoulder, bare for me,

curving, inviting,

morphing 'to your arm,

that strong branch.

Your back, an everchanging terrain,

mountains of shoulderblades

and valleys of spine and waist,

rivers of hair flowing on it.

Your buttocks, two overripe oranges,

sweet and round,

strong and moving.

The dip of your hips is where I put my lips

in worship of your strength.

Your thights hold the power to crush,

skulls and hearts alike,

warm and inviting,

owing nothing to no one,

your bruised knee.

Thank you, says your trembling calf,

more, please! screams your curled toe.

My love, your stomach sings

and I sing with it

an ode to your body,

ode I'd love to repeat every night.

Upon your breast rests my head,

in tears, in love, in love and trust,

rests, so let it stay, my love, for a little bit more.

[deans-mind-palace]

Suspirium (Pt.4)

Pairing: Prof!Sam x Reader

Summary: You’re in your last year of your Classics and Mordern Languages studies and you’re majoring in Latin and English. Then you get assigned to a different Latin teacher. And damn, he loves his subject. Too bad that he’s also hot. What is just a childish crush soon develops into something way more complicated.

Word Count: 1,891

Warnings: Latin & Slowburn

Author’s Note: A lot of Latin and Catullus but I wanted you to show Prof Sam’s lectures and the reader’s life besides university. And there’s a surprise at the end. Enjoy.

Suspirium - Masterlist

You slammed your locker shut and hurriedly stuffed the white blouse into the waistband of the black skirt, when the door to the changing room had already been opened. You stood up straight immediately. Chest out and stomach in. You took a deep breath and tried to appear confident, while you were getting ready for a reprimand. A man in a black tuxedo came rushing through the door. "Y/N! Where the hell were you?" The man was a little fatter and his head was all red. His expression was ugly and distorted and he was dabbing the sweat off his forehead with a white cloth from the pocket of his jacket. "François. I am sorry. I really am. I-I lost track of time!" you tried to explain yourself. Your self-confidence was gone. "What is this, Y/N? You work in a star restaurant. I expect discipline. I'm trying to rely on you. Tonight is a night with important guests and I need you. We're behind schedule. The reputation of the restaurant -" the man with the French accent complained. But you already finished his sentence. "depends on each one of us. A grain of sand in the clockwork will stop the whole movement. I know." You knew that speech by heart. Normally you would have taken that motto to heart, but... "Mon dieu." He brushed across his moustache and massaged his temples while his anger subsided. "We'll talk about it later. I need you now. The kitchen is a mess because the food is not being served quickly enough." He pushed the door open and you followed him out into the hall and into the kitchen. There were all kinds of steaming from different pots. Jacques waved a frying pan in which he was flambéing something and blurted orders around. A kitchen boy pushed some plates into your hand in a frightened way. His eyes were wide open and he didn't seem to be used to the harsh tone that prevailed in the kitchen.

He had red hair and countless freckles adorned his face. The plates swayed in his hand and his arms trembled under the weight. You gave him a sympathetic smile and took the plates away. "The roast beef with sesame crust on mango chutney and the sea urchin cores with green asparagus to seventeen. Hop hop!" François directed you out the door and into the dining room. Immediately, the soft murmuring of the guests, the clinking sound of wine glasses being clinked together, the clattering of cutlery on dishes and the gentle tones of the piano floated through the air. With calm and firm steps you brought the food to the white-laid table and set it down in front of a couple wearing chic evening gowns, as is obligatory in this expensive restaurant. With a professional but reserved smile, you silently handed the food as you had learned it, and with an elegant gesture of your hand you poured some water.

It was shortly after one o'clock when, after almost seven hours, you stuffed your skirt into your locker and slipped into your jeans. In one flowing movement you brushed the hair out of your forehead and took a deep breath. Your body ached from a hard day, your head was buzzing and you longed for your bed. Tomorrow you already had a lecture at 9am.

In a hurry you took a look at your mobile phone. You could hear the clinking of plates, which had been washed and dipped into the sink, sounding muffled from the kitchen. Brooks had written to you a few minutes ago. He knew your working schedule by heart and knew that you had just finished. Actually, you were too tired and didn't feel like talking to your best friend on the phone, but you knew the longer you delayed the call, the worse it would get.

Quickly you dialed his number. After the ringing tone he answered immediately. "Hey, Brooks." You had trouble suppressing a hearty yawn. There was not a hint of fatigue in Brooks' voice. "Y/N, what secret are you keeping from me?" he demanded amusedly. Your friend was a man who came straight to the point. You should be fine.

"How was your first lecture with Professor Winchester?" Brooks asked. It took your tired brain a moment to realize that he meant Sam. "The typical introduction. Sam seems nice." You were biting your tongue when his first name left your lips. Brooks, of course, noticed this little detail right away. "Sam, huh?" repeated his name with a smirk, almost as if he had to test it on his tongue first. "Did he offer you his first name because he is so young himself?" the man on the other end of the line asked curiously. This time you couldn't suppress the yawn. "Hmm, exactly." You told Brooks everything he wanted to know about the lecture. After a while, he settled for the information and decided to let you go to bed. The last night bus spat you up a block from your stop and you were glad when you fell into your cuddly bed and could pull the fluffy blanket up to your chin.

The auditorium was already filled with students talking wildly, but Sam hadn't appeared when you sat down. The day before yesterday, right after the first lecture, you had gone to the university bookstore and got the materials he requested. You put Latin for the Illiterati, a dictionary and a small book of poems by Catullus on the table. Your pens and your notebook followed. All heads turned to the door as Professor Winchester entered the room and walked forward with long, determined strides past the filled rows of seats. The red sweater stretched across his sturdy stature and a grey jacket hung over his shoulder. There was silence in the lecture hall as Sam prepared his lecture.

He cleared his throat, which was completely unnecessary as he already had all the attention on him anyway. His gaze glided briefly to you and you gave him a smile. He winked at you in a friendly way before his gaze wandered over the rest of the students. "We will begin today with Catullus." he began today's lecture. Your fellow students listened to him eagerly.

"Who can tell me something about Catullus as a person?" he asked. Immediately your hand shot up. But he called a student a few rows behind you. "Gaius Valerius Catullus was a Roman poet from Verona. He was probably born in the first century B.C. He aspired a political career at first, but he was not satisfied with the opinions of the triumvirate consisting of Caesar, Pompeius and Cato, so he began to write insulting poems about the three great men of Rome." Sam raised his hand and the student stopped his monologue. He cleared his throat again and walked up and down in front of the first row. "Who can tell me when Catullus died?" he asked the next question. Again your hand shot into the air. But again he did not call you. "Whatever dates you wish to give me, ladies and gentlemen, I doubt very much they are correct." You lowered your hand and listened carefully. "For the fact is, we know almost nothing about Catullus' life. We can only make guesses. So who can tell me about Catullus?" He raised his hands in invitation.

"Come on. Call in your answers, don't be shy, pretend we're in the ancient senate of Rome. Do you think it was organized that way? Come on, let me hear you." Your fellow students looked at each other in surprise. For a moment there was hesitation in the air, then they started calling in. "He wrote a life's work of 116 poems." "Catullus admired Sappho." "Exactly. And his best friend was Nepos." "He was also one of the Neotericists." "Not to mention that he died when he was 30. Circumstances unknown." "Nonsense. He died of lovesickness." Sam just nodded, but that sentence made him stop and listen. He lowered his hand, a simple gesture, and the confused cries ebbed away, almost as if he was the fixed star of the lecture hall. He was the sun in your star system and you were just meaningless planets circling around him and drawn to him by higher powers like moths to light.

His gaze wandered over the students, who waited attentively for his next words. He took the thin volume of poetry from the desk and held it in the air. "As mentioned earlier, Catullus wrote 116 carmina." He paused and looked at the book. "Page 38, carmina 85, please." Immediately, the rustling of book pages could be heard. At that unobserved moment, he glanced at you. His hazel eyes pierced yours.

He averted his gaze and raised his voice. Like a Roman rhetorician, he stuck out his chest and began to read the poem with perfect accent. For a moment you thought you were standing on the Forum Romanorum listening to the Roman messenger telling about Caesar's victories.

"Odi et amo. Quare id faciam fortasse requiris. Nescio. Sed fieri sentio et excrucior."

Sam looked up. "Who can translate this for me, please?" Again you raised your hand and this time he noticed. "Ms. L/N. Please do us the honor." "I hate and I love. Wherefore would I do this, perhaps you ask? I do not know. But I feel that it happens and I am tortured." you translated the ancient words fluently. "What do you feel when you read these words?" Sam asked and his eyes were only on you. It felt like for a moment there was just the two of you in this room. The other students around you disappeared. "Pain, unrequited love, despair but also anger," you replied. "Why did he write this?" You took a deep breath. This was your specialty. Now you had the chance to prove yourself. "Most of Catullus' poems are about his love for Lesbia, a married woman with whom he had an affair. The name Lesbia is only a synonym. There are speculations that the beloved is the elder Clodia. She was the wife of a consul. Even though they loved each other, Catullus was not sure of her love. He was torn apart by her failure to return his love unconditionally."

I heard whispers behind me. "Her name was Lesbia! You can see by her name that it was never going to happen." You rolled your eyes, and Sam snorted in amusement. "Well, Mr...?" "Winter, sir." the student helped him. "Mr. Winter. You're not wrong. Homosexuality was not uncommon among the Romans. It was frowned upon, but nobody really cared. Especially the patricians could do what they wanted. But I think that's not true in this case." Sam smiled before he talked to everybody. "Now, I want you all to analyze this poem as homework. Are there any hidden messages? Innuendoes? Stylistic devices? I want to know everything. I want the papers on my desk next week. Good? Then you're dismissed for today."

Sam was standing at your level and you were about to pack when a little note landed on your desk. 4:00pm. My office. S. Surprised, you looked up, but you only caught a glimpse of Sam's fluttering jacket as he disappeared from the lecture hall.

Tags beneath cut. Wanna get tagged? Drop an ask or comment in or add yourself to the Sam taglist with the link in my bio.

Sam Tags: @ashthefirefox​ @rintheemolion​​ @fortheentries​​ @vexhye​​ @traceyaudette​​ @zeppette​​ @thewintersoldierswife​​ @outofnowhere82​​

[shesthewindandsea]

all the things I would do

Summary: “It’s alright, dear,” she would say. “It’ll be alright.” But there was no reassuring voice and there was no hand to calm her and so instead Crowley screamed and sobbed and cursed everyone above and below that she could name.

A Good Omens retelling of the Greek Myth of Orpheus (Crowley) and Eurydice (Aziraphale). There's nothing above or below that's going to stop Crowley from getting her nymph back.

Beginning Notes: Okay so lets try this again. First off, I literally cannot believe this is actually done. I started it way back in November and now here we are. I’ve been sitting on it for so long I’m so happy to get it off my computer. Now if you don’t know Orpheus and Eurydice is a myth about a human man with a gorgeous singing voice (Orpheus) who falls in love with a nymph (Eurydice). They get married and all the gods are very supportive of their union! Human men though, not so much and it quickly goes downhill from there. I tried to stick to the original myth as much as I could so temporary character death plays a major role in this story but I had to give them a happy ending so it’s worth it, I promise! As always the title is taken from a Hozier song, Talk, and the lyrics are actually mainly focused on the myth! The vibe from the song and the meaning behind it though are very different from my story but it’s still go to listen to so I highly recommend. And if you’re a fan of Sappho then you’re in luck because I have a bunch of Sappho fragments in here as Crowley’s songs because if you’re writing about lesbians in Ancient Greece you can’t not have Sappho. There are two that are straight up Sappho and one that’s a combo. You’ll know it when you see it. I might be writing temp character death but I’m not a monster. Lastly, and most importantly, thank you to @poetic----nonsense who betaed a good chunk of this and is overall just a wonderful human being who I love very much. 

                                                            ~

  “Would you sing me a song?” She asked, as if her nymph’s voice itself were not a song to be wept over, an offering to encourage the skies, the stars, the moon, and the Gods themselves. Crowley wanted for nothing but to feel the question against her lips and taste the honey that dripped from them. As if Crowley wouldn’t leap at the chance to please her nymph.

    “Mm, you’ll have to let me think of one, my love,” Crowley teased and her nymph smiled, hand squeezing tighter for a moment. Crowley tore her gaze away from Aziraphale for a moment to look to the stars poking through the dark sky above the hill, as if they would give her the answers she needed.

   Crowley knew hundreds of songs, the songs she had heard in her days of wandering through villages, mingling among common people. She listened to their work songs, their songs of love, their songs of sorrow sung over open graves. She knew the songs of the Gods — the ones that pleased them and ones that sated them and the ones she wasn’t supposed to know. And Crowley, of course, knew her own songs. Half formed melodies hummed to the trees in the forest. Their roots would dance beneath her feet and the ground thrummed with their movement. She’d whisper words to the waves licking her bare toes as she stood facing the sea and the gulls would cry back their pleasure. She could make flowers bloom and the sun shine and the moon smile. 

    And yet to sing a song of her love for Aziraphale seemed the most daunting task she had ever faced. What words could ever speak of such devotion, could begin to describe the choking feeling in her throat and the fullness in her stomach that only came from being with her immortal wife? The best singer in all of Greece, in all the world, could not even begin to form a single verse that could accurately communicate them. And she was; Crowley was the best singer in all of Greece and yet this ability escaped her. She could but only try. 

Keep reading on AO3 or

   And so try she did. The only other option was to leave her dear nymph without a song to enjoy as they held hands under the night sky and that simply wouldn’t do.

   “You know many songs, both those of the Gods and those of man, dearest. Do be quick about your decision. We haven’t got all night after all.” 

   Crowley’s mouth twisted up in a wry smile as her wife propped herself up on her elbow, a delicate pink cheek resting in her palm, and yet her other hand did not release its grip on Crowley’s. 

    “Perhaps not. I may not be able to sing for you after all. To think of the perfect song for you requires time that I don’t have. I may have to use my voice to serenade Gaia first, allow me some borrowed time so I may find the right words,” Crowley pondered out loud, while Aziraphale sent her a chastising look. She released Crowley’s hand for a moment to give it a gentle pat in admonishment. Their new rings clinked together softly — ringing in the cold night time air and floating up towards the stars overhead — and Crowley vowed to memorize the pitch for a later use.

   “I won’t hear of such things. Anything you choose will be perfect, so long as you are the one singing it. You could sing of the most morbid and morose things and I would be none the wiser. Your voice makes me forget everything I know.” 

   “Not everything, I hope. I pray you never forget me.” Crowley pinched the pudgy skin of her wife’s palm and before she could raise a fuss, Crowley was brushing her lips over the flesh there, like a petal dancing over the surface of a pond. 

   “I would never. Should you continue to prolong my wait, though, I may consider changing my mind. Do get on with it, dear.” 

  ��Crowley quickly sat up with a dramatic gasp and a hand to her chest. “Why I never!”

   “Crowley.”

   “Yes, of course, beautiful.” Crowley cooed with a smirk. Even so, she continued to mess about for a few short moments, feigning some important preparation before another stern look from her wife forced her to begin her song.

    The most haunting notes and devoted lyrics slipped like wine over Crowley’s lips. She sang of the sweetest apple being left on the upper-most branch waiting to be sampled by only the most devoted taster, her lover ready to savor its sweetness. Of the flowers — pink, purple, and white — waving in the wind atop a hill only to be worn down by the bare feet of shepherds, trodden into the ground while waiting to be plucked. And everything slowed for a moment — the world stopped spinning, the wind stopped blowing, and the light of the stars traveling across the vast empty darkness froze in its tracks — to listen with all the attentiveness of which they were capable. The utter love and fidelity ingrained in the very essence of even such a mournful tale enraptured all that could hear.

    Aziraphale, of course, in the face of such unwavering emotion, was trapped in Crowley’s gaze like a fly in honey, eyes never wavering for even a moment in an effort to show her godly lover the sincerity of it all. Here are my feelings, laid naked and bare in the grass for you. Pick them apart. I hide nothing from you. 

   She doesn’t need to, though. Aziraphale can feel every note wash over her like the scent of spring riding a breeze or a raindrop trailing its way down one of her oak leaves. And it made her feel like she held the light of Crowley’s love in her hands. Like she could feel its heat and warmth. It was like nothing else she had ever known before.

   As Crowley continued to sing and Aziraphale continued to blossom under her praise, her power flowing through her less like a stream and more like a river. Her fingertips tingled with the force of it. Natural elements around them began shifting as some Aziraphale’s power leaked out of her skin. The grass around them suddenly grew long enough to tickle the skin of their ankles, wrists, the soles of their feet, all unclothed and vulnerable. The air suddenly tasted of anthemion and smelled of fresh fog steaming off a pond in the early morning. 

   And Crowley was just as entranced by Aziraphale’s power and unearthly beauty as Aziraphale was of her voice. So she continued to sing to please her wife, her voice a prayer and the words a dedication trickling like the juice of a peach over her lips and chin. Fire raced under skin every moment she held Aziraphale’s graze, every moment her love appeared more unhuman-like. More like a delicate flower bursting from a human body.

   “And lovely laughing — oh it

   Puts the heart in my chest on wings

   For when I look at you, a moment, then no speaking 

   Is left in me”

  There were a million words, a million combinations of those words Crowley would sing to her in a million different ways if only her breath would allow it. But she was, after all, only human and so her breath ran out and her tongue dried and her cheeks reddened like the setting sun and she was grasping Aziraphale’s shoulders so tightly that she feared she may cause her pain. So she stopped and collapsed into Aziraphale’s open arms.

   “My goodness, are you quite all right?” Aziraphale asked with no small amount of concern in her voice. Crowley’s head rested on Aziraphale’s chest. She could hear the nymph’s heart thumping softly in her chest while her round, heavy arms encircled her and the weight of them offered a kind of warm comfort that could come from nowhere else.

   “Mm, yeah. ‘M good,” she offered weakly, much too occupied with trying to fit her arms around Aziraphale’s plush middle while keeping her head pillowed on the nymph’s chest..

    “Are you sure? You’re very out of breath.” Her arms moved up and down Crowley’s back in an effort to soothe and relax her, coax her back to breathing slower. 

   “Sure I’m sure. Wanted to keep going is all,” Crowley murmured, finally interlocking her fingers behind Aziraphale’s back and squeezing as close as she could get. Aziraphale refrained from commenting for the moment and just held her close. “Wanted to sing your praises.”

   “Yes, well. You can’t do that if you pass out, now can you?” One hand continued to lightly trace over the pattern of freckles on Crowley’s exposed shoulders where the strap of her chiton had slipped off. The other wandered lower under the fabric, seeking out the soft skin of her back.

   “Suppose so.” Crowley replied, her voice wispy and eyelids growling heavy.

   “Why don’t we head home? It’s getting awfully late.” Without waiting for a response, Aziraphale moved Crowley to her liking before picking her up in her arms. Crowley merely hummed and allowed herself to be carried back towards their forest home, her head resting in the dip between Aziraphale’s neck and shoulder while lazily kissing under her chins and behind her ear. 

                                                        ~ 

    The world was still quite dark when Aziraphale woke the next morning. The moon had very nearly finished her journey across the sky while the sun had just begun his, the blackness of the sky slowly giving way to a blaze of fiery colors. The mingled light drifted softly into the room through the window and danced across both bodies still curled together, kissing skin and running its fingers through long strands of hair both red and white, despite Aziraphale’s apparent wakefulness. 

   Of the two of them, Aziraphale more frequently woke first — she did not need to sleep as her human companion did, though this never stopped her from remaining with Crowley until she woke. The cool air of a summer night made Crowley’s warm body wrapped around her own very enticing, so Aziraphale often found herself willing to lay awake, clinging to Crowley’s arm around her waist, until the moon fully gave way to the strength of the sun’s light. Then she would allow herself to probe further, both hands and lips slowly growing more incessant until Crowley groaned her way into the world, horribly burdened with the task of responding to her nymph’s need for reciprocation.

    “It’s only fair,” she’d say, eyes shining with mirth, and of course it sounded perfectly reasonable to Crowley when it was put like that; so she’d press her own smile to Aziraphale’s lips before moving to her cheeks and forehead and chins and down her neck. 

    Now, though, Aziraphale could only smile fondly upon the many memories she had floating around her head as she gently lifted Crowley’s arm from around her. She had different plans for this morning. Yesterday had been such a lovely day, wedding and all, and such an event should only be followed by a perfectly lovely morning of warm air and green grass, beautiful blossoms and fruitful trees to accompany their typical porridge breakfast.

    Of course, this meant venturing out into the wood before light rather than gently prompting the fig trees in the garden to finish their bounty perhaps a bit soon. Crowley became ever so disheartened when Aziraphale meddled with her garden. A mere thought could quickly encourage every flower in the courtyard garden into full blossom. She suspected it was a matter of pride for Crowley — working the soil with nothing but her own hands and stubbornness — though that certainly didn’t stop Aziraphale from offering a bit of helpful advice and encouragement. Crowley didn’t seem to mind that much. 

   So Aziraphale quickly and quietly dressed, not bothering with putting her hair up with all her ribbons and ties, creeping through the house while carefully dodging the floorboards she knew creaked, and out the door. A bit of damp night air weaved through the shadows cast on the ground by the weak light of the moon. Aziraphale had spent many years among the faerie folk of the wood and water surrounding their home, certainly no coincidence by any means, and so she had little fear of those who lay beyond their house, even in the cover of night. 

   She wandered about mindlessly, no particular path set in front of her, instead moving about the trees whispering loving encouragements about how wonderful they were all doing and how beautiful they were and could they maybe spare a few flowers come morning? She knew it wasn’t the right season but wouldn’t it just be wonderful? The grass beneath her feet grew, laughing, as it stretched to caresses the calloused bottoms of her feet. The flowers that tasted light, airy, and sweet when paired with hot water waved shyly up at her as she strode by. The trees whispered amongst themselves across the breeze. 

   It was all so wondrously beautiful. She was tempted, for a moment, to go back to her house, crawl into bed and gently wake Crowley as she always did even if it was, perhaps, a bit early; the stars shone so brightly tonight even in the fading darkness and Crowley absolutely adored the stars. It would ruin her surprise, though, and Crowley did seem awfully tired after so much singing earlier that day. There was also the matter of the surprise. The look on Crowley’s face when Aziraphale led her out into a groove of wild fig trees and oak blossoms was too good to pass up.

   Not yet time to wake her, then. The stars would always be there for her lovely new wife to see another night. But as Aziraphale stood there watching the sky, it became clear that she had not as much time left as she first thought. The stars were starting in blink out, one by one, and the yellow of the sun was largely overpowering the pale light of the moon. It was time to begin her journey back home. And though she felt some sadness leaving the forest behind for now, just as the stars would be there for Crowley every night, the forest would be there for Aziraphale and she could enjoy it anytime she liked — perhaps even with Crowley’s company next time.

  Besides, she had a whole journey back to appreciate everything around her and look forward to waking Crowley soft and slow.

                                                         ~ 

   Aziraphale had made it about half way —  she’d be back just as the moon disappeared and the sun took over — when something suddenly felt very wrong. The air felt thick and heavy; the wind whipped about her, blowing her hair in every which direction and obscuring her sight; everything felt dark despite the growing glow of the sun arcing through the sky.

   Aziraphale never had reason to fear the forest or any of its inhabitants before and even now she did not believe it was one of them that intended harm.

   Mortals, however, were very dangerous. The Gods may have blessed and rejoiced Aziraphale and Crowley’s recent marriage, but the mortals were not so unanimous in their support. After all, the beauty and power of a nymph paired with Crowley’s enchanted singing and playing, there was certain to be resentment among some. Aziraphale feared losing Crowley above all else.

   That wasn’t something she was willing to risk, so she stood her ground, looking for the cause of all the discontent amongst her forest friends. Through the tangled mess of hair flying around her, she could see him, a man, standing there not but a few steps away. He was dressed in luxurious fabrics and his eyes an odd color, some light shade of purple.

  “Come with me,” He spoke plainly, as though discussing the quality of fruit at the market this season. 

   “You,” she started, voice quivering a bit. She wrung her hands in her lap. Aziraphale didn’t actually know the man very well, but they’d met before when Crowley had only just begun courting Aziraphale. Something had always been off with him. Aziraphale knew she had an influence over men to some extent, not one she could control of course, but the way they all looked at her, it made her cringe. Even still, this man in particular, the man with the purple eyes, stood out among them. The way he looked at her was almost predatory. Like he knew she’d be his one day. 

   Like all he had to do was wait. 

   She never bothered telling Crowley about it. Sightings of him were few and far in-between. And what were they to do — a singing woman and a nymph — to confront an obviously well-off man? It was better to live with the relatively minor discomfort than to put both Crowley and herself in harm's way.

   “Come with me,” he said again, soft now in an attempt to persuade her, and he held out a hand to her. “I can take care of you in a way different, better, than the woman with you now.” 

   He took a step forward and smiled like he was hiding something behind his teeth. It made Aziraphale sick.

   “There’s nothing to be afraid of. I’m here. I’ll take you away from that wretched woman.” He took another step forward.

   “You know not of which you speak.”  

   The man’s smile faltered for a moment. 

   “I will not go-” Aziraphale bit out before he cut her off. Her hands suddenly clenched tight at her sides.

   “If you do not come willing I have no choice but to take you and kill her.” 

   “-anywhere with you.” she sneered and continued on. “Not now and not ever.” 

   Finally the man’s smile dropped away completely. He looked absolutely furious. 

   “You know nothing of our love. I expect you never will and for that I am truly sorry. But you speak of ownership, not companionship. I would never leave her and you cannot take her from me.” Without another word, Aziraphale hiked up her skirt and turned, bolting down the path, hoping to reach home and warn Crowley before that awful man could get to her.

   It didn’t take long for her to hear hurried footsteps come after her. She made a quick decision and turned off the path into the trees.

   She threw an arm behind her with an apology on her lips. Tree branches bent to help obscure the path. The slash of a sword and shattering wood rung in her ears. She could see her home in the distance and began to scream for Crowley, over and over, her voice shrill and breaking. Tears stung her eyes and her heart was pounding faster than it ever had before and her lungs were heaving so heavily that they burned. She heard the man —  shouting, swearing, slashing at the barriers the forest had built for her — somewhere in the distance behind her. She had glanced back for only a moment, but a moment was all it took. 

   She tumbled to the ground. A sharp pain throbbed around her ankle and then it was suddenly giving out underneath her. She let out a shrill cry just before her head cracked against the hard ground.

   A snake bite, no doubt, and a venomous one at that judging by the localized pain and how she very suddenly felt like she was going to vomit.

   Her head hitting the ground certainly wasn’t doing anything to help. The light of the forest was blinding now and everything had begun to spin and blur with such intensity that Aziraphale thought she’d soon be ill. She tried to get to her feet, to get moving again, but she was on the ground again before she could even stand. Both of her legs ached. She didn’t have long. There was nothing to be done for her.

   Oh, but Crowley. All Aziraphale’s worries weighed heavy on her mind as she laid there on the forest floor. What would Crowley think when she wakes to see Aziraphale’s side of the bed long since cold and empty? What would she do when Aziraphale hasn’t returned by mid-day with no clues to indicate her whereabouts? What sort of dreadful things would race through her mind when Crowley found her empty body only a short stroll from their home? Aziraphale could hardly stand to think of such things. To leave the love of her life so soon without even a simple ‘good-bye’ would break her heart.

   And it was with that thought that Aziraphale found a final burst of strength and stubbornness — and, of course, love — and hauled herself up from the ground. She managed to grab a large branch to lean on and began hobbling forward as best she could in her weakened state. 

   The world rushed around her and her head felt like it was floating, like the insides were adrift on a boat that was violently rocking back and forth.

   Sweat dripped down her face and tears flowed freely from her eyes. She had never been so dizzy before and her mouth was very dry and her tongue felt so heavy. Her heart was pounding faster than ever and breathing was becoming very difficult and her entire body was shaking despite how very very hot she felt. 

   The trees and path were blurring and she can hardly see the house anymore — could she have been moving backwards? Had that awful man grabbed her and began hauling her away? Was she already dead?

   It was with one final breath that “Crowley” slipped ever so softly from her lips that her body began shaking something terrible. 

  She fell to the ground with a heavy thud and everything went black.

                                                      ~

    Gabriel ran after the nymph, waving around his pilfered sword in a desperate attempt to hack away the thick branches and thorns that had inexplicably grown up in front of him. The nymph was too far ahead of him. He could just barely hear her feet thumping against the ground somewhere in the distance.

   So caught up was he in his task that he didn’t hear a sharp cry of alarm.

   Eventually Gabriel made his way through the wood barrier and gave chase. When he reached her though, he found himself standing not but a few paces from where the nymph had apparently fallen to the ground. She did not move, even to draw a breath. 

   Not wanting all this effort to go to waste in case he was mistaken, Gabriel cautiously stepped forward. Perhaps it was a trick, a way to lure him closer only for her to strike him.

   He walked until he stood in front of her head. Still she did not move. Using the very tip of his sword, he lifted her forehead from the ground. Her eyes were expressionless and her mouth slack.

   Dead then. 

   Gabriel tutted at her, shaking his head before letting her head fall back to the ground.

   “Truly disappointing,” he thought, “and such a waste of a beautiful creature.”

   He turned, facing away from the dead nymph, and sheathed his sword before venturing back in the direction from which he had come.

                                                           ~ 

   The world was awfully bright when Crowley finally woke that morning. Much brighter than she had grown used to. Sunlight streamed grandly through the window and the birds chirped happily somewhere off in the distance. It must be late, much past the time Aziraphale would have normally woken her.

   She reached out in front of her and her assumption was proven correct — Aziraphale had already risen and left Crowley alone in their bed. She finally opened her eyes, the full unobstructed force of light making her wince for a moment, to see her hand reaching out for empty air.

   It wasn’t exactly a frequent occurrence — waking up without Aziraphale next to her — but it did happen once in a while. Crowley generally found this meant her nymph was up to no good. Normally, highly amusing for Crowley in the end, though it left her with a low ache to wake up without a lovely, round body keeping her warm and a soft belly to throw her arm around.

   Normally, Crowley would shrug it off with a mere moment’s hesitation and roll out of bed, stumble into the kitchen in a state of disarray to eat something before getting properly dressed and tending to her garden.

   And normally, Aziraphale was back not long after Crowley had woken, already having had plenty of time to get up to whatever mischief she’d fancied.

   This time it felt different, though. The ache in her belly, that longing for Aziraphale’s back pressed to her chest and solid weight under her arm, hurt deeper. It felt heavy, like she’d swallowed a rock and it was sitting low inside. 

   So Crowley laid there for a bit, just staring at the empty half of the bed. Her stomach ached a while longer in some inexplicable nervous anxiety and she felt a bit cold but really there wasn’t much cause for concern. She just didn’t want to get up knowing she’d have to bide her time before Aziraphale arrived home. Perfectly reasonable.

   Even with no good reason to remain, Crowley languished in bed for a while longer, watching the shadows glide across the wall.

                                                         ~ 

   It didn’t take long for Crowley to realize something had gone wrong. Eventually she did get up out of bed, got dressed, ate, and headed out to the garden. After weeding for a bit, she headed back in for a drink of water fully expecting to catch sight of Aziraphale nibbling on a vine of grapes from yesterday’s dinner while sipping wine and nibbling some bits of cheese. Crowley had never been sure of whether nymphs actually needed to eat, but necessity or not Aziraphale seemed quite taken with it, especially when Crowley grew the food herself.

   Crowley would stride across the room, Aziraphale’s name on her lips, and take her nymph’s lovely pink cheeks in hand, stroking the soft skin while Aziraphale would giggle and flush, tsking at the soil being smudged onto her face. Crowley would bury one of her dirty hands in the short curls at the back of Aziraphale’s neck where they had escaped from the bun she’d done up with ribbon. 

   And then they’d kiss. Aziraphale would taste of bitter red wine and sweet purple grapes. Her hands would wrap around Crowley’s shoulders and eventually wander to where her hair was pulled hastily into a ponytail earlier that morning. And they’d stay like that until Aziraphale would tug Crowley back gently by her hair.

   'I am trying to eat, dear.’ She’d whine. ‘Why don’t you join me for a bit?’ 

   Except Aziraphale’s name didn’t have the chance to leave Crowley’s mouth. The kitchen was just as empty as it had been that morning. She pursed her lips and frowned. Truly, Aziraphale might not have been gone long — Crowley had been asleep when she’d snuck away and Aziraphale could’ve left any time between Crowley falling asleep and her waking up — but midday was quickly approaching, which meant lunch, and Crowley had never known Aziraphale to miss a meal since they’d met. If she wasn’t in the kitchen she must be close by. 

   After inspection of every room in the house, calling her name out and around the edge of the house, and returning to the garden just in case, Crowley headed to the forest. It was the only other place she could think to look. It was, after all, entirely possible Aziraphale was completely fine and had only lost track of time revisiting the place she had spent most of her life. It hadn’t happened before but it wasn’t impossible.

   After finding her admiring some tree somewhere, Crowley would sneak up behind her, wrap her arms around the nymph and scare her a little. She’d jump and chastise Crowley for ‘sneaking up on me like that! Really Crowley, you’re absolutely horrid’ and Crowley would tell her how then maybe she shouldn’t sneak off in the early morning and make Crowley come looking for her. Aziraphale would apologize for making her worry. They’d walk home together and the knot in Crowley’s stomach would unravel and she’d kiss her nymph sweetly on the forehead and they’d enjoy lunch in the back garden where Crowley grew her flowers while Aziraphale talked about what she’d gotten up to that morning. Crowley would try to listen only for her to inevitably get lost staring at just how absolutely beautiful Aziraphale was, get taken in by how lucky she’d gotten in marrying such a stunning creature. Aziraphale would ask what she was looking at and when Crowley told her, she’d get pink all down her neck.

   That would make up for all the worry. It would make up for the lump as big as a pomegranate stuck in Crowley’s throat; she could just barely swallow around it. It’d make up for the way her hands shook and the weakness in her legs. It was unbearable. 

   She wandered down the path a ways, calling out for the nymph (“Aziraphale! Where are you! I can’t find you!”) until she reached the bank of the river that ran down from the mountains and cut through the land. It wasn’t particularly wide or deep, but there was no way across without getting wet and Aziraphale had never been especially fond of getting wet unless they’d set out together to cool off on a very hot day. She certainly wouldn’t have any reason to cross, either. None that Crowley knew of anyhow. 

   Worry was beginning to give way to full blown panic. If Aziraphale wasn’t anywhere on the path then she must be in the woods somewhere and as much as Crowley trusted Aziraphale to keep from purposefully getting in harm's way, knew she’d spent her entire life here before Crowley had swept her up, Aziraphale did tend to attract danger that required a hero’s rescue. Crowley was always more than happy to play that role for her, though she was never quite as happy with whatever series of events proceeded.

   Before Crowley could think, she was sprinting back down the path, singing at the top of her lungs. Crowley's voice had yet to fail her in whatever she used it to do, whether that be serenading Aziraphale with some song or poem of her choosing or singing an angry work song that would scare a particularly stubborn plant into submission. 

   Or to command the very air around her to lead her to Aziraphale when she was lost.

   It hadn’t happened before and it certainly wasn’t going to happen now.

   The line between singing and screaming quickly began to muddle as Crowley was overwhelmed with emotion, tears streamed down her face, her throat was raw and burned.

   The world around her responded as though it had emotions of its own. The wind whipped her hair and clothing around her, pulling and pushing her. The leaves hissed in the branches above. The world was so furious and sorrowful. Crowley had never been so worried in her life. She didn’t want to think of what could’ve happened that affected it so.

   The wind shifted so suddenly that Crowley nearly fell over. Instead of moving her forward, she was jerked to the left off the path and toward a jagged collection of branches that looked like they’d been hacked carelessly apart. Crowley’s breath stopped dead halfway up her throat. 

   She had fought.

   Someone must’ve been chasing Aziraphale and she had fought. Aziraphale had fought for her life. There was nothing else, no one else, that could’ve manipulated nature in such a way. Crowley could only look upon it with horror. She would’ve collapsed right there if not for the wind trying to keep her moving.

   Eventually, Crowley was forced out of her stupor and focused on stumbling through the dense trees as quickly as she could manage, the wind directing her moments as she went.

                                                           ~

    There was no clearing, no soft sunlight streaming through the trees, no gentle breeze rustling the grass; nothing that could make her feel like Aziraphale hadn’t suffered when she died. Everything around her was brown and dead.

   Gods, she’d never get used to that thought. She was gone. Dead. 

   Aziraphale was dead.

   It’d taken Crowley a while to actually get where she was supposed to be going, not that she’d known where that was. She just sort of ran in whichever direction the wind pushed her. But when she saw a crumpled mass of white lying deathly still in the middle of the woods, she’d known this was what she was supposed to see — she knew it was Aziraphale.

   The wind immediately went still and all was silent throughout the woods. They knew what had happened and what was to come. 

   Crowley shrieked her name and it came out a splintering, broken howl. Tears flooded her eyes and flowed freely down her cheeks and dripped from her chin. She ran to her wife, the soles of her feet burning with the pain of cuts from the rough forest floor littered with shards of shattered branches. Her legs gave out beneath her. She crawled closer and reached out only for her hand to hover over Aziraphale’s back, the white fabric of her peplos was stained brown from where she lay in the dirt.

   She crawled further up, towards Aziraphale’s head. Her face is flat against the ground and Crowley couldn’t see her expression but the skin of her forehead was showing. Aziraphale has always been fair-skinned, certainly, but now— the color of her skin could only be described as a sickly white. 

   She had to see, Crowley had to see her face. She swiped at her cheeks with the back of her hand, drying them momentarily, and took a shaky breath, trying to brace herself. She moved to sit on her heels next to Aziraphale and rested her hands on Aziraphale’s side. Even through the peplos, her skin was so cold, not at all like Crowley was used to.

   It took a few good hard shoves to get Aziraphale facing upwards. She was completely limp, dead weight, left to Crowley to move all the while choking on the sobs stuck in the back of her throat. It was torture.

   Nothing could prepare Crowley for what she would see. Aziraphale’s face was so white and cold. Her mouth slack and her lips a dull, faded pink. Her eyes open, blank and empty, staring up into the endless sky above her. There was no depth or mirth as there always was when she looked at the world around her. There was no endless love as there was when looked at Crowley with that sweet little smile that was just for her and-

   And it broke Crowley’s heart. 

    And she threw herself over-top of Aziraphale’s stomach, squeezing the flesh that had always been there for Crowley to latch onto. She was so cold and still, no heartbeat thrumming in her chest. 

   She could almost feel the ghost of Aziraphale’s hand stroking her back, rubbing her neck, her breath in her ear.

   “It’s alright, dear,” she would say. “It’ll be alright.” 

   But there was no reassuring voice and there was no hand to calm her and so instead Crowley screamed and sobbed and cursed everyone above and below that she could name. 

   She called for Aziraphale, for her to come back, begging and pleading until her voice left her.

   You’ve gone. Somebody’s killed you and you’ve gone.

   Crowley wept and wept until she could weep no more. Her eyes and nose had run dry and swollen as bright red as her own hair. And by the time the last of her tears had dried, the sun was beginning to set. She had spent nearly the entire day in mourning. Not nearly long enough, Crowley thought, but it would have to be enough for now. She needed to use what remaining light she had to get back to the house. Normally an easy task, but she had Aziraphale to carry back with her. Crowley refused to leave her in the forest overnight. She’d sooner sleep here in this very spot. The idea was almost appealing until she remembered that this was the very spot Aziraphale had died, the spot the light had left her eyes, and then it was so revolting that she lost whatever was left in her stomach.

   In the end, the moon had risen and fallen by the time Crowley finished her task. She never went to bed, far too afraid of the cold, lonely expanse left next to her in the bed. Instead, she slept in the fruit garden next to a fresh mound of soil. She still missed the warmth of her lover, but at least here Aziraphale would still be beside her.

                                                         ~

    Crowley never had to deal with grief before, not grief like this. Never for someone as important and special as Aziraphale had been. The only other emotion she knew it to be like was, oddly enough, love.

   Just as consuming, just emptier. It never slowed down, never stopped or let Crowley rest for even a moment. Never constricted by time. It choked her like a vine around her throat, slowly squeezing until she couldn’t breath and her eyes watered. There were moments where it was so much that she could feel the physical weight of her own body being pressed down into the Earth. She could feel the heaviness in her limbs and the way her tongue sat in her mouth. Her legs couldn’t hold her body up and then the ever present unbridled sadness pressing down on her added so much more, she’d eventually just fall. Wherever she was, she’d fall to the ground and cry for as long as it took for her to find enough strength to stand again. Oftentimes it took hours. It was too much. Everything was surreal and at the same time it was like Crowley was just floating numbly, not even feeling the ground beneath her. 

   Then she’d stagger back to the garden. She’d refresh the white oak flowers resting on Aziraphale’s chest. It had been months now and even still every tree produced the tiny white flowers, their way of mourning her, Crowley assumed.  

   Every day she’d go out and pick a fresh bunch. After, she’d just sit in the dirt, silent and staring. She hadn’t sung since she’d patted the dirt down firmly over Aziraphale’s body. 

    She’d done everything right, cut no corners in preparing Aziraphale to enter the Underworld. She’d washed and anointed the body, wrapped it in linen shroud (though she couldn’t bear to cover her face), and placed in the ground atop vine and crowned in garland. Finally, she’d closed her eyes and mouth. Easier than one might think. Her eyes were growing white and cloudy and Crowley couldn’t stomach keeping them open any longer. Then Crowley had sung her to sleep.

   And as Crowley mourned the loss of Aziraphale in her refusal to sing, so too did the world mourn the loss of Crowley’s voice. Even the Gods missed the sound of Crowley’s singing and how it floated up to them on the wind from below. 

   Many of them understood such a heavy loss hurt Crowley deeper than they knew and waited patiently for the day that her songs may return to them. Others, however, seemed a bit less understanding and were growing weary of Crowley’s constant desolate mood. Her voice was her dedication, her way of honoring them, in place of food or drink. Without her singing, she owed them something else, and yet in all the months since Aziraphale had died, not a single note had been sung nor had they received an offering. They gathered together and all came to the same conclusion — something must be done.

   They sent down a messenger one night to confront Crowley as she lay on her back in the courtyard garden with Aziraphale, raking her fingers aimlessly through the soil next to her, the dirt pushing up under her nails.

   Her eyes scanned the stars even as the messenger appeared next to her.

   “Crowley,” they said to her, standing over her, tone without patience. Uriel had never been one to dance uselessly around an issue.

   They spoke Crowley’s name again, this time more terse. Even still, Crowley did not so much as dart her eyes in Uriel’s direction.

   “This is ridiculous. You know what I’m here for.” Uriel fixed Crowley with a particularly withering glare.

   “It’s only ridiculous to you.” Crowley finally broke her silence. “You didn’t know her and now you never will. She could weave the winds of the sea and the mountains together with a whisper. She could send a meadow into full blossom with a snap of her fingers. I’d fall to my knees for her and she’d help me up. And now she’s gone.” 

Crowley propped herself up on an elbow. Her face was carefully still but there was a fire in her eyes. “Tell me again how my sadness means so little.”

   Uriel’s lips drew tight. “The Gods require your tribute, Crowley. Your songs acted as such. Sing or you will find yourself in an uncomfortable situation.”

  “Aziraphale meant, means, more to me than any of you ever did,” she said slowly and resigned herself back to the dirt, eyes directed back up. 

   “Thankless creature,” they sneered the words with venom and Uriel’s collected demeanor vanished for a moment.

   “What is there to be thankful for without her! I can’t go back to the way things were before.” Uriel took a moment to think.

   “If the nymph is what you require, we are prepared to offer a solution,” they finally said. “Retrieve her from the Underworld. I will point you in the direction of the nearest opening.” Crowley’s head darted away from the sky and looked up at Uriel looming over her, hands folded primly in front of their chest. She revealed no further emotion to Uriel, but inside her head was spinning and her stomach was churning.

   “You will know the way when the sun rises tomorrow morning. Remember Crowley, traveling to the Underworld is no trivial journey. You will need all the strength you possess to get there and to come back.” 

   “Of course.” Uriel fixed Crowley with a dubious look as the human woman stood from

the ground, brushing dirt and dust from her chiton, before they returned to the Gods.

 Crowley watched them fade away before returning her gaze to where Aziraphale lay under the ground.

   “Wherever you are,” she started, “I’ll come get you. I’m coming, Aziraphale.” It still hurt to speak to Aziraphale like this, like she was in some faraway place that Crowley couldn’t reach, but that would end soon enough. She knew what to do about it now and there was nothing above or below that could stop Crowley from getting Aziraphale back.

                                                            ~

    Even if it was clear that Uriel hadn’t been Crowley’s biggest supporter when they came down for a visit with a list of demands from on high, they weren’t a liar. Crowley had a bit of trouble drifting off to sleep the night before, but when she woke the next morning, it was just as Uriel had said — she inexplicably knew the way to a portal leading down to the Underworld. She had never moved faster from the bed in all her life. She grabbed something to eat and her lyre, tied her long hair up out of her face, before she was out the door in a flourish.

   Crowley hadn’t felt nearly so happy for many months; she couldn’t help the way her lips began to twitch up in a smile as she began her journey. Perhaps it was a bit premature to feel such joy, but Crowley would do anything to succeed. Nothing had ever been so important before and regardless of whether Crowley failed or not— well. She would soon see Aziraphale again no matter what happened.

   The walk was certainly a long one, the sun rising higher and higher up into the sky, but Crowley passed the time strumming her lyre, humming softly to herself, and admiring the white oak blossoms on the trees, the way the petals floated softly down around her. It could only be made better by Aziraphale strolling next to her, her plump fingers filling the space between Crowley’s while her nymph chatted away.

   It still hurt remembering Aziraphale wasn’t with her now because she’d died, thinking how she’d died all alone. Even knowing that she was on her way to get Aziraphale back, it only eased the pain so much. It was like she had tried to take a deep breath but her lungs couldn’t quite expand enough and she got stuck halfway. Even if she got Aziraphale back, rosey-cheeks and all, it would always hurt a little. Seeing her pale, facedown in the dirt without so much as a twitch to move her — that was an image Crowley would never forget. A wound that would never completely heal over. Knowing there was a chance for her though, it made her feel lighter. 

   After some time, Crowley came to what was, no doubt, the portal she had been searching for. There were no guards or really any other obvious features that indicated she was in the right place. Far too conspicuous that. She’d nearly walked right by it but there was something that told her she had arrived, some energy that pulled her back. Even just standing there in front of it, she felt a bit overwhelmed. 

   It looked like nothing more than a large hole left in the ground, perhaps an animal burrow or the site of a felled tree, the hole the remains of where its roots had buried themselves underground. It made sense, of course, for a portal to the Underworld to be nondescript. You certainly couldn’t have anyone stumbling upon it and wandering in. (Though you could say that’s what Crowley was doing with just a little more purpose to her wandering in.)

   Well, she’d done enough standing around. It was time to do what she had come here for. Crowley took one last fortifying breath and stepped forward. The ground instantly crumbled beneath her feet. The hole widened and she fell with a shout.

   It was like falling out of a dream and into a nightmare. She was in a free-fall between worlds, black and empty and so silent you could hear static, before she fell out of the sky and into the Underworld. Her body smacked into a steep ledge of densely packed dirt. She tumbled over the side, down and down; she couldn’t stop herself. She just fell and fell, trying to reach out for something to grab onto, a root or branch, but there was nothing. Nothing grew in the Underworld and so Crowley fell, the hot dirt searing the bare skin of her face and bruising her limbs, until she managed to claw her fingers into the ground. 

   Eventually, she slowed her fall to a slide and then a stop. She laid there for a moment, trying to catch her breath. 

   Even that simple task was surprisingly difficult. Everything was different down here, including the air. It was thin and murky, like looking through water when you’d just dragged your feet along the muddy bottom. The dirt she’d stirred up in her fall hung around her like a cloud. The deeper she tried to breath, the more difficult it became, like the air had wrapped its wispy hands around her throat and squeezed, choking her. 

   Her throat felt sore and her chest tight with panic and pain and she coughed so much Crowley thought she may actually cough something up. Her face turned bright red and black dots were floating in and out of her sight line. She’d been down here not long enough for a cloud to pass over the sun let alone long enough to find her way towards Hades, and she was about to die here in the dirt choking on the toxic air of the Underworld, a loose grip away from tumbling towards a different death. 

   Well, that wouldn’t do at all. Crowley clamped her mouth shut and did not breathe. The coughs were suffocated in the back of her throat. It burned and her eyes watered, but after a moment she could feel herself calming. She took small, slow breaths through her nose instead and suddenly she wasn’t dying. She let out a sigh and pulled herself up to stand, half lunging. Her legs spread and a balancing hand pressed, fingers wide, to the ground, helped her as she looked out over the world beyond her.  

   The sky was a vibrant orange, as if the sun was going down though there was no sun to speak of. The rest of the land was dark and dead and horrid. The mountains were so blue and dark they looked black. The dirt was grey, ashy, and hot to the touch. Even looking down at her own hands, Crowley’s skin was already fading from a soft brown to grey and pale. She was on borrowed time here. She needed to hurry down towards Hades and Persephone. 

   Gingerly, she lifted her hand from the ground and took a short breath before she shifted her weight forward. Almost immediately she was sliding quickly towards the base of the mountain. It didn’t take long, even with her stumbling and falling and a couple times. The ground was visibly different — a strong grey and black stone that looked as though it had risen up from the center of the Earth — but still it felt no different from that of the massive structure Crowley had just come down from. Even now standing on solid ground, she felt as though she might begin sliding downward, the calluses on her feet rubbing, burning from friction. Still, she had come here for Aziraphale and she wasn’t leaving without her, so she started off in the direction she thought would lead her to Hades. She didn’t know for sure that she was headed in the right direction, but something inside of her pulled her just as it had in the forest. It hadn’t been wrong then so surely she could trust it again down here. 

   It was strange, walking through here with a sense of direction and yet not really knowing where you were. The path led her through a gorge and felt as though it were constantly winding, taking sharp turns and looping around itself, but it only led her straight on. It made her feel like her head was swimming. 

   She felt watched but never saw anyone else nor could she pinpoint the source. It was like something was circling her. The walls on either side of the gorge went up higher than she could see and at moments it felt as though they were narrowing, trapping her. Her mind was fighting itself, half of it telling her to turn around and run back to where she had come. The other half insisted that she could only escape if she continued forward. The entire experience was deeply disturbing. Still, she pressed forward.

   Just as she began to wonder how long she’d been walking for, how much longer it would be before she reached Hades’ palace, the land morphed and the path crested over a dirt hill with the horizon painted with broad strokes behind it. Only moments before, Crowley had stared down a path that stretched on forever and the sunless sky was so far ahead it looked like an orange pinprick in the distance. She frowned, understandably confused, but she ran to the top of the hill and looked down, not at the other side of the hill, but rather over a waterfall and a sheer drop underground. Even though she could hear the water running down, it was as though the hole had swallowed all light itself. Completely pitch black, she couldn’t see a thing past the rim of the hole.

   It took but a moment of decision. Crowley closed her eyes and jumped.

   The hot air from above evaporated, rushing from her lungs and diving out her throat. It felt like her very spirit raced to leave her and hurry back to the surface. The air turned from dry and thin and dirty to wet and dense and sterile. Her entire body shook violently against the sudden sharp temperature drop. The sound of the water roaring filled her head and her mind hurt with how heavy it felt and it was so cold and what was going to happen when she reached the bottom? How much water had pooled there? How deep was it? Would she splash or splat?

   She found out before any worries had time to spiral further. One moment she had been falling and the next she felt solid ground under her feet, like it had rushed up to catch her. The air had stopped whipping around her. It was still and silent. Crowley opened her eyes to find herself standing at what must be the bottom of the waterfall, except there was no waterfall. It’d completely vanished. A misty river of depthless water wound out in front of her. Looking up, she couldn’t even see where she had fallen from. It was as dark as a starless night, the blackness empty and hungry. 

   Crowley was standing on a wooden dock in the middle of the water. Next to her, a cloaked figure stood at the rear of a long papyrus boat with an oar. A lantern sat at their feet, the soft yellow light flickered dimly and illuminated the empty seat in the middle of the boat. Crowley couldn’t see their eyes, if they had any at all, but she felt them looking at her expectantly. 

   “Do you require some form of payment for me to ride?” Crowley asked as she stepped off the dock and into the boat, forgetting any hesitation. It rocked gently with her added weight. The light from the lantern spilled out over the sides of the boat and bounced off the stone walls of the cave. 

   The figure said nothing, but lowered the long paddle into the water though they made no effort to push away from the dock. The ripples from their movement danced across the water almost hypnotically. The boat rode smoothly atop the waves, like a drop of rain sliding over the waxy coating of a leaf. If Crowley didn’t know any better, she’d say they were waving at her, coaxing her. She felt the wordless whispers of many different voices caress the outer shell of her ear. Her gut clenched and she suddenly felt violently ill.

   “Do not look into the water,” a voice said, though Crowley could not say from which direction it had come. She felt the overwhelming urge to look directly into the water despite what she had heard. So she did, ignoring the warning.

   At first she saw nothing but the pale blue water and her own image looking back up at her. The longer she looked, though, the further she leaned over the boat and the more she could see. There were white arms and hands reaching up, grabbing at the sides of the boat. They grabbed her reflection, squeezed her neck viciously. They covered her mouth and yanked her hair. She tried to scream but the hands over her reflection’s mouth muffled the noise, forcing her to swallow it back down her throat. She could feel it rattling around inside of her.

   “Do not look into the water,” the voice spoke again, this time louder and more assertive. The ferryman used the end of their oar to push Crowley back inside the boat. They weren’t at all forceful, but Crowley still ended up flying backwards into her seat, violently shaking the boat from side-to-side. Her throat felt bruised and it hurt to breathe.

   Once she was calm enough, she noticed her lyre sitting at the bottom of the boat. She had brought it with her, she suddenly remembered, but must’ve lost it when she entered the Underworld because she certainly didn’t have it while scaling the side of the mountain or any time after that. She turned back toward the figure standing stock-still at the rear of the boat. Even sitting below them, Crowley could not see their face beneath the shadow of their hood. Their body was entirely covered by their robe. Even as they held the oar, stroking the water more than actually rowing, Crowley couldn’t see their hands. Her mind felt fuzzy and static when she looked directly where they should be. 

   Perhaps this was the expected payment. She was hesitant to sing until she was reunited with Aziraphale, without her it felt almost profane, but playing her lyre — that was something she could do. The rest of the trip, Crowley strummed along and looked dead ahead until the mouth of a separate cave came into sight. It was absolutely enormous, so big that it shouldn’t have actually fit inside this cave. Stalagmites grew from the top of it and Crowley could see a twisting path that almost certainly led through to Hades’ palace. 

   The ferryman lifted their oar from the water. The ripples began to fade back into the water and the boat drifted along for a short while more before slowing to a stop beside a second dock.  

   Crowley, taking her lyre with her, stood from the boat and onto the dock. She gave one last look at the ferryman before setting off down the path towards Hades’ front gates. 

   She didn’t have to walk far. Down the path and around a long bend and Crowley was staring at the set of terribly tall and imposing iron gates with what looked to be a gigantic three-headed dog sleeping in front. 

   She swallowed and continued forward. The ears on one head swiveled in Crowley’s direction and she froze. None of the heads moved but a pair of ears was definitely interested in her. Slowly she pressed on, one step at a time, and humming low in her throat trying to warm up her voice. 

   “Oh deities of this dark world beneath the earth,” she started softly, speaking more than singing. Even so it was undeniably melodic. Two eyes opened, staring her down. 

   “I am not pretending. I wish I were dead.” All three heads were now paying attention to her, but not a one moved. They all watched her as she moved closer to the gate, moving faster now and gently playing her lyre to match her voice.

   “I come not down here because of curiosity to see the glooms of Tartarus,” she continued, fully singing with tears in her eyes. She couldn’t put off any longer now. “She was leaving me in tears, and over and over she said to me: ‘Crowley, it hurts. What's happened to us is just so grim. It isn't my choice, I swear it, to leave like this.’ And in these words I answered her:

   “‘I want to remind you of the good things we have enjoyed. For at my side, many the crowns of violets and roses you have put on yourself, and many the garlands woven from flowers you have cast round your delicate neck, and with quantities of flowery perfume fit for a queen even, you anointed yourself all over, and on soft beds, delicately you have satisfied desire.’

   “You may not know Love down here, but I do: by this Place of Fear, this huge void and these vast and silent realms, renew the life-thread of my loving Aziraphale! After all, one day, when grey and old and full of age, she shall be yours yet again and forevermore. All I ask of you is just a few years of her life. But if the fates deny to me this prayer, then I do not want to go back, and may you triumph in the death of two!”

   And when she had finished, she began again. Cerberus looked at her with mournful eyes as they let her walk past. She rested a loving hand as high on their head as she could reach and their tail thumped loudly, shaking the ground. Crowley couldn’t help smiling a bit as she slipped through the bars of the gates.

   Her voice echoed through the whole of the Underworld and it was so moving and haunting that everything stopped. Danaids ceased filling their pitchers with water; the souls stopped their moaning; the wheel of Ixion suddenly stopped turning; even those unconscious and inanimate objects mourned for Crowley and Aziraphale.

   Every time her song finished, she would start again— violent, frenzied and inconsolable— until she was in the throne room and kneeling at the feet of Hades and Persephone. Hades, a giant woman with dark skin and long brown hair, ringlets falling over her shoulders, held more elegance and cold power than Crowley could bear. She stared down at Crowley. Her arms rested immobile on the arms of her throne. Persephone sat in his throne on Hades’ right side, just as huge and imposing, but softer and lighter and kinder. They both wept.

   Crowley went through her song once more and then stopped for breath. She knelt there, a mere ant in comparison to the Gods she pleaded with, panting with her head bowed and shoulders hunched, her lyre at her side.

   “Please,” she said and looked up at the two Gods. They held her fate in their hands, her entire life. “I don’t know what to do without her. The world does not deserve her, but I would rather spend eternity here than alone on Earth.”

   They both stared at her, cheeks and eyes wet, then at each other, and back at her seemingly have come to some nonverbal agreement.

   “Very well,” Persephone smiled and wiped away his tears. “You shall have your wife back.” Crowley began to stand, mouth open ready to stutter out a string of “thank you”s but she’s cut off before she can start. 

   “However,” Hades started. “You must not look back at her until you both stand in the light of the sun. If you look back at her even a moment before, she will fall back into the Underworld and she will never return to the World of the Living. Do you understand?” Hades looked down at Crowley, her expression stern but open, almost as though she was pleading with Crowley.

   “I understand,” said Crowley, fully getting to her feet. “Thank you very much.” Even with the threat of truly never seeing Aziraphale again painfully etched into her ribs, Crowley was practically vibrating with relief.

   “Be on your way, then,” Hades commanded and raised a huge hand to gesture to the door.

   “She will be behind you the entire time. Lead her back. Remember.”

   Crowley nodded. “Don’t look back.” And with that she turned and headed out the door.

   She didn’t need to slip through the gate, this time they swung open for her. Cerberus sat there waiting for her. They accompanied Crowley and Aziraphale back down the path to the ferryman. She got in the boat and didn’t need to charm them with song or playing for them to row back down the river. 

   Crowley didn’t look in the water. 

   She didn’t look behind her when the boat didn’t shake with the weight of another person climbing in beside her.

   At the first dock, Crowley climbed out of the boat and instead of finding herself standing on the dock, she found herself above ground. The hot, orange light blinded her and the returned sound of the waterfall roaring was deafening, though a comfort. The sudden adjustment needed to get used to the hot, dry, dirty air takes Crowley a moment. She takes a few slow breaths through her nose before moving forward. 

   She didn't hear anything but the wind stirring up dirt around her.

   She heads back towards the mountain, once again following the pull inside of her. The walls still narrow around her and her head still spins with the feeling of being watched. The hot dirt scalds the soles of her feet with each step, like being on a beach with bare feet. 

   Going up the mountain was really a very different experience than coming down and Crowley wasn’t sure which was worse. She was about halfway up and she could see the open portal waiting for her and Aziraphale.

   That is, if Aziraphale was behind her at all. She never turned around to check, just in case her nymph really was there, but Crowley had been growing increasingly skeptical. She couldn’t feel Aziraphale there with her. Crowley’s always been able to feel her. Maybe it was because she wasn’t really alive yet? It was only a part of her that was with Crowley, after all. Or was it this place, manipulating and using her fears against her?

   But she hadn’t heard a single noise from behind. If Aziraphale was really there, she hadn’t said a word, hadn’t breathed, hadn’t made a sound. Aziraphale loved to talk and Crowley loved to listen. The fact that she hadn’t uttered a single word this entire trip worried Crowley to no end. 

   They were nearly to the top now. 

   ‘Should I turn around?’

   The heat grew more intense as they climbed higher and higher into the sky. 

   ‘Just to check?’

   Some dirt escaped from under her foot and Crowley nearly ended up tumbling back down the side of the mountain. 

   ‘What if this isn’t real? I should check.’

   She hauled herself back up and quickly found herself scampering up the last few steps to stand at the top. 

   ‘What if I just glance over my shoulder. That doesn’t really count as looking, does it?’

   She looked directly up over her head up through the portal. She could see the trees and clear blue sky. She could hear the sound of a breeze shaking the leaves and could feel the coolness on her skin. She closed her eyes and basked in it.

   ‘Just for a second.’ 

   She stretched an arm up and she could feel the phantom warmth of the sun on her skin. Everything didn’t feel so hot anymore. She felt like she could actually take a sweeping breath, feel the clean air fill her. She relished it.

   ‘I need to know. I need to see you.’

   Crowley opened her eyes and started to spin around. 

   Then she stopped. 

   She was back in the World of the Living and she was staring at a tree. A real live tree, brown and tree. She could feel the sun on her skin, she felt it. When she reached up through the portal, it must’ve brought her back. She'd been back longer than she thought. 

   She couldn’t bear to actually turn around now. Despite feeling so desperate for it not a moment ago, she couldn't actually bear to do it. Was this all some elaborate ploy by the Gods, cosmic punishment, for her refusal to sing? 

   Instead, Crowley takes a shaky breath and reaches a hand out behind her. 

   Someone takes it. 

   Crowley lets out a weak sob and squeezes. There isn’t really anything to hold, though. She turns around to see Aziraphale, beautiful as ever, of course. Crowley has never wanted to hold Aziraphale more than she did right now. She wants to fall to her knees and wrap her arms around the nymph’s vast expanse of soft belly and bury her face in the fabric of Aziraphale’s peplos and feel the warmth there radiating outward. She wants to relish in the sweet scent of her wife, let it surround and swaddle her. She wants to get to her feet and kiss Aziraphale’s cheeks and chins and shoulders and every single thin white stretch mark climbing up her arms until she can’t anymore. She wants to hold Aziraphale and never let go ever again.

   But she can’t. She’s turned and Aziraphale is there, thank all those above and below she’s here, but Aziraphale still doesn’t have a body. Her image is thin, wispy. Despite all the things that seem to have happened on their own today, Aziraphale’s body has not walked itself over for her to re-inhabit. They need to go home and work on that together. But it doesn’t matter. Aziraphale is here and alive again.

   “I missed you,” Crowley says, weeping. “I missed you so much.”

   Aziraphale beams at her, beams at her like the fucking ray of sunshine that she is, and mouths back to her ‘I missed you too.'

                                                          ~

    They wasted time walking back home together. Aziraphale’s body wasn’t going anywhere, after all, so they may as well enjoy the trip back. The oak blossoms were finally wilting from the trees, celebrating that Aziraphale was back and Crowley was finally happy. 

   And since Aziraphale had no voice to talk, Crowley filled the silence. She picked at her lyre to the tune of the wind and the sound their rings make when they touch. She regaled the tale of her traversing the whole of the Underworld just so she could save her wonderful, beautiful wife after she’d gone and got herself into trouble again. 

   “Really, my love, I don’t believe there’s a single thing that could keep you from getting yourself into some sort of mess,” Crowley mentioned almost offhandedly but with a bit of snark. Aziraphale made a face. Particularly one that said, ‘I-really-want-to-say-something-back-but-I-can’t-so-I’m-just-going-to-look-mildly-put-out’.

   “You’re just lucky there’s also not a single thing that could keep me from coming to rescue you.” Aziraphale seemed to be mostly satisfied with that answer.

   When they finally arrived back home, the sun had set long ago. Crowley wasn’t entirely sure how much time she’d actually spent down in the Underworld seeing as there were no days or nights there, she just knew by the time they got home, she was absolutely famished and exhausted. She imagined once Aziraphale was back in her body, she’d feel much the same.

   Before they could eat or sleep, though, Aziraphale needed her body. And then that body was going to need a good dressing down and washing up. So, Crowley took to the garden and carefully started digging, scooping away handfuls of dirt from Aziraphale’s body. She didn’t want to take any chances using a shovel. It took a lot longer that way, but it was very much worth it in Crowley’s opinion. 

   After most of the dirt was gone and they could finally see Aziraphale’s face, Crowley froze. Aziraphale was alive, she was okay. Crowley knew that. She could feel Aziraphale sitting beside her, could feel her eyes on her, could feel a hand gently resting on her back. Aziraphale tugged on her chiton to get her attention. Looking up from Aziraphale’s cold empty body to where he spirit sat next to her, eyes so alive and full of love and concern — it gave her whiplash.

   “It’s okay. I’m here,” Aziraphale mouthed to her, exaggerating her annunciation so Crowley understood exactly what she was trying to say.

   “I nearly lost you.” The words left Crowley in a rush. “I almost turned around. At the last second I nearly ruined everything.” She hardly knew what was coming out of her mouth, everything felt so blurry and muddled and all the emotion clogging up her throat made it burn and her eyes felt wet again.

   Aziraphale just smiled, soft and a little sad, her hand moving from Crowley’s back to her face. Crowley tipped her head, leaning her into the airy feeling of Aziraphale’s palm.

   “It’s okay.” She mouthed and Crowley cried harder. She wanted to lean into Aziraphale’s arms; she wanted to be held and told a million times ‘it’s okay’. But that couldn’t happen. Aziraphale needed to leave her, just this once more. 

   Crowley wiped her eyes and jerked her head towards Aziraphale’s body waiting for her. 

   “Go on then. Can’t wait all night for you to get comfortable.” Aziraphale sent her a fondly exasperated look before she suddenly disappeared altogether and Crowley had to catch herself as she fell forward.

   It took a moment, an excruciatingly long moment, but eventually Aziraphale sat up from the ground with a huge intake of air, eyes flying open, cloudiness fading quickly, and looked around wildly. She was already much less pale, less cold. Crowley was on her in an instant, in Aziraphale’s lap with her arms over her nymph’s shoulders and pulling her as close as they could get. Aziraphale’s thighs — her legs, her exposed skin — from where her wrappings had come undone pressed against Crowley’s own bare skin and it’d never felt so good or so grounding before.

   “I’m here,” she said against Aziraphale’s lips — they still tasted of summer months and morning dew drops even after all this time. “I’m here. I’m here.” She repeated it like they were the only words she knew how to say. Aziraphale kissed back with as much fervor as she possessed.

   “Oh my dear, my sweet love. Crowley, how glad I am to be with you again. I’ve missed you so much, dearest.” Aziraphale couldn’t hold Crowley close enough. Walking beside her all that time home, not being able to fully touch, not able to speak — it wasn’t nearly enough.

   “You could never fail me, Crowley.” Aziraphale went on, reassuring and soft, trying to sooth Crowley of the worries she had voiced earlier. “You missed me and you were so close. You didn’t want to wait. I understand. But I knew you wouldn’t turn around. I trusted you just as you do me. It’s okay.” Aziraphale herself began to cry as she reassured Crowley. The nymph brought her wife’s dirty fingers up to her mouth to kiss each knuckle, each fingertip. Crowley wept with relief.

     Aziraphale had no concept of time when she was gone, no conscious thought for the months she was in the Underworld. And yet, while there she felt an aching loneliness down to her very core. She missed something so deeply and yet she could not name it. She could but moan for the loss of something she could hardly remember. She knew now what she yearned for was the press of Crowley’s fingers to the rolls of her back and the taste of Crowley’s apricot lips on hers and the enchanting sight of dark spots spreading over her tan shoulders from time in the sun and her golden eyes blinking slowly at her from across the kitchen table as the evening sun flooding the room. She missed Crowley worshiping every inch of her body and her doing the same in return. Walking back with Crowley had been relieving of course, seeing her alive and well was already more than she could've hoped for. But this, touching Crowley, feeling her skin prickle under her touch, it wasn't something she could ever go without.

   “Come,” Aziraphale said, breathless and between placing delicate kisses to Crowley’s eyelids. “Wash up with me. I can't stand the feeling of all this dirt. Then we can go to bed.”

   “Mm,” Crowley responded, still very much distracted. “Sounds good to me.”

   They went down to the river, trading fruit between themselves as an impromptu dinner as they went and sharing indirect kisses (and some direct ones), and washed their clothing side-by-side, hanging them in the trees to dry. They took turns bathing and washing each others’ hair, fingers gently combing through knots and massaging the dirt away. Eventually, Aziraphale simply laid with her back to the bank, her head in Crowley’s lap as her wife lovingly ran her long fingers through her nymph’s white curls and scooped up pools of water with cupped hands to wash Aziraphale’s face and shoulders.

   “Lovely still after all this time, my love. My beautiful nymph. My memorizing dryad. My wife.” Crowley murmured contently as she massaged the plump skin of Aziraphale’s neck. Aziraphale hummed back. Her eyes were closed but she could feel Crowley’s gentle gaze sweeping over her.

   “All the same can be said for you, my dear delicate human. How the gods have blessed me so with your love.” Aziraphale opened her eyes for a moment to meet Crowley’s gaze and smiled. Crowley gave a smile of her own and planted a kiss on Aziraphale’s forehead.

   Both would’ve been completely content to lay there all night long, but the night air grew cool and they longed for the comfort of their bed. They put their clothes back on, though still relatively damp but clean, and headed back. At home, they changed into dry clothes and huddled together in bed facing each other with arms slung over waists and legs entwined under the blankets. 

   “Would you sing a song for me?” Aziraphale whispered over the slide of fabric over skin.

   “Ngk. S’pose I’ve got one in mind that might do.” Crowley watches Aziraphale’s sapphire eyes blink heavily at her. So she sang, the notes vibrating through her — down her throat, down her torso, down her arm, and out through her fingertips where they squeeze Aziraphale’s hip so she can feel them too. 

   “You came and I was crazy for you,” her voice steadily grew steadily softer, sweeter, quieter as Aziraphale could no longer bear to keep her eyes open. “And you cooled my mind that burned with longing.” The bright white light of the moon hit Aziraphale’s back and cast her in a halo of godly light. The image burned itself into the front of Crowley’s brain as her own eyes grew heavier than she could stand. Her breath slowed, her body grew loose and she dreamed of nothing but the sight of Aziraphale standing in that very same stunning light as she held Crowley close.

 “I’m here,” she said. “I’m here and I will always be.” 

[thefandomlesbian]

Prompt: “Don’t touch me. We’re fighting.” For WintersDay, please and thank you 😊

Someone knows WintersDay is my weakness! Please read on AO3 to read with appropriate formatting, since Tumblr eats it. 

Read on AO3 here! 

“For by my side you put on

many wreaths of roses

and garlands of flowers

around your soft neck.

And with precious and royal perfume

you anointed yourself.

On soft beds you satisfied your passion.

And there was no dance,

no holy place

from which we were absent.” -Sappho

Bostonian spring was cold and came far too late for Misty, whose cabin fever had driven her to the point of insanity. She hated Boston. She had hated it before, when she had arrived with Lana in the early autumn, but at least then, there had been some hope of hiking and camping and escaping the grotesque city and its disgusting smells and the soot and ash flowing through the air freely. Winter had made Boston even more repugnant to Misty. 

If she didn’t love Lana so much, she would have hitchhiked herself back to New Orleans in less than six months. But she did love Lana so much, so she suffered in silence, her magic building and twitching inside of her from lack of use, her irritability burbling up to the surface in the middle of the night when the noise pollution refused to let her sleep. Misty kept telling herself she would be happy here, eventually, as long as she was with Lana… That was what she had told herself when Lana asked her to get into her car and ride more than fifteen hundred miles up the east coast, ripping up her entire life for a love she had never known before. As long as she was with Lana, she could be satisfied. She just had to get used to it. 

She wasn’t used to it, though. She loathed it. She loathed the cars and the exhaust and the asphalt. She loathed the barren, cultured grass, nothing but an environmental waste, and she loathed the fake decor and poor landscaping. But more than anything, she loathed the people. 

In fact, Misty was quite convinced that Lana Winters was the only good, honest, decent, loving person in the entire city of Boston. 

Lana knew none of this. Misty kept her misery to herself, though she did share it with her three-legged squirrel, Big Red, who rode about on her shoulders day after miserable day indoors. And when the springtime sunlight finally breached the forlorn gray clouds over the city, Misty perked up in spite of the chill. “Hey,” she greeted Lana the same day that the sun came out, “do you think I can plant a garden?” 

Lana looked at her. “Well--yeah, sure. Do whatever you want in the yard. Less to mow.” Ugh. Mowing. Misty couldn’t believe people just threw away perfectly good grass also while pitching pollutants out into the atmosphere at an unprecedented rate. “But, um, I don’t know how much work you want to spend on the whole reviving thing. There’s still a chance we can get more snow this year. I don’t want you to be disappointed if a frost kills off everything you planted.”

Snow? It’s mid-April! “I’ll take my chances.” Misty knew she could bring everything back. The months of unuse for her powers had not caused them to atrophy, but rather had built them up stronger than ever before. Armed with a hoe, a shovel, a water pail, and some seeds and saplings, Misty headed outside before the crack of dawn the next day. Maybe she couldn’t be happy in Boston, but perhaps she could bring enough of the swamp to the city so she could have a smidgen of peace. 

Still under the cover of darkness, Misty worked with her magic when she trusted no one could see. She could dig and hoe at the same time with her telekinesis. The ugly, metropolitan shrubs she pulled up. “Compost these.” She stripped all the ugly, pebble landscaping from around Lana’s house. Nothing healthy could ever possibly grow in such harsh, unforgiving conditions. Once the rocks were stripped, Misty dug along the side of the house first… and then she gradually worked her way out into the rest of the yard. Let me plant some things I can eat. Misty hated eating out of a can. She needed to grow her own vegetables. But she would make it beautiful, too, for Lana to enjoy. Maybe in a few months, when these saplings are large enough, I can build a treehouse for us to climb in. Everything smaller she could bring to fruition in a few short hours, but the trees would take longer. Even with all of her strength, she did not think she could grow the vast oaks to the size she wanted them to accommodate a treehouse in a day. 

Misty slaved over her craft. Big Red chittered, resting on the gutter as he watched her work. She lined the house with her own bushes--blackberry, boysenberry, blueberry, strawberry, cranberry. Further out, she had all of her vegetables--the squash, the tomato, the pepper, the carrots, the potatoes, several stalks of corn. She planted oak saplings for Big Red when they grew large enough to produce acorns, and she lined every path with sweet-smelling, natural growing flowers. Lana doesn’t want to mow--she’ll never have to mow again! Anything Misty pulled up that she could not make use of went into the compost pile. I’ll get us some worms and really get that compost going. The earth was barren of worms, as well, but she could fix that soon enough. 

As the day wore on, her blossoms opened. The space from garden to garden was just wide enough for them to walk through. The grass won’t grow here if I throw down some mulch and keep it tramped down. No need for the mower anymore. Misty despised the sound and smell of a lawnmower. If she could keep Lana from mowing, they would both be extremely happy. 

She crawled into bed that night, long after dark, freshly showered and clean. Lana rolled over. “Hey, bear.” Her hands curled into Misty’s hair, still wet from the shower. “I missed you… You were outside all day. Must be a nice garden.” She kissed Misty on the lips. Misty spooned up behind her like a happy cat. “You can show me tomorrow. How long til we have some tomatoes?” 

“Not long,” Misty promised. She kissed Lana’s neck and tickled her tummy, forcing her to squirm and giggle with delight. “I’ve got you.” 

Lana hummed happily. “I’m so glad you’re feeling like yourself again.” She peeked back at Misty. “I was starting to worry the winter was wearing you down.”

Misty sighed. Maybe I wasn’t as discreet as I wanted to be. “It was. But I’m feeling a lot better now.” 

Lana snuggled up against her and bid her goodnight. Misty’s exhausted body held her warm and near, and for the first time since she had come to Boston, she slept all the way through the night without the sounds of the trains or the vehicles outside disturbing her slumber. 

The next morning, Misty rolled out of bed with Big Red tangled up in her hair and found Lana on the couch sipping her coffee in front of the television. “Morning, cityslicker,” Misty teased as she came up the hall. She sank onto the couch beside Lana. “What are your plans for the day?” She ran her hand down one of Lana’s legs, and at the summoning, Lana turned her body and placed both of her feet in Misty’s lap. 

Misty began to rub her feet. “Well,” Lana said, “I gotta run some errands. The weather says we’re officially out of snow for the season, so I better stop by the gas station and pick up a gallon for the mower. It’ll just be a week or two before they’re making me mow it.” 

Shaking her head, Misty said, “Uh-uh,” as she rubbed Lana’s feet with her thumbs. 

Lana’s brows quirked. “What do you mean, uh-uh?” 

Innocent blue eyes flicked up to Lana. “You told me you didn’t like to mow, so I fixed the yard so we won’t have to mow anymore. No more wasted space. I’m just gonna throw some mulch down on the trails--”

“Trails?” Lana questioned. “Misty, my yard is less than two acres! What exactly did you do to it?” 

She sounds angry. “You said you didn’t want to mow anymore and I should do whatever I wanted with the yard. So I ripped out all the landscaping--”

“You did what?”

Misty’s defenses rose. “It was ugly! Nothing could grow in those pebbles. I laid natural bushes instead--ones that are good for the environment and will benefit the wildlife!” 

“What wildlife? This is the middle of the city! Any wildlife that comes into our yard is going to get flattened!” Lana rolled off the couch and ran to the front door. “Holy shit!” she gasped as she stared out of the front of the house. The morning sun shed light on all of the dewy flowers and leaves and bushes. “We have to take it all down.” 

“We what?” Misty snapped. “No way! I worked all day on making it beautiful! I’m not killing everything I just brought to life!” Lana stepped out of the house. Her bare feet touched the beautiful, freshly stirred earth, leaving slight footprints in their wake, and the low bushes and flowers brushed her ankles and left water trickling down them. “Why are you making such a big deal out of this? You told me to do whatever I wanted with the yard, so I did!”

“I thought you were going to plant a handful of tomatoes and some squash and maybe some pretty flowers, not recreate the Okefenokee swamp! The city is going to send us notices for looking overgrown and unkempt!” 

Heat burned Misty’s face. “Overgrown and unkempt, my ass! It’s beautiful!” she snapped. “All I did was try to make it beautiful for you! I planted tomatoes because you always say you hate the ones out of a can! I planted potatoes because you hate buying them by the bag, I planted wild blackberries because you like that they have seeds the ones in the store don’t! I planted blanketflowers because they remind me of your eyes, bluebells and merry bells because you have that portrait in our room that you like, dayflowers and blue morning glories because that’s your favorite color to wear because you think it makes you look thinner even though I know you’re beautiful in any color! I planted a dogwood tree because you said it’s your favorite tree and you told me the old fable that Jesus’s cross was made from the dogwood tree! And I planted some sunflowers to grow so I can braid them in your hair on the days you’re so miserable and I’m not able to cheer you up!”

“Bullshit, you did it for you! You’ve spent all winter moping and whining and now you’re trying to get a little piece of the wilderness in the city!”

“Yes!” Misty’s whole body grew hot. Big Red jumped off her shoulders as her skin became too hot to touch, driven by her rage. The squirrel ran to Lana and scampered up her leg. “Yes! You’re right! I fucking hate it here, Lana! I can’t sleep at night! It’s too loud! It smells like chemical warfare! Your neighbors all have sour, angry faces, and the grass is sterile, and the soil doesn’t have any earthworms! This place sucks! And I am trying to be happy here, because this is where you are, and you’re all I ever wanted! But the water that comes out of the tap tastes like metal, and every day that I spend here in this hellscape, I feel myself hating it more and more! So god forbid I should plant some flowers in the yard where I live, so maybe I can walk outside without wondering if I made a mistake by coming here at all!” 

A black car parked in front of Lana’s house. A man rolled down the window and stuck his camera out it, beginning to snap pictures. Lana turned on her heel, attention suddenly stripped from Misty, but as she approached the car to reprimand the photographer, Misty stormed right past her. She strode powerfully, her hands balled into tight fists and the magic crackling around her--only Lana could see, but she knew it was dangerous enough. “Misty,” Lana cautioned. Oh, god, Misty, don’t! She trotted after her. “Misty!” 

Misty slammed both hands against the door of the car. The driver flinched back away from her. He reached to roll up the window, but with a flick of Misty’s eyes, the handle snapped off. Lana jogged up beside her, watching as Misty glowered directly into the man’s eyes. “You do not know who we are. You did not take any pictures of us. You will not come back here again. And so help me god, if you do, you can compost my goddamn flowerbeds.” The man had a blank stare… She’s controlling him, Lana realized with some horror. She had forgotten Misty could do that. He blinked a few times, as if shaking himself, and then pulled back onto the road and drove away. 

But the speed with which Misty whirled upon her indicated the fight was not over. “What?” she snarled. “I can take care of myself.” 

“I know--” It was him I was worried about. “I was afraid you would blow up the car.” She measured her words as she spoke them, patient and slow, trying to remain calm. I had no idea she was so miserable here. Lana licked her lips. “I didn’t want you to do anything rash.” 

Misty’s eyes flashed, glossed over with tears which did not shed. “Of course. You think I’m too goddamn stupid to have any decision-making skills. You think I would put you in danger because I can’t think for two seconds to realize that blowing up a car in the middle of your residential suburban America hell is a bad idea.” 

“That is not what I said--Misty, come back!” Misty was already walking away from her. Lana steadied Big Red on her shoulder, grabbing Misty by the hand. “Ow!” She jerked her hand away. Misty’s skin was hot to the touch, like a pan on the stove. “What the hell?”

“Don’t touch me! We’re fighting!” Misty’s voice had gone from furious to shrill. She thundered into the house, and as Lana fought to keep up with her, she walked faster, entering the bathroom and slamming the door shut firmly behind her. 

The sound of the lock clicking into place finalized it for Lana, though she still tried to turn the knob a couple of times. “Misty!” She pressed her ear to the door. She could hear nothing but Misty’s uneven breathing. She’s crying. Lana only seen Misty cry once since they met. The knowledge that she had hurt Misty so deeply wounded her soul. “Misty… I’m sorry I upset you. I’ll apply for a permit to certify the yard as a wildlife habitat, so we won’t have to take it down.” It will be nice not to have to mow. Big Red teetered on her shoulder, clasping her hair with his front paws. “I’m so sorry you’re unhappy. I didn’t know… I thought it was just some cabin fever.” She leaned against the door with one hand pressed flat against it. “I’ll start looking for somewhere else for us to live. Somewhere outside the city, where we can have some room and some quiet.” The days Lana had spent in the swamp with Misty had been among the most miserable in her life--and she included Briarcliff and Thredson in that mix, the swamp had been that bad. But they had to find a middle ground. She couldn’t lose Misty… Not after Wendy. She couldn’t endure that heartache again, knowing she had lost the one she loved and it was her fault. 

Lana sighed, leaning against the door, losing hope that Misty was going to let her in. “We can take time this summer to go back… if you want. I know that’s not the safest place in the world for you, but if you’d like to go, we can go. I trust you can protect us.” She chewed her lower lip. “Once it’s a little warmer, we can go camping…” She wasn’t hitting any of Misty’s buttons well enough to get her to open back up. She’s pissed at me. She had every right to be. “I don’t think you’re stupid,” she said quietly. “I’m sorry if I ever act like that. I know--I know you aren’t well-educated, but that doesn’t mean you’re stupid. I only thought you were going to blow up the car because that’s what I would’ve wanted to do, if I were you. I know you would never do anything to put us in danger.” She cleared her throat. “I know all of this is new to you. And I know you’re trying. I’m trying, too. I need you to talk to me… That’s the only way I can make things better.” 

A long, silent moment passed before the lock clicked again, and the bathroom door inched open. Behind it, Misty stood, stony-faced, her blue eyes rimmed in red. Lana’s eyes fluttered wide eagerly, opening her arms, but she hesitated before hugging her; she didn’t want to be burned again. Misty opened her arms in return, and Lana sank into her hug. She flung her arms tightly around Misty’s neck and buried her face into the crook. Misty squeezed her, her arms folding protectively around Lana’s back. “I’m sorry I burned you,” Misty mumbled in her thick voice, still a little teary. “It was an accident.” 

“Oh, bear, I know,” Lana whispered. “I know you would never hurt me on purpose.” She tucked a lock of hair behind Misty’s head. “I’m sorry I yelled at you… I was overreacting.” She swallowed hard. “You know change is hard for me, without Wendy.” Some part of her still wanted to leave everything the way it was when Wendy had died. Slowly but surely, Misty was teaching her to move on… But sometimes, it all came back, the fear that once she had lost Wendy, she would never get her back. “But that doesn’t give me any right to take it out on you. Especially when I told you to do whatever you wanted… I didn’t realize we had two very different ideas of what a garden is.” 

Misty ducked her head, snorting in spite of herself. “I should have clarified,” she mumbled. “You complained about mowing… and I hate lawnmowers.” She shuddered as she said the word. Pity leapt through Lana’s heart. “I thought I would make it easier for us by making something beautiful. Make it a little less awful here.” 

Lana caressed Misty’s cheek. “There is nothing you can do to this place, or to me, to make me love you less.” 

Misty leaned into her embrace, kissing the inside of her wrist. “I would live the rest of my life in this hell hole if it meant I got to be with you.” 

A tender smile touched Lana’s face. “It was very thoughtful of you to plant that garden… I didn’t realize you could do so much in just a day.” She planted everything thinking of me. Oh, that stung Lana’s insides now, how she had hurled it back in Misty’s face in a fit of rage. “I’d like to walk out and look at it now, if you’ll show me.”

A calloused hand touched the small of Lana’s back. “Of course,” she whispered. Leaning down, she pressed a kiss to Lana’s lips, and Lana closed her eyes as the magic surrounded her. 

[theofficialacoetes]

God(dess), won’t you fix my problems?

All through time, in nearly every civilization, there is both the concept of a higher deity and the concept of praying to this deity (or deities). Greek civilization is no different, seen through many of our in-class readings (Sappho’s prayer to Aphrodite, Rage, many instances of prayer in the Odyssey and Iliad, etc). Not to be overly negative, but it does seem a bit silly to run into a problem and then immediately ask the relevant god to fix your situation for you. Take Sappho’s prayer for instance: Sappho falls in love, which is unfortunately unrequited. I feel you honey, we’ve all been there, it’s tough, but is that really the place to ask a supreme deity for help? “Oh Aphrodite, he doesn’t love me back, can you use your God powers to make him love me against his own free will? Thanks.” See, when it’s not written so elegantly and doesn’t have artistic flow, that prayer seems pretty silly. Now, I’m not criticizing religion, or faith, or prayer, I’m only criticizing the type of prayer in which one is simply asking for their problem to be fixed. Praying for guidance, or for a sign, or praying for a loved one’s health makes perfect sense to me (especially the last one, as many of those situations are beyond control), but praying for your problem to be magically fixed not only seems silly, but also annoying to the deity, should they exist. For instance; take the movie Bruce Almighty, where Bruce (Jim Carrey) is given God’s powers and responsibility. The most annoying thing he experiences, is everyone constantly asking for his help. We get it, everyone could use a little luck, or a little good fortune, or the wind to blow their way, but that’s not God’s responsibility, or in the Grecian case, it’s not the responsibility of Aphrodite to force someone to love you against their will, it’s not the responsibility of Ares to make sure you win your battle, or the responsibility of Dionysus to fill your cup of wine. Make those things happen yourself. Make someone love you for you, train harder and win your own battle, and after you win your battle, hey, you’ve earned it, pour yourself that drink. Not everything needs to involve a deity, sometimes its up to the human on the ground to make things happen.

[samwisethewitch]

🏳️‍🌈💕 Sam’s Guide to Gay Love Spells 💕🏳️‍🌈

Note: this was originally posted on my blog, themysticbitch.wordpress.com

If you do a quick Google search for “real love spell,” “magick love spell,” or any related search terms, you’ll find a lot of spells that use very similar symbols and correspondences. Red roses. Strawberries. I don’t know about y’all, but those symbols strike me as inherently heterosexual. Maybe it’s growing up in a heteronormative culture, or maybe I’ve just seen one too many bad romantic comedies, but when I think about roses and strawberries, I think of a straight couple on a stereotypical Valentine’s Day date. And if you’re looking for something outside of that heteronormative mold, these traditional symbols can feel a little… limiting.

I did some research (A lot of research, actually. I made a whole YouTube video about it.) and put together some spells for nontraditional people seeking nontraditional relationships, whether it be a woman seeking a feminine partner, a man seeking a masculine partner, or someone who really doesn’t give a you-know-what about their partner’s gender.

A couple of quick notes: First, if you’ve studied any sort of magick system, you know that most people who practice magick do so with great respect for the free will of others. We don’t do magick that interferes with someone else’s ability to choose. Period. Because of this, it is NEVER okay to do a love spell on a specific person. It is NEVER okay to try to use magick to make someone love your or return your attraction. The love spells outlined in this post are intended to work with the energy of love, and they will automatically attract the right partner for you. It’s okay to have a few personality traits, or even physical traits in mind for your future partner (in fact, I encourage this — focusing your energy is easier if you have a clear idea of what you want), but not a real-life individual.

Second, the following spells are very basic and simple. I designed them this way because I want them to be accessible to people from all magickal backgrounds, no matter their level of experience. (And also because crystals, incense burners, etc. can get real expensive, real fast.) Feel free to personalize these spells in a way that suits your beliefs and preferences. If you want to cast a circle, cast a circle. If you want to call on your spirit guides for help, call on them. If you want to include crystals, go out and find the largest, most obnoxious chunk of rose quartz you can. Make the spell your own!

If you’re looking for ideas for how to personalize these spells, including deities, angels, saints, herbs, and crystals, check out my previous post about magickal correspondences for LGBTQ+ issues!

A Love Spell For Lady-Loving Ladies

You Will Need:

A pink candle OR two pink female figure candles

Jasmine oil for anointing candles (associated with feminine energy, sexuality, and attraction)

Violets (have a long historical association with romantic or sexual love between two women, thanks to Sappho)

Optional: patchouli incense (has both masculine and feminine qualities; associated with sexuality and attraction)

Casting the Spell:

Begin by making sure you are in the proper head space for magick. You want to avoid bringing any negative energy into the work you are about to do. You may choose to cleanse yourself by taking a shower or bath, using sage or frankincense for a smoke cleansing, or by meditating with a selenite crystal.

Once you are ready, light your patchouli incense, if you choose to use it. As you do so, focus on the sexual passion and strong emotional bond you want to share with your future girlfriend.

Then take your candle (or candles) and anoint it with the jasmine oil. You can do this by simply dabbing the oil on the wick, or by rubbing it up and down the length of the candle. As you do this, imagine your body becoming charged with a sort of magnetic energy that will pull your future girlfriend into your life. (Note: Some traditions state that you must anoint the candle in an upward motion — moving from bottom to top — for attractive magick. Other traditions state that it doesn’t matter how you hold the candle as long as your hands are moving inwards, towards your body, as if they were physically pulling in the energy you want to attract. Personally, I believe that the actual motion used matters less than your intention. Just do what feels right for you.)

Place the candle in a candle holder or on a surface you don’t mind dripping wax on (paper plates can be a good way to protect tabletops!) and begin to carefully arrange the violets around it. How many or how few violets you use is up to you. As you place them around the candle, think of the sweet, pure, and faithful love that you and your future girlfriend will share.

Light your candle and focus on the type of relationship you are looking for. Focus on the type of personality you want your girlfriend to have, the type of feelings you want to have for each other, and the kind of things you want to do together. You may want to speak your thoughts out loud by saying something like: “I have a girlfriend who loves me. We respect each other and support each other in following our dreams. She brings out the best in me.” (Note: Spells are always spoken in present tense, as if you have already received the thing you are manifesting. This is a sign of faith in the universe and in your own energy to give you what you want.)

Wrap your hands around the candle (if using two candles, wrap one hand around each candle) and focus on transferring energy and intention from yourself, into the candle. It may help to imagine pure white light flowing through your hands, or to picture tiny bolts of lightning shooting into the candle. If you used a spoken spell, repeat it over and over until you fall into a rhythm. Feel the energy build, growing in size and power.

You will know intuitively when the energy you have been building reaches its peak — when this happens, immediately release the energy and remove your hands from the candle. You may physically feel the energy rushing out into the world, or you may feel a bit lightheaded for a moment. Sit still until this passes.

Be sure to ground and center yourself. You may even want to have a snack — magick can take a lot of energy out of you! Your part in the spell is over. You have put your energy out there, and it is now being sent into the universe to manifest your desires, amplified by the candle.

Let the candle burn down completely. If you need to put it out and resume the spell later, for whatever reason, always snuff it out with a snuffer or wet fingertips — never blow it out! Snuffing out a candle is like putting the spell on pause — blowing on it ends the spell and scatters all of the energy you worked so hard to gather.

A Love Spell For Men Mad About Men

You Will Need:

A pink candle OR two pink male figure candles

Lavender essential oil (has masculine energy, associated with love and fertility)

Green carnations (associated with romantic or sexual love between men since the Victorian Era, popularized by Oscar Wilde)

Optional: patchouli incense (has both masculine and feminine qualities; associated with sexuality and attraction)

Casting the Spell:

Begin by making sure you are in the proper head space for magick. You want to avoid bringing any negative energy into the work you are about to do. You may choose to cleanse yourself by taking a shower or bath, using sage or frankincense for a smoke cleansing, or by meditating with a selenite crystal.

Once you are ready, light your patchouli incense, if you choose to use it. As you do so, focus on the sexual passion and strong emotional bond you want to share with your future boyfriend.

Then take your candle (or candles) and anoint it with the lavender oil. You can do this by simply dabbing the oil on the wick, or by rubbing it up and down the length of the candle. As you do this, imagine yourself planting seeds of mutual attraction that will grow into a beautiful, loving relationship. (Note: Some traditions state that you must anoint the candle in an upward motion — moving from bottom to top — for attractive magick. Other traditions state that it doesn’t matter how you hold the candle as long as your hands are moving inwards, towards your body, as if they were physically pulling in the energy you want to attract. Personally, I believe that the actual motion used matters less than your intention. Just do what feels right for you.)

Place the candle in a candle holder or on a surface you don’t mind dripping wax on (paper plates can be a good way to protect tabletops!) and begin to carefully arrange the green carnations around it. How many or how few flowers you use is up to you. As you place them around the candle, imagine them giving off soft, loving green energy that amplifies your own magick power and makes your spell more potent. This energy will act like a magnet, drawing the perfect man into your life.

Light your candle and focus on the type of relationship you are looking for. Focus on the type of personality you want your boyfriend to have, the type of feelings you want to have for each other, and the kind of things you want to do together. You may want to speak your thoughts out loud by saying something like: “I have a boyfriend who loves me. We respect each other and support each other in following our dreams. He brings out the best in me.” (Note: Spells are always spoken in present tense, as if you have already received the thing you are manifesting. This is a sign of faith in the universe and in your own energy to give you what you want.)

Wrap your hands around the candle (if using two candles, wrap one hand around each candle) and focus on transferring energy and intention from yourself, into the candle. It may help to imagine pure white light flowing through your hands, or to picture tiny bolts of lightning shooting into the candle. If you used a spoken spell, repeat it over and over until you fall into a rhythm. Feel the energy build, growing in size and power.

You will know intuitively when the energy you have been building reaches its peak — when this happens, immediately release the energy and remove your hands from the candle. You may physically feel the energy rushing out into the world, or you may feel a bit lightheaded for a moment. Sit still until this passes.

Be sure to ground and center yourself. You may even want to have a snack — magick can take a lot of energy out of you! Your part in the spell is over. You have put your energy out there, and it is now being sent into the universe to manifest your desires, amplified by the candle.

Let the candle burn down completely. If you need to put it out and resume the spell later, for whatever reason, always snuff it out with a snuffer or wet fingertips — never blow it out! Snuffing out a candle is like putting the spell on pause — blowing on it ends the spell and scatters all of the energy you worked so hard to gather.

A Gender Indifferent Love Spell

You Will Need:

A pink candle (NOT a figure candle)

Patchouli essential oil (has both masculine and feminine qualities; associated with sexuality and attraction)

One red rose (feminine; associated with Venus, love, and sexuality)

Coriander (masculine; associated with Mars, love, and sexuality)

Optional: patchouli incense

Casting the Spell:

Begin by making sure you are in the proper head space for magick. You want to avoid bringing any negative energy into the work you are about to do. You may choose to cleanse yourself by taking a shower or bath, using sage or frankincense for a smoke cleansing, or by meditating with a selenite crystal.

Once you are ready, light your patchouli incense, if you choose to use it. As you do so, focus on the sexual passion and strong emotional bond you want to share with your future partner.

Then take your candle (or candles) and anoint it with the patchouli oil. You can do this by simply dabbing the oil on the wick, or by rubbing it up and down the length of the candle. As you do this, imagine yourself becoming irresistibly attractive to your ideal partner. (Note: Some traditions state that you must anoint the candle in an upward motion — moving from bottom to top — for attractive magick. Other traditions state that it doesn’t matter how you hold the candle as long as your hands are moving inwards, towards your body, as if they were physically pulling in the energy you want to attract. Personally, I believe that the actual motion used matters less than your intention. Just do what feels right for you.)

Place the candle in a candle holder or on a surface you don’t mind dripping wax on (paper plates can be a good way to protect tabletops!) and begin to carefully sprinkle the coriander around it. As you do so, feel the strong, action-oriented energy building, preparing to go out and get you the person of your dreams.

Remove the petals from your red rose and scatter them around the candle. As you do so, imagine yourself and your future partner together in lover’s bliss, completely head over heals for each other (in a healthy and autonomous way, of course).

Light your candle and focus on the type of relationship you are looking for. Focus on the type of personality you want your partner to have, the type of feelings you want to have for each other, and the kind of things you want to do together. You may want to speak your thoughts out loud by saying something like: “I have a partner who loves me. We respect each other and support each other in following our dreams. We bring out the best in each other.” (Note: Spells are always spoken in present tense, as if you have already received the thing you are manifesting. This is a sign of faith in the universe and in your own energy to give you what you want.)

Wrap your hands around the candle and focus on transferring energy and intention from yourself, into the candle. It may help to imagine pure white light flowing through your hands, or to picture tiny bolts of lightning shooting into the candle. If you used a spoken spell, repeat it over and over until you fall into a rhythm. Feel the energy build, growing in size and power.

You will know intuitively when the energy you have been building reaches its peak — when this happens, immediately release the energy and remove your hands from the candle. You may physically feel the energy rushing out into the world, or you may feel a bit lightheaded for a moment. Sit still until this passes.

Be sure to ground and center yourself. You may even want to have a snack — magick can take a lot of energy out of you! Your part in the spell is over. You have put your energy out there, and it is now being sent into the universe to manifest your desires, amplified by the candle.

Let the candle burn down completely. If you need to put it out and resume the spell later, for whatever reason, always snuff it out with a snuffer or wet fingertips — never blow it out! Snuffing out a candle is like putting the spell on pause — blowing on it ends the spell and scatters all of the energy you worked so hard to gather.

Well, there it is. I hope this was helpful. If any of y’all are looking for that perfect Pride Parade date and decide to try one of these spells out, let me know how it turns out! And if you have your own love spells that you swear by, I would love to hear them! Also, let me know if any of y’all would like to see me do a video tutorial for one of these spells — if so, which one?

[aparticularbandit]

🎵🎵🎵

SEND ME A  ♪ I WILL PUT MUSIC ON SHUFFLE AND GIVE YOU A SONG AND MY FAVORITE LINE FROM IT

Still in Love With You - Big Bad Voodoo Daddy:

So, when it rains, I'll shield your headAnd when you cry, I'll wipe those tearsBecause it's you through all these yearsAnd I'm still in love with you

unless i can pick the sax solo because YO sax solo

Take Me Or Leave Me - the Glee version (...i don’t think i was still seeing the show at this point but apparently my dad still was):

can i just quote the entire song i love this song so much

okay but the entire chorus where maureen is poking fun at joanne is such a mood but especially A lovable droll geek because i didn’t realize that was the line until now and like YO

but also

Women, what is it about them?Can't live with them or without them

BECAUSE MOOD

So I Thought - Flyleaf

i actually really love this song and it should be on your roisa playlist and it should be on mine, too, but anyway

Kiss the stars with me

which i maybe tentatively used part of for that sappho book i plotted out my senior year of college and then you know didn’t write because 1) i would have to do SO much research, and 2) i planned to write sappho as bi instead of purely lesbian because there are aspects of greek tradition where she fell in love with a guy and committed suicide and also apparently was married to a guy so like i addressed that and that’s maybe that’s the big part of why i didn’t write it because that seemed like backlash waiting to happen

and then of course this entire verse:

On my kneesDim lighted roomThoughts free flow try to consume myself in thisI'm not faithlessJust paranoid of getting lost or that I might loseIgnorance is bliss cherish itPretty neighborhoods you learn to much to holdBelieve it notAnd fight the tearsWith pretty smiles and lies about the times

particularly the bolded section because for queer baby bandit with religious scrupulosity ocd those are really powerful lines

[sons-of-ilios]

Hey, have you read The Song of Achilles? If you haven’t, I think you’d really like it after looking through your blog! It’s a new take on the Iliad, written by a classics high school teacher (and it’s beautifully gay)

ah this is sweet! I get this question a surprising amount - no I haven’t read it, but based on the discussion I see of it I have some reservations, and it’s reached a point now where mention of it just sort of makes me irrationally angry. (I’ll put why it pisses me off under a break cause I don’t want to subject the good people of tumblr to my ramblings)

Here’s the thing - Patroclus is a warrior. He’s a killer. And the Iliad is about war, and death, and the way you earn glory and honour and kleos is by killing people and taking spoils. It’s a vicious cycle of glory and death, and Patroclus is very good at it. He kills, like, a LOT of Trojans in his attack on the walls in Book 16, he is violent and very good at killing people. But I swear every post I’ve read about this book is like ‘omg Patroclus!! what a little angel!! my son!!! a cinnamon roll!!!!!!’ and it feels like a ridiculous and unfair treatment of his character and reeeaaally puts me off reading it. If I’m wrong and this book achieves a same-sex love story without cheapening the characters of Achilles and Patroclus this way then let me know and I’ll reconsider.

I’ve also seen people on this website saying that TSOA humanises Achilles, shows him as a gentle lover rather than a brutal fighter. The thing is, Achilles’ character in the Iliad doesn’t need humanising. He is shown repeatedly capable of great love, be it loud and brutal (his killing spree after the death of Patroclus) or far more gentle and emotional (the things he says to Priam about his father and his regrets in Book 24), so that argument seems pretty unnecessary to me.

Yes, Achilles and Patroclus’ relationship is a glorious story and Achilles has such an incredibly powerful love for Patroclus but like… if you want a really good tragic classical gay love story, then read about Nisus and Euryalus from the Aeneid - the way Nisus is so willing to give everything to let his lover live, even his own life, the tragic description of Euryalus’ death - “he rolled on the ground in death, the blood flowed over his beautiful body, his neck grew limp and the head drooped on his shoulders, like a scarlet flower languishing and dying when its stem has been cut by the plough, or like poppies bowing their heads when the rain burdens them and their necks grow weary” - the way they lie together in death, the way they are remembered - that shit is fucking gorgeous and so so sad, like do you even need TSOA after this? Or read the myths about other same-sex couples like Apollo and Hyacinth (Ovid’s version is gorgeous), or read about the real life queer relationships and LGBT people in ancient Greece and Rome - the poet Theognis and his lover Cyrnus, Sappho and her affection for women, Plato and his companions discussing the nature of love in Symposium, the Sacred Band of Thebes who were warriors that fought in same-sex couples - the list goes on. I don’t hate the Song of Achilles or people who read it, but I have no need or desire to read this contrived same-sex love story that falsifies the ancient world when so many beautiful true stories already exist.

[seperis]

So because my life does not have challenges enough (thanks, universe) I got hit with Plague Thing on Saturday and am just now no longer mouthing worrying non-sequiturs to my son when my fever spikes.  

But enough about me.  I was told that someone said they wanted the next DtoA chapter for Christmas.  I couldn’t do that, but I thought maybe I’d try and give you the next best thing.

Chapter 24, Section One

Thanks to my wonderful Lilliane for checking to make sure this wasn’t like, gibberish; the fever’s been weird.

Castiel paces the endless length of a room that continues forever, the clean white walls studded with doors at precise intervals.  Some are open, some ajar, some merely cracked, spilling memories like waking dreams before him, moments out of time or context.  The older doors are closed, the oldest ones locked. He pauses, fingers ghosting over the complicated whirls that surround one door, frame built from ancient olive and balsam and citrus wood, extinct for millennia, sealed with seven locks stretching from top to base.

"Copper," he murmurs, identifying each one. "Tin. Iron. Lead. Gold. Silver. Quicksilver."  There's neither latch nor knob on the door, nor keyholes in the locks; this door once closed was never meant to be opened again.  Pressing his palm to the smooth frame, he breathes a single word: "Cassiel."

The door shivers, locks trembling with a discordant metal jangle, and he breathes air scented with myrrh and ancient flowers in first bloom as they burn to ash beneath a blackened sky--

"No," he says, jerking back, tasting burning ash.  "I think it's best you remain there and I here."

Turning away, he continues down the room, watching doors pass: some old, some new, some barely formed, some so ancient the wood that formed them died out before humanity had even reached two cell status, amoebas floating in primordial seas.

He passes the Grove, a black haired boy cradling the body of a dead man as the shouting masses reached him.  A glimpse of black skirts draws him to a starkly elegant work room, walls pigeonholed for books, washed in the stillness of grief: Diana granted his request, Cornelia Africana.  It will be done. A fragile blonde girl rocking on the floor in terrible pain as white-clad maids circle her helplessly.  An elderly soldier rides three days and three nights to bring the news to Misenum, his own loss disciplined to another's need.

Diana in her temple, expressionless: You have no right to question us, Cornelia Africana.  We do not answer to you.

A god's promise was only as good as their desire to keep it, and they didn't care.  It was just a game to them, only one of hundreds, thousands, played by the gods with mortals as their pieces.  He'd watched all of human history; this was neither the greatest or the least of them played with human souls and human lives.  

He glimpses Cornelia in her tabilium with her books, turning one of the most powerful minds this planet has ever seen to a single purpose: this is my offering.  He fights the urge to enter and stop her, warn her, but it's just a memory; there's nothing he can do now.  The time is long past he could do anything at all.

If you can, you should.

He pauses at the sight of a cracked door, frowning; easing it open, he's witness to a silent tableau of Cornelia Africana, Sempronia Graccha, Emet, and Sappho surrounding a narrow bed where Claudia Pulchera struggles for each breath. The dark eyes are sunken into darkness, bones in stark relief, and the rise and fall of her chest barely moves the thin sheet covering her.

"It will not be long, Domina," Emet says quietly, then his head turns, seeing Castiel.  The faint widening of the dark brown eyes is the only sign of his perception; Egypt's priestly caste are very well-trained. 

"Be not afraid, Emet of Memphis," he tells him, pausing the flow of time in this location.

Emet steps away from the bed to gracefully lower himself into one of the hundred prostrations that an Egyptian priest learns as a matter of course.  He examines him, satisfied at what he finds: Amon-Ra's divine spark is present, of course, but the mark of Hippocrates is there as well, given to one who has surpassed the requirements of his calling.

"I am called to judgment," Emet says into the mosaic floor.  "I am ready, Balance of the World; my life will pay in full for the harm I have done.  I only ask to be permitted to see Claudia through her passage and her mother and sister to their beds."

"Rise, Emet; we are but a servant as you are."  He waits for Emet to gain his feet again.  "I am not here for you."

The change is subtle, but the movement is not;  Emet inserts himself between him and the bed and the women beside it.  Mortal behavior is often baffling, but this is not; the light of Hippocrates grows stronger, gleaming with the verdant greens of life woven between the birthright power of a priest of Egypt, fiercely protective. "None here deserve such attention, Messenger."

 Interesting. "It is our natural right.  Do you think you can stop us?"

 "I do not," Emet answers steadily.  "But I shall try anyway."

 He would at that. "Claudia Pulchera will not take Charon's coin."  

 Emet nods warily. "She refused."

 "The Shores are infinite and the numbers that crowd them vast; she could search until she forgets herself as well as who she seeks," he tells Emet.  "I will escort her to him."

 Emet's expression is fascinating; as a rule, the priestly caste aren't demonstrative.  "You--you--will accompany Claudia to the Underworld?"

 "I doubt they'll refuse me admission," he says, wondering if perhaps Emet's education was lacking after all; he does remember his last vessel among the Egyptian priestly caste had a propensity to fall asleep during lectures.

 "I doubt you would be denied anything you might want," Emet answers.  "I merely wonder why the Weight and the Balance would accept a task so...common.  Or that such a task would even exist."

He finds himself looking at Claudia, the rasp of her breathing echoing through the room.  "We are the Host on Earth," he says. "All of Creation is our demesne. It is our will, and it will be done."  

Emet blinks, wariness inexplicably draining away, and bows his head. "Whatever assistance you require, I offer it, and myself as instrument of your will."

Stepping back, startled, he watches Emet accept the presence of an angel within him before returning to Claudia's bedside.  She was in such pain despite the syrup of poppies, her mind clouded; there was no need to take a temporary vessel while he waited for her to die, no need for him to wait those hours with her at all...but her death was slow as her body began to shut down, and she was afraid.  Only hours--barely a breath before it ended--but even so, he took away her pain, cleared her mind to speak to her mother and her sister, give them some comfort in their pain as she completed her time on earth.

He doesn't need to see the rest, but he can't look away: Cornelia Africana closes Claudia's eyes and Sempronia Graccha smooths back the dull grey-shot black hair with an unsteady hand before turning to the comfort of her mother's arms.  On the bedside table lies Charon's coin, rejected, and the pain of grief is augmented by the knowledge of the horror of what they send her to.

"She won't be alone," Castiel whispers; it's only a memory, and there's nothing he can do now.  He gathered Claudia to him and passed the Guardian of the Underworld unopposed and unquestioned; he took her to her husband, who all this time clung to enough of himself to welcome her, her brother and sister with him.

It wouldn't last, of course; the Shores would take them, slowly and painfully, piece by piece, until they were no more than forgotten memories of themselves, truly shades. Yet her joy and Tiberius' was far greater in their union here than that of any shade on Charon's Barge on their way to paradise.  When he left the Underworld, he left the four of them with one thing: their names, written into their shades for all of time.  All else may be lost, but they would know themselves and each other; that much, they would always keep.

"I did not know that Messengers were kind."

Turning, Castiel sees the face that could have launched a thousand (Roman) ships.  "We aren't."  Kindness is so small; Enochian has no concept of it at all.  

"A lie: it is vast, Messenger. It is everything."  She follows his gaze to the darkened room. "You didn't remember?"

He shakes his head.  "Some of it, not all.  Not until now."

 "You came to me in my bath," she says, eyes distant.  "I remember...you took my knife and held me in your arms in the cooling water and let me feel you and know I was not alone.  You spoke to me; you didn't reproach me for my weakness, but told me that Gaius waited for me on the Shores, and that you would take me to him when my time was done."

"Why is it, that we blame the reed for breaking when the weight placed upon it was purpose-made too great to bear?" he asks bitterly.  "Blame those that chose to make a weight that you could not carry; the responsibility is theirs, and so is the blame. What was done to you was obscene."

 "Opimius--"

 "And your father." Her childhood had been cruel, the medium at best malicious neglect, at worst the calculated destruction of a young girl's fragile mind. She was sold to the highest--or most august--bidder, her value was only in what benefits she brought her birth family at her marriage.  "I shared your life entire, Licinia Crassa; there was no flaw in you."

 "I remember...you said that, too."  She shakes her head.  "Like you, I have forgotten much."

 The bleakness of the Shores unfolds around them, and Castiel stills; the lifeless dirt and dry, empty air are antithetical to all that he was as an angel and he can feel it still.  Worse, however, are the ragged, indistinct grey shapes that surround them like barely-solid mist.  He fights the instinctive urge to reach for them, to offer comfort and support; as an angel, his purpose was war, to administer justice in his Father's name and embody His wrath, never His succor.  If you can, you should.

"Why am I here?" he asks, hands clenched at his sides as a shade drifts by, hopeless, helpless, alone.

"I didn't think you'd hear me," she answers.  "Not here."

He jerks around. "You summoned me?"

"I forgot so much," she answers, then touches her chest, and for a moment, something gleams silver-gold, bright: her name, written into her shade.  "But I never forgot me.  You did that. I wanted to thank you."

He looks around the Shores, trying not to flinch as an oblivious shade wanders too close. To doom someone here and deny them even the relief of madness....  "Do you call that kindness?"

"I do," she answers.  "It was a gift, its value beyond measure.  I wanted to tell you that, and that I used it as any gift should be used."

He thinks of those endless, locked doors.  "Some things," he answers softly, "should be beyond memory."

"Don't be afraid, Castiel of Chitaqua," she says, a smile in her voice.  "You've been many and now are one, but that one is a multitude.  You were, are, will be a thousand people before you're done." The shades are now profound; truly, he lives in a time of ridiculous miracles.  "That sounds familiar."

"Practice what you preach, Messenger."  She shakes her head.  "Even here, time is short and I cannot stay long--"

"I would say I was surprised you can do it at all," he says. "But I'm not, or at least, less than I should be.  It's not just a side effect of the backlash.  The Door has been unguarded since the murder of Cerberus."

She hesitates. "That is not all."

Of course it's not. "The Misborn are the natural heirs of Cerberus." She nods, shoulders slumping.  "That's how they passed through to come here without the Morningstar's consent. They didn't have time to designate an alternate heir, as Charon did."

"Until now, it didn't matter; the living world has no more appeal than the Land of the Dead.  Dead or living, prey born mortal are of equal weight; their hunger cannot be satisfied by either."

"What changed?"

"Something in the mortal world makes them hungry," she says slowly, forehead creasing in thought. "Something they can eat."

There are so many possibilities, all of them terrible.  "I don't suppose we'd be fortunate enough for it to be me?"

"I know not," she answers.  "Castiel--"

"Not that it matters," he continues bitterly, thinking of Lucifer; he bred monsters of gods and never thought what that meant.  "If they can hunt the mortal world with impunity--"

"They won't," she interrupts. "They can claim the Door, yes, but that does not mean we will let them."

"'We'?" Castiel looks the masses of shades surround him, their despair and fear and pain endless, terrible to behold.  "And this is your army?"  As an angel, he could have helped them: if he'd thought of it, if he'd cared, if he'd even seen them.  As an angel, he saw this and did nothing. If he were an angel now...but he's not.

He's not.  If you can, you should.

"There are worse things than pain," Licinia says, stiffening as her eyes going to River.  "There's forgetting why you endure it."

Before their eyes, the River changes, swimming calm robin's-egg blue and green, inviting; as one, the masses rush toward it, throwing themselves into the shallows and thrusting their heads beneath the surface, drinking greedily.

"Lethe," he says as one of the shapes returns, and he glimpses a blank oval set with dimly sketched eyes that seem to look through him; nothing exists behind them. "It takes--"

"Your pain," she answers, staring down at the water lapping only inches from their feet.  "Your fear.  Your anger. Your grief.  All you must do is offer it yourself, whole and entire."

He swallows back bile as more crowd forward.  Licinia gazes at the water lapping only inches from their feet, blue eyes dark.

"It is hard," she whispers. "To see it so close, within reach of my arm, to know there my pain can be left.  All I must do is drink."

He glances at her; the longing is as sharp as pain.

"My husband was betrayed and murdered, his body butchered, his shade condemned to wander the Shores, and I was driven mad," she answers rigidly.  "I see what they did to him, night and day; I see them cut off his head and gouge out his eyes and cut out his tongue. They opened his skull and filled with gold, for the reward offered for his head was based on weight."  She looks up at him blindly. "Sometimes, it's all that I can see."

"But you don't take the waters."

"Lethe will take my pain, but for their condescension, my offering must be me," she answers.  "Licinia of the Crassii, made happy wife of the last of the Gracchi sons, mother of Sempronia, sister of Claudia, and daughter of Africana.  I must give up the woman who welcomed me as a loving mother, the man who believed I had no flaw, the daughter I bore to him in our marriage bed, and the sister who was my greatest comfort." She swallows.  "And I must give up the woman I could have been in life, had I been strong enough to claim her."

The choice is breathtaking in its cruelty; it's one they're forced to make every single day, until they forget there's a choice at all.  Hell would approve.

"I will give it nothing," Licinia says softly, ripples of determination in her voice.  "So here I stand and here I remain; I refuse it.  I reject it."

Watching the Shores become churned mud as more come forward, eager, desperate, he thinks of Dean and Bobby, of Andy and Gary, of Kellie and Ray, Alicia bleeding in that field, of needles and smoke and the thousand ways he learned to forget. "I don't think I could."

"I don't see why," she answers.  "You've done it a thousand times before and will a thousand times again."  Licinia smiles up at him, brilliant and sweet, and he understands why Gaius loved her, why Cornelia mourned her so bitterly. She brought such joy to her new family, joy that had been long absent with Tiberius' terrible death, Scipio's betrayal, the reveal of Sempronia's suffering, and so desperately needed. Her fragility made her all the more precious, and as much as her sons, Licinia's death left a scar on Cornelia's heart that never quite healed.  

"It's hard," she says, reaching out a hand and pulling a shade to her side. Not formless, however; deep brown eyes beneath black hair smile at him shyly, overwriting the hideousness of her slow death.  "But it's easier when you're not alone."

"We give it nothing," Claudia says, and another shade joins them, then another, and another.  "Here we stand, and here we remain."

"We refuse it," one says as more join them; he searches their forming faces, watching them become more substantial, become--become people.  "We reject it."

A tall male eases up beside Claudia as his brother joins Licinia.  "It's hard," Gaius says, his mother's brilliant eyes smiling at him.  "But we're never alone.  Thank you, Castiel."

He's surprised by his own smile, something bubbling up from somewhere deep that feels like hope. "It is good to see you, Gaius Sempronius."  Gaius tips his head, eyebrows raised.  "Yes, of course, I almost forgot; you were right."

Gaius grins back. "I rather thought I would be."

He fights down laughter; this isn't the time (or perhaps, it is). "So I assume that this is--"

"--my army, yes," Licinia finishes, laughter in her eyes.  "Kindness is everything, Castiel of Chitaqua.  It was a gift, and I did with it as you would expect; I gave it to all who could understand it. More will come; my work is only begun, but it shall be done."

He searches the dozens of faces.  "I didn't know it could be passed to others." He honestly doesn't think that's possible.

"I've had time to work out the details," she says, and he looks into the face of the woman she didn't get to be in life.  "There's been little else to do."

He starts to answer, then pauses: an army.  "What are you doing?"

"The Morningstar calls himself Master of the Shores; it is in his name that the Misborn patrol our Shores and hunt our people," Licinia answers, raising her chin.  "We do not accept his claim."

"The Shores were unclaimed by any god or mortal," he answers, and doesn't say because no one wanted them.  "His conquest, while unwelcome, was just."

"They were not unclaimed," she answers.  "No challenge was offered or accepted, no battle was fought and won; he trespasses on what is not his own and enforces his claim of possession with the Misborn.  We do not accept this; the Shores were not his to take."

Castiel gazes at the featureless landscape, then at her, puzzled.  "Even if you could claim the Shores, you would have no more authority over the Rivers than he does now," he tries.  "You still could not cross."

"We don't want to cross," she says, taking a deliberate step forward before looking down. "I thought, instead, we might plant a garden."

Following her gaze, his breath catches; where she was standing, thin blades of new spring grass poke through the lifeless dirt that grows darker, richer.  A fragile plant pushes itself upward, tiny leaves unfurling before his eyes, and kneeling, he reaches a shaking hand to touch one perfect leaf and feels the thrum of life: Creation.

"Here we stand," she says.  "And here we remain.  Why should we go elsewhere?  This is our home, and we will make it a paradise.  It is not over yet." Castiel straightens.  "You heard it, too?

"He asked the question, and through all of time and space, we heard it," she confirms.  "We did not understand it then: we hardly understood ourselves. Now, we understand, and unto you we give our answer: yes.  It's not over yet."

Dean's suggestion of a secret newsletter is becoming increasingly plausible.  "Who asked the question?"

"The impossible," she answers.  "And where I stand, here on the Shores, is where it shall begin."

"Why here?" he asks. "Why now?"

"When nothing is written, all we have is now," she answers.  "So now is when it must be."

He watches another plant fight its way to the surface; the soil is poor, the environment hostile, it shouldn't be able to survive (or even exist) but perhaps it simply doesn't care.  It could use help, however.  If you can, you should.  "You dispute Morningstar's claim to these lands?  You claim ownership of the Shores?" She nods. "By what right?  Say it."

"We challenge Morningstar's claim to the Shores; these are not unclaimed lands," Licinia answers.  "Our residence makes us its natural owners; it is from us he must take them."

"You were here first, yes, excellent choice."  Calling in a knife, Castiel cuts across his palm and turns it to hover over the dirt, watching the soil absorb his blood.  "The Host recognizes your claim and finds it just. No challenge was made or accepted, and no battle was fought or won, so where you stand are now disputed lands. Our decision is this: ownership will be decided by combat and to the victor goes the spoils in full.  This is our will and it will be done."

He glances up to see Licinia blinking slowly.  "You can do that?"

"We are the last of the Host in all Creation," he says, watching his blood splash across the bright greenery.  "There is no one who can tell us we can't." Standing up, he smiles at her. "Come here; we will not send you into battle unarmed."

Enchanted, he watches green grow wherever she steps before she drops gracefully to her knees, skirts pooling like quicksilver in a growing green frame.  She raises her head, and he swipes a finger through his blood and touches it to her forehead, breathing his blessing in his native tongue. "Rise, Licinia of the Shores, and pick up your sword. The battle begins when you step on the field."

She nods and he extends a hand, helping her to her feet, and looks into the blue eyes. "The woman you wished to claim was not found in life," he says.  "But she was not lost, Licinia.  You found her here; I look upon her now."  Licinia smiles slowly, mouth trembling.  "Remember this: when you step on the field, you do not doubt, you do not wonder, you do not despair; you win."

"I will," she says, squeezing his hand and stepping back.  Around her, the grass spreads further, a tiny, incongruous miracle; this is where she stands.  He counts the shades quickly and then remembers there's no time here; he has all he needs.  

"Gaius, come here," he says, and he sinks to her knees.  Touching his forehead, he breathes his benediction; if you can, you should. "Rise, Gaius of the Shores, and pick up your sword."