#euridyce knew what was up

[violentkisses999]

*sigh* now that we're left to our own devices, I sincerely hope no one writes fanfics about the ships... 😏

I finished Kaos yesterday and just found out its other seasons were cancelled.

NETFLIX, WHY IS IT ALWAYS THE SHOWS I ENJOY???

[circusgoth-dotcom]

Meeting Death in The Middle

Ship: Ghrian x Hades

Word Count: 2039

Summary: When a farmboy fearing his first winter alone seeks the mercy of the God of The Underworld, he takes on more than he accounted for. Prologue. Epilogue. CWs for themes of death/the afterlife, brief smoking mention, argument/relationship struggle mentions, Hades' rage, brief emeto mention.

Tag List: @canongf @futurewife @rexscanonwife @dudefrommywesterns

The sun had sunk low in the sky, almost kissing the horizon, by the time Ghrian made it to the mouth of the cave rumoured to be the exact one Orpheus had escaped out of while trying to rescue his dear Euridyce. Standing at the edge of the opening, he instantly felt much colder, as if the cave itself was producing a breeze. He swallowed, clutching his cloak tighter to his chest before ducking his head and pressing into the darkness.

The path inside the cave was just as long and winding as the one he had taken to get to it, with the added hindrance of a lack of light.

It was also startlingly quiet in the cave. Outside, Ghrian would’ve heard any matter of nature, from trees swaying in the breeze to deer bounding away from his approach. In here, it was just his footsteps, heartbeat, and thoughts to keep him company. He wasn’t sure how long he’d be walking, but as the path gradually began to slope down, the cool breeze he had felt began to diminish. A few more feet and the air around him began to warm noticeably, and as he continued walking, he was beginning to regret wearing his cloak.

By the time the path began to plateau again, he was damp with sweat and his hair was beginning to stick to his forehead. Unable to cope with his cloak any longer, he paused and stood near the wall, setting down his bag. He unclasped and removed his cloak and tied it around his waist, gaining little relief from the sudden heat as he picked up his bag again and trudged forward. His stomach growled and he wondered what time it was. Just as he was debating if he should just turn back around and find a nearby town to crash in, he spotted light up ahead and could hear the faint sounds of water.

Picking up the pace, Ghrian eagerly chased the light until the tunnel began to open up into a vast cavern. By the smell of sulphur, the view of a deep and winding river, and the blue flames that filled the sconces along the walls, Ghrian knew he had reached his destination. Now was the trouble of actually finding the reigning God. He cautiously approached the edge of the river and gasped as he looked into it. It was filled with ghostly pale bodies, floating by into oblivion. There were many ideas about Hades’ domain, but few could say they had made a round trip from the land of the living, to the Underworld, and back again, so nothing could be confirmed. Still, Ghrian had to believe this was the River Styx that some had theorized existed.

Looking around, his eyes eventually landed on a dock off in the distance. He made his way over and found a gondola, in which a skeletal figure sat, smoking from a pipe and reading a newspaper. Ghrian cleared his throat.

“I’d like to speak with Hades, please.”

The ferryman looked up from his paper. He regarded Ghrian silently before standing, setting aside his paper and holding out his hand.

“Oh, right, the fee…” They dug around in their pockets briefly before producing the change needed to cross. “You must be Charon.”

The ferryman didn’t respond, taking his change and allowing Ghrian onto the boat. Discomforted by the lack of greeting, Ghrian sat and Charon set off. Below them, thousands of souls moaned and sloshed about as the gondola caused ripples across the surface of the “river.” They didn’t dare to look, keeping their gaze trained on the back of Charon’s head. The only time he looked away was when they passed a large, sleeping dog with three heads. Their hair stood on end.

When they reached the opposite bank, he was staring up at a great, skull-shaped tower. Ghrian opened his mouth to thank Charon as he stepped off of the boat, then decided it would be better to get on with his business and leave as quickly as possible. He ascended the stairs two at a time until he was entering the top of the tower.

He hesitantly called out, as the place seemed strangely empty. “Hello??”

He then heard what sounded like muffled arguing and crashing before a door opened to his right and two imps tumbled into the room. One was red and pot-bellied, while the other was lean and blue. Neither of them came up farther than just above Ghrian’s knees.

“Halt, trespasser!” The red one grunted, holding out his hand as if it would stop Ghrian from bowling him over if he had really wanted to.

“That’s right!” The blue one added, anxiously wringing his hands. “Do you have an appointment??”

“Well, I, er… no,” Ghrian scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. “I guess he wouldn’t know I was coming, since I’m not dead… but I really need to talk to your boss, assuming you work for Hades.”

“A mortal?!” The blue imp squeaked, turning to his companion for assistance.

“How did you get in here?”

Unable to help himself, Ghrian gestured over his shoulder. “The stairs. Well, technically a boat, then the stairs.”

“Oh yeah, that’d make sense.” The imps nodded at each other in agreement for a second before the red one jumped angrily in realization. “Don’t get smart with us! Hades is not going to be happy that a mortal got in here…”

“Not to mention he’s already in a sour mood from his usual argument with Persephone--”

The red imp slapped his hand over his companion’s mouth. “Shhhh-shhhhh-shh!!! We’re not supposed to tell anybody about that!!”

Ghrian cocked his head curiously. “Marriage troubles??”

“It’s none of your business!”

“But maybe I could help!”

They scoffed. “What would a mortal know about the relationships between Gods??”

He opened his mouth to answer but was interrupted by a large boom. The imps began running around in an aimless panic.

“Oh no, oh no!!”

“If you value your life-- which, who knows, since you came here of your own accord-- for the love of the Gods, run!!”

Instead of heeding the warning, Ghrian stood his ground, though he did duck and back up slightly when a hulking figure burst into the room. Peering through his fingers, he saw a tall, grey man with flaming hair, flickering between orange and blue. Hades himself.

“What are you two doing in here??” The God growled. The imps began to stammer uselessly, making Hades pinch the bridge of his nose in annoyance before snatching them up from the ground and holding them at eye level. Whimpering, they pointed toward Ghrian. Hades dropped his minions and turned toward the slowly straightening-up mortal. His expression became one of curiosity as the orange finally faded from his flames.

“Well, well, well, what do we have here?”

Ghrian took a breath, attempting to appear confident. “Ghrian, sir.”

“Ghrian? Hmm…” The God summoned a scroll, unravelling it and revealing an impossible length. He muttered to himself as he scanned it before looking back at the man before him. “I’m not seeing any ‘Ghrians’ here that passed away recently, unless of course your mortal body’s still in the process of dying and your soul just got here a little early. And if that’s the case, please make yourself comfortable until I have the proper information to judge your soul fairly.” He gave them a toothy grin that made their insides do flip-flops.

“Actually, sir, I haven’t died at all yet. I’m still mortal.”

Hades’ brow rose in surprise before coming down angrily. “How did you get in here?”

This time, Ghrian spoke more genuinely, recounting the man he met in the market, the journey, the cave, all of it. “So, I’ve come to negotiate with you, if you’ll allow me,” he concluded.

“Negotiate what??” The God picked at his teeth in boredom as he summoned a charred black throne and settled into it.

“This is going to be my first winter after tending to a farm alone for most of the year. I’m afraid my harvest won’t be bountiful enough. I just need a little more time… if I can’t stop winter from coming, at least would you consider letting Persephone go home early so that we can have a less harsh season this year?”

Hades stared at Ghrian briefly before cackling, slamming his fist against the arm of his chair in mirth. “Oh, you mortals! Wow, that is… really something, HA!” He wiped away a tear as Ghrian frowned. Suddenly Hades stood, towering over them. “What makes you think you can just waltz right into the Underworld and ask me for whatever you want, huh?? I swear you people get more entitled every day… this isn’t how the game is played, sunshine. Persephone stays here for six months, every year, because she decided to eat the pomegranate seeds. I didn’t even make her eat them, that was all her choice! No more, no less, and certainly no negotiating it. But if you’re so worried about starving to death,” he grabbed them by the front of their shirt, “Why don’t I just save you the trouble and have you join the lovely souls here in damnation right now?”

Ghrian yelped as he was yanked off of the floor and carried to the window of the tower, out of which he was dangled.

“Wait, wait! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sound entitled!”

“Yes, for a farmboy it was very surprising, frankly.”

“I heard you’re having trouble with Persephone!”

The blue flames turned orange, bordering on red, in a flash. Hades yanked them back inside. “Where did you--” His wild eyes then darted toward his minions, who were now cowering in a corner. Hades placed Ghrian back on the floor, whipping around. “Pain. Panic. What was the tiny, little, simple task, so simple even a baby could do it, that I gave you this morning?”

“To not let slip that anything was out of the ordinary between you and Miss Persephone?” Panic whimpered.

“Exactly. And what did you do??”

“It’s all his fault!” Pain yelped, gesturing to Panic. “He was the one who blurted it out!”

“IDIOTS!” Hades roared, flames bursting from his hands and scorching his minions, who howled in pain as he threw them down the stairs. He growled to himself, running his hands stressfully over his long face before turning to Ghrian, glaring down at him. “So, you thought maybe I’d be more complacent to let her go since we aren’t exactly feeling so chummy toward each other at the moment, is that it?”

“Well, don’t you think it might improve your relationship some if you gave her a little more freedom?”

Hades rolled his eyes. “Listen, babe, we aren’t compatible and that’s that. I thought she was attractive, but things aren’t working out and unfortunately, I’m stuck with her. There’s nothing any of us can do about it.”

Without thinking, Ghrian blurt out, “What if we were to swap places? Persephone and I, I mean.”

Hades paused, the gears turning in his head. “Why… would you want to do that??? I thought you mortals loved your freedom and your lives…”

“From where I’m standing, it looks like Gods feel the same. If we swap places, it’s not about me anymore. It improves the quality of people’s lives.”

“Eugh, I think I just threw up a little. You’re making a terrible argument for yourself, let’s ask a different question, why should I want to keep you here?”

“I imagine being the sole ruler of the Underworld can get busy, no? Especially with military conflicts and plagues, lots of souls will come through here… I could assist you with the judging and such. All I ask for in return is Persephone to walk free, all days of the year.”

Hades began to pace as he considered the possible outcomes of this trade. Eventually, he sighed and turned to Ghrian. “Fine. You’re too selfless. The world needs less people like you.” He summoned a contract and a charcoal pencil, handing them to him. “Just sign this and Sepphie’s off the hook.”

And so, he signed away his soul, completely unaware of what this would entail.

[honestlyfrance]

Sambucky — ya’aburnee // يقبرني ❤️

ya’aburnee - يقبرني

ship: sam/bucky | warnings: hurt/comfort, angst

a/n: ahh slr!! i was working on something else :) hope this suffices, tiana!!

materlist / ko-fi / commissions

Bucky Barnes was immortal. He didn't know this. No one knew this, not even the god he prayed to. All that is known by the gods is that he should've prayed more for mercy, as love is just as sharp as the jab of a knife. Bucky's death will bleed onto his lover.

No one knew how easy people like Sam Wilson were. They die faster, Bucky thinks, because they live recklessly, hiding from death's swinging ax. Benevolent, maybe even cunning. They faked death twice and fucked them into a sweat.

Maybe that's why it's harder to withstand the fall. The Reichenbach Fall, waterfall, the romantic fall, the wall, the wall— the fall, the fall—

When Bucky looked into the mirror of his bathroom, he saw himself. Lines beneath his eyes like the separations of each of earth's layers, eye bags gone but faint and blended into his complexion. His nose is crooked from battles but the scar on his lip tip is still there and it doesn't itch much anymore. His eyes were still a faint blue, the black parts hazy with age. His hair, though, hasn't changed.

He doesn't look much like a human, more of a wax figurine left on a shelf for a certain amount of time.

His hand reaches for a razor and he shaves his entire beard and mustache. He's looking quite younger but still like a figurine.

You know, he's noticed a bunch of times, but for someone out of their own original timeline, he sure does fit well with Sam Wilson.

In fixing the boat, taking long dinners outside in the backyard, watching classic movies until night turns into day. They stay close to each other, like the end of feathers sinking into a bird's skin. Painful to remove, the burden of it all. When Bucky places his hand in Sam's, the hand feels too solid.

Maybe it's the nerves. Bucky hopes it's the nerves.

They go well together, like leaves and flowers. They have their own lives but they fit into each other's existence as if deities were to fold in the nature of existence into their hand. As if it was meant to be. No one can say otherwise. Even atheists can believe.

Now, Bucky doesn't believe in saints but he prays either way. He wishes in between whispers that Sam Wilson may outlive him because god the pressure of his death will kill him either way. It's like that fucking Winnie the Pooh quote with the hundred and one days because living without someone is the worst torture Bucky could ever think above HYDRA.

He's lost so much. He doesn't want to lose more.

Grief runs down like a river for him. Bucky doesn’t want Sam drowning in that path.

“What are we then?” Sam asked as Bucky held his hand, a smile so cute and warm it’s like baby sunflowers on a sunny day.

Bucky smiled, shrugging. “I’d like to be with you forever if you’d like that you.”

Sam does, the man says. And Bucky believed that this is heaven on earth.

Yes, Bucky wants Sam to outlive him. To fuck death into the unliving, to rule the underworld and free every single soul, to love the man until the moment between daybreak and nightfall. In moments unheard, Bucky wants Sam to outlive life itself, the universe itself, atoms itself. Maybe that’s why it hurts so much, to hear a mission gone wrong, to not be there to have his back covered.

Bucky’s one hour away and he just heard that Sam went on a mission in the Bronx without back-up, some spiderman shit, he doesn’t care. He steals the nearest motorbike and almost bullets through traffic and the roads just to reach the man in time before anything bad might happen.

He feels his chest tighten as he sped through three red lights. There’s something in him that can’t help but not trust Sam’s idiotic ass, and why wouldn’t anyone? The man would rush into hell like Orpheus if it means Euridyce can live. He’s sacrificial like that, forgets his fear of death and guilt of hundreds if it could save one more. And Bucky smiles as he sees the debris in front of him. I love him despite all that, he thinks. He wants to kiss Sam silly now.

He throws the bike and rolls off and into the road like a madman. He’s running through the debris and collapsed buildings to find Sam. He ignores the calls, Sergeant Barnes! Barnes! No, at this moment, he’s not Bucky Barnes. At this moment, he is called by Sam Wilson’s name. His name is a man who he loves.

He geos under a leaking pipe, then over a boulder of brick, then through a puddle of what seems to be gasoline. Then he hears the faint vibrations of the shield. He runs carefully now, yelling, Wilson! Wilson, Wilson… It echoes through the chamber. The road slopes downward, and he slips, slides downward with elegance and precision. He lands on both his feet, then starts running.

Some madman villain is responsible for this mess, and Bucky wouldn’t let it worsen.

He reaches Sam who seems to be tired from battling with the madman. He swings one last time and hits the man directly at the head, successfully knocking the man unconscious.

Bucky runs one last time, into Sam’s arms, and they topple down to the floor and rubble. I miss you, I miss you, I miss you, he whispers into Sam’s neck. Their legs tangle into each other and they’re buried into each other’s necks. Bucky trailer kisses down Sam’s cheek and neck, tears almost forming in his eyes.

He feels something warm on Sam’s stomach.

Buckyslowly and carefully leans away from Sam, hovering over the man. Sam says, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. On his stomach is a gaping hole, deep and oozing of blood into his white uniform. Sam is crying, his chest heavy with the burden of the world and his breathing is shallow. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

Bucky became tight-lipped, then smiled. “You’re here. It’s okay.” he whispered. He activates Sam’s homing signal on his utility belt in a hurry. “You really do bury me, don’t you Barnes?”

“Yes, Wilson,” Sam laughs weakly.

Bucky wishes Sam to outlive him, for reasons like this.

[ingrid--writes]

“A slut. Do you know what that means?”

A question to which I gave the answer;

“Of course.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Don’t be dumb, obviously I know.”

---

Clearly, ten-year-old me did not know what being a slut meant. I didn’t even know it was a bad word. I just felt embarrassed that my vernacular was inferior to that of the boy who had asked me in such a mocking tone.

In my next creative writing piece, I used the word, the meaning of which I did not know.

Slut.

I used it to describe the ringleader of the popular girls’ group in my story; I meant to indicate that she was conniving, nasty, a b*tch. I was proud of myself, because I thought I’d learnt a new word. Instead, my writing came back with a massive red cross and “you can’t use this” in glaring capitals. No other explanation. To say the least, I was confused. But I continued on with life and forgot all about it.

But today, I ask myself:

1. How did a young boy of ten years come to learn the meaning of the word ‘slut’ and go about relishing in my ignorance? 2. Why did my male teacher think zero explanation and a red cross would suffice, to make me ignore a word which was represented the struggles of so many women in the world?

The history of the word slut is long and blurred; it has been used to refer to females, males, dogs. Today, the word is highly derogatory, painting women as promiscuous, disrespected, ‘asking for it’. Slut-shaming is a form of victim-blaming inherent in Australian culture. In the wake of the rape and murder of Euridyce Dixon in Melbourne’s Carlton, the media erupted. Authorities implored girls to cover up, girls to stay at home at night, girls, sluts to behave in a way that would not attract the bad, but inevitable behaviour of boys. A step towards eliminating this perception of women as ‘asking for it’ is realising that ‘slut’ is not a word to be tossed around like it has no weight at all.

Primarily, we take the word ‘slut’ to represent women who a lot of sex. But instead of another root being another ‘notch on the belt’, as it is for men, women are labelled as dirty. Secondarily, we lessen the severity of the word to represent women who dress like they ‘want some’. Skirt-length and the cut of a top are indicators of a woman requiting disrespect, when it should just represent their personal style. Finally, greetings of ‘Hey slut!’ reverberate through the halls of girls’ schools everywhere. Normalised by shows such as J’amie, we strip the word slut of its true meaning, using it as an endearment. How can a word that has so many bad connotations be used between young, impressionable girls? In reducing the word to an endearment in some contexts, while deprecating its connotations in others, we are trivialising a matter which cannot be trivialised.

In contrast to my ten-year-old self, ‘slut’ is a word I am now very familiar with. Out of respect to myself and to all women, I don’t use it. Because of its connotations, it makes me extremely uncomfortable. At the age of ten, I knew I shouldn’t swear. I knew I shouldn’t utter the ‘f’ word, the ‘c’ word, the ‘s’ word. Sugar-honey-ice-tea was the closest I came. This knowledge was inherent in my upbringing. But for some reason, the word ‘slut’, I accepted with no qualms. I don’t believe this is okay, and I don’t believe that we should trivialise a word which is so demeaning.

That innocent boy should have been raised by his parents to respect, rather than mock.

That male teacher should have sat me down and explained, perhaps in a roundabout, tailored-to-year-five-way, why I could not use that word, rather than simply crossing it out, leaving me to wonder.

The girls at school shouting ‘Hey slut’ throughout the hallways should have realised they were and are undermining protests against slut-shaming and the wider feminist movement.

Gender equality and sexual harassment may seem unconquerable. It is immense. But slut-shaming and the vernacular used to demean women is a significant part of how we perceive the broader issue, and it is something which we can tackle head on in our daily lives. We must empower all people, not just women, by allowing freedom to choose what to wear, what to do with their bodies. Boys shouldn’t be pressured to have a lot of sex, and girls shouldn’t be pressured to hold onto their ‘virginity’.

I encourage you to do three things; recognise the power of words, check yourself before you speak and call other people out on their language. It’s only fair to the next ten-year-old who we hope can be raised in a society which has finally learnt to blame the criminal, rather than the victim.