Archive of Our Own

The Ferryman stood beneath the aegis of his idol, poring over its imperfections.

Uneven edges on the pauldrons. Gauntlets yet to be engraved. Too little abrading. Too much abrading. Floor to patella, patella to iliac crest—properly proportioned, he prayed.

Limestone sediment lined the floor beneath the sculpture. Aligning his chipped halo aright, the Ferryman stepped forward, chisel in hand. For he knew that imprisoned within this imperfect stone was a divine, radiant being—his name was Gabriel, and the Ferryman intended to free him.

Judge of Hell, Archangel Gabriel: his savior, his muse, and the light in his darkness. The angel who had pulled him from the depths of Styx twice over, so lovingly granting him another chance at existence. The mediums of mankind could neither capture nor compare to Gabriel’s effulgent form, but in the absence of his Light, the Ferryman’s imitative images made damnation a bit more bearable.

It began as a simple pastime, one popular among Ferrymen. Vestigial formations of Hell Mass were sometimes found during their voyages, which were excellent mediums for carving. The carapace-like cartilage was whittled away into angelic figures, and through this arduous art, they became Idols: blessed demons, offering auspice to the Damned. The radiance of a Ferryman's holy cloth was not unlike radiation, transmitting divinity to the Idols through prolonged proximity alone.

The death of mankind brought an end to the seafaring Ferrymen. God’s failed experiments no longer needed transportation, so the once supreme Husks now ambled aimlessly. They sailed their empty vessels to no destination, wading through an afterlife where their work was obsolete and their wealth of obol had little use.

But idle hands were easily occupied by sin, so the Ferryman chose to take up a chisel instead.

With Wrath’s turbulent tides raging outside, torchlight burned beside him, illuminating the limestone sculpture and clarifying Gabriel’s carved form. Perfection was the only option. He had all eternity to hone his craft, and the calluses left from his ceaseless work had no skin to lay claim to. He rarely needed to rest, nor did he want to.

Sculpture was a meditative process, not unlike worship. Each strike of the mallet sang his praises; each incise of the chisel gave form to his devotion. It culminated in Gabriel's glorious form, preaching a definitive gospel in its presence: “God is Good, for He gave life to Gabriel.”

The faithful Ferryman was aware that the veneration of angels and idols was false and sinful. But when all of mankind had succumbed to the Ocean Styx, and when the light of the Father slipped from the world’s weary hands, what else was left to worship? Only vestiges and vessels remained.

The holy shadow of the statue was immense, wholly swallowing the Ferryman’s frail figure. It stood in stark contrast to the archangel himself, who was blinding to behold. Larger than life, the statue eclipsed the Ferryman in stature as he skirted around its legs, seeking out unfinished areas. He hesitated, before settling beneath Gabriel’s skirt. Empty sockets staring up, he traced his hand over an unarmored hip, feeling for flaws.

There was no sin in this, the Ferryman assured himself. Gabriel’s holy physique was sculpted by the Father Himself: an immaculate imago Dei. Evidence of this was abundant. How graceful Gabriel was, how poised, how masterful his swordsmanship—how his muscles moved beneath his sheer bodysuit, shining see-through with sweat. His figure was flawless and everlasting, unlike the Ferryman’s own festering form. 

The way of all flesh was to decay. To degrade what was Good. Behind his holy veil, the last evidence of the Ferryman’s humanity had long since rotted away; his eternity was one of endless penitence. Despite his unwavering faith in life, Heaven left him ascetic and starved, and Hell had driven him to pick his own bones clean. Hating his imperfect form, the Ferryman tore the meager flesh that remained of his body from the bone, until all that remained were the skeletal remains of a sinner. When he awoke and found himself still animate, he could only clasp his carpals in infernal prayer.

The Ferryman’s body was not built to last, but Gabriel’s was. Carved into equally everlasting stone, Gabriel’s eternal life would stretch beyond bounds not only temporal, but spatial, too. He would be everpresent, watching over his most devout sinner from Heaven and Hell in parallel.

Just as the Ferryman’s sullied hands had disfigured the Lord’s Image with sin, they too had the capacity to transform the unholy materials of Hell into art. Ex nihilo nihil fit. Nothing came from nothing; these acts of salvation surely proved that God’s eternal glory inhabited him. As the Ferryman brought chisel to stone and formed an angel of his own, did he not not embody His Image as well?

His mind was wandering. The chisel slipped and chipped his scaphoid. He felt no pain; he had not the nerves to feel such a thing.

As the Ferryman’s body had bound him in life, he believed that being stripped of skin was the only true freedom he could grant himself. It was a cleansing process—he had been unfettered from desires of the flesh, had he not? It was God’s will that gave him structure, not simple sinew. No more earthly pains; no more earthly pleasures. In this form, he was incapable of concupiscence: the very vices that damned him.

At least, he should have been.

The Ferryman’s sculpting hands often lacked artistic merit. His phalanges would curl over his statue’s strong shoulders, stroking softly; he would nestle his head into the crook of its neck and imagine an invisible touch. And what he did below the belt was unspeakable. One hand sanded the hem of Gabriel’s skirt as the other groped his thighs. He fondled anything untouched by armor. He could never help himself.

This indicated something to the Ferryman: something so sacrilegious and terrible that he dared not dwell on it. What it indicated was that these desires resided in the soul itself, and that this was not just an irrationality of the fallible flesh, but something intrinsic to the spirit, persistent even after death and damnation. This passion, this light; this fire still burned in his husk of a body. It was inescapable, all-powerful and omnipresent—it was divine.

No. Blasphemy. Heresy. The Ferryman gripped his mallet tighter, and drove the chisel into Gabriel’s stone skin. Limestone powdered the floor as he carved deep into the crease of his thighs.

A revelation dawned upon the Ferryman. With these hidden details complete, what else needed to be done? Not the pauldrons, not the gauntlets—he had finished those while contemplating the mortification of his flesh. Surely the abdomen was due to be smoothed over once more, but as the Ferryman traced each phalange along its delicately detailed surface, he found not a single fault.

It was complete. His work was done, and it was perfect. Gabriel was perfect.

The Ferryman took a step back, trembling. He looked upon his work, and waves of euphoria crashed over his weary body, fiercer than the wrathful waters of Styx. He bathed in the glory of God—of Gabriel—awestruck and ecstatic. His legs failed to bear the weight of his elation, so the Ferryman fell to his knees.

So close to the statue, he could not help how he reached out to it. The Ferryman brushed his hand chastely across its burnished body—merely sweeping away some sediment. But his hand lingered a touch too long at the carved curve of Gabriel’s waist. He jolted back, a shallow breath catching in his chest. No, no. His sinful touch had sullied enough; he would not allow it to pervert his perfect Gabriel.

He wrung his bony hands, fidgeting oddly on his knees. Slowly, the Ferryman rose to his feet. He approached his sculpture silently. The absence of Heaven’s embrace was cold, as were the limestone limbs he began to stroke. 

Lord, forgive him.

The Ferryman hoisted himself onto the statue’s raised leg, wrapping thin arms around its waist to steady himself. He sprawled himself across Gabriel, positioning his pelvis so he could press up against his armored thigh. A shaky sigh spilled through his veil. There was no hellfire hot enough for him.

From where the Ferryman sat, the sculpture stared sidewards. He could not bear being caught in Gabriel’s righteous gaze: an angel should not have to witness this act of sacrilege. Shuddering, the Ferryman rubbed himself against the statue, singing Gabriel’s name into its neck, and mumbling praise and prayer between quiet moans. 

“O Gabriel, my Light; my Lord,” he moaned. “I plead for you, Gabriel, I beg of you, please—”

An ear splitting echo shook the cabin. Raucous rattling stormed the windows and thundered through the floorboards. There was a resounding flash, then resplendent, radiant light.

From the unfathomable bright came a voice. A voice cantabile like Heaven’s choirs, triumphal as the seven trumpeters blaring Torricelli's trumpets at Armageddon, more mellifluous than the immaculate Muses, and when it spoke, so sonorous as to be siren song, it said:

“Again? Angel worship is a sin, you know.”

The Ferryman withheld a shriek, nearly falling from the statue’s knee.

Gabriel appeared, and his holy presence set the depths of Hell alight. Head held high, the halo crowning his helm burned brilliantly blue, as did his outstretched wings. The Ferryman could hardly raise his head to meet his gaze, even lacking retinas to sear. 

“Sing your prayers to God, dutiful Ferryman. I am merely His servant,” said Gabriel.

Lost in his own modesty, it took a moment for Gabriel to acknowledge the unusual placement of the Ferryman: straddled on the statue’s thigh, chisel and mallet cast far out of reach. 

“... Sinner. What are you doing?”

Sinner. The word sent a shiver through the Ferryman’s body—stinging, but not exactly unpleasant. Something like sanitizing a wound.

“I was simply sanding the stone,” he replied in a small, shaky rasp. It was a voice he typically had little need for, sounding strange when it entered the air. “Finishing touches.”

Gabriel fluttered closer, head tilted. “It’s done?” 

Being present throughout its inception, seeing the completed statue spawned sparks of a smile behind Gabriel’s helmet. The Ferryman had asked for his aid in the artistic process, and Gabriel humbly bequeathed the Ferryman a bountiful gift: his body, at his beck and call. (For figure studies.)

“It is,” the Ferryman said. “I invoked your name with reason this time.” The last few times had involved the Ferryman verifying the minutiae of Gabriel’s loincloth, to his mild chagrin. 

The Ferryman slipped from the statue down to the floor, gently bowing before Gabriel—subtle enough to avoid another accusation of angelolatry—who gave an indifferent hmph. Unintentional as it was, he had to make the most of the presence he had summoned.

“I plead for your righteous judgment, my Light.” The meek Ferryman stepped aside from the sculpture, presenting his work. In a whisper, he asked, “What do you think?”

The angel crossed his arms, hundreds of hidden eyes scanning over his reflected figure. Stoic, but not rigid. Flowing dynamism, with rippled fabric carved in curves. Copious contrapposto, on account of Gabriel’s tendency to levitate one leg aloft. Evidently, a magnum opus.

“My pauldrons are that big?” Gabriel glanced over his own shoulder, performing intensive visual calculus. “Hm.”

The Ferryman apologized frantically, offering to alter the proportions, until Gabriel raised a hand to silence him.

“Calm, friend,” he said. There was a smile in his voice. “It is not inaccurate. Your eye for detail astonishes me.”

Hands clutching his cloth, the Ferryman watched with deference as Gabriel paced the statue’s perimeter. Contented hums sounded from the holes in his helmet, ones that still did not allay the fretful Ferryman.

“What of the composition itself? It is not too... eccentric? Cliché?” he asked. “It is not idolatrous to venerate your figure in these ways, is it?” (It felt more than a little masturbatory, at least.) “And the hubris—Gabriel, what of the hubris?”

Gabriel stared.

“No,” he said. “It is Good.”

The Ferryman’s shoulders fell. “... Thank you, sire.”

“Do not recede into such indulgent abstractions,” scolded Gabriel. “The Lord’s presence is always unmistakable and unobscured. That is the Truth.”

While the Council may have ordered the destruction of the Damned’s graven images, Gabriel, in his unending compassion, allowed even the lowly denizens of Hell to idolize him. The Lord bestowed his sublime graces; to pay devotion to them was to appreciate the craftsmanship of his Creator.

This could not be idolatry, because Gabriel did not see it as such. For Gabriel was the Will of God: all he did, and all he was, was Good and Just.

“Your devotion is evident, sinner. But it is imperfect. You are doubtful; that is why.”

In their infinites of spare time, the Ferryman and Gabriel often whittled away at eternity with conversation, waxing theological to each other. Given Gabriel’s unambiguous authority on the Truth, they tended to be rather one-sided—but the Ferryman longed for someone to hear his sorrows, and Gabriel’s angelic presence alone was usually enough to alleviate them.

The Ferryman sighed. “I often wonder why I... deviate.” He glanced towards the sculpture. “Why I am able to doubt at all. It only serves to abstract an otherwise absolute devotion.”

“Autonomy is the Lord’s most mysterious gift,” said Gabriel. “It is your duty, sinner, to prove your devotion despite it. Achieve the greatness that God has predestined through His Grace.” Looking at the limestone statue of himself, the angel lowered a hand to the Ferryman’s shoulder. “Your ceaseless craft is testament to this. Through devotion to my graces, you have achieved truly Good art.”

“Still, I am a sinner.” The Ferryman eyed his own faux halo. “It is in my spirit. All I wish to express is the glory of God, yet my loathsome humanity impedes me.” 

Free will was the progenitor of all sin. Formed from flaw, it formed flaw itself, and imperfection often took on a life of its own. Surely the Ferryman’s sculpture would not have existed at all without the imperfections of passion. Infallibility would never erect such an immaculate monument. It was an object of indulgently lavish luxuria; a creator’s longing made manifest, made only to fill an absence—an empty space so abyssal that only aching desire could be the origin.

The Ferryman said, “I have shed my skin already. Should I shed autonomy, I would be a slave not to desires of my own, but to those only of my Creator.”

Thoughtlessly, he trailed a finger across the statue’s thigh.

“A mere object. Pliant stone, obeying inscriptions from the chisel alone.”

Gabriel folded his wings behind his back, eyeing him curiously. “Like a machine?”

The Ferryman paused before he replied, “Yes. One that serves not mankind’s whims, but the Lord Himself, with perfect loyalty.” He looked to his sculpture. “... An angel.” 

For so long, the wandering Ferrymen had awaited Heaven’s embrace. Their duty had been fulfilled, so it was only reason that they be Saved, finally allowed to ascend to angelhood. But Gabriel was their only advocate, and the Council was unconvinced. The broken halos weighing on their necks served as a reminder of what could have been.

“And despite that supposed subservience, those things killed their creators.” Gabriel shook his head. “Angels are not without imperfection, either. Free will. The capacity to defy the Creator—to rebel, to sin, to fall. That is something I have seen in abundance,” he said, “in lesser angels.”

“I see.” In solemn silence, the Ferryman contemplated. His voice was little more than a mutter when he finally spoke. “Free will—do you possess it, Gabriel?”

Gabriel paused.

“I am the Will of God,” was all he knew to say. “All I do, and all I am, is Good and Just.”

An imperceptible hesitancy passed before the Ferryman nodded.

Ferrymen were selected for their blind faith; questioning God’s order was not a desirable trait, nor was it meant to be in their nature. They were like angels in that regard. Still, doubts managed to form in the Ferryman’s mind—and soon, Gabriel’s.

“Why would the merciful Lord grant His creations such a terrible thing? I do not dare doubt God’s infinite greatness, and yet... in His immaculate design, I cannot help but see autonomy as an error.”

Gabriel glowered. “Heresy.”

“Forgive me,” the Ferryman whispered. “Forgive me, Lord.”

This show of repentance pleased Gabriel. He nodded solemnly, rewarding the Ferryman’s submission to his scolding.

Truthfully, Gabriel was unable to differentiate between God’s Will and his own. As an embodiment of the former, he never thought to be conscious of the latter, let alone acknowledge its existence. Still, the idea that he was not in control of his actions—it angered him in a way he failed to comprehend.

Unbeknownst to himself, Gabriel felt his superior moral judgment was his own: it only happened to align perfectly with God’s Will. Such was a blasphemous sentiment, teeming with unjust arrogance. That was why he could not acknowledge it. If Gabriel were to sin, surely it would say unspeakable things of Him.

After a tense tranquility, the Ferryman ventured his hoarse voice.

“My dearest friend,” he said. “Please tell me. Will I ever find peace?”

Gabriel was unsure of how to respond. He lacked an answer, anyway. 

“... I cannot readily tell you. Facing doubt, your duty is to look to the Lord. He alone holds the answers and the Truth.”

A weightless platitude. But it kept sinners faithful, chasing flickers of faded light.

“Yes, sire,” the Ferryman said. “Amen.”

There was strain in his voice. A subtle, somber lilt betrayed his exhaustion. Gabriel struck him a glare—one he failed to notice. The Ferryman gazed obliquely out the cabin window, toward the stormy sea of Styx. The massa damnata whipped in the waves and restless winds. He found himself lost within their wakes.

This gave Gabriel pause. Skepticism was a grave sin, necessary to rebuke. Yet as the Ferryman turned to face him once more, calm and quiet, something in Gabriel ached. What was he to do, sentence him to a second eternal damnation? The pitiful Husk had lost enough already. 

“Something still weighs on your soul, sinner.” He outstretched an armored palm to him. “Bear these pains to me. You cannot rise to glory carrying such burdens.”

The Ferryman stilled. The vastness of Gabriel’s grace overwhelmed him, his words so soothing and merciful. He took his hand, holding it with reverence.

“Oh, dear Gabriel, I shouldn’t,” the Ferryman said, a ghost of a smile lining his teeth. “You have stayed so long already, and you have far greater responsibilities than this silly sinner.” 

“No,” Gabriel said, too fast. “It is only fair, friend. You have devoted yourself to the Lord so dearly; is that not deserving of an angel’s humble audience?”

The Ferryman still could not face Gabriel directly. Clinking phalanges against armor, he took a deep breath. “Perhaps the arts are not suited to me,” he said. “Perhaps nothing is.”

Gabriel squeezed his palm. “False. Your works are masterful.”

“That is not... thank you, my friend.” The Ferryman flustered, shaking his head. He continued quietly, “But my doubts lie in the practice itself. Ferrying the Damned was a duty imparted by Heaven and God—but now I am obsolete, and this work is merely whim. I cannot be certain that I am doing what is Good.”

“Your fear is unfounded,” said Gabriel. “Its beauty gives praise to God. Why would this be anything but Good?”

“It is indulgent. Hedonistic.” He let go of Gabriel’s hand, ashamed. “My endless toil is in these lavish aesthetic pleasures—and while the work occupies my mind, Gabriel, it still wanders.”

“... In what ways?”

The Ferryman reeled back, desperate to correct course. But that ship had long since sailed.

“That is to say, ah—when does appreciation of the Image become idolatrous? That’s... that is what I intended.”

Gabriel’s aptitude in abstraction may have been minimal, but his ability to identify sin was unmatched.

“You spoke of having wandering thoughts. Admit their origin,” he ordered.

The Ferryman stiffened, trying not to eye the statue. “The origin is myself, sire. My spirit is sinful; when my mind is not occupied by worship, by work, it slips into degenerate thought.”

Gabriel stared in silent judgment.

“These thoughts did not trouble you at sea, sinner.”

Thunder struck outside. The Ferryman marveled at Gabriel, overwhelmed in his righteous fury. He was relentless; there was little compassion left in his voice. It was exhilarating. Part of the Ferryman craved Gabriel’s ire; as a form of self-flagellation, he sought to be scolded, rebuked—punished for his impure impudence. This was catharsis, and it was divine.

“Tell me what has changed.” Gabriel took a step forward, closing the meager distance between the two.

The Ferryman squirmed on his heels. He slid back slowly, until he found himself pressed against the statue. Gasping, he looked up—only to meet a second, stony stare. Restless winds blew against the cabin window, threatening it to shatter. The rattling of the window frame matched the Ferryman’s trembling bones as he fell to his knees once more.

“You,” he confessed. “It is you, Gabriel. You alone occupy my lecherous mind.”

Gabriel regarded the Ferryman, who was prone, prostrating himself before him. How utterly vulnerable he looked at his feet; how he trembled against the monument to his own lust. Beside the pride this submission brought, something else bloomed within Gabriel. Something strange. Something that threatened him. Reflexively, he hovered his hand at the hilt of Splendor, his holy blade.

“And you simply submit to such vices?”

The Ferryman said, “I have whittled myself half to dust to rid of them. Gabriel, I have fought against flesh itself—but these thoughts, I still cannot expunge them.” His voice was quavering.

“Confess them to me,” commanded Gabriel. “Repent, and under the Lord, you shall be cleansed.” 

The Ferryman jolted upright. “By God’s grace, I cannot!” Gabriel’s glare soon struck him back to his knees, anklets and armbands jangling miserably. Quieted once more, he said, “I cannot—I shouldn’t speak of such... lewdness. Such vile, impure...”

As he trailed off, Gabriel remained silent. Staring. Stoic.

The Ferryman’s voice returned as a lowly whimper.

“I dream of defiling you,” he whispered. “Often.”

Gabriel’s helmet did not betray much emotion. This was a fact for which he found himself eternally grateful.

“Elaborate.”

The Ferryman hesitated. A strained noise came from beneath his holy cloth.

“Your radiant, angelic form—I have these vivid reveries of your body laid bare before me,” he said. He couldn’t help but avert his gaze as he spoke. “Of your divine physique, desecrated by these foul hands.” 

Gabriel struck the ground with his blade. “Look at me when you speak, sinner.”

“Y-yes, sire. Of course.”

The Ferryman gazed up at Gabriel. The longing, the desire, the guilt: it all hit him at once, once again. His ribcage tightened. How beautiful Gabriel was, how gracious he was in his judgment; how terrible the things he wished to do to him were.

“I... no longer possess the anatomy I did in life, yet—O Father, forgive me—I still dream of thrusting into you, Gabriel, hearing your angelic song peal from your lips, sung for me alone.” 

Gabriel shuffled in place. His dizzied head pounded as he tried, and failed, to judge which was more sinful: the Ferryman, or himself. All the ichor in his veins had rushed straight beneath his belt. The Ferryman took his wordlessness as a prompt to continue, perhaps one with more than a touch of silent judgment.

“I cannot resist you, Gabriel. When I look upon you, in all your grace and glory, I realize that my damnation is deserved—because I seek to drag you down to Hell with me.”

The Ferryman clutched his holy cloth, unable to breathe the air his words tainted. The cabin was quiet. In the silence, Wrath itself seemed to still, and the cacophonies of Styx softened to susurruses. 

“Come to me, sinner,” spoke Gabriel. 

The Ferryman’s hand trembled as he rose. Gingerly, he reached forward, phalanges clattering atop Gabriel’s breastplate. The holy armor that adorned him—it was surely impenetrable, the Ferryman thought. Rarely did he dare to imagine Gabriel without it. Even in his deepest fantasies, it felt sacrilegious to strip him completely bare.

Breathing shakily through long-lost lungs, the Ferryman nuzzled his head into Gabriel’s armored chest. The sensation wasn’t dissimilar to the statue’s stone exterior. A cold, hard sensation—an impersonal touch.  A sinner such as himself deserved nothing more. The barrier that stood between the Ferryman and salvation was eternal, and unbreakable.

“My... my Light, I—” The Ferryman choked back a sob. “Please, forgive me.”

“All is forgiven by God, my friend.” 

Something like a scoff formed in Gabriel’s throat.

“Yet, these impure thoughts of yours—they can only be forgiven when they are gone.”

The Ferryman froze. His bracelets chimed against his quivering bones. His hand, subconsciously, had been stroking circles into the small of Gabriel’s back. It was one of the few areas of Gabriel’s body bare of armor; it was a motion he had practiced many times on the statue’s stone flesh. It felt so familiar.

He found his other hand equally misplaced. It had trailed down from Gabriel’s chest, now caressing the angel’s exposed abdomen, with the tips of his phalanges daring to slip beneath the band of his skirt. 

The Ferryman stumbled backwards, clasping sinful hands to his chest as he kneeled in remorse. “F—forgive me! I am sorry, sincerely, I—”

“Sinner.” Shakily, Gabriel said, “Why do you tempt me?”

The Ferryman stifled a noise of bafflement.  

“These... tainted thoughts. These temptations.” Gabriel clutched his helmet, hunched over in apparent psychic distress. “They impede me. I can’t—why can’t I—?”

This should not have been possible, thought the Ferryman. Contrary to the scripture he had read in life, he knew angels were not sexless—thanks to countless hours spent carefully observing Gabriel’s figure. That matters of the flesh had marred an apparently ideal imago Dei seemed contradictory; it was certainly contradictory to the Ferryman’s own mortified flesh. But the Father would surely not be so senseless as to allow such terrestrial enticements to seduce His own Righteous Hand. 

“GOD!” screamed Gabriel. “I can’t THINK STRAIGHT!”

And still, they so evidently did.

In the Ferryman’s stunned silence, all that was audible was heavy breathing, and the metallic clang of a chestplate that heaved up and down.

“Sinner,” Gabriel hissed. “Filthy sinner.”

The abrasive tone sent shivers down the Ferryman’s spine. Had he done this? Did his perversion run so deep as to corrupt even the Lord’s highest angels? Gabriel approached him, unreadable. The Ferryman gazed up at his imperfect idol. Awed, afraid—and silently excited.

Gabriel brought a heavy hand to the Ferryman’s shoulder. His wings flared out, blazing blue. Between uneven breaths, he panted, “Assist me.”

“P—pardon?”

He drew him closer.

“This is your penance.”

The Ferryman stammered, “Gabriel, you... this cannot be—is this not...?”

“No. I need this, I, I need to—”

Gabriel silenced himself. His fingers rose to the Ferryman’s jaw, gently lifting his chin.

“Repent, sinner, and serve me. For it is Good and Just.”

Surely it was not. Was it? In scandalized silence, the Ferryman beheld Gabriel. His armored chest lifted and fell; his helmet admitted nothing. Slowly, the Ferryman returned his hands to his waist, stroking softly—reverently. Gabriel shivered. His hips tilted toward his touch.

“This is wrong,” the Ferryman muttered. “You should not allow me to do this. You should not let this sinner violate your divine image.”

Gabriel hummed. “You haven’t already?” He smoothed his thumb across the Ferryman’s cheek, through his veil. “Remind me, sinner—who occupied those unholy thoughts of yours?” 

The words were caught in the Ferryman’s chest. Gabriel pressed his hips closer, tauntingly, watching how he squirmed. Finally, he gasped out, “You, Gabriel, you.” 

A chuckle reverberated through Gabriel’s helmet. 

“What are you waiting for, then?” 

He hooked a thigh at the Ferryman’s side, trapping him between his legs.

“Defile me,” he demanded. “Do what you DREAMED OF!”

Bursting with cathartic laughter, Gabriel lifted the ends of his skirt, reveling in how the Ferryman flustered at the sight. His strong thighs rubbed together, boasting the sizable erection between them.

“What have you done to me?” Gabriel let out a laugh that sputtered into a moan, and flickers of golden light gilded his halo. “Why am I... what am I doing?”

That fire. That familiar fire—it raged within Gabriel, just as it did for the Ferryman. Amorously, he outstretched his lengthy arms, wrapping himself around Gabriel’s legs. His abdomen flushed with warmth. 

“Forgive me,” the Ferryman breathed. “Lord, f... forgive me.”

Skeletal hands tucked Gabriel’s skirt aside, caressing the straining bulge in his bodysuit. His phalanges touched lightly against the fabric; it was much softer than stone, but not entirely dissimilar in hardness.

Straight away, Gabriel thrashed at the touch, and a groan fled his celibate lips. “Ffff—fuck,” he gasped. The imprint of his cock twitched, and a small stain formed on the sheer fabric. Flustered, Gabriel quickly wrestled his skirt and tassets off, but the bodysuit stayed on.

With a palm stalling at Gabriel’s thigh, the Ferryman turned to the side, ashamed of what he intended to ask.

“... Forgive me. How does this...?”

Gabriel’s helmet tilted. For a moment, he paused.

“It,” he stammered, “it...”

Gritting his teeth, Gabriel dove his hands between his legs, gripping his bodysuit.

“It is not supposed to, ggh,” he grunted. “It’s not supposed to—”

His fingers pulled the fabric taut, straining, struggling—until it relented. There was a ripping sound.

“... It’s not supposed to.”

An unparsable admixture of fear and awe hid behind the Ferryman’s veil. Speechless, he took a hand to the shredded bodysuit. After pushing a few surviving strands of fabric aside, he felt Gabriel’s cock throb as it finally sprung free.

“How divine,” the Ferryman breathed. 

Gabriel blushed beneath his helmet, turning away tersely. “Perverted,” he said. “How the Lord has blessed you, allowing a sinner of your caliber to... to behold me.”

The Ferryman pressed his palms together. He muttered, “Amen.” Long fingers curled around Gabriel’s cock. He felt the Ferryman’s warm breath on his skin as he spoke. “O, how the Lord has blessed me.”

Filed down by ceaseless sanding and sculpting, the Ferryman’s phalanges were surprisingly smooth—the thick, polished bone felt soft on Gabriel’s skin. His cock twitched; pearlescent white beaded the tip. The Ferryman hummed with content as he slid his palm against it, slicking his hand with thick, copious precum. His skeletal hands were skilled, having been honed over millennia of seafaring; of craft and prayer—of secret self-pleasure. The noises this drew from Gabriel’s mouth were enough for him to throw his forearm against his helmet, humiliated, with his free hand desperately clutching at the Ferryman’s cloth. 

The Ferryman whispered, “Does this satisfy, sire?”

Gabriel bit back a moan. He tried to stutter out an answer, but stumbled over his words—neither was right. ‘Yes’ would admit his subservience to sin. ‘No’ would be a lie. A particularly pathetic whine came out instead.

That absence of an answer was all the Ferryman needed to hear. Beneath his veil, his teeth tried to smile. “So good you are, dear Gabriel.”

“God,” he cursed. This should not have felt the way it did. Lust was a vacuous abyss, easily conquered by the righteous: that was what Gabriel was told, and what was True. But the Ferryman’s caressing touch was a far greater euphoria than any semblance of sanctity, and the gentle praises he whispered sent scorching light to his stomach. This was not something easily conquerable. Fighting in a misplaced desire for dominance, Gabriel grabbed hold of the Ferryman’s faux halo, thrusting hard into his grasp. Beneath ragged breath, he muttered, “F-filthy sinner.” 

The Ferryman quickly matched Gabriel’s rough pace; whiny moans rang from the angel's throat, fighting through lips he fought so desperately to keep sealed. Just as his muscles tensed and his mind started to sear white, the Ferryman slowed himself.

“No,” the Ferryman said. “Not yet.”

“Why are you—?” Gabriel quickly cut off his own whine. “Stop stalling, sinner,” he said instead. “Just pay your dues.”

The Ferryman hesitated, but resumed his pace. God help him, he did not want this to end. Each restrained cry from Gabriel’s throat sent coils of fire through the Ferryman’s body; so badly did he want this to last. He longed to show him pleasures unknown. He wanted to love Gabriel. And the idea that he could not, and that this would end—it pained him.

“... I will still yearn for you after this.” He added, “Endlessly.”

“Seek the Lord to purge those impure desires,” Gabriel panted, thrusting mindlessly. “That is—mmh—the only way.”

To Gabriel, lust was an affliction: a simple sin to be purged. He could not comprehend the Ferryman’s feelings because he refused to accept how the same passions devastated himself. Surely, Gabriel feared not only its power over man—over himself—but the power it brought man, as he struck down the peaceful Lust Renaissance. Gabriel certainly knew lust well enough to cast judgment on it. How long had he spent in repression? Far, far longer than he could know.

“This is not something to be repeated. This is not... ngh. This is—fuck, m-more,” he moaned. “I can’t, hh-holy fuck, please—”

The Ferryman gave a soft gasp. Gabriel suddenly jolted, wings twitching as he fucked his hand with fervor. He groaned, clearly unable to control himself—he was close. The Ferryman’s longing quelled as he saw this glorious sight, unable to resist muttering sweet praises to his savior.

“Yes,” the Ferryman whispered, “so good, my Light.”

Gabriel hunched over the Ferryman, grabbing his shoulders to find purchase as he quickened his thrusts. Eternities of pent up passion drove him: envious attractions, urges never acted on, arousals confused with anger, tents in his bodysuit he could never touch—every needless second of abstinence from these divine pleasures came together at once, and in that culmination, Gabriel experienced ecstasy.

Head thrown back, his wings erupted with golden light. They beat erratically as his body shot out; his hips slammed hard into the Ferryman’s hands, shuddering, covering his holy cloth with hot, thick cum. The Ferryman whispered awed worship and praise, hands wringing him for all he had. The cries Gabriel voiced with each involuntary thrust were nothing short of debauched—yet so sweetly innocent in their unabashedness. 

The Ferryman had never seen a sight so resplendent—it was like finding faith; seeing the face of God. Quietly, he hoped that face did not see him—particularly, that it did not witness the state of his holy cloth. The Ferryman hesitantly swiped a finger across the profaned fabric. Apparently, angel semen glowed. He stared, entranced, and wordlessly mourned his lack of taste buds.

Gabriel’s legs shook, barely able to keep himself upright. He nearly stumbled—the Ferryman looked up, and was caught in his gaze. Past Gabriel’s guarded helm, he could just barely see something stir beneath the surface—something he hadn’t the words to describe. It swirled, swelled in size, and slipped away as soon as it came into sight. Demand, desire. Desperation. His movements were delayed; his grip was too tight, and he realized now how Gabriel’s hands had not yet left him. He saw millennia of deprivation: Gabriel was never allowed a mortal life, nor desires of his own. He needed this to last. The Ferryman decided that prolonging this would not be selfish.

“My Light,” he murmured. “Allow me to remove your armor.”

Gabriel panted, unable to cohere for a good few seconds. “F... for what possible p... purpose?”

“Avoidance of heatstroke.”

Slowly, the Ferryman rose to his feet, slipping behind Gabriel’s back, who argued how that was impossible: how angels were beings of light, inherently resistant to heat. He failed to aim any protest at the Ferryman’s gentle unbuckling of his cuirass, and how lovingly he slipped his gauntlets away from his arms, feeling the newfound warmth of his palm when he locked hands with him. His helmet went untouched; just as the Ferryman would never remove his holy veil, both seemed to understand it was the one protection the other could not go without.

Gabriel was bare, beside his torn bodysuit. Opting not to ruin it any further, the Ferryman stroked through the sheer, sweat-drenched fabric, gently caressing up from his broad chest, to his biceps, to his shoulders. Gabriel was much taller than him—being about chest level with him, the Ferryman had to reach his long arms to hold the sides of his helmet. He gazed up at the imposing angel, lust barely concealed behind his holy cloth.

“How long I have craved this glorious body,” he whispered, “and now it is mine.”

The Ferryman lowered his hands, and Gabriel made a small noise. He leaned his neck into the wall, knees nearly buckling beneath him.

“I—I belong to no one but the Lord,” he said.

Smoothing his phalanges across the angel’s abdomen, the Ferryman hummed, tracing each rise and fall of his intricate musculature. He already knew his body so intimately—he recalled every curve, every caress, every perfect perch for his hands to rest. That Gabriel knew none of this, being new to this familiar touch, made his soul stir. 

“Your hands—fuck,” Gabriel moaned. “Why does this feel... so...” He averted his gaze, hand held over his helm. “It—it feels good.”

The Ferryman’s rib cage rattled with soft laughter. “Doesn’t it?” He held Gabriel’s hips against the wall as they bucked into his touch. The Ferryman said, “Be still, dear Gabriel.” Squirming in place, Gabriel’s wings fluttered faintly as he whined. The sides of his waist were far too sensitive, sending full shivers to his head and twists to his torso as the Ferryman’s fingers slid over them, trailing lower and lower.

Already—again—Gabriel could feel how unbearably hard he was getting. As the Ferryman wrapped his arms around his waist and pulled him close, he felt his erection pressed up against him. This was unfair, Gabriel thought to himself. Why did he lose so easily to lust? That touch alone could reduce an angel of his esteem to such indecency, that he could be made so helpless and humiliated—and worst of all, that he liked it—it made him furious. 

Gabriel’s hands grabbed for the Ferryman’s hips; he drew a sharp breath, halting. Soft fingers crested at his ilium, then fell to his pubic arch. As they did, the Ferryman’s weak rasp became something soft but sonorous: a low, deep groan, hot with desire.

“You...” Gabriel retracted his touch, jarred. His fury rapidly dissipated into intrigue. “You can feel that.”

It was a statement, not a question. Still, the Ferryman nodded, shakily. With an innocent sort of curiosity, Gabriel stroked the holes of his sacrum.

“How can that be?”

The Ferryman turned away, trying to hide his voice in his veil. “I cannot—oh—claim... cl-claim to understand,” was what he managed to say. 

Gabriel clenched his teeth. His fingers rubbed across the Ferryman’s pelvis, stroking and touching, watching how he writhed, stealing every deep, shy moan he could manage. Heavy breathing was audible from his helmet. Hesitantly, he brought one hand down to stroke himself. Self-touching was a sin, but it was certainly not more sinful than those sounds the Ferryman made. Gabriel could hardly stand it. He bent in closer, feeling hot breath flutter against his neck.

“My Light,” the Ferryman moaned. “God—praise be—your touch is... so glorious, so h-holy.”

Gabriel groaned. His hips ground into the Ferryman’s own, experimentally sliding his cock along his pelvis. A shudder ran through him. Gabriel grabbed him by the shoulders, grunting. Hot, heavy breathing poured from the holes in his helm. Slowly, he started thrusting. The Ferryman gasped, grabbing desperately at Gabriel’s waist.

“Gabriel—! You, oh God,” he gasped, “are you sure—?”

Gabriel responded with nothing but labored breath, hissing through his teeth. 

“Surely that cannot be comfortable—”

“I, I don’t care,” he said. “I just, need this, I need to—L-Lord—!”

Wings outstretched, Gabriel wrestled the Ferryman to the floor. Scalding golden light surrounded them; the floorboards creaked as the Ferryman allowed himself to be sprawled against the ground. Pinned by sheer size, it became apparent to him how unfathomably powerful Gabriel was.

He panted, “I need this.”

Angels were exceptionally durable—even if there was significant discomfort, the pure adrenaline and aphrodisia pumping through Gabriel’s veins clouded it well. Still, the Ferryman could not help but think of the pleasures his body would have shown Gabriel, had he retained it. But the way he rutted himself against him, moaning, sounding utterly debauched and raw with desire—that stirred something inside the Ferryman.

Warm whispers of praise fluttered against Gabriel’s neck, softened by the cloth they were spoken through, yet each word still made him shudder—each gentle murmur burned through Gabriel, driving him harder, making him spit curses through his clenched teeth.

“Take it,” he said, shakily. “Repent, sinner—accept your, ngh, s-salvation.”

Head tossed back, the Ferryman gaped his jaw ajar, breathing deep. Even without a tongue, he could taste the air, the musk from Gabriel’s body—the sweat and sex and desperate, virginal need. It was bliss.

Unholy strings of profanity fell from Gabriel’s mouth as he fucked against him. He told the Ferryman to atone, to take him, harder, to take him more; he ordered him to submit to God’s Will—he desperately gasped the phrase ‘fornicate with me’ at some point, and the Ferryman hid a laugh behind his own rapturous moans.

Truthfully, this was nothing like the Ferryman’s fantasies. He dreamed of gently breaking Gabriel’s chastity, of comforting words whispered between loving gasps, and of holding and being held. But Gabriel, perfect Gabriel—his holy lips spoke such salacious things, he taunted and teased, and Lord, how lasciviously he bestowed that divine body to him.

He could do nothing but give in to Gabriel, to serve him, and be subsumed by his light. To be willingly stripped of autonomy, to acquiesce in absolute: perhaps this was all he truly craved. 

The Ferryman let his holy cloth fall between his teeth, biting down on it. His quivering legs were wrapped at Gabriel’s thighs, and God—he was close, so excruciatingly close.

Gabriel grunted, fucking him into the floor. He held his hips with enough force for it to be a miracle that they hadn’t fractured.

“Why can’t I, I can’t—fuck, I c-can’t—”

Breathing through his teeth, he pulled away.

“It—it’s too much, I can’t...” Gabriel gave a degraded groan. “Too much,” he breathed.

The Ferryman whined silently at the loss of his touch, before realizing why it had stopped. With effort, he crooked his torso to reach Gabriel. The Ferryman rubbed his arm, soft and sympathetic. “Relax, my Light.”

It was not pity that the Ferryman felt for the inexperienced angel; he knew Gabriel’s frustrations first-hand. With anatomy that felt lust only in spite of itself, it was very, very rare that the Ferryman found satisfaction. How long had he gone fruitlessly trying to fulfill his carnal desires? How many nights had he spent in vain, sockets wet with tears, hissing Gabriel’s name under shaking breaths and so desperately touching himself to the thought of him—until the guilt became too much to bear?

Gabriel scoffed, hands shaking as he hovered them over the Ferryman’s hips. He was painfully hard. “You expect me to—ngh—relax? In this state?”

“Yes. Let me take care of you,” the Ferryman said, “like you have cared for me before.”

Gabriel felt his face warm as the Ferryman put a hand on his chest, gently encouraging him to sit back. Were his bedroom not an entire cabin away, the Ferryman would have brought him there. It took a grunt of protest before he finally settled, leaning up against the limestone recreation of his own leg.

The Ferryman gently ran his hands across his pectorals, feeling Gabriel’s pulse pounding beneath his fingers. His untouched erection throbbed, and in the unbearable warmth, Gabriel groaned. His thighs dripped with sweat, still not fully bared by his bodysuit. The boiling fire in his body sought a means of escape: the tense fabric struggled as Gabriel grabbed it again, desperate to alleviate the heat, straining until the hole he had bored tore even further.

“... I pray my sartorial skills will be sufficient in mending that,” the Ferryman said. “I am unsure how one would show such a tear to any other tailor.”

Gabriel huffed. There was the faintest trace of a laugh in his throat.

With gentle deference, the Ferryman urged his thighs apart. They were thick and strong, and so unfathomably soft. It had been so long since he had felt the heat of skin, and God, how it warmed him. He lavished his thighs with gentle touches, groping fervently between shuddering breaths. Vivid fantasies of trailing his lips across Gabriel’s bare skin overtook him; how he longed for the taste of sweat on his tongue. 

“Hurry up, sinner.”

“What was that, dear Gabriel?”

He glared. “I, I told you to—”

The Ferryman cocked his head to the side, rapping his fingertips impatiently against Gabriel’s thigh.

“God—God damn you,” he panted, “please.”

Pleased, the Ferryman brought his hand back. “Of course,” he said, palming at Gabriel’s cock. “Anything for you, sire.”

The pleased noises that proceeded only proved the utter depths of his deprivation; the Ferryman almost felt guilty that he would tease him so mercilessly. The way he whined, relinquishing all vestiges of dignity just to feel his hands on him again, sparked unfamiliar feelings within the Ferryman. They felt like power. Authority. Yet he intended only to use this power tenderly. Guiding lost souls through the depths of Hell; offering the Damned an act of kindness that God was unwilling to give them—that was his duty, and his nature. Even the sinful deserved safe passage.

“Anything for you,” he repeated, stroking smooth fingers up and down his shaft. “My radiant Gabriel.”

Gabriel stammered something. He looked away unsurely, unable to speak, and the Ferryman slowed himself, allowing him reprieve. Finally, he said, “I—I want you closer. Please.”

“... As do I, my Light.”

The Ferryman breathed deep, then slipped onto Gabriel’s lap. The raw vulnerability hidden behind his helm almost hurt to look at too long. Neither could look into each other’s out of sight eyes, so their gazes instead lingered on their bodies. Hesitantly, Gabriel brought his hands back to the Ferryman. He lifted his veil gently—only enough to run his fingers along his ribs. A quivering sigh rushed past his teeth and he grabbed for Gabriel’s hips, rubbing his pelvis into his lap.

Though these sensual pleasures were new to Gabriel, they were something the Ferryman had known for so devastatingly long. In their shared absence of another’s touch, they could only fall apart at each other’s. The push-and-pull tension that neither really understood had long since ended, settling instead into something sweet and indeterminate—an unabashed, exploratory indulgence. Gabriel curled his wings into a cocoon around them, and the world seemed to glow golden-blue.

“Sinner,” he said. “Let me... serve you.”

The Ferryman held his breath, beholding utter radiance.

“I just—your sounds, I...” Gabriel clenched a fist into the Ferryman’s cloth. He strained to say more, but nothing else left his lips. Instead, he settled his hand over his spine, slowly stroking down. “I want you—I want to hear you.”

With such unfamiliar anatomy, Gabriel could do nothing but try everything—he stroked his pelvis, fondled his foramen, rubbed his fingers hard against the sensitive symphysis—all to the Ferryman’s rapturous delight. Between cries of Gabriel’s name, he praised whatever force allowed him to feel this, holy or not. 

“God, O merciful Lord—praise be, for... for my e-endless prayers have been answered,” he murmured, low moans punctuating his words. “My savior has returned to me, and he is s-sublime.”

“Your savior,” Gabriel said, fondly. He was the Ferryman’s savior—that was a given. Why did hearing him say it stir something inside him? He whispered a word too quiet for the Ferryman to hear: “Yours.”

“Yes,” the Ferryman said. “Oh, I have spent c-centuries longing for you, Gabriel, for your glorious figure; for your holy hands to bless my body—just like this.” 

Gabriel glanced up at the statue. Each carving, every immaculate curve, all shined with utter devotion. It did not look like himself anymore, he realized. It looked like love. 

“I wished to make you mine. That—that is why I made you,” he said. “My muse; my masterwork.”

Gabriel’s voice caught in his throat. His wings flitted behind him, gilts of gold cresting each intangible feather. Gently, he lifted the Ferryman from the ground. Gabriel carried him aloft, held tight in loving arms—then pushed him into the statue’s lap. All the while, his fingers refused to let up.

“O-oh my God,” the Ferryman breathed. Surely he had died again and gone to Heaven twice over—such was the only explanation for these twin angels. 

Dizzied by the distance down, the Ferryman draped an arm across the statue’s shoulder, tossing his head back with an eager moan. The righteous stare he had sculpted onto the statue now looked something more like restrained amusement.

“Filthy sinner,” Gabriel grunted. Yet, his words lacked the righteous fury they deserved. There was levity in them. “Greed, too? Lust was not enough?”

Under his breath, the Ferryman gave a raspy laugh.

“I... cannot be blamed,” he said. “Not when it is you, my irresistible Light."

Gabriel shuddered, letting the pace of his fingers quicken.

“So brilliantly bright, Gabriel, how—ah—radiant he is, m-my dearest Gabriel.”

His heavenly hand fucked him harder, depraved moans falling freely from his lips.

“Yes,” Gabriel panted, “yours. I—I’m yours.”

The Ferryman took a bemused breath. Yours? An indescribable warmth blazed through him. When the Ferryman reached down to continue his interrupted work, he found the Righteous Hand’s right hand clasped around his own cock, desperately getting himself off. Hovering just above him, Gabriel could no longer stand to suppress his own sinful sounds—an angelic choir to the Ferryman’s absent ears.

“Praise me more,” begged Gabriel. “Please—praise me, f-fuck me—please fuck me.”

The Ferryman took Gabriel’s hand, gently guiding his strokes.

“My perfect Gabriel,” he said, sighing out a shaky moan. “How I long to.”

Holding his hand, feeling the warmth of his fingers as they just barely weaved together, the Ferryman yearned for the flesh he no longer had. He stroked Gabriel’s hand up and down on his shaft, shuddering, imagining if only. If only he could obey him—if only he could fuck him like he needed, soft hands spreading soft thighs, supple flesh for his nails to dig into—the sound of skin against skin, and the sound of Gabriel begging to be fucked harder. If only. God, if only. Instead, the Ferryman spoke sweet praises through clenched teeth, primal sounds suppressed in his throat. His fingers scratched into the statue’s thigh.

Gabriel fell apart so thoroughly at the Ferryman’s touch, oblivious to the unholy thoughts occupying his mind. His rapture was undeniable; his helmet had slanted askew at some point, and his words denigrated into whines and voice cracks when he spoke. The Ferryman could almost imagine that their fantasies were shared. In reality, Gabriel was hardly able to think at all. 

“M-more,” Gabriel moaned, barely lucid. “It feels so, feels so—ggh...” 

Despite his desperation, he did not stray from following the Ferryman’s guiding touch, abiding it like scripture. When he finally allowed Gabriel to use his hand like he needed, fast and hard, the sheer bliss left his speech slurred to incoherency. He fucked into his tight, firm grasp, whining, so utterly lost in ecstasy that he failed to notice the Ferryman’s low growls.

Gabriel had stopped touching the Ferryman’s body, now only able to clutch his cloth desperately. He was close; the Ferryman was utterly content to serve him until he came—he barely cared about his own pleasure at this point. All he wanted were Gabriel’s desperate moans. The Ferryman did not have a name to be cried, and he did not care. Worship was selfless, after all. All he wished was to witness his savior’s ascension; his sweet absolution—he wanted to see Gabriel cum across his own stomach, head tossed back, fucked out of his mind and begging—pleading for more, and really, pleading for him.

He couldn’t stop himself in time. Hissing, the Ferryman sank his teeth into Gabriel’s shoulder, and watched him become undone. Gabriel gasped—a sharp cry that fell into pleasured groans. Hot ropes of cum covered the fist that he was still fucking, and he let the ecstasy overtake him, staining his tensed stomach with semen, hips still shuddering and slamming hard into his hand.

“Oh my God—” The Ferryman pulled himself away, panicking. “F-forgive me, Gabriel!”

Gabriel groaned. He had barely registered what happened, and when it finally began to register, fogs of arousal became so thick in his mind that he still failed to respond meaningfully to it. Half-hard, his hips were still twitching, and he levitated lopsidedly. 

Dampened by both the holy cloth and Gabriel’s bodysuit, the bite was barely enough to leave a mark, let alone draw blood. But the synapses that fired in that instant—the pain and pleasure, the primal need, the confusions Gabriel already had around lust and bloodlust—it was as if something had short-circuited.

“Fff... fuck,” said Gabriel, ever-eloquent. Fighting against his own exhilaration, he could hardly catch his breath. “It was, haha— it was g... good.”

Awed, the Ferryman shook with half-laughter—which quickly became gasps of his own. Rather than tire, Gabriel quickly became impassioned; he stroked the Ferryman’s pelvis, hands still slick with cum. 

“I need you,” Gabriel whispered. His touches were more ardent than before. “L-Lord, you don’t know... I—I want you.” 

Shuddering, the Ferryman threw one arm around Gabriel, drawing him closer, with the other wrapped around his sculpture. He wanted to be smothered between them both—this was the closest to Heaven he would ever get.

“Gabriel, my—ggh!—G-Gabriel,” he moaned. “Thank you, th-thank you!”

He was already so close from watching Gabriel alone; his thighs shook with neglected need, as his deprived, broken body finally found fulfillment. When Gabriel held him in his holy hands, it felt almost like he was whole—like he was still flesh and blood, and he could feel his heart beating beneath his bones.

As the Ferryman writhed under his veil, Gabriel watched devoutly. He wore the cloth to conceal himself, yet the figure that thrashed beneath was unmistakably human. The way his shoulders lifted and fell, how he arched his back to Gabriel’s touch, how his head tossed to the side with each low moan—each was observable only in the way the cloth rippled; as movements, a mutable medium. This was a beauty that could not be captured in stone.

The Ferryman had not felt this close to God in so, so long. His femurs trembled, desperately thrusting his pelvis into Gabriel’s soft, warm hand. Letting the Ferryman rub against him, his soft fingers rushed their movements, stroking his symphysis with hurried need. Finally, the Ferryman cried to the heavens, singing Gabriel’s name between fervent whispers in a long-lost language. 

“Th-thank you,” he sobbed, “thank you, God, Gabriel—I, I love you, I—Lord—!”

Everything was a hazy blur through his nascent tears. The Ferryman pressed his face into Gabriel’s. Their heads had been hovering close, just shy of acknowledging what both wanted to do, and what neither could. In that moment those impossibilities vanished—because what they had was so impossibly palpable. Gabriel pushed his head closer, holding the Ferryman’s hidden skull in his hand, gently caressing his jaw. If he were to open his eyes, he would have seen nothing but the most beautiful darkness he had ever known. 

In this gentle dark, a vibrant image was illuminated. For the first time, Gabriel saw something neither black nor white, nor shades of stone: it was an ever-shifting kaleidoscopic color, honeyed with hue—vivid yellow and brilliant blue—and a bright, burning red. He saw conflicting, self-contradicting confusions and concepts beyond definition or material knowability, and within them, infinite potentiality. This was something of his own to seize, something beautiful, stretched far beyond the bounds of what he thought possible.

It terrified him. He looked away.

Angels did not need to rest, and the Ferryman rarely did, but he and Gabriel stayed in each other’s arms for a long time. Neither of them said a word. 

The flames of the fire settled into flickers, then calmed to warmth. The Ferryman knew this would not last. The salvation Gabriel brought, so soft and sweet, never did. Soon, his arms would relent, and from the ground the Ferryman would marvel skywards, watching as Gabriel’s wings lifted him aloft, and left him on his own. His long departed heart ached with love. 

Gabriel carried the weary Ferryman back to the floorboards below, both settling beside the cabin window. The seas outside crashed. The tides tossed and turned, but they had a rhythm. Head pressed against his shoulder, the Ferryman felt Gabriel’s easing breaths each time they filled his chest, letting his head follow its rise and fall. He could hear his heart pounding.

“... Gabriel,” he began.

Gabriel’s stomach dropped. 

“I love you, Gabriel.” The Ferryman’s embrace grew tighter. “Please forgive me.”

He said, “I don’t think I can.”

The words weighed heavy in the air. 

The one Gabriel could not forgive was himself—but he was unaware of this, of course. When he looked at the Ferryman, even with a face fully veiled, his terror was tangible. The guilt he felt in that moment was stabbing; it was something he could not bear. The strong arms so familiar to the Ferryman wrapped around him, tight.

“There is nothing that needs forgiving, friend.”

When he said it, Gabriel did not believe what he said. But it was all he could stand to say as he felt how the Ferryman trembled in his arms. A small, shaky sob fell from his holy cloth.

“Thank you,” he told him, weeping. 

No matter the depths, no matter the darkness, Gabriel would always save the Ferryman in a beam of miraculous light. But he had never prevented the fall. He damned him, then declared him holy; he let his endless toil wear him away, then so lovingly saved him from the brink. The Ferryman was nothing but an exception in the massa damnata: a beacon that shined brightest only because it had been plunged into the depths. The light in Gabriel’s infernal darkness.

To be loved unconditionally, to be praised regardless of fault: those were Gabriel’s cardinal cravings, and if he risked his authority, he risked losing those securities. If he were not the Ferryman’s superior, he would surely have no reason to worship him. Born by the Father, Gabriel knew above anything else that imperfection was not something to be tolerated. One strike was all it took. Gabriel obeyed his orders with diligence, atrocity after atrocity; anything to assure his sanctity in the eyes of God. That he had someone so willing to look past his holy evils—or perhaps ignore them in favor of an idealized image—to Gabriel, this was as miraculous as it was expected.

What neither realized was that these expected miracles were nothing more than that: expected. One day, Gabriel would be too late. He would find a once devout faith long gone. One day, the Ferryman would look to the sky for his savior, and he would not appear.

Until then, he would be held in Gabriel’s mighty arms, with such compassion and warmth as neither had ever known.

When the Ferryman awoke, Gabriel was gone. He found himself draped across the statue, his head atop its shoulder, positioned by now absent hands.