#45 homers

[dinosaurwithablog]

The LA Dodgers have set a record for their team and for the National League by getting 46 home runs in 6 games during this series, and they're still scoring!! It's 10-4,Dodgers, and they still have an out left!! Phenomenal baseball ⚾️ 👏🏽

[nikoisme]

homer i'm waiting for you to pay my therapy bills

[muppetebbtide]

trojan war tumblr simulator

🌊 is-the-sea-wine-dark-today

YOU BET IT IS

#the wine dark sea!!!!!!!!!!!! #wine dark sea #wine dark sea posting

108 notes

✌🏻 ajax2electricboogaloo follow

why is achilles the only demigod who's Like That? like he's my boy but u don't see memnon or aeneas or sarpedon acting like him on the reg. why is he so maladjusted? like specifically? I saw his mother once and was so terrified by the sight of a goddess I flung myself to the ground and hid my face in the dirt til she left but I still don't think that accounts for it idk

🏘️ nobody1020

it's blonde man syndrome hope this helps

340 notes

⚔️ sonoftydeus

opening my askbox so that we can discuss strategies on taking troy!

3 notes

anonymous asked: we should all go home :)

⚔️ sonoftydeus answered:

FUCK OFF AGAMEMNON I WANT REAL SUGGESTIONS

50 notes

nobody1020 asked: do u like..... horses

⚔️ sonoftydeus answered:

odysseus do I even wanna know where this is going

45 notes

⌛ isthetrojanwaroveryet?

year 9, day 234: still no....

#all our admins keep DYING

500 notes

‼️ trojan-confessions follow

I think my wife might be sending me anon hate :/ keep getting asks like 'hope u die on the battlefield tomorrow silly slag' and 'menelaus should have curbstomped you' and in her big tapestry of warriors she made me look stupid

🐴 horsetaminghector follow

lmaooo is this paris??

🔮 cryinglikecassandra follow

kinda think helen should send MORE anon hate idk

600 notes

❓ myrmidons-confessions

I was the one who wrote the achilles/agamemnon 100k slowburn enemies to lovers rpf and put it on the group chat but now patroclus is calling me 'agachilles boy' and laughing about it and asking if I can proofread his mock bardic epic where all his dogs are heroes and killing people, so I fear I've made a mistake. I also can't look achilles in the eye anymore... but honestly I've never seen proof he can read so I might be safe

❓ myrmidons-confessions

5000 notes

👑 kingofmycenae

👍🏻 ajaxthegreat

achilles is DEAD and ur posting CRAB RAVE?????

🏘️ nobody1020

I think that's why he's posting it ngl

300 notes

😹 deiphobus42069

imagine being the achaeans and your best warrior gets killed by PARIS, after everyone else had awesome deaths at the hands of sarpedon or hector or memnon... like that's literally so embarassing I just know achilles is fucking fuming down in hades rn. I bet the achaeans are gonna put around that paris was guided by apollo, or that paris happened to hit his only weak spot..... anything 2 try and make it less cringe.... lol lol we're popping the biggest bottles tonight. hope helen's there

🐆 leopardskiniscool

???????????????

#I mean. yeah. but also. #deiphobus wtf I thought we were chill

240 notes

#hope everyone can be normal about the outcome!!! :)

340 notes

🧑🏻 randotrojansoldier-deactivated-8578543

so excited to go back onto the field of battle tomorrow! sure hope I don't encounter any of the big-name heroes

🗣️ homer follow

I hope you don't too! I'm sure you'll do great!

🐎 antilochussss

not the direct address????

✌🏻 ajax2electricboogaloo

direct address got him :(

3000 notes

💂🏻 trojanguardtales follow

fuck my job so much I hope that this wooden horse tribute to the gods turns out to have some guys inside or something just so I can DO something rather than standing here like a twat with my spear

💂🏻 trojanguardtales follow

by ares this can't be happening

345 notes

⚔️ sonoftydeus reblogged menelauskingofsparta

do NOT order achilles from shein!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

#oh yeah #I was stuck with temu achilles in the trojan horse for six hours #and by hour two agamemnon had suggested killing and eating him #and odysseus was threatening to 'send him to meet his father' #and it's not even like there's any kleos in killing priam!!! #anti neoptolemus #neoptolemus defenders dni #vent tags

100 notes

[nereidprinc3ss]

hourglass

in which spencer disappears from fem!reader's life entirely for three months, right as it seems they were finally about to make things official. when he comes back they reunite, all the while knowing things can't be the same as they were.

18+ (smut, angst) warnings/tags: oh god so many. NOT canon compliant in the slightest, i make shit up, softdom!spence, nipple stuff prob, fingering, oral f receiving, piv sex, unprotected sex, pet names, tara mentioned, depression, mentions of trauma cause its the prison arc duh, passing mentions of alcohol, mentions of spencer losing weight, reader mistakenly thinks spencer tried to kill himself BUT ONLY FOR A SECOND, where is diana reid, nobody knows or cares, probably filming glee, optimistic ending a/n: haven't posted smut in forever but this wip required it and the angst was so angsty i just had to finish it. it was started in jan or feb and subsequently added to and changed months apart and then edited so the writing quality varies from section to section which i apologize for. originally based on good guy by julia jacklin... also the odyssey by homer? can't really explain that one you'll just have to see for yourself anyway byeeee ilysm!!! PLS tell me if you liked it! or if you hated it! but preferably if you liked it! MWAH! wc <12k

It’s been about three months since you last saw Spencer Reid.

About three months since you had an early Valentine’s Day celebration (even though you weren’t a couple) complete with champagne (even though he doesn’t usually drink) and slow dancing (even though you swore you’d be terrible and he spent the first ten minutes laughing at you as you stepped on his toes.)

About three months since you finally settled your head on his shoulder and let the warbling vinyl carry you somewhere distant as the two of you danced slow circles on the parquet floor for what felt like hours.

You’d have liked him to stay later that night. You’d have liked him to stay all night if you were being honest with yourself, but at 11:45 he gently pulled away and told you he had to go.

“Curfew?” you joked, the corner of your mouth lifting a little and you hoped you were hiding your disappointment well.

“Actually, I’m going down to Texas for a few days to speak with one of the leading doctors in experimental Alzheimer's and dementia treatment. I’m going to see if he can get my mom into a clinical trial. I leave early tomorrow morning.”

“Oh my god, that’s amazing, Spencer! What are you doing still here? You should be at home getting ready to go!”

A rosy blush stains his cheeks and he looks down at the ground, laughing that little self-deprecating laugh of his. It makes your heart dance to see him so happy, makes you want to wrap your arms around him and never let him go so that he knows how much you absolutely adore him—but you settle for an affectionate squeeze where your hands have come to rest on his biceps.

“I wanted to see you tonight because I won’t be here for Valentine’s Day... but I still really wanted to spend it with you,” he admits meekly.

If before your heart was dancing, it is now melting.

The dreaded ‘what are we’ talk has been lurking in the dark corners of every conversation you have with each other lately—at least, in your mind it has. What you have with Spencer is not easily defined, and near impossible to explain to your friends—you act like a couple, you go out on dates, he introduces you to his team like you’re his girlfriend without ever putting it into so many words—but this validation that your pseudo-relationship might be evolving is better than any flowers he could have gotten you (although the peonies he brought will look very nice on your bedside table.)

“Four whole days... what will I do without you?” you whisper, brushing a hand along his face, and your chest aches with the heavy truth of it—despite the fact that he often is gone for stretches about that length. They don’t ever start to feel shorter.

“Well, you can start by reading that copy of The Odyssey I annotated for you.”

“Depressing,” you admit. “And a little ominous, considering you’re about to embark on a hero’s journey.”

“I think you’ll like this one,” he smiles.

You chew on your bottom lip, looking up at him as you think.

“Give me something to look forward to,” you say, earnestly.

“I—well, honestly, I just really want to kiss you and I’ve wanted to for a long time now and, you know, if that’s something you’re maybe also interested in then we could, uh, figure out a time to—”

“You want to kiss me?”

“Wh—you couldn’t tell?” Spencer says, like he can’t believe it.

As if on reflex, you lunge up and capture his lips with your own. It obviously catches him by surprise, but when you lower from your tiptoes he follows you, pulling you in closer and holding your face in his hands.

It’s too natural, too right, to be exhilarating. There’s no rush of adrenaline—it's more like stepping into a hot bath or warming your freezing hands at a fire. Like pieces clicking into place. It’s a relief.

You breathe into it, letting more and more of yourself melt against him. He keeps coming back to you deeper and deeper like a rising tide, and you want more than anything to keep getting closer to him—but then he stops. He stays close enough for you to breathe his air, but dodges your kiss gently before supplanting it with a gentle one to the corner of your mouth.

“I really have to go,” he breathes, before moving away from your mouth to kiss your forehead and speak softly against your skin. “If I don’t leave now I’ll be here all night.”

Which is exactly what you want, and the implication does little to make you want him less. But you care about him too much to be so selfish.

At some point, his hands found their way into your hair, and you gently grab his wrists.

“Incentive for you to come home.”

Nearly three months since that night.

At first when he stopped answering texts, you’d assumed he just had too much going on down in Texas. Which you could understand—you knew how stressful this situation with his mother was.

Even when four days came and went without even an alert from him that he was back in town, you thought, okay, maybe he’s been called away on a case. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s disappeared because of his work. But even then, he’d at least text you enough information so that you would know he was alive. Now, radio silence.

So you tried not to be clingy. You tried to act like an adult, to focus on school and your life outside of Spencer, but when Tara Lewis cancelled your weekly meeting due to an “unforeseen work-related emergency”you called her immediately. Tara was something of a mentor, and it was she who had connected you and Spencer to begin with. You had met the other members of his team by that point, yes, but none who you knew as well as Tara.

When she had informed you that Spencer had been arrested in Mexico and was now facing prison time for murder, you laughed.

Laughed until you realized her end of the line was silent.

Realized it was not at all a joke.

In a catatonic state of tranquility, you asked her for more details. Beyond assuring you of his innocence, she couldn’t (or more likely, wouldn’t) provide them. Asked where he was now. Asked all the right things that made sense to ask.

Then you hung up and had a panic attack because Tara said something about 25 years and you saw Spencer evaporate from your future like an apparition.

Slowly, you felt him evaporating from your past, too. Those memories from the night he left, became visions of you swaying with a ghost. Holding nothing but light between your hands as you kissed the peony air of your apartment.

He doesn’t want to see you, she had said into the phone one night, her tinny voice cutting in and out. You’re not on his list of approved visitors.

“You asked him about me?” you had whispered, curled up on top of your made bed in the dark.

I tried. I’m sorry. I’ll call you when I know more.

All your days melded together like a muddied smear of paint. Suddenly you felt you had nothing to look forward to. No anchor, no goal. Yes, a PhD... and then what?

The only thing that punctuated one 24 hour period from the next was the time you spent crying because Spencer was in prison and he didn’t want to see you and by the looks of things you may never see him again. When you weren’t crying, you were thinking about how your life was a big cosmic joke. An unfortunate statistical anomaly that didn’t mean anything to anyone else, and that you couldn’t do anything about.

That copy of The Odyssey, which wasn’t even bound and instead was a thick stack of printer paper organized by a single black clip, became something of a manifesto for you—a tome that your poured over, reading and re-reading each note in the margins, each word beautiful and imbued with meaning because you knew Spencer had selected every single one specifically for you. You traced the letters reverently, because in a way this was the last thing he had said to you—about Lattimore’s faith to the original text, Merrill’s strict use of dactylic hexameter, the stylings of Wilson and Lombardo, and how he thought you would enjoy Hammond’s prose just as much as he did.

Day by day it was becoming more prophetic than fictional, and you allowed yourself to sink into madness. You would rather be a deluded zealot than be nothing at all.

He didn’t want to see you.

He might as well have been dead, for all that you were grieving him. And you started to hate him, because he wasn’t dead, but wouldn’t do you the kindness of proving it. Like a festering wound, scratched open day after day so as not to ever heal, you had to live knowing he was less than an hour away. So no, you weren’t exactly over it. You lived day by day, waiting for the occasional call from Tara to keep you updated on Spencer, but either she didn’t want to share much about how he was doing, or he had specifically barred her from doing so, because she was always sparse on the personal side of things. That thought actually lifted your spirits, because it meant he was at least acknowledging your existence in some tiny way.

But your routine was becoming more regular, and so you staid on top of your classes and your non-Reid related meetings with Tara once a week, and you learned to dip your toes into existential dread and the oily black pool of depression every night without ever fully submerging yourself. You learned hope, because it was pretty much all you had, and the BAU had confidence that they would get Spencer out one way or another so you did too.

So you didn’t really think about it when you missed a couple of calls from Tara some evening in May. You were preparing for finals and had way too much on your plate academically to think about anything else which was a welcome relief so you fully embraced it. I’ll call her back tomorrow, you think, as you clean up from dinner before going back to the living room where your textbooks and papers are completely covering every available surface. Maybe I have no idea what I’m going to do with my life after school, but I’ll be damned if I don’t even make it that far.

Hours later, well into the night, you’d all but forgotten about the calls. A knock at the door takes you a bit by surprise, and you frown as you stand again, tugging your Georgetown sweatshirt down over your shorts as you shuffle to the entrance of your apartment. You’re not expecting anyone, so you crack the door, peering around the edge of it.

And you couldn’t even consider trying to hide that shaky inhalation of dead air when you see Spencer standing on the other side.

Surely you’re hallucinating.

Surely this man in front of you who looks like he just got back from a day of work didn’t spend three months in prison pretending you didn’t exist.

He looks the same. Hair a bit longer, maybe—and gaunter even more than is normal for him. 

But it's him.

You can’t think about the apprehensive look on his face—you can’t think about the impossibility of him being here. You can’t think at all. Without your explicit permission, your body surges forward into his, and he’s real, and alive, and warm, and he is an anachronism in the hallway as he accepts everything you pour into the embrace, doesn’t flinch when you move your arms from around his waist to loop around his neck and back to his waist again with crushing force because you just can’t get him close enough.

“I’m sorry,” Spencer mutters into your hair, I’msorryI’msorryI’msorryI’msorry, he keeps saying, rubbing your back as you try to find a solid grip on the sleek material of his suit—try to gather all the pieces of him, already afraid he might fall apart and float away again.

“You—dis—disappeared,” you hiccup after an eternity, pulling away enough to look up at his pretty face. Tears blur your vision and darken the front of his jacket, bending the florescent lights so they form a kind of halo above his head.

Through the surreal haze you can see his throat bob.

“I know.”

He knows?

He knows?

You scoff.

“You have no fucking idea, Spencer. What the fuck is wrong with you? I—I'm—”

The hot anger is such a relief for a second, boiling the oceans of your despair into a wrathful, scorching fog, but as soon as you try to tell him how you feel, the barbed wire cuts into your throat again. You shove him away, skin burning where his hands had been.

“I’m sorry,” he croaks, hands hanging uselessly at his side. There’s that kicked puppy look about him—and it’s familiar, but now there’s more damage. You don’t know anything about his time in prison, you haven’t heard a damn thing, but beneath the glassy desperation in his eyes there is an unfathomable void that seems to be preventing him from being fully present—and you realize for the first time that he is different.

It chills you.

Before, you and Spencer shared everything. There wasn’t one part of his internal machinations that you didn’t understand, nothing you kept from each other. But as you study him now from a few feet away, you realize there might as well be a yawning chasm between the two of you.

He is so different.

Those eyes look deeper. No gears turning just behind the slashes of gold and brown anymore—only an endless dark corridor that goes places you will never go.

Gone is the perpetual boyish up-turn at the corner of his lips that always made him look slightly vacant in a way that you found incredibly amusing. Something you had been so fond of, even if you teased him.

He seems to have aged ten years—if not physically, then in demeanor. And now you feel like a little kid throwing a tantrum.

You cross your arms, suddenly unable to meet his eyes.

You’re embarrassed. And pissed. And relieved. Everything is worse and better. You want to fall back into his arms, but you have been jarred by the revelation that this might not be the same Spencer. It might not be the same relationship. You have no idea where you stand.

He says your name gently, with so much familiarity you’re briefly jerked into the past. It makes you wish you could look up to find him as he was three months ago. Wish this was just a bad dream. But that’s not fair to him.

“Sorry,” you mutter, studying the grey carpet fibers instead of looking at him.

“Don’t apologize,” Spencer says immediately, “you’re right. I don’t—” he clears his throat— “I’m being incredibly selfish. I shouldn’t have just shown up, I’ll just—I'll leave. I’m sorry.”

A silent moment passes.

You don’t look up as he turns and swiftly begins to move down the hall toward the stairway, leaving as quickly and silently as he had come, like a few bars of a song sighed in and away on a fleeting breeze.

Your bare feet are concretely planted, imagining him jogging down the steps and speed-walking away from your building—

And suddenly you’re sprinting after him, feeling like you might puke because Spencer was just here and you let him go again—and even though you’re still so mad and confused and hurt, the realization that he is leaving again makes the entire building spin and lurch.

“Wait!” You yell, almost wiping out as you run down the stairs and whip around corners in your slippery fucking socks. “Please, wait!”

The lobby is already empty as you spill out into it, and cold dread tightens around your neck like a fist as you shoulder your way through the double doors and right into Spencer.

“Please don’t leave again, you just—I'm sorry, I really need you to not go—” you blabber, lachrymose once more, gripping onto his forearms for dear life.

“I’m not going,” he breathes shakily. “I tried to leave because I think you were right and maybe I should and maybe it would be better for you but I can’t.”

“You can’t,” you agree, more sob than spoken word. He cups your jaw, then your cheeks, wiping tears and brushing away hair like he can’t figure out how to hold enough of you between his hands. The wild kaleidoscope of his eyes, bright and alive and real as he scans you desperately captures your attention enough to slow the tears to a trickle. He notices this and stares back, entranced.

A silent agreement is made, or maybe an inevitable fate is accepted—either way, something was set in motion three months ago and it matters to see it through. Spencer kisses you and you’re ready for it. You don’t need slow or tender. You need to feel how he feels. You need to know what he knows.

You sling your arms around his neck and he pulls you closer until you almost tip backward, chasing the bruising kiss even as you regain your footing. You want to drink him in and you do your best, breathing deeply as he kisses you deeper, backing you inside and toward the elevator.

“Is this okay?” he manages, only after blindly reaching for and mashing the up button on the wall panel.

Ideally it wouldn’t happen like this, but the world you live in obviously isn’t ideal and your personal situations as they coincide are far from ideal, so this is how it has to happen. But it’s hard to explain, and you’d rather not admit that this is so far from what you wanted for both of you and follow up with the fact that despite that you need him like you need water. So you don’t say a word as the metal doors slide open promptly. Instead you pull him in and let him press you to the chrome wall as he hits your floor button, and that very hand comes back to grab your ass like you didn’t think Spencer Reid capable of. It almost aches as his fingers dig into the flesh, but it’s a good ache because it means he’s real and he’s there.

You gasp as he hitches your leg up, arching into him. The shorts that you’re wearing leave very little to the imagination to begin with, but they become downright indecent like this.

Quickly the elevator stops and the doors hiss open. You don’t hesitate to pull Spencer by the hand down the hall. When you notice you left your door wide open, you don’t even care. Neither does he, apparently—once you’re inside he slams it shut, flipping the deadbolt while his eyes are glued to you like you’re already naked. Now Spencer is shameless in the way he drags his eyes over every curve, every place your clothes and hair are disheveled from his touch and eye-fucks you so obviously it makes your face warm. Three months ago Spencer would have at least been bashful about it when he met your eyes again, but this Spencer is far from apologetic as he pins you with his burning gaze once more. His hand stays stuck to the door like he’s holding himself back.

“Is this what you want?”

There’s an undercurrent of sorrow below the gravely arousal, like this isn’t what he wanted for the two of you either. But you’re both at the mercy of fate. This is all you have, and it might be all you can do for each other anymore. So you don’t need to say that, because he understands.

“Yeah. Yes, this is what I want.”

For just a second more he watches you from his place by the door, and there’s an unexpected softness to it. He looks at you the way he would have looked at you before. Like as long as he stays there he can entertain the idea of being that person again.

Need wins out quickly, though, and he surges forward. Immediately you’re caught in the riptide of him, helpless as he kisses you all the way to your bedroom.

He’s never been in here before. You find yourself glad it’s relatively clean—one of the pastimes you’d picked up in his absence was keeping everything tidy. It was something you could control.

A lamp glows at your bedside. You lean against the footboard of your bed, hands timidly behind your back and suddenly shy to have in him in your intimate space. Both of you set aside the heaving desperation long enough to catch your breaths, and for him to scan the room like he too is being forced to reconcile with the innate and unexpected intimacy of the moment. He cuts a harsh, dark gash in your sweetly decorated bedroom, radiating something wild and powerful and unsure of himself like a chained bull as he takes in the soft, pale bedding, the paintings and photos taped to the walls, the woven rug and the sheer drapery. His breathing slows as he studies it all—eyes eventually catching on something behind you. Looking is unnecessary. You’re sure he’s spotted the dried peonies in their ceramic vase. Or maybe the now worn stack of papers that is his Odyssey, marked up and soft around the edges from constant flipping-through.

Then Spencer looks at you, and that softness seeps in again. Along with something like... fear? Grief?

In some other universe your first time with Spencer is sweet and giggly and kind and he smiles at the decor in your room and looks around with wonder because it’s another way he gets to know you. It’s a different way to learn you from the inside.

You sense that he’s caught in between universes right now as well, painfully aware of what he would have given you that he can’t anymore.

He breathes your name like an apology, and foolishly you let a second go by in which you think he might offer you one. But he doesn’t. Not with his words, anyway. His eyes tell a different story.

“It’s fine,” you say unprompted on a whispered exhale, then a little louder as you push off the footboard, crossing the space until your hands are on his chest. You focus on his tie, not making eye contact as you rush to undo it. “It’s fine.”

He lets you do this for a few seconds before finally covering your trembling hands with his own. You still can’t meet his eyes.

“We don’t have to do—”

“No! No, please. I want to. I need—I need us to be okay.”

“Hey,” he murmurs, catching your chin and forcing you to look at him. “We are okay. Me and you are fine.”

It’s a pretty thought, but it’s not true. In fact, it’s a hideous and abject affront to the truth. Sure, maybe you’re fine in comparison to last week. Maybe anything feels fine compared to an eight by six cell. But it would be impossible for you and Spencer, for your relationship, whatever that relationship may be, to be fine. It’s especially impossible for him to make that claim, after all he did or rather didn’t do while he was gone. What you need is for him to stay anyway. What you need is to find a way to be with him, to exist with him, even when you are so clearly not fine.

“I just need you to stay,” you whisper, and he’s already nodding, wide-eyed like he’d do anything for you. You ignore all the bitter venom rising in your throat. You pretend this isn’t all happening after he cut you out of his life with a dirty switchblade. Instead you focus on his hands on yours, the familiar smell of him, which invites you to let go of each and every thought and worry. He must’ve showered before coming here, you realize. How long has he been out? What happened? 

“Okay. Okay, I can stay. What else can I do? How do I make it better?”

You sniffle and look back down.

“You can untie that for me.”

He hesitates, then nods some more, fingers working under yours to undo the tie around his neck.

“Okay.”

A moment goes by and after that final whispered word, the tension begins to build again. Spencer senses it in the way your fingertips linger on his chest and you step even closer, dragging them down to his belt. The metallic sound of it unbuckling, despite being your own doing, still manages to flip your stomach. How many times have you pictured this? When was the first time you realized you wanted it? You’re sure you haven’t stopped wanting it even once since then.

Spencer tosses the tie away and is shrugging off his jacket now, then before you see it coming he’s kissing you again, ducking down to do it. He feels taller this close up, and especially in your bedroom, where he just seems rather out of place. But you want him here. God, you want him here.

You break the kiss, forced to look down as you fumble with his belt.

“Sorry,” you gasp, embarrassed by your lack of dexterity. The light is barely sufficient to see what you’re doing, especially when he’s wearing black on black and your eyes are still bleary.

“You’re okay,” he assures you, and it’s so Spencer a fresh round of nerves electrifies the tips of your fingers. That thing is happening—the thing you’d hoped to avoid if you hadn’t lost momentum partway through, where you’re allowing your actual feelings for him to get in the way rather than getting swept up in the pathos of the moment and letting everything be easy and mindless. “Here, can I help you?”

But he doesn’t actually wait for an answer before he’s finishing off the belt for you, tugging it loose from his hips till it’s a leather coil in his hands. Your fingers brush the material and he lets you take it as if it were your prize. It’s heavier than you thought it’d be, and you just feel the weight of it in your hands for a moment, your dropped head brushing his chest.

You have a terrible feeling that if you do this now, it doesn’t mean everything will be alright. Because it can’t just go back to normal. Spencer has told you nothing of what must be an enormous trauma, and you haven’t spoken about it at all, but you sincerely doubt that after this he’s going to be ready to just jump into that committed relationship the two of you had been toying with for months before his absence. You’re almost... scared of him, now. Scared of where he’s been and what he’s endured—things you’re sure you couldn’t have taken. What that does to a person, you can’t imagine. He seems so solid and real in front of you now—but you know that’s not always enough. Maybe you’re just scared that somehow whatever he’s been through will have made him care for you less. That you were too far removed from the whole ordeal, and now you’ll never understand. If you could understand, maybe you could fix it for him. Maybe he’d stick around.

Still—even if you do end up pushing him further away in the long run—won't it have been worth it to have had him so completely, even just once?

You toss the belt to the ground, compressing all of these very complicated thoughts and feelings into a few seconds so short he can’t ask you any questions about them. Instead you find his top button, and just as you manage to undo it with relative ease he’s gently grabbing your wrists. You look up at him, immediately surrendering.

“If we’re going to do this I need you to relax a little bit.”

Gears grind in your chest. You feel need and anxiety comingling in every square inch of your body. It’s a sick buzz—a high on an empty stomach.

“I can’t,” you admit.

“Yeah, you can,” Spencer gently disagrees, slowly lowering your hands. When he’s sure you’re not going to try ripping his clothes off again, he releases, and his eyes lower to the zipper of your hoodie. His fingers follow, warm against the soft triangle of revealed skin at your chest as he grips the small piece of metal between barely shaking fingers. “You can.”

You match his eyeline, breathing shallowly and watching as he slowly drags the zipper down. You wonder if that sound has haunted his fantasies the way the sound of his belt has haunted yours. If he’s seen this hoodie on you and wondered what’s underneath, staring at you and daydreaming during movie night with you none the wiser.

Both of you have your eyes glued to the span of skin as the zipper parts. Spencer stalls with the zipper at your sternum, just below the band of your bra.

Right. No shirt.

You look up and find his eyes already on you, tinged with a curious kind of humor.

“I wasn’t expecting guests.”

The words come out shy. Spencer’s chuckle has its own nervous airy quality as he resumes tugging on your zipper, leaning down until your noses bump.

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”

Then he kisses you again, a little sweeter now. Sweet enough to give you butterflies and for them to flutter right out of your stomach and spill from your lips in a little whimper against his.

It comes as a surprise when he pushes the fabric from your shoulders without looking or asking. Not that you’d have said no—you're just underprepared for how assertive he is in this foreign context.

Left just in your flimsy shorts and your thin bra, you feel quite exposed—but Spencer’s hands are as demanding and hungry as his mouth. They skim up your sensitive sides and sweep lower, suggesting less proper placement over your ass and pulling at your bottoms until you gently put a stop to their wandering.

“Wait. We’re... we’re uneven.”

It’s a struggle to get any words out at all when he keeps chasing your lips, nipping at you like he physically can’t stand not kissing you, but they catch his attention and he laughs airily, pulling back to let his gaze pour over your less clothed form. It lingers and catches and lights you up everywhere it touches, drops of heat soaking into your skin and making you feel all fuzzy and needy.

“We are,” he acknowledges, tone low and colored with the faintest smile. “You’re a lot prettier without your clothes on than I am.”

“I don’t believe you.”

The challenge comes immediately and thoughtlessly. Spencer’s golden eyes flash up to yours. He’s breathing a little harder than usual.

“You want me to show you what I mean?”

If that means getting him naked, then yes, absolutely.

You nod, but rather than immediately stripping, he takes your hand and holds his own open next to it. A thick pink scar bisects some pretty significant palmistry lines, but you don’t mention that. Instead you swallow—your thoughts, your words, your nausea.

“That’s new.”

You wonder how you hadn’t noticed it earlier.

He nods.

“A lot is new.”

It sounds almost like he’s challenging you—there's a kind of tremulous force in his voice, despite the perpetual softness there, like he’s inviting you to say it’s ugly. And you realize he’s referring to more than just the glowing scar cutting an asteroid trail against the flesh of him palm. The scars he obtained in prison must form a constellation over his body.

“I don’t care. I wanna see you.”

Spencer swallows, cupping your face with the scarred hand once more. You can’t feel it against your cheek but you know it hasn’t gone away.

“I’m sure you think you do,” he permits, and that’s where the conversation ends for the moment—with his hand on your face and his lips back on yours. “For now why don’t you let me worry about you?”

Obediently, you breathe, “okay.”

This is, for whatever reason, amusing to him. The brief levity dies as quick as it comes like a snuffed-out brush fire as soon as he lets his hands fall back down to your hips.

“I want... I want to give you slow. But...”

But slow is for people who didn’t lose three months of their life. Slow is for people who don’t know what it’s like to be starving. Slow is not for the desperate.

You understand the feeling.

“I don’t need slow.”

You’ll let him use you up like quick-burning fuel if that’s what he needs. You’ll go as fast and as bright and as hot as he tells you.

“But you want slow,” he murmurs, a secret acknowledged into your own waiting mouth. You’d keep it there forever. You could be the object he hides his soul in. “I know you do. You deserve to get what you want.”

“I can go fast. I want whatever you can give me.”

Spencer’s shuddering exhale is like a drug, dizzying as you inhale it and your eyes flutter at the high, pressed head-to-head with him. For so long you’ve needed him so badly. It’s overwhelming to have him now, all over you. If only your walls could breathe him in the way you are, if this room could remember what it feels like to hold him the way you will, if any inanimate object could bear witness to how you’ll give yourself, any part of yourself, over to him, so willingly.

“I’m going to try.” Spencer’s voice is hoarse as he walks backward to the bed, taking you by the hips as he goes. “I want to do it right. I want to do this the way I... the way I imagined it, before...”

Now he’s sitting, and you’re standing between his legs as he finds the clasp of your bra and undoes it, his fingers a comforting pressure where they ghost down the slope of your back. Your heart is pounding at the confession, at the way his tongue darts over his bottom lip and his fingertips journey back up to your straps, looking up at you with haloed irises as if he’d find anything other than the most dangerous kind of smoldering devotion in your eyes—the kind cult-leaders seek and spend years nurturing, and he’d earned with a mere brush over your bare skin.

The fabric slides down your arms, and as it falls to the floor, you watch something like despair flash-flood his eyes. It is a deep, distinctly human grief. The ineffable kind where something is almost too beautiful; so perfect it offends the mortal senses because it should be permanent, but nothing is, and the clash of divine beauty with unstoppable time which oxidizes copper and covers marble with vine is almost as grotesque as metal rending delicate flesh. It is the grief that drove the first poet to write and the first parents to press their baby’s painted hands to the walls of a cave. It is the desire to do the impossible—to capture ephemeral perfection and make it eternal, and the knowledge that it is hopeless. You recognize it because you’ve felt it for him.

“I thought about you all the time,” he whispers, doesn’t bother calling you beautiful but you don’t mind because he’s telling you with his hands and his eyes and the waver of his voice. “When I was gone, I thought about you—”

You’re just as quiet, just as soft.

“Don’t, Spencer.”

He doesn’t get to tell you about when he was gone. Not now. Not after he acted like you didn’t exist.

“Okay.” He swallows the things he’d wanted to tell you like you choked on the things you needed to tell him for three months. “I’m sorry.”

But his hands—his hands are perfect over your waist and his lips are perfect where they kiss your ribs like they’re his homeland. You could forgive a thousand wrongs for each kiss he puts to your skin. Light from the full moon stretches over the room like a blessing from the cosmos, and you have every intention of making the most of that gift, how the silver gilds the planes of his face and highlights curls like they were carved, and invites you to search for something in each shadow.

Some of his kisses land over the sensitive skin of your breasts though you doubt he has much intention or that there is any sort of end-goal with the trail he blazes—in fact, you have to root your hand in his hair and pull gently back when he doesn’t seem to realize that he’s making you wait again. His eyes are glassy and cheeks slightly pinkened—you weren’t expecting this wave of fondness to knock you on your ass but here you are, falling all over again.

“You don’t have to go that slow.”

A slow smile splits the heart of his mouth at your bashful tone and he’s emboldened to bring his hands higher for a moment, thumbs brushing particularly delicate though not downright indecent spots. Nonetheless, your breath catches.

“Impatient girl,” he scolds, and though it’s lighthearted it still inspires heat to dance across your face. Oh, I think I’ve been plenty patient, you itch to say, but you bite it back because it’s only sad and true and unkind.

Still, he gives you the beginning of what you want, really only the tip of the enormous iceberg that is your desire for him, by slipping his thumbs into the waistband of your shorts and tugging them down. His hands slide up the fronts of your thighs, tracing the trim of your underwear, and you’d swear he’s not even breathing. The moment one of his hand loops behind your knee and pulls forward until it’s pressed to the mattress and you’re half-kneeling, half standing, desire begins to truly cloud your mind. Manhandling never seemed like Spencer’s style, but when paired with how softly he reveals your hip, pulling gently down on the fabric of your underwear just to admire you up close, you don’t mind it.

More kisses are littered over your stomach, and he takes you by surprise a second time with a quick maneuver landing you on your back and him on top of you.

“I wasn’t doing you justice with my imagination,” he murmurs against your mouth. “I couldn’t have known.”

“Couldn’t have known what?” you pant as he shamelessly digs his fingers into the plush of your ass. You almost hope it bruises.

“How pretty you would be,” he coos like he means it, and you dissolve, slipping through his fingers like sand in an hourglass. “You were holding out on me.”

It’s a tease, not at all serious, but you manage to hit him with a, “Was not, asshole,” and he chuckles, placating your little hurt with another sticky kiss, and you get another disorienting glimpse of some other timeline where you’re both a little less damaged. Where it’s a little easier.

But in this timeline, his touch becomes starving and ragged and urgent, and you accept the drag of his thumb up your thigh and between your legs, gasping when he runs his knuckles up the center of you. This touch is metal on screeching metal. It does not pretend to be anything more than what it is—brute, powerful, executed to elicit sensation. You get the sense that Spencer’s never touched anyone this honestly, and while you do envy the girls who got to have him gentler, you’ll take this as the compliment that it is. A kind of vulnerability that is nearing primal.

His lips, though—always his lips—are kind when they brush and land on your skin guided by some invisible map. A dip down your neck and chest and then a plunge, his tongue dragging over your hips, chasing the fabric of your underwear as he almost pulls it off and then reroutes, making room for himself between your legs and pushing lace aside to mark the hinge of your inner and upper-most thigh. Your chest heaves and you don’t dare move for fear he’ll stop leaving signs of himself on your body and you won’t be able to reassure yourself that it was real and he was here and it was not another dream.

Because something in you knows, if only consciously recognizing it for the first time now, that he will disappear again. That this may be your only chance.

The desire to make the ephemeral eternal. An impossibility.

He’s clearly losing himself to something, eyes shutting blissfully. You wonder when the last time he let his guard down even a  little was. You’re okay with being the thing he gets lost in, even if you’re not exactly okay with him—something you are becoming more acutely aware of as each touch makes a part of you want to cry. Maybe you still have some things in common. A strange pain that doesn’t quite feel like it belongs to you, for one thing.

You slam back into your body as his nose nudges against you through fabric, and his lips catch on cotton as he drags himself up, eventually settling a kiss against the little bow at the waist of your underwear. There he stays, eyes closed, mouth pressed to you.

“Is this okay?”

You swallow, buzzing. Is this really what he wants? After everything?

“You don’t have to...”

“But is it okay with you?”

Nothing more than an airy whisper, you reply, “Yes, if that’s what you want.”

Being emotional at this point seems wrong, but it’s difficult to ignore the fact that you have thought about this before and it’s finally happening but it’s not exactly as you’d imagined it. There is an indelible sadness to it, to the way he’s so hungry for you because he’s been deprived, to the desperation with which he touches you because he’s had everything taken from him.

For a moment, before he tugs your underwear down, he pauses, and you wonder if he’s freezing one moment in time, this moment, and grieving all the other ways it could’ve been, and accepting that this is the way it is going to be. You are.

These higher realms of thought abandon you as he finally pulls the last barrier down your legs and encourages you to spread them further. You don’t have time or energy to be embarrassed, not even by his staring, or the way his eyes dart up to yours and back down again, wide and shining, as if to say, have you seen yourself? Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?

All you feel is the lack of him on you, the pull to have him closer so strong it’s almost sickening because he could be gone at any second. Maybe he understands that because he doesn’t waste anymore time before he’s kissing the most sensitive part of you. The drag of his tongue has you loosing a shuddering cry.

His mouth wanders, making connections you wouldn’t have realized the value of until you feel them on your skin. Your hips buck as he traces you and you’re unable to stop yourself from tangling your hands in his hair. Speech fails you—hell, you can hardly breathe as you watch his with a furrowed brow and parted lips, only expelling air from your lungs in the form of little cries and gasps and failing to hold your hips down to the bed.

The tip of his tongue teases around your entrance and he catches your leg as your foot rises off the bed, slinging it over his shoulder and consuming you more fervently until you have no choice but to moan though you’ve never been one for theatrics. Nobody has done this for you like he’s doing it for you. Locks of hair fall in front of his face and you hold them back for him, shuddering as he shifts his weight and presses the tip of his finger to your cunt.

“Ah—please,” you manage, your first words since he started. Spencer groans against you and the sound is so wonderfully unexpected, so much better than in your dreams. You cant your hips up in further invitation, chirping as he takes it, pushing two fingers into you at once. Your eyes screw shut and you bite back a whine at the slight stretch, unconsciously writhing your hips either to get further away or take him deeper, you’re not sure.

Spencer pulls back, kissing your hips and thighs and pumping his fingers very slowly as you adjust.

“’M sorry,” you pant, “it’s been awhile, I...”

“Don’t apologize,” Spencer says like it’s simple, his own breath coming quicker. “How’re you feeling? Need me to stop?”

“No! No, it feels really good, I feel good.”

He holds your burning gaze, matching it with his own, and his hair is tousled and his cheeks are flushed as he continues to move his hand.

“Yeah?”

“...Yeah.”

This little show of obedience, of call and response, has him smiling before he occupies his mouth with something else once more. It’s a different smile than you’re used to from him, but you decide you don’t at all mind it.

Like that, with his tongue and fingers working tirelessly, your orgasm comes on quickly. The feeling is rare but not entirely foreign, and in that brief moment of utter disconnect between your brain and reality, of sheer white-hot pleasure, you don’t feel you’re missing out on anything at all. How could you be, when you are here and Spencer is here and for a moment all your neurons are lighting up and flashing neon? How could there be anything more to life than the searing feeling of him slowly withdrawing his fingers from you, than your hips between his hands like he’s cradling the world, and his lips, indiscriminate with where they kiss because every part of you is worthy of attention?

You’re reeling, and your legs are gelatinous as he so affectionately sucks the darkest mark yet onto your inner thigh like a parting gift, like he’s signing his trembling work. If you could clamp your legs shut around the almost painful aftershocks you would, but he’s climbing back up your body, so all you can do is wriggle against him and release delayed, stunted little moans. He stops to kiss your neck before he makes it to your mouth and drinks down all your sounds until you’re gentle and pliant for him like you haven’t been yet.

His voice is soft and sympathetic when he speaks. “Better?”

Wordlessly you nod, both comforted and unsettled by how well he knows you. What, exactly, has been made better, you’re not sure. Not trust. You don’t trust him anymore. Something cheaper, but temporarily effective. A sense of permanence, maybe, however fleeting it may be. You’ve completed something with him now, and he’s still here, still sweet.

He looks into your eyes, then, for a moment—and there is just enough light in the room for you to tell yourself that the shadows dancing there as he looks at you are love.

They morph as you watch into haunting, wild hunger. Pained even now.

He sits up abruptly and so do you, scooting back against your headboard and pulling your knees to your chest to protect your pounding heart as Spencer takes you in with darting eyes and quick breaths. His fingers find the collar of his shirt and he begins to unbutton.

“I need you to remember it’s all going to heal.”

He swallows, and you hardly have the wherewithal to study the way he unbuttons his shirt, a way he exists in the world that you had previously not been privy to. The words are too distracting.

“What?”

Sometimes he reminds you of a deer, with those big brown eyes that can’t help betraying anxiety. Moreso in those old pictures he’d shown you from his early days at the BAU—but it shines through occasionally even now. It’s reassuring to know that something inside of his has remained soft.

“Just...” his fingers don’t stop at their task, and you come to the disturbing realization that his knuckles are bruised. “Please don’t freak out, alright?”

Your mouth goes dry, eyes glued to the lengthening span of revealed skin.

And before he even has his shirt fully undone, something isn’t right.

He’s like a Pollack of bruises—starbursts and watercolor blots of discoloration blooming over his side and stomach.

You’re glad the light is off for two reasons: one, being that you don’t think you could handle the bruising in all its glory, and two, you hope the look of horror painted on your face is at least partially obscured from Spencer.

But you can’t. You simply don’t have the gas in the tank to freak out, as he’d said—at least not externally. Those bruises shouldn’t be there, but 96 days is a long time to be gone.

You drag your eyes back to his—nervous, deeply insecure and mistrustful. A deer. Just like those pictures of a 24 year old Spencer in an FBI jacket that was too big for him.

It’s enough to have you scooting on your knees across the mattress to him. Those big eyes stay glued to you as you draw near, falling as you carefully push open his shirt, cautious not to bump any tender spots as it falls to the bed. A flash of white gauze wrapped around his forearm that makes your stomach flip. How? You want to ask. Why?

He doesn’t seem to know what you’re going to do, and neither do you, until you’re grabbing his hands, bruised knuckles and all, and just... holding them for a minute.

“I lost weight,” he says quietly, as if that’s the most shocking thing about his current appearance, though it is noticeable.

“You’re still pretty.”

He smiles at this—a true Spencer Reid smile. Flattened lips, eyes tinged silver with sadness, voice quiet and anxious and wavering.

“I didn’t have a lot to spare.”

A moment goes by.

“I’m not going to ask you about them,” you promise, though you care so much and you want to know but you already understand that he won’t want to tell you.

Another moment. It doesn't surprise you to watch the shiny vulnerability in his eyes to freeze over completely. But he squeezes your hands once in thanks, and you know it’s still the same Spencer.

“Lie down.”

Oh. Right.

This.

You do as he says, taking a deep breath to try and exhale the concern twisting your stomach like a poison. Somehow your room feels so unfamiliar, so new with him in it. Even the whorls on your ceiling look different as you study them, trying to time the pattern of your breathing with the pattern of the paint and plaster and not let the sound of Spencer further undressing quicken your heartrate too much.

Soon he’s coaxing your legs apart again, reverently, and kneeling between them, studying every part of you—lingering not on the parts you’d expect. He traces the scar on your knee with his thumb, follows a line down your thigh to the freckle on your hip. The scrutiny is unnerving and warms you everywhere. Perhaps he senses the microscopic clench of your thighs as you imagine pushing them together, if he weren’t in the way.

“You alright?” He asks, still stroking your hip. Tender again. It’s so hard to keep up.

“I...”

Suddenly your heart beat is a deafening echo in your own ears. The tide of your breathing is too powerful, too in and out and whooshing, leaving you always too empty or too full but never comfortable.

Maybe he’s changed, and he’s harder to know now, but he is the same Spencer. He is the Spencer you’d fallen in love with. The hard part is knowing that now you may never get a chance to tell him that. You don’t know if he’d be able to hear it.

There are things you can’t have with him anymore. Not now, at least. Maybe not ever. But you can have this. It will be different, but you’d rather him be different and here than the same and only in your memory.

You swallow.

“I’m good.”

Tangling your hand in his hair once more, you pull him down into a kiss. It’s hesitant, at first—maybe he can taste your thoughts, where they’d been balancing just on the tip of your tongue. But the uncertainty fades and he kisses you deeper, harder, in a way that is hard to keep up with. You like the messy overwhelm of his lips, teeth, tongue. That’s the only way he knows how to want you.

When you go to wrap your leg around his waist he catches it, running his hands over the soft plush of your thigh. The hard line of him presses against you like memory foam and you gasp and he breathes it in deeply as your brain short-circuits, as you realize this is really going to happen, that you’re going to have him like you’ve never had him before and in ways you’ve only imagined and immediately felt ashamed for.

“Spencer,” you whisper. He ducks to leave open-mouthed kisses along your neck and your eyes flutter shut, craning your neck but not losing sight of your objective as you reach down blindly. When you find what you’re looking for he freezes, groans against your neck at the same time as you breathe the tiniest whimper. Just in your hand he feels impossible, hot and imposing and hard. Your heart palpitates.

Without thinking, you angle your hips up and encourage him closer, until the tip of him is smearing through your folds, and you both go utterly silent like the breath had been stolen right from your lungs. The moment crystallizes, time around you hardening like preserved amber to keep you frozen there forever.

And then he rolls his hips, catching the underside of his cock on the crux of you, and then he does it again, and you choke out a moan and so does he, and it’s beyond perfect—it's nirvana, more than you could ever have conceived of, with his weight pressing you into the mattress, arms caging you in, his heavy breaths hot against your neck and vice versa as you twine together like serpents on a rod, your foot floating in the air as you widen your legs to make more room for him.

And you’re not even fucking yet.

“Oh my god,” you whine, just for him, barely audible under the heavy cloak of night, the thickened air in your bedroom and the sound of panting and fabric shifting. It’s like your heart is trying to reach through your chest to his own where they’re pressed together—that is how hard it’s beating.

Spencer only breathes a long, low curse and shifts so he can grasp himself. Your fingers drift down the shaft of him as he slots himself at your entrance, notching half an inch in and you hold your breath, and you brace yourself—and then he’s kissing you again, but gentler this time. Reassuring. You soften, you can’t not, releasing all your air in a soft gust through your nose, and then he’s pushing in.

Your lips part at the stretch as it fuzzes your mind, but he stays right there, nose pressed to your nose, lips ghosting over your own. He’s not going anywhere, you think, and you’re glad for it, when it burns ever so slightly, and the tiniest whine escapes your open mouth.

“Shh,” he soothes immediately, low and soft, only fractionally louder than you had been. “You’re okay.”

Spencer. Your Spencer.

For a moment, you’re living in that alternate universe. The kinder one. The flash of pain you feel then has nothing to do with the way he’s opening you up.

This is the closest you have ever been, and in some strange way, the furthest apart.

Together, fingers brushing, you guide him until he settles at not quite your deepest point. You can feel that he’s not giving you everything yet, but you’re okay with that, as you adjust to the full feeling. Spencer again senses your desire to close your legs against the deep intrusion, and gives you the best he can by encouraging you to wrap your legs around him.

“Good girl,” he whispers tenderly, nudging at your jaw with his nose and dragging kisses along the ridge of it. Your stomach flips at the moniker and your brain turns to warm sludge as your eyes flutter shut. It makes you feel all light-headed and you flutter around him. Spencer chuckles into the junction of your neck and shoulder and the vibrations send a chill down your arching spine. “I thought you might like that one.”

“Mhm.”

“Mhm. How are you? You okay?”

“’M ready.”

“You’re ready?” His tone is dripping sarcasm and faux-disbelief as he pulls back the slightest bit only to push right back in deeper, this time. Your toes curl, one thigh sliding higher up his waist as you cling to him.

“Fuck,” you manage, a pitiful, high pitched curse tossed to the wind. He echoes the sentiment.

“Oh, my god,” he groans, continuing with that slow pace, “you feel so good, angel.”

You grapple at his back, searching for purchase as your brow knits. “Faster.”

This inspires another breathy chuckle, but he obliges, and you cry out softly. It’s almost unreal, your head buried against his neck, drunk on his scent and the drag of him like a shock felt in the far reaches of your body, again and again.

There’s nothing you can say that will accurately demonstrate what you’re feeling, so you elect not to speak, to remain silent and try to get a grip on this cacophony of sensation and emotion. But it’s too much to be alone with. You feel you have to get it out, to seek understanding. You can’t do it alone.

“Spencer.”

“Hm?”

“I don’t know...” the sentence trails off into a gentle keen. He moves to kiss you, speaking against your lips.

“You don’t know?”

Shyly you shake your head. Spencer sighs wistfully.

“Do you know how much I missed you?”

It’s like he can sense your need for comfort. For something grounding.

And while this topic was off-limits earlier—you're softer now. The stone walls that form your boundaries have been chipped away and lowered.

Spencer continues unprompted.

“I thought about you every day. Every night while I was falling asleep. You were always on my mind, angel girl.”

You whine. Whether it’s pleasure or distress is anyone’s guess—including your own.

“You were gone so long,” you whisper, eyes shut.

At this, Spencer slows again, and the tension that was building settles back to a simmer.

“I know. I wish I could—I wish I could change that. But I’m here, okay? I’m right here with you.”

Then he makes sure you feel every last inch, and it takes your breath away. If your thoughts were any more coherent, they’d be something along the lines of: but for how long? How long until you leave again?

“You’re here.”

You say it like a mantra, once out loud, and then again and again in your head, timed with every clash of your hips. With each repetition he becomes more real. Every little ache, every tingling, head-emptying brush against that most sensitive spot inside proves to you that he could not be any closer. This can’t be faked. It can’t be another dream to wake up in tears from.

“You’re here,” you gasp as it hits you, as it truly sinks in.

“I’m here,” he breathes.

There’s so much you want to say—three months of words you need him to hear, of things you need to talk to him about, things you need to yell at him for and things you can only say crying in his arms and things you can only say laughing or whispering or drunk or half-asleep—and in this moment you can’t manage any of it. Every word condenses into one drop of salt water, drifting away from your eye and down your cheek. Spencer doesn’t tell you to stop crying. He only kisses the tear away, and murmurs I’m here I’m here I’m here over and over again against your skin until he’s not even speaking it out loud anymore. But you feel it. With every brush of his lips, every breath, every movement, you feel it.

Soon he’s adjusting his angle, gradually picking up the pace but retaining that unforgiving depth, and your nails bite into the skin of his back as your jaw drops. Spencer hisses, pressing impossibly closer.

“I’m sorry!” you squeak.

“Do it again.”

“Wh—what?”

“Please,” he begs, low and hot against your jaw, just beneath your ear. “Do it again, honey.”

Honey.

You’d do anything for him if it meant he calls you that again.

When he shifts his weight to one arm and reaches down between your bodies to play with your aching clit in exactly the right way, you don’t really have a choice. You arch and moan wantonly enough to feel embarrassed as your nails scratch down his back. At the same time he’s making noises of his own, and you almost feel guilty for marking him up like this only you think he likes it. The most perfect and troubling tension is building in your core, so taut you almost fear the inevitable rebound when it snaps. But you’re driven to be exactly what Spencer needs right now, and to let him try and be what you need. Even if it scares you. Even if you’re not sure how.

Spencer groans, head tucked to the bend of your shoulder. “I’m not gonna last.”

Any response you might’ve been about to muster is annihilated by a sudden, deep bolt of pleasure.

“’M gonna cum,” you mewl like it’s a secret.

“Are you?” he asks, coming up breathless. If your eyes were open, you’re sure you’d see him above you.

“Mhm.”

“Look at me. Look at me.”

It is unmistakably a command—one you fight to follow.

You cry out as you meet the intensity of his gaze, those shadowy corridors suddenly ablaze and alive. They are not unending, like you’d thought. They are a door thrown open to let the light in, or maybe to let the fire out. They’re open in this moment for you.

No more words are spoken after that—you cum hard, gasping as you fall and spin. Spencer follows very shortly after, like he was holding it together just for you, and your eyes are still locked though everything is a bit bleary.

“Fuck,” you whine as he continues to fuck you for as long as he can, despite your writhing hips, but you’re entranced by him, unable to look away now that you’re hooked. Until he slows to a halt, glances down at your mouth, and you just have time to pray that he’ll kiss you before he does. You whimper against his lips—a plea for understanding. A plea for him to stay, even though this is over. He kisses back so soft and sweet it’s like he can read your mind. Echoes of I’m here I’m here I’m here still buzz across your skin. His eyelashes tickle your cheek. Your heart stops beating quite so quickly, melting and warm like the rest of your body.

Soon the kissing ceases and you’re just breathing together, trapped and faced with the knowledge that it must end just the same as you had waited for it to start.

Eventually the air between you becomes mostly carbon dioxide and you let your head fall to the side, dizzy and giggling breathlessly as you nearly avoid asphyxiation. Spencer laughs too, letting his head fall to your shoulder once more, and you finally let your eyes flutter closed. To do something as simple as laugh with him again is its own small euphoria. It’s unexpected, and a soft landing once all that tension breaks underneath your combined weight.

It can’t last forever, you know that well. But the slow fade of it makes the next parts a little easier.

Spencer presses a kiss to your neck. “Is your bathroom through that door?”

You hum a confirmation and are only slightly disheartened when he pulls out and rolls off of you. You’re further disturbed when you see there’s gauze around his thigh, matching what’s around his arm, and you wonder how you missed that. Spencer scoops up his clothing and disappears into the adjoining restroom, assuring you he’ll be right back and leaving you alone with your thoughts and the whorls on the ceiling which have seemingly shifted into entirely new constellations.

He leaves the door cracked which is oddly reassuring—the sliver of warm light and the sound of the sink running. Only a few moments pass before he’s returning clad in boxers once more to sit on the edge of the bed, pushing away the sheet you’d just pulled over your chest and pulling one of your legs over his lap. Your face warms as he brings a washcloth between your thighs. As soon as he glances up at you and catches your eye you’re looking back to the ceiling.

“I should’ve asked first,” he says quietly as he cleans up the mess he’d made of you.

You speak just as softly, like you’re both afraid of disturbing some peace, of waking some sleeping giant. “It’s okay. I would’ve told you if I didn’t want it.”

His reticence, his unreadable face, make you nervous.

When he’s done, he rises to toss the dirtied cloth in the laundry bin, and with his back to you (as scratched up as it might be) you feel braver.

“Are you gonna, like... hate me now?”

It was a mistake. That’s clear by the way he turns around, brow knit deeply and grimacing slightly like even the suggestion offends him.

“Am I going to hate you?”

Again you pull the sheet up, and again you look away, studying the pattern of moonlight stretching out over the floor and scooting to make room for him when he steps in it.

“Not hate, I just...” the bed dips beside you and you are indescribably glad he’s not immediately running out the door. “I’m not dumb. I know what this was.”

He pulls you into him and you settle against his chest. It feels good. “I never thought you were dumb.”

This is your first real conversation since he’s gotten back, you realize. And how quickly you’re falling into familiar patterns, familiar syntactical beats. You know when to speak. You know when to bite your tongue and keep him talking.

The silence goes on longer than you’re used to. Maybe he got good at not speaking while he was away.

Eventually your eyes wander, falling to the white strip over his thigh where it is parallel to yours on the bed, only over the sheets.

“What happened?”

You said you wouldn’t ask, but that was then, and you’re upset again. You almost want to hurt him. To piss him off. You don’t know.

But it doesn’t work.

“Do you really want to know?” There’s a note of something heavy in his voice, and you look up at him. It’s a privilege to have him this close—his beauty is a constant surprise that you’d become unaccustomed to over the months. You say nothing, and he takes that as the yes that it is. “I... I did it to myself.”

He may as well have reached down your throat and grabbed for fucking heart for all its clenching. Tears well almost immediately, though they’ve been waiting in the wings all night.

“What? Did you—were you trying to—”

His eyes widen.

“No! No, honey, no.” You wilt as he gathers you closer, a deeply confused frown still contorting your features, too heartbroken even to cling to him, or to appreciate the ease with which honey slips past his lips again. “No. I was—it's complicated. I didn’t—I wasn’t trying to hurt myself, but I had to—I had to do it before someone else did something worse.”

The bruises covering his abdomen.

You sniffle and pull back enough to look up at him tearfully. “Why would they want to hurt you?”

Mist fills his eyes even as he’s looking down at you, a layer of separation, as if he’s two places at once. Even as he goes to brush your hair behind your ear, to stroke your cheek.

“I’m... not... the same, as I was.” It’s not an answer to your question—but it’s the beginning of the answer to a question you’d been too afraid to put into words.

“Don’t say that,” you beg, because you know where this is going. He keeps smoothing your hair like it’ll make this easier.

“But it’s true,” Spencer says gently, the slightest waver betraying his own emotion.

“You’re just going to leave again.”

And you’re losing to the tears.

“I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

“But you will,” you insist, like a child crying to a parent come to comfort them after a bad dream.

“Not right now. Right now I’m here.”

I’ll stay until you fall asleep again.

For now, maybe that has to be enough. 

You cry on his shoulder. He kisses your head and doesn’t tell you to stop. 

Eventually, you sniff and wipe your eyes. 

“We were so close. Before you… we were almost there.”

You’re sure of it. You’re sure that if he hadn’t gone when he did you would’ve been a real couple. You would’ve told him you loved him. 

“We’ll get there again,” he promises, rubbing your arm. “I just… I need a little bit of time. I think you do too. But we’re going to get there again.”

Maybe it will never be like it was. 

But as so often is the case—Spencer is right. Difference doesn’t mean it won’t ever be good again. 

You have to believe that, just as you had to believe you’d see him again. 

You look to The Odyssey on your bedside table. 

The sun has been obliterated from the sky, and an unlucky darkness invades the world. 

But the sun has a habit of rising, time and time again, after the longest nights, after the darkest storms. 

You feel the beginnings of its rise, see the golden tips of it lighting the room as he holds you. Even now. 

[beautyofaphrodite]

Homeric Hymn to Aphrodite

Translated by Gregory Nagy

Muse, tell me the things done by golden Aphrodite,

the one from Cyprus, who arouses sweet desire for gods

and who subdues the races of mortal humans,

and birds as well, who fly in the sky, as well as all beasts

5 —all those that grow on both dry land and the sea [pontos].

They all know the things done by the one with the beautiful garlands, the one from Kythera.

But there are three whose phrenes she cannot win over or deceive.

The first is the daughter of aegis-bearing Zeus, bright-eyed Athena.

For she takes no pleasure in the things done by golden Aphrodite.

10 What does please her is wars and what is done by Ares,

battles and fighting, as well as the preparation of splendid pieces of craftsmanship.

For she was the first to teach mortal humans to be craftsmen

in making war-chariots and other things on wheels, decorated with bronze.

And she it is who teaches maidens, tender of skin, inside the palaces,

15 the skill of making splendid pieces of craftsmanship, putting it

firmly into each one’s mind [phrên].

The second is the renowned Artemis, she of the golden shafts: never

has she been subdued in lovemaking [philotês] by Aphrodite, lover of smiles [to whom smiles are phila].

For she takes pleasure in the bow and arrows, and the killing of wild beasts in the mountains,

as well as lyres, groups of singing dancers, and high-pitched shouts of celebration.

20 Also shaded groves and the city of dikaioi men.

The third one not to take pleasure in the things done by Aphrodite is that young Maiden full of aidôs,

Hestia, who was the first-born child of Kronos, the one with the crooked mêtis,

as well as the last and youngest, through the Will [boulê] of Zeus, holder of the aegis.

She was the Lady who was wooed by Poseidon and Apollo.

25 But she was quite unwilling, and she firmly refused.

She had sworn a great oath, and what she said became what really happened.

She swore, as she touched the head of her father Zeus, the aegis-bearer,

that she would be a virgin for all days to come, that illustrious goddess.

And to her Father Zeus gave a beautiful honor, as a compensating substitute for marriage.

30 She is seated in the middle of the house, getting the richest portion.

And in all the temples of the gods she has a share in the tîmê.

Among all the mortals, she is the senior goddess.

These are the three [goddesses] that she [Aphrodite] could not persuade in their phrenes.

As for all the rest, there is nothing that has escaped Aphrodite:

35 none of the blessed gods nor any of mortal humans.

She even led astray the noos of Zeus, the one who delights in the thunder,

the one who is the very greatest and the one who has the very greatest tîmê as his share.

But even his well-formed phrenes are deceived by her, whenever she wants,

as she mates him with mortal women with the greatest of ease,

40 unbeknownst to Hera, his sister and wife,

who is the best among all the immortal goddesses in her great beauty.

She was the most glorious [kudos-filled] female to be born to Kronos, the one with the crooked mêtis,

and to her mother, Rhea. And Zeus, the one whose resources are inexhaustible [a-phthi-ta],

made her his honorable wife, one who knows the ways of affection.

45 But even upon her [Aphrodite] Zeus put sweet desire in her thûmos

—desire to make love to a mortal man, so that

not even she may go without mortal lovemaking

and get a chance to gloat at all the other gods,

with her sweet laughter, Aphrodite, lover of smiles,

50 boasting that she can make the gods sleep with mortal women,

who then bear mortal sons to immortal fathers,

and how she can make the goddesses sleep with mortal men.

And so he [Zeus] put sweet desire in her thûmos—desire for Anchises.

At that time, he [Anchises] was herding cattle at the steep peaks of Mount Ida, famous for its many springs.

55 To look at him and the way he was shaped was like looking at the immortals.

When Aphrodite, lover of smiles, saw him,

she fell in love with him. A terrible desire seized her in her phrenes.

She went to Cyprus, entering her temple fragrant with incense,

to Paphos. That is where her sacred precinct is, and her altar, fragrant with incense.

60 She went in and closed the shining doors.

Then the Kharites [‘Graces’] bathed her and anointed her with oil

—the kind that gives immortality, glistening on the complexion of the gods, who last for all time.

Immortal it was, giver of pleasures, and it had the fragrance of incense.

Then she wrapped all her beautiful clothes around her skin.

65 She was decked out in gold, Aphrodite, lover of smiles.

She rushed toward Troy, leaving behind fragrant Cyprus.

Making her way with the greatest of ease, high up among the clouds.

She arrived at Mount Ida, famous for its many springs, nurturing mother of beasts.

She went straight for the herdsmen’s homestead, up over the mountain. Following her came

70 gray wolves and lions with fierce looks, fawning on her;

bears too, and nimble leopards, who cannot have their fill of devouring deer,

came along. Seeing them, she was delighted in her thûmos, inside her phrenes,

and she put desire where their hearts were. So they all

went off in pairs and slept together in shaded nooks.

75 She in the meantime came to the well-built shelters

and found him [Anchises] left all alone at the herdsmen’s homestead,

that hero [hêrôs] Anchises, who had the beauty of the gods.

All the others [the other herdsmen] went after the herds, along the grassy pastures,

while he was left all alone at the herdsmen’s homestead,

80 pacing back and forth, playing tunes on his lyre that pierce the inside.

She stood before him, the daughter of Zeus, Aphrodite,

looking like an unwed maiden in size of length and appearance.

She did not want him to notice [verb of noos] her with his eyes and be frightened of her.

When Anchises saw her he was filled with wonder as he took note

85 of her appearance and size of length and splendid clothes.

For she wore a robe that was more resplendent than the brightness of fire.

She had twisted brooches, and shiny earrings in the shape of flowers.

Around her tender throat were the most beautiful necklaces.

It [her robe] was a thing of beauty, golden, decorated with every sort of design. Like the moon

90 it glowed all around her tender breasts, a marvel to behold.

Seized with love, Anchises said to her:

“Hail, my Lady, you who come here to this home, whichever of the blessed ones you are,

Artemis or Leto or golden Aphrodite

or Themis of noble birth or bright-eyed Athena.

95 Or perhaps you are one of the Kharites, you who have come here. They are the ones

who keep company with all the gods and are called immortal.

Or you are one of those Nymphs who range over beautiful groves,

or one of those Nymphs who inhabit this beautiful mountain,

and the fountainheads of rivers and grassy meadows.

100 For you, on some high peak, in a spot with a view going all round,

I will set up an altar, and I will perform for you beautiful sacrifices

every year as the season [hôrâ] comes round. And I wish that you in turn may have a kindly-disposed thûmos towards me.

Grant that I become a man who is distinguished among the Trojans.

Make the genealogy that comes after me become a flourishing one. And make me

105 live a very long life and see the light of the sun,

blessed [olbios] in the midst of the people. And let me arrive at the threshold of old age.”

Then Aphrodite, daughter of Zeus, answered him:

“Anchises, most glorious of earth-born men!

I am no goddess. Why do you liken me to the female immortals?

110 No, I am a mortal. The mother that bore me was a woman.

My father is Otreus, famed for his name. Maybe you have heard of him.

He rules over all of Phrygia, with its strong-walled fortresses.

But I know your language as well as my own.

The nursemaid who brought me up in the palace was a Trojan. Ever since I was a small child,

115 she brought me up, having taken me from my philê mother.

That is why I know your language as well as my own.

But then, the one with the golden wand, the Argos-killer [Hermes], abducted me,

taking me from a festival of song and dance in honor of Artemis, the one with the golden arrows.

There were many of us nymphs there, maidens worth many cattle as bride-price.

120 We were having a good time, and a crowd so large that you couldn’t count them was standing around us in a circle.

Then it was that the one with the golden wand, the Argos-killer, abducted me.

He carried me over many fields of mortal humans

and over vast stretches of land unclaimed and unsettled, where wild beasts,

eaters of raw flesh, roam about, in and out of their shaded lairs.

125 I thought that my feet would never again touch the earth, grower of grain.

And he [Hermes] said that I, in your bed, the bed of Anchises, would be called your

lawfully-wedded wife, and that I would give you splendid children.

But once he [Hermes] pointed this out and made note of it, straightaway

he went back, that powerful Argos-killer, to that separate group, the immortals.

130 I in the meantime reached you here, and there is an overpowering compulsion that I have in me.

In the name of Zeus, in the name of your parents, I appeal to you as I touch your knees.

Your parents must be noble, for base ones could never have conceived such a one as you.[12]

Take me, virgin that I am, inexperienced in making love [philotês ],

and show me to your father and to your caring mother

135 and to your brothers, those born from the same parents.

I will not be an unseemly in-law for them, but a seemly one indeed.

And send a messenger quickly to the Phrygians, trainers of swift horses,

to tell my father and my mother, however much she grieves.

They will send you plenty of gold, and woven clothing as well.

140 Take these abundant and splendid things as dowry.

After you have done so, prepare a lovely wedding-feast

that gives tîmê to both humans and immortals.”

After she said these things, she put sweet desire in his thûmos,

and Anchises was seized with love. He said these words, calling out to her:

145 “If you are mortal, and if a woman was the mother who gave birth to you,

and if Otreus is your father, famed for his name, as you say he is,

and if you have come here because of the Immortal Conductor [of psûkhai],

Hermes, and if you are to be called my wife for all days to come,

then it is impossible for any god or any mortal human

150 to hold me back, right here, from joining with you in making love [philotês],

right now, on the spot—not even if the one who shoots from afar, Apollo himself,

takes aim from his silver bow and shoots his arrows that bring misery.

Then, O lady who looks like the gods, I would willingly,

once I have been in your bed, go down into the palace of Hades below.”

155 So saying, he took her by the hand. And Aphrodite, lover of smiles,

went along, with her face turned away and her eyes downcast,

towards the bed, all nicely made, which had already been arranged for the lord,[13]

all nicely made with soft covers.[14] And on top lay skins of

bears and lions, who roar with their deep voices,

160 which he himself had killed on the lofty mountainsides.

And when they went up into the sturdy bed,

he first took off the jewelry shining on the surface of her body

—the twisted brooches and the shiny earrings in the shape of flowers.

Then he undid her girdle and her resplendent garments.

165 He stripped them off and put them on a silver-studded stool,

Anchises did. And then, by the will of the gods and by fate [aisa],

he lay next to the immortal female, mortal male that he was. He did not know what he was really doing.

But when the time comes for herdsmen to drive back to the fold

their cattle and sturdy sheep, back from the flowery pastures,

170 then it was that she [Aphrodite] poured sweet sleep over Anchises,

sweet and pleasurable. She in the meantime put back on her beautiful clothes, which covered again the surface of her body.

Now that her skin was again beautifully covered over, the resplendent goddess

stood by the bed, and the well-built roof-beam

—her head reached that high up.[15] And beauty shone forth from her cheeks

175 —an immortal beauty, the kind that marks the one with the beautiful garlands, the goddess from Kythera.

Then she woke him from his sleep and called out to him, saying:

“Rise up, son of Dardanos! Why do you sleep such a sleep without awakening?

See if I look like

what you noticed [verb of noos] when you first saw me with your eyes.”

180 So she spoke, and he, fresh out of his sleep, straightaway heeded her word.

As soon as he saw the neck and the beautiful eyes of Aphrodite,

he was filled with fright and he turned his eyes away, in another direction.

Then he hid his beautiful face with a cloak [khlaina],

and, praying to her, addressed her with winged words:

185 “The first time I ever laid eyes on you, goddess,

I knew you were a god. But you did not speak to me accurately.

Now I appeal to you by touching your knees, in the name of Zeus the holder of the aegis,

don’t let me become disabled [without menos],[16] don’t let me live on like that among humans!

Please, take pity! I know that no man is full of life, able,[17]

190 if he sleeps with immortal goddesses.”

He was answered by the daughter of Zeus, Aphrodite:

“Anchises, most glorious of mortal humans!

Take heart, and do not be too afraid in your phrenes.

You should have no fear of that I would do any kind of bad thing to you,

195 or that any of the the other blessed ones would. For you are philos indeed to the gods.

And you will have a philos son, who will be king among the Trojans.

And following him will be generations after generations for all time to come.

His name will be Aineias [Aeneas], since it was an unspeakable [ainos][18] akhos that took hold of me—grief that I had fallen into the bed of a mortal man.

200 And yet, of all mortal humans, the closest to the gods by far

are those who come from your family line,[19] both in looks and in constitution.[20]

Why, there was blond Ganymede, whom Zeus the master of mêtis

abducted on account of his beauty, so that he may be together with the immortal ones,

as wine-pourer for the gods in the palace of Zeus,[21]

205 a wonder to behold, given his share of tîmê by all the immortals,

pouring red nectar from a golden mixing-bowl.

Tros [Ganymede’s father] was gripped in his phrenes by a penthos that is beyond forgetting. He did not know

where the miraculous gust of wind took his philos son, abducting him.

He [Tros] mourned him [Ganymede] without pause, for all days,

210 and Zeus took pity on him: he gave him a compensation for his son,

a set of high-stepping horses whom the gods use for their travels.

These horses he [Zeus] gave him [Tros] as a gift to keep. And he [Tros] was told all the details of what happened,

at the behest of Zeus, by the Argos-killer, the Conductor [of psûkhai].

He was told that he [Ganymede] would be immortal and ageless, just like the gods.

215 And when he [Tros] heard the message of Zeus,

he no longer lamented but was happy within his phrenes,

and merrily did he ride around, in a chariot drawn by horses with feet swift as a gust of wind,

In much the same way was Tithonos abducted by Eos [the Dawn Goddess], she of the golden embroidery.

He too belonged to your family line, looking like the immortal ones.

220 Then she went with a request to the Son of Kronos [Zeus], him of the dark clouds,

asking that he [Tithonos] become immortal and live for all days to come.

Zeus nodded yes to her and brought to fulfillment the words of her wish.

Too bad that her thinking was disconnected! The Lady Eos did not notice [verb of noos] in her phrenes

that she should have asked for adolescence [hêbê] and a stripping away of baneful old age.

225 Well, for a while he [Tithonos] held on to adolescence [hêbê] ,

enjoying Eos, the one with the gold embroidery, the one early-born.

He lived at the streams of the Okeanos, and the ends of the earth.

But when the first strands of gray hair started growing

from his beautiful head and his noble chin,

230 then the Lady Eos stopped coming to his bed.

But she nourished him, keeping him in her palace,

with grain and ambrosia. And she gave him beautiful clothes.

But when hateful old age was pressing hard on him, with all its might,

and he couldn’t move his limbs, much less lift them up,

235 then in her thûmos she thought up this plan, a very good one indeed:

she put him in her chamber, and she closed the shining doors over him.

From there his voice pours out—it seems never to end—and he has no strength at all,

the kind he used to have in his limbs when they could still bend.

I would not choose that you [Anchises] be that way, amongst the immortal ones,

240 immortal and living for all days to come.[25]

If you could only stay the way you are, in looks and constitution,

staying alive as my lawfully-wedded husband,

then akhos would not have to envelop me and my sturdy phrenes.

But now wretched old age will envelop you,

245 pitilessly, just as it catches up with every man.

It is baneful, it wears you down, and even the gods shrink back from it.

As for me, I will have a great disgrace [oneidos], in the eyes of the immortal ones,

a disgrace that will last for all days to come, without end, all on account of you.

My trysts and stratagems [mêtis pl.] with which I used to get all

250 the immortal gods mated with mortal women,

used to be feared by them [the gods]. For my power of noos used to subdue all of them.

But now my mouth can never again boast

about this among the immortals. I have gone very far off the track,

in a wretched and inexcusable way. I have strayed from my noos.

255 I got myself a child beneath my girdle, having slept with a male mortal.

As for him [the child], the moment he sees the light of the sun,

Nymphs, living in the mountains and wearing low-slung girdles, will raise him

—Nymphs that live on this great and fertile mountain.

They associate neither with mortals nor with immortals,

260 they live for a long time, and they eat immortal food.

They put on a beautiful song and dance, even by the standards of the immortals.

They mate with Seilênoi or with the sharp-sighted Argos-killer,

making love [philotês] in the recesses of lovely caves.

When they are born, firs and oaks with lofty boughs

265 spring out of the earth, that nurturer of men.

Beautiful trees, flourishing on high mountains,

they stand there pointing to the sky, and people call them the sacred places

of the immortal ones. Mortals may not cut them down with iron.

But when the fate [moira] of death is at hand for them,

270 these beautiful trees become dry, to start with,

and then their bark wastes away, and then the branches drop off,

and, at the same time, the psûkhê goes out of them, as it leaves the light of the sun.

These [the Nymphs] will raise my son, keeping him in their company.

And when adolescence [hêbê], full of loveliness, first takes hold of him,

275 the goddesses [the Nymphs] will take him here to you and show you your child.

As for you, in order that I may tell you in the proper order everything that I have in my phrenes,

I too will come back to you as the fifth anniversary approaches, bringing you your son.

And the moment you see this young seedling [Aineias/Aeneas] with your eyes,

you will be happy to look at him. For he will be very godlike.

280 And straightaway you shall take him to windy Ilion.

And if any mortal human asks you

what mother got your philos son beneath her girdle,

keep in mind [root mnê-] to tell him as I command you.

Say that he is the offspring of one of the flower-faced Nymphs

285 who live on this beautiful mountain, shaded over by forests.

But if you say out loud and boast, with a thûmos bereft of phrenes,

that you made love [philotês] to the Lady of Kythera, the one with the beautiful garlands,

then Zeus in his anger will smite you with a smoking thunderbolt.

Now then, everything has been said to you. You take note [verb of noos] in your phrenes.

290 And refrain from naming me. Avoid the mênis of the gods.”

So saying, she bolted away towards the windy sky.

I wish you kharis [‘I wish you pleasure and happiness from our relationship, starting now’], goddess, you who rule over beautifully-colonized Cyprus.

Having started with you, I will now go on to the rest of my performance.

[pomegraphy]

Lady Selene,

Goddess of

The Lunar Month

The Greek months start with the new moon and were then divided into three ten day periods. The first ten days were presided over by the waxing moon, the next ten were the near full and full moon, and the last ten was the waning moon. Festivals including the lucky and unlucky days of the month were measured in the cycles of the moon.

Evelyn-White. "Long-winged Meme... at eventime in the mid-month: then her great orbit is full and then her beams shine brightest as she increases. So she is sure token and a sign to mortal men" (Homeric Hymn, 32 to Selene: C7th- 4th B.C.)

Childbirth

Pregnancies were commonly measured in lunar months, so Lady Selene had a natural association with childbirth.

Timotheus. "Through the blue-black vault of the starts and of Selana who gives swift childbirth." (Campbell Vol. Greek Lyric V, Frag 803: C5th B.C.)

Dew

The moon was believed to nourish plants and animals with her dew. Lady Selene was associated with Ariadne, wife of Dionysus as the goddess of nourishing.

Cicero. "Luna the Moon's course also has a sort of winter and summer solstice; and she emits many streams of influence, which supply animal creatures with nourishment and stimulate their growth and which cause plants to flourish and attain maturity." (De Natura Deorum, 2.14: 45 B.C.)

and the Moon

Tryphiodorus. "When Mene (the Moon) [Selene], full with grey fire, gilds with her face the gleaming heaven: not when, sharpening her pointed horns, she first shines, rising in the shadowless dusk of the month, but when, orbing the round radiance of her eye, she draws to herself the reflected rays of the sun." (The Taking of Ilias, 514:C6th A.D.)

Who is Selene?

The titan goddess of the moon. She was depicted as a woman riding a sidesaddle on a horse. Her lunar crescent was set upon her head as a crown. She was said to sometimes drive a team of oxen and her lunar crescent was likened to a pair of bull's horns.

Symbolisms of Selene

Crystal: Moonstone

Colors: Silver, Grey-white, and white

Day of the week: Monday

Scents/Flowers: Myrtle, willow, white poppy, white rose, and wall flower.

Animals: Bulls and horses

Offerings

Silver jewelry, curved crescent knives, silver/white coins, silver/white candles, cups of (salt) water, seed pods, mirrors, white flowers, any sea/tide related offerings, mooncakes, writing hymns.

Ways to worship

Wearing silver jewelry

Wearing moon colored clothing

New Moon: banishing and undoing things.

Waxing Moon: offerings that relate to things you want more of. Great time for offerings

Full Moon: Harvest what you've been working on

Waning Moon: leave offerings that you want less of.

Taking items from your altar outside or on a windowsill during a full moon.

Cleansing the altar and offering items with water charged with moonlight during a new moon.

Going for a walk under the moonlight(with safety precautions)

Talking to the moon

Learning astrology

Stargazing

Meditation at night.

[asoftepiloguemylove]

ON DEATH IN HEARTBREAK

John 11:1-45 The Raising of Lazarus / Muse Lee, Aaron Reed ARISTOS: The Musical / The Mountain Goats No Children (lyrics) William Adolphe Bourguereau Homer and His Guide (painting) / unknown / Joan Didion / @/sunlightafterdark (on instagram) / The Mountain Goats Sax Rohmer #1

[katerinaaqu]

Was Helen in Troy for 20 years?

This is a very good question given how sources often contradict themselves as well. Sorry if this gets long! There is a passage in Homer's Iliad in rhapsody 24 during the funeral of Hector or the preparation of it. Helen joins the mourning women and says this:

"Hector, most beloved to my heart than any of my husband's brothers, for the godlike Alexander is my husband, who led me to Troy; if only I had died then! For it is the twentieth year since when I have come here and left my homeland"

(Translation by me)

So it seems like here Helen implies that she was 20 years in Troy. Other sources seem to disagree with this characterization and adapt a more moderate timeline; Helen was traveling around a year with Paris before settling to Troy plus the 10 years of war.

Unlike the Odyssey that has a clear-cut timeline that speaks about 20 years and counting, the Iliad is not as clean as that. Helen doesn't seem to imply anywhere else inside the poem that she was more than the years that the siege of Troy takes place.

Now Homer could indeed be literal and speak of an aparent 10 year preparation between Helen's taking to Troy and Hector's funeral and negotiations and such and there seems to be a record for a first gathering of the fleet before Aulis where the fleet suffered a huge loss from the winds. However one needs to note as well how Iliad doesn't take place at the 10th year of war but somewhere at the end of the 9th and the beginning of the 10th. So there seems to be one year left to be filled up. Now of course one could count the year where Helen roams about with Paris but there seems to be an interesting thought here; that Homeric texts used the term "20" here as to imply a very long time.

The term "20 years" here could be more equivalent to what we say nowadays "it took eons to do this" or "it took me forever" or "one eternity later". It is possible that Helen is not being literal here but implying she has been a very long time in there. I tend to side with this version more for many reasons; timeline that includes 10 years extra doesn't make much sense. It could imply that the characters involved in it are way above their 40s and that doesn't seem the case. Helen and Menelaus were ellegedly married for 10 years in Sparta. Even if Helen was married at 15 that doesn't seem to be logical to assume that she would be 25 when following Paris and 45 by the end of the war. That would make Menelaus over 50 at the end of the war, Odysseus probably way over 60 and Nestor like way over 70 if not over 80. Not to mention the few years that Menelaus needed to come back to his homeland and his shipwreck in Egypt. That would make him way over his 60s in the Odyssey and that doesn't seem to be the case from his descriptions (he ain't described as being old as opposing to Nestor in Iliad) As a timeline seems to be way too extended. What is more, it seems that preparing 10 years for a siege is not a very logical assumption either. Why would the Greeks wait so long to make a second ensemble? One or tops two years seems reasonable but 10? Why would they wait 10 more years to reach Troy? (of course here we have many local traditions that want to insert some heroes of the Trojan war roaming about the area before reaching Troy).

In one essence this timeline would be way too unreasonably extended even for mythology standards. So in my opinion when Helen says she was "20 years at Troy" she just implies "it has been a lifetime ago since I came here" or "it has been so long since I came here!"

But you can of course interpret it literally if you want. I hope that helps!

[hades-bat]

the lines from the Homeric Hymn to Pan where Hermes is described as a loving and caring father, the way his heart is written to be fulfilled with joy as soon as he took the baby in his arms just when the nurse was just too scared of him, and how the Gods were so happy to meet him really makes me emotional and melts my heart. "He delighted all their hearts". Hail to Lord Pan ❤️

these are the lines:

“But when the nurse saw his uncouth face and full beard, she was afraid and sprang up and fled and left the child. [40] Then luck-bringing Hermes received him and took him in his arms: very glad in his heart was the god. And he went quickly to the abodes of the deathless gods, carrying his son wrapped in warm skins of mountain hares, and set him down beside Zeus [45] and showed him to the rest of the gods. Then all the immortals were glad in heart and Bacchic Dionysus in especial; and they called the boy Pan because he delighted all their hearts.”

[inthewitchesstew]

My book recs

☆Mostly classics but a few more modern ones in there too!! Make sure to check warnings for any books you read ☆

1. The Virgin Suicides - Jeffrey Eugenides

2. 1984 - George Orwell

3. If We Were Villains - M.L Rio

4. Animal farm - George Orwell

5. Dracula - Bram Stoker

6. Frankenstein - Mary Shelley

7. Crime and Punishment - Fyodor Dostoevsky

8. Notes From the Underground - Fyodor Dostoevsky

9. Dante's Divine Comedy - Dante Alighieri

10. The Bell Jar - Sylvia Plath

11. Ariel - Sylvia Plath

12. The Collected Poems of Sylvia Plath - Sylvia Plath

13. The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath - Sylvia Plath

14. Moby Dick - Herman Melville

15. To Kill a Mockingbird - Harper lee

16. Hamlet - William Shakespeare

17. Macbeth - William Shakespeare

18. The Brothers Karamazov - Fyodor Dostoevsky

19. The Devils - Fyodor Dostoevsky

20. The Idiot - Fyodor Dostoevsky

21. A Nervous Breakdown - Anton Chekhov

22. Nausea - Jean-Paul Sartre

23. The Wind in The Willows - Kenneth Grahame

24. Jane Eyre - Charlotte Brontë

25. Anna Karenina - Leo Tolstoy

26. The Handmaid's Tale - Margaret Atwood

27. Metamorphosis - Franz Kafka

28. Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austin

29. Great Expectations - Charles Dickens

30. Emma - Jane Austen

31. The Great Gatsby - F Scott Fitzgerald

32. One Hundred Years of Solitude - Gabriel Garcia Marquez

33. The Odyssey - Homer

34. To The Lighthouse - Virginia Woolf

35. The Count of Monte Cristo - Alexandre Dumas

36. Sense and Sensibility - Jane Austen

37. A Little Life - Hanya Yanagihara

38. The Trial - Franz kafka

39. My Year of Rest and Relaxation - Ottessa Moshfegh

40. Madame Bovary - Gustave Flaubert

41. The Goldfinch - Donna Tartt

42. Romeo and Juliet - William Shakespeare

43. Fahrenheit 451 - Ray Bradbury

44. Selected Stories - Alice Munro

45. American Psycho - Bret Easton Ellis

46. Normal People - Sally Rooney

47. Existentialism is a Humanism - Jean-Paul Sartre

48. Brave New World - Aldous Huxley

49. Persuasion - Jane Austen

50. Les Miserables - Victor Hugo

51. The Death of The Heart - Elizabeth Bowen

52. The Iliad - Homer

53. One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest - Ken Kesey

54. The Catcher in the Rye - J.D Salinger

55. The Outsiders - S.E Hinton

56. The Chrysalids - John Wyndham

57. Catch 22 - Joseph Heller

58. Middlemarch - George Eliot

59. Tess of the D'Urbervilles - Thomas Hardy

60. Meditations - Marcus Aurelius

61. Beyond Good and Evil - Friedrich Nietzsche

62. The Stranger - Albert Camus

63. The Republic - Plato

64. Letters From a Stoic - Seneca

65. Man’s Search For Meaning - Viktor E. Frankl

66. The Myth of Sisyphus - Albert Camus

67. Bunny - Mona Awad

68. Belladonna - Anbara Salam

69. The Yellow Wallpaper - Charlotte Perkins Gilman

70. My Life Had Stood a Loaded Gun - Emily Dickinson

71. How We Weep and Laugh at the Same Thing - Michel de Montaigne

72. The Telltale Heart - Edgar Allen Poe

73. The Death of Ivan Ilych - Leo Tolstoy

74. Come Close - Sappho

75. The Fall of Icarus - Ovid

76. Tender Is the Flesh - Agustina Bazterrica

77. Cassandra - Christa Wolf

78. Forbidden Notebook - Alba de Céspedes

79. Girl, Interrupted - Susanna Kaysen

80. Carrie - Stephen King

81. Mrs. S - K Patrick

82. Sunburn - Chloe Michelle Howarth

83. Perfume - Patrick Suskind

84. After Dark - Haruki Murakami

85. Kafka on the Shore - Haruki Murakami

86. No Longer Human - Osamu Dazai

87. Wednesday's Child - Yiyun Li

88. My Husband - Maud Ventura

89. All Down Darkness Wide - Sean Hewitt

90. Norwegian Wood - Haruki Murakami

91. The Waves - Virginia Woolf

92. The Talented Mr Ripley - Patricia Highsmith

93. We Have Always Lived in the Castle - Shirley Jackson

94. For Whom the Bell Tolls - Ernest Hemingway

95. Journey Into the Past - Stefan Zweig

96. Outline - Rachel Cusk

97. Chess Story - Stephen Zweig

98. Diary of a Madman - Nikolai Gogol

99. A Very Easy Death - Simone De Beauvoir

100. A Writer's Diary - Virginia Woolf

Enjoy!!

[khaire-traveler]

I know Lenaia is coming up soon and I was wondering what you do for it? Or if you don’t celebrate it do you any other that do?

Hey there, Nonny! Thank you for the ask!

A good way to celebrate Lenaia is watching (or performing) your favorite musicals and/or plays. Movies work as well. Having a movie night with friends would also be a great way to celebrate, especially if y'all are able to drink and have a good time. Good offerings to give are wine, grape juice, candies, home baked goods (phallus shaped things are always appreciated), pine cones, masks, and anything related to theatre.

Sometimes I create an effigy of Dionysus as well. Usually, I just draw my effigy on a piece of paper as it's easiest for me, but carving one, making one out of straw or sticks, or even making one of food are also good options. What you do with the effigy afterwards is up to you. You can hold onto it and maybe reuse it for next year's Lenaia or you can destroy/discard it (most common way of doing this that I've seen is lighting it on fire, where the smoke will rise to Olympus and be offered to Dionysus).

Something I'd like to do at some point is read The Frogs by Aristophanes. You can also recite Orphic hymns 30 and 45, or Homeric hymns 1, 7, and 26 (all of which are dedicated to Dionysus). You don't have to recite any or all of them; it's simply a suggestion. I notice reciting hymns (even ones I've made myself) or even poetry can add an extra flair to the celebration.

I'd also like to suggest dancing at night, maybe after drinking if you have that ability. Listen to music you associate with Dionysus, and dance the night away! It's especially fun to do this in a group, so if you have anyone you can do this with, I'd highly recommend giving it a shot.

I don't personally do this, but you can also decorate your altar for the holiday! If I could, I'd probably hang up streamers and confetti on Dionysus' altar as well as flowers and ivy leaves/wreaths. Decorating your altar adds to the celebration and can also be a form of offering in honor of the holiday. The festival, in the past, lasted up three, four, or five days, from what I've read, but my advice is to celebrate however long you want to/can. Don't pressure yourself into celebrating all four days if you're unable.

I hope these things help! Have a good day/night. 🧡

[dinosaurwithablog]

Break out the champagne!!! 🍾 The New York Yankees clinched the number one spot in the AL East tonight!! When asked about this, Aaron Judge said that it took a team to attain this achievement!! The man who just hit his 57th home run of the season, making it 5 games in a row in which he got a home run, was humble and honest and gave credit to the entire team. He's a great man, a great athlete, and a great Captain of this remarkable team. He's a natural born leader and the best baseball player to ever play the game. And most importantly, he's a really nice guy. When asked what he was gonna do, he smiled and blushed a little and said that they're all gonna party and they're taking a day off. I think that they have, definitely, earned that celebration and day off to recuperate. I love the Yankees. I love Aaron Judge. I'm so happy for them all!! I think that this is our year to take it all the way and win the World Series!!! Time will tell. I can't wait to see what happens in the post season!!!

I'm very happy that Gerrit Cole was pitching today. He looked like his old self and pitched a great game. Unfortunately, in the 9th inning, Tim Hill allowed one run to score. I thought that it was gonna be a shut out, but I'm still very happy that Cole got the win!!!

Congratulations to my boys!!! You deserve the AL East championship!!! Great job!! I knew that you could do it!!

LET'S GO YANKEES!!!!!

[lyraofthestarsss]

Do you guys want to see my “Storm from EPIC: The Musical” analysis I did for my music appreciation class?

vvv

EPIC: The Musical is a concept album created by Jorge “Jay” Rivera-Herrans based on Homer’s The Odyssey. It is an ongoing project split into two acts with nine arcs, referred to as “Sagas”. The song I have chosen for this project is “Storm”, which is the opening song to the third arc, known as the Ocean Saga. Since the project does not have an official stage production, fan artists and animators are key in visualizing the events of the story.

One of my favorite parts of this musical is its use of instrumentals to represent different characters. In the song, the main character Odysseus is leading his fleet of soldiers through an aggressive storm. During the verses when he is giving out orders, an electric guitar plays the main melody. Odysseus is represented by two different types of guitar: an acoustic guitar for more gentle and vulnerable moments, and an electric guitar for more commanding leadership moments. Drums are also very common throughout the piece, being the supporting instrument for the main melody as well as setting up the upbeat tempo. The kick-drum plays the “pulse” of the piece, the constant heartbeat that is buried underneath layers of other instruments and harmonies. The hi-hats are used as a representation of the waves crashing against the side of the ships. It’s loud, it’s aggressive, and it increases the intensity of the overall dynamic. One of the most important instruments in this song is the trumpet. The trumpet is a symbol of Poseidon, Greek god of the sea and storms. Despite not physically appearing until the ending song of the Ocean Saga, the trumpets are used to represent the looming danger Odysseus and his crew are in. The storm itself is a manifestation of the karma Odysseus gave himself when he blinded the Cyclops and revealed his name to him.

The dynamic of “Storm” is incredibly loud throughout the piece. The combination of trumpets, electric guitar, drums, loud vocals, and a fast tempo drive up the intensity of the overall scene. You as the listener feel as if you are inside a hurricane, especially with the repeating rhythmic pattern in the chorus. As Odysseus and his men sing the word “storm”, they raise and lower their voices to mimic the rise and fall of a ship on unstable waters. At 1:45, the instrumentals and overall dynamic change dramatically. When the crew members point out the island in the sky, the instrumentals quiet almost completely besides the kick drum playing the pulse/heartbeat and a flute playing the main melody. This represents the eye of the storm, both physically and metaphorically, as Odysseus gets the idea to ask the god of the winds, Aeolus, for help on their travels home. As mentioned before, all of the main characters have an associating instrument. The flute, a very light and high pitched woodwind instrument, is a perfect match for Aeolus. The song reaches its grand finale at 2:05, when the “storm” rhythmic pattern repeats once again and the other instruments return in full force. To me, this represents them returning to the other side of the hurricane.

[theoihalioistuff]

Okay can you tell me facts about Poseidon wife Amphitrite

"AMPHITRITE, the consort of Poseidon, was generally thought to have been a daughter of Nereus (although an alternative tradition presented her as a daughter of Okeanos, and it is stated in one source that she was the mother of the Nereids) [Nereid, Hes. Theog. 243; Okeanid, Apollod. 1.2.2, 1.4.5; consort of Poseidon, ibid. 931–4, Pi. Ol. 6.104–5, Bacch. 17.109–11; mother of Nereids, Mel. adesp. 21]. She was a reluctant bride as was commonly the case with the Nereids, who preferred to live a carefree life as virgins in the company of their parents and many sisters. According to one account, Poseidon abducted her from the island of Naxos after she had emerged from the sea to dance on the shore with her sisters [Schol. Od. 3.91]; or else she fled from him when he tried to court her, and hid herself in the depths of the Ocean near Atlas (i.e. in the far west). In the latter case, Poseidon sent many envoys in search of her, including his special beast the dolphin, who discovered her in the outer Ocean and carried her to Poseidon on its back (or at least let him know where she was hiding). The god was so grateful that he declared the dolphin sacred and placed an image of it among the stars (as the northern constellation Delphinus) [Hides "near Atlas" and after being won over by the dolphin agrees to mary Poseidon, Eratosth. Catast. 31, Hyg. Astr. 2.17; Hides in the Halls of Okeanos and the Dolphin reveals her location to Poseidon who carries her off against her will, Oppian. Halieutica 1. 38]. After finally becoming the wife of Poseidon, Amphitrite lived at his side in his golden palace beneath the sea, enjoying high honour as the queen of the seas. Although she is depicted quite frequently in works of art as a goddess of noble aspect, often enthroned beside her husband, she rarely appears in mythical tales. According to a fairly ancient legend, she offered a gracious reception to Theseus (here regarded as a son of Poseidon) when he threw himself off a ship to prove to Minos that he was a son of the god of the sea [she presents him with a purple robe and a wreath or crown that she had received from Aphrodite as a wedding gift, an alternative version of the origin of Ariadne's crown, Bacchylides. F. 17, Paus. 1.17.3; Hyg. Astr. 2.5]; and a story of later origin claimed that she caused Skylla to be turned into a monster after discovering that her husband had embarked on a love affair with her [Servius ad Aeneid 3.420; Tzetzes ad Lycophron 45]. Poseidon and Amphitrite are credited with only a single child in the Theogony, the sea-god Triton, ‘who holds the depths of the sea and lives with his mother and the lord his father, a fearsome god’ [Hes. Theog. 930–3]. Apollodorus adds two daughters, Benthesikyme (Wave of the Deep) and Rhode, the nymph or personification of the island of Rhodes [Apollod. 3.15.4 and 1.4.5 respectively]." – Routledge Handbook of Greek Mythology 7th Edition, Robin Hard.

She also attends the birth of Apollo along with other goddesses [Homeric Hymn 3 to Delian Apollo, 89–102], demands the sacrifice of a lesbian maiden [Plutarch. Septem Sapientum Convivium 163b; De sollertia animalium 36], transforms the Alkyonides into halcyons when they leap off Kanastraion, the peak of Pellene [Suidas s.v. Alkyonides], and transforms Skylla (here the daughter of Nisos, though confused with the monster of the same name) into a Ciris bird (perhaps an Egret) [Appendix Vergiliana. Ciris 478].

Lastly, she's most frequently attested as a metonym or personification of the sea [eg. Eurip. Cycl. 702; Ov. Met. 1.14], and is hailed as mother and/or nurse of dolphins, fish, seals and other sea creatures [eg. Aelian On Animals 12.45; Homer Od. 4.404, 5.422, 12.97].

[todaysdocument]

Discharge Petition for H.R. 7152, the Civil Rights Act of 1964

Record Group 233: Records of the U.S. House of RepresentativesSeries: General Records

This item, H.R. 7152, the Civil Rights Act of 1964, faced strong opposition in the House Rules Committee. Howard Smith, Chairman of the committee, refused to schedule hearings for the bill. Emanuel Celler, Chairman of the Judiciary Committee, attempted to use this discharge petition to move the bill out of committee without holding hearings. The petition failed to gain the required majority of Congress (218 signatures), but forced Chairman Smith to schedule hearings.

88th CONGRESS. House of Representatives No. 5 Motion to Discharge a Committee from the Consideration of a RESOLUTION (State whether bill, joint resolution, or resolution) December 9, 1963 To the Clerk of the House of Representatives: Pursuant to Clause 4 of Rule XXVII (see rule on page 7), I EMANUEL CELLER (Name of Member), move to discharge to the Commitee on RULES (Committee) from the consideration of the RESOLUTION; H. Res. 574 entitled, a RESOLUTION PROVIDING FOR THE CONSIDERATION OF THE BILL (H. R. 7152) which was referred to said committee November 27, 1963 in support of which motion the undersigned Members of the House of Representatives affix their signatures, to wit: 1. Emanuel Celler 2. John J. Rooney 3. Seymour Halpern 4. James G Fulton 5. Thomas W Pelly 6. Robt N. C. Nix 7. Jeffery Cohelan 8. W A Barrett 9. William S. Mailiard 10. 11. Augustus F. Hawkins 12. Otis G. Pike 13. Benjamin S Rosenthal 14. Spark M Matsunaga 15. Frank M. Clark 16. William L Dawson 17. Melvin Price 18. John C. Kluczynski 19. Barratt O'Hara 20. George E. Shipley 21. Dan Rostenkowski 22. Ralph J. Rivers[page] 2 23. Everett G. Burkhalter 24. Robert L. Leggett 25. William L St Onge 26. Edward P. Boland 27. Winfield K. Denton 28. David J. Flood 29. 30. Lucian N. Nedzi 31. James Roosevelt 32. Henry C Reuss 33. Charles S. Joelson 34. Samuel N. Friedel 35. George M. Rhodes 36. William F. Ryan 37. Clarence D. Long 38. Charles C. Diggs Jr 39. Morris K. Udall 40. Wm J. Randall 41. 42. Donald M. Fraser 43. Joseph G. Minish 44. Edith Green 45. Neil Staebler 46. 47. Ralph R. Harding 48. Frank M. Karsten 49. 50. John H. Dent 51. John Brademas 52. John E. Moss 53. Jacob H. Gilbert 54. Leonor K. Sullivan 55. John F. Shelley 56. 57. Lionel Van Deerlin 58. Carlton R. Sickles 59. 60. Edward R. Finnegan 61. Julia Butler Hansen 62. Richard Bolling 63. Ken Heckler 64. Herman Toll 65. Ray J Madden 66. J Edward Roush 67. James A. Burke 68. Frank C. Osmers Jr 69. Adam Powell 70. 71. Fred Schwengel 72. Philip J. Philiben 73. Byron G. Rogers 74. John F. Baldwin 75. Joseph Karth 76. 77. Roland V. Libonati 78. John V. Lindsay 79. Stanley R. Tupper 80. Joseph M. McDade 81. Wm Broomfield 82. 83. 84. Robert J Corbett 85. 86. Craig Hosmer87. Robert N. Giaimo 88. Claude Pepper 89. William T Murphy 90. George H. Fallon 91. Hugh L. Carey 92. Robert T. Secrest 93. Harley O. Staggers 94. Thor C. Tollefson 95. Edward J. Patten 96. 97. Al Ullman 98. Bernard F. Grabowski 99. John A. Blatnik 100. 101. Florence P. Dwyer 102. Thomas L. ? 103. 104. Peter W. Rodino 105. Milton W. Glenn 106. Harlan Hagen 107. James A. Byrne 108. John M. Murphy 109. Henry B. Gonzalez 110. Arnold Olson 111. Harold D Donahue 112. Kenneth J. Gray 113. James C. Healey 114. Michael A Feighan 115. Thomas R. O'Neill 116. Alphonzo Bell 117. George M. Wallhauser 118. Richard S. Schweiker 119. 120. Albert Thomas 121. 122. Graham Purcell 123. Homer Thornberry 124. 125. Leo W. O'Brien 126. Thomas E. Morgan 127. Joseph M. Montoya 128. Leonard Farbstein 129. John S. Monagan 130. Brad Morse 131. Neil Smith 132. Harry R. Sheppard 133. Don Edwards 134. James G. O'Hara 135. 136. Fred B. Rooney 137. George E. Brown Jr. 138. 139. Edward R. Roybal 140. Harris. B McDowell jr. 141. Torbert H. McDonall 142. Edward A. Garmatz 143. Richard E. Lankford 144. Richard Fulton 145. Elizabeth Kee 146. James J. Delaney 147. Frank Thompson Jr 148. 149. Lester R. Johnson 150. Charles A. Buckley4 151. Richard T. Hanna 152. James Corman 153. Paul A Fino 154. Harold M. Ryan 155. Martha W. Griffiths 156. Adam E. Konski 157. Chas W. Wilson 158. Michael J. Kewan 160. Alex Brooks 161. Clark W. Thompson 162. John D. Gringell [?] 163. Thomas P. Gill 164. Edna F. Kelly 165. Eugene J. Keogh 166 John. B. Duncan 167. Elmer J. Dolland 168. Joe Caul 169. Arnold Olsen 170. Monte B. Fascell [?] 171. [not deciphered] 172. J. Dulek 173. Joe W. [undeciphered] 174. J. J. Pickle [Numbers 175 through 214 are blank]

[krakenbait]

bragging rights bracket update #7: the wait is over

hello bracketeers!

i sincerely apologize for the delay, and the fact that i entirely skipped over the conference finals. the commissioner was slacking... but at least i still have a better reputation than gary bettman!

congrats to the florida panthers for resisting complete memeification and adding to connor mcdavid's continued sadness. sorry oilers fans, looks like you aren't breaking the canadian cup curse yet. enjoy cmd's consolation conn smythe?

but i've got an even bigger congratulations to a certain someone who literally defied all odds, not to mention six rounds of merciless teasing. the winner of this year's bragging rights bracket challenge is... drum roll please...

@circle--of--confusion!

you may relish in your bragging rights and hold your victory over the other competitors for the next calendar year.

rounding out our podium, we have ki in second, despite my attempts to curse them for picking the rangers to win, and @morganfrost in third, representing the devils server!

the final round of commentary for this year's brag-cket is under the cut. see y'all next year!

256 points

🥇 Rats! (aaaahwhoah) ( @circle--of--confusion) - i am genuinely baffled how you pulled this off. your western conference was trashed after the first round, and yet picking the florida men to win on a joke bracket paid serious dividends.

213 points

🥈 amelidek's bracket - this is the second year in a row that a member of the avs server has taken home second place. how about that!

182 points

🥉 win for quinn ( @morganfrost) - at least quinn got his norris trophy, and we got a smile out of him.

169 points

homer like the iliad (me) - i have regressed to the mean (i always seem to finish fourth or fifth)

166 points

been bragging ( @natashastarkk) - a valiant effort, but both the playoffs and the bracket got a new winner this year

163 points

brack that et ( @nastybastian)

so close, yet so far!

161 points

abeja's bracket - if only you had picked the other team in your finals match up...

135 points

cause chaos ( @andreisvechnikov) - *takes out a salt shaker* not only did the canes not "win now," now you've gotta watch the devils steal another one of your defensemen!

128 points

kindanerdy's bracket

i really hope you didn't get your hopes up too much.

118 points

hellybracket ( @arsonandhockey) - i think this is your best finish yet!

116 points

t-birds for the win ( @shea-theodore) - surprise surprise, they did not.

eldest daughter w ( @puck--off) - you lost the battle of the quinn hughes canucks brackets.

101 points

Le $$ Beans ( @stromesquad) - now there's still a chance for dylan to get a cup before connor!

96 points

Pizza Rats - that's what you get for being a rangers fan

please happen ( @builthebobder) - the lack of color on your final bracket is a little startling.

45 points

Do It For JEdwards ( @patron-saint-of-boston-hockey) - i don't even have to add another sword, trading ullmark to the senators is a wound in and of itself... and i am thoroughly throwing salt in it.

40 points

jt's kombucha tap ( @assistantcaptainmitchmarner) - you get a consolation prize for finishing dead last. enjoy your emoji plastic participation medal 🏅