#and if achille had natural blond hair he would look like this

[sealrock]

tauvane's genes are strong and that means achille got his red hair (that he dyes blond for personal reasons) and red eyes from her. but I wondered what achille would look like if he took after his dad more (with a light dusting of his mom's freckles) ... oh my god, what a cutie

[kupidachillea]

More Achilles headcannons? :(

oof! Well I’ll try my best. Keep in mind these are head canons and not accurate but either inspired by certain things I noticed about said character. That character being Achilles. Now on to the the actual post:

This is just a silly idea, but I’d like to think Achilles can sing. He obviously doesn’t do it much, but I feel like since he does play the lyre; he’d most definitely sing. I’m also tying this in to his nereidian roots (though it’s not really confirmed or anything that nereids can sing well).

He’d probably sing when he’s alone or with someone he’s comfortable with or around. He’s voice would probably sound lovely and hypnotic (I feel like I’m glazing him atm😭). I also feel like if he was in present day he’d still play the lyre or gravitate to the guitar.

Another thought I have is that he probably likes wearing less clothes especially at home? He probably likes to just be in shirts or trousers with not shirt or a robe or something similar. Maybe thin material like chiffon? I can imagine him in a chiffon robe. It’d probably be seen as ‘feminine’ but he doesn’t give a damn. It’s probably better than seeing him walk around stark naked (which he might do occasionally.)

But touching on the ‘feminine’ thing- I know he’s described as handsome and all. But I do think, me personally, he would have a few androgynous features and qualities. Mainly in his face. I mean- to be fair he was dressed up as a woman and seemed to not have been caught (besides Odysseus). So in shorty- war criminal/hero (whatever) that can look both masculine and feminine.

Another body head canon- his eyes aren’t like humans even though I draw them typically green or hazel- I think they’d act like cat eyes(?), again- this is mostly inspired by his ‘lion-heart’ epithet and also his nereidian heritage. So he can focus his eyes into slits and all that and I think that also emphasises his dangerous nature and murderous tendencies.

This head canon is a bit iffy but I see most people debating if Achilles had red or blonde hair- hear me out- what if he was blonde (ish) but used henna to dye his hair red because he liked the fiery colour?(this is why I described him with fiery blonde and my I draw him like that). I got the idea from a tik tok I watched of this young woman dying her hair red with henna.

[andwordsarefutiledevicess]

on challengers and mythology

i remember a tumblr post (or possibly tweet) that said art and patrick sound like what a thirteen year old would call achilles and patroclus in a fanfiction. (i can’t find this post so please comment if you know their @!) and no, they’re not wrong. there are some clear parallels between the two duos. so i thought i’d take a deeper look at the relationship between challengers, achilles and patroclus as they are told in the iliad, and as they are told in the song of achilles.

qualifications: i have read the iliad in both english and latin lmfao

i’m not entirely sure the parallel was intentional in the original screenplay by justin kuritzkes. while it had some definite gay subtext, the screenplay did not, as luca said, have all points of the triangle touching. so if anything, the original art and patrick read closer to the classic male bond portrayed in other greek mythology and poetry.

but once luca got his hands on that screenplay, i think any subtle hints at the achilles/patroclus story became much more overt.

both in the iliad and in soa, patroclus and achilles were raised alongside each other after patroclus is exiled and given to peleus. this is just as patrick and art are raised in the academy together, and their meetings occur at similar ages.

the parallels become more complicated when you attempt to distinguish who is who. while art may be the obvious parallel to achilles, with his blonde hair and “a” name, he is much closer to patroclus in character. he is the assistant of patrick, always sidelined. he doesn’t seem to be the main character in his own story. he lacks the fire that characterizes achilles.

patrick, on the other hand, has a natural ability that mirrors that of achilles, despite being, on the surface, more comparable to patroclus. he is bold, the center of attention, and flounders without art, just as achilles breaks down after the death of patroclus.

(a parallel i haven’t seen mentioned is that of briseis and tashi. while there is by no means a love triangle between achilles, patroclus, and briseis in the iliad or in soa, i still believe it warrants mention.)

so, in short, challengers is (and i do not believe it is accidental) an odd retelling of achilles and patroclus. it is, however, flipped on its head. the achilles character is in fact patroclus, and vice versa (a slight nod to “call me by your name, and i will call you by mine”).

mythological parallels are central in luca’s works.

another ramble courtesy of moi.

[lunaekalenda]

Hello I’m back for more of the Greek mythology interaction. Could you do another one for Eren (also I imagine him wearing nothing but a eucalyptus crown on his head as a Greek god) with flower goddess Reader? Thank you! - 🌼

for some reason, half of my draft got deleted and just realized now that i was gonna publish it 🤡 anyway, i did what i could with your specifications + the dices (my imagination isn't that wide hshs) hope you like it!

zeus · trojan horse · treasure (this is going to be a little divergence from the original myths to fit the request)

Humans were curious to gods, specially, to him. Eren ruled on the Olympus as the God between the Gods. Everything was boring to him, specially, mortals. Such throwaway lives, so far from divine perfection, but yet so intense. If there was a thing he still liked from the human world, it was flowers.

One thing Eren doesn't miss as the new Zeus is to feel. It has been ages since he felt for the last time, when he let himself smile when the spring arrived or let his guard down while sleeping peacefully. He has forgot all of them. A lot of humans want his place, his life. And he won't give up that easy on them.

He was sure nothing could ever rip apart that façade of the perfect god, but he got a gift. A gift, for him. It was on his main door when he left that morning, direction to the tholos where all the Gods spent the long and incontable days. There it was, a miniature of the Trojan Horse, the one that made Achilles win the war. He remembers that moment, he felt a little proud of his army. Of his mortal army. Near the miniature, a big bouquet of flowers rested, with a little note on the side. "Thanks for helping, supreme God. The district of Paradis will always be grateful."

The flowers were way too beautiful to be made by humans. They seemed too perfect, too colorful to be natural. Looking at the flowers again, he left them on the main entrance's vase, knowing that they will be dead with just a couple days on the Olympus.

But they resisted, two days, four and a whole month, maybe more. He moved them to his office, where he watched them for full hours without moving. He was intrigued, where could a human make such perfect flowers? They seemed to be even immortal, as he was. It was the first gift Eren got that was able to last as much as he was going to, unless someone did kill him before.

Those flowers got the name of the "God's Treasure" in the streets of the Olympus, reaching everyone's ears, specially Armin's, the messenger God. He brought those flowers from the mortal lands, and he would gratefully show Eren where they grew. It wasn't long until the God searched the blonde boy, who guided his friend down to mortal domains after years of reclusion on the Olympus. He felt the grass on his feet when they landed. The sweet breeze near the sea, the salty air that played on his hair and moved the leafs of his eucalyptus crown. And he saw the little town, white houses and tiny humans around.

And then he saw you.

Kneeling on the floor with a long, white robe, smiling so preciously while you put tiny flowers on a little girl's hair. The flowers seemed to be so bright, so shiny, and the way you used them with such care and tenderness made him smile unconsciously. They seemed to bloom under your hands, and he felt what he had suppressed for years at a stroke. He wants to be held, to be listened, to be loved. He wants to bloom under someone's soft touch, and he wants to pass his immortal life with someone.

And when your eyes crossed, he knew that someone he has been waiting for was you.

He started to walk, without even knowing what he was gonna say once he arrived. When his long shadow covered you and the kid from the sun, he felt the sudden nervousness. You stood up slowly, asking the kid to go home. He looked at you for a long second, before speaking.

"The flowers that I got at the Olympus... Did you grow them?" Your eyes opened when you realized that Eren, the God among the Gods, was talking to you. Your hands trembled softly when you kneeled respectfully.

At the same time, he kneeled in front of you, a big smile on his lips as he searched your gaze with his.

"Could you show me how you grow those beautiful flowers?" he whispers, making your heart skip a beat. Show him, the most important God between them, your simple flowers?

You were still so unaware of the future crown he was planning you to wear, full of flowers, as he crowned you as his goddess.

[percqbeths]

can we please stop being anti-annabeth solely for not being a cliched female love interest i am so tired of people painting her as manipulative, harmful, toxic, or anything of that nature solely because of some of her natures. annabeth chase is a character who

grew up in a household that made her feel constantly unwanted and a burden, so much so that she fleed

didn't know what a stable relationship looked like–arguably yes she could have seen silena and charlie but they were also teens who were new to it all. she had no one guiding her.

ran away from her home early on and found safety in two people–one of which sacrificed themselves for her and the other betrayed her

has a fatal flaw that causes her to fully believe she could always do everything better than anyone else

constantly seeked approval and praise from a mother who was never there

annabeth chase is all those things. now let me debunk what people believe she is:

"annabeth is toxic." — no, she is not. she is a survivor of a traumatic childhood and doesn't always know how to go about her emotions. camp half blood, for as friendly as it is, trains warriors. she wasn't raised with parent figures teaching her how to communicate her thoughts, in FACT, the only parental relationship she had was parents making her feel unwanted and dramatic (ie her stepmother telling her she's scaring her brothers), so as a result she doesn't KNOW how to talk. if she ever came off as rude or negative it was solely just her lack of being able to talk it out.

"annabeth is abusive." — once again, no. the judo flip scene came from her genuine irritation and the heaviness in her chest of being without percy for so long. it wasn't out of harm, they sparred together all the time, and he laughed it off. also remember annabeth didn't know percy lost his curse of achille's, so in her eyes she didn't think he would feel pain from that flip. so all she did was just tell him i'm so mad at you for being taken away from me and also let out her inner turmoil. she did not expect him to get hurt.

"annabeth shouldn't call him seaweed brain its harmful." – seaweed brain and wise girl are their childhood nicknames to one another. its not harmful–YOU GUYS implying that the nickname implies him being stupid or it hurting him is actually far more harmful. the nicknames hold nostalgia for the both of them: it holds the fact that despite everything they're best friends, that they've come so far from where they started and how even though they disliked one another they fell in love. it's not a harmful nickname, it just shows how much she loves him.

the annabeth/rachel dynamic – i'm sorry, but why the fuck are we crucifying a teenage girl for being jealous? i genuinely do not fucking understand why people r getting so angry at annabeth for being jealous of rachel when she was literally in love with percy and one of his only friends for THE LONGEST time before rachel came along. feelings and romance aside, as a friend (who has been abandoned in the past for others, like thalia did w the hunters) i would feel really jealous as well. the whole botl dynamic is just childhood pettiness and jealousy at its finest, and then in tlo annabeth admits she let percy have a summer with rachel DESPITE her wanting to be with him–how is that bad? she's a teenage girl in love with her best friend who's met a new girl, one who's mortal and comes with far less baggage and who he can just relax with–her feelings of jealousy were completely valid throughout the series, stop hating on her for them. and then as for the whole tartarus "keeping percy on his toes" thing–that was playful. and a joke. and annabeth and rachel are literally friends at this point. calm the fuck down.

while i am on this subject of annabeth chase slander, can we please k*ll the jokes that imply annabeth is a tr*mp supporter, a racist, or a homophobe? if ur a poc and u enjoy those jokes i won't gatekeep u from making them but please remember that a lot of those jokes have hella heavy implications and are very out of pocket. people hate on her because of that page in moa where she says she hates the fact that she's blonde, but i raise u this:

annabeth chase is highly insecure as a character. THE ONLY THING SHE IS SECURE IN IS HER BRAINS, SO OBVIOUSLY THE IDEA THAT PEOPLE MAY THINK SHE'S INFERIOR OR DITZY BECAUSE OF HER HAIR COLOR WOULD MAKE HER FEEL INSECURE! it's VALID of her and y'all literally took it and turned her into a racist who'd spit on me and call me a terrorist and i just–i don't get it.

also just because i think annabeth slander should end doesn't mean i don't think y'all need to stop attacking other female characters as well specifically hazel and piper because y'all seem to just constantly attack these female characters and i am so tired of it.

thank u for coming to my ted talk 😁

[jwxei]

˗ˏˋ achilles' heel - chapter two ˎˊ˗

// eyes red, vast and volcanic //

You wish you could say the same thing when you struck up conversation with him. To say he was anything but a brute was naive of you, and the nagging voice in your mind was lecturing you for thinking that way. To be honest, you weren't really sure what to do when he lashed out at you so suddenly. All you were trying to do was get to your seat, nothing else. But the hot headed autocrat had other plans.

Apparently you were in his way. And after he had stated that fact he went off on a mini speech about how great he was and how everyone else wasn't.

"Out of my way extras," he would harshly declare, "If you're going to act so useless, at least be stones I can step off to reach my victory."

To you, he just sounded like an egotistical boy who takes pleasure in pushing others around. But surprisingly no one seemed to question his actions. As absurd as he was, it really seemed to affect most people. You could see the glinting fear in their eyes when he crouched to meet their gaze. When he gave that jagged smirk, satisfied with the dominance created. But what ticked you off most was the way he looked down on others. How he held his head slightly higher than everyone else's and loved to poke holes into every mistake made. There was a clear difference between confidence and arrogance, and he was an excellent example of what not to become.

The odd thing was that people still tried to befriend him, despite his threatening attitude. You could see an eccentric haired red-head approach him everyday, constantly wearing the same carefree expression. Without fail, he would flash him a welcoming smile and make his way over. It irritated you, to say the least. You couldn't see why anyone would ever want to befriend someone who was plain crude. But then again, you weren't someone who would go out of their way to desperately make friends. You enrolled to U.A for one purpose only; it wasn't going to change anytime soon.

But still, you couldn't help but observe as the energetic boy beamed at the proud dictator, polar opposites at their best. You could swear you saw rays coming from his smile. And the bright radiance he gave made you feel safe, comforted and soothed. For a while, you would find yourself to bask in his joyful tendencies, the whole atmosphere lightening up when he walked into the room. It puzzled you as to why someone so pure and great as him would want to stoop down to someone which no respect for anyone else but himself.

Bakugo didn't seem to appreciate the hospitality shown to him, though. Whenever the lively boy (who you now came to know as Eijiro Kirishima) would try to spark a conversation, all he would do is yank his head the opposite direction. The only responses given were silent glares that bore through you, or rough grunts if he was in a good mood. Another admirable trait of Kirishima was that he never faltered. Even when Bakugo gave him the harshest of glares, which would strike fear into most, the red-head did not feel threatened.

He was praiseworthy, you could give him that. Although, it didn't mean that he could escape the insults Bakugo carelessly threw around. Kirishima had coined the name 'Shitty Hair' from him because of his bright red tufts that were styled into spikes that shot above. However he didn't seem to take the nickname too heavily. And he snapped back with an offhand comment about how their hairstyles were similar. It impressed you. How he could put up with Bakugo's stand-off attitude. But then again, you lacked something Kirishima seemed to have an abundance of; patience.

You remember the first time that it happened. The ticking torment that Bakugo first released upon you. All you were trying to do was get to your seat. You didn't want any unnecessary attention, and he was more than you had bargained for at U.A. As you weaved your way through the maze of pristine desks, a rough grip caught you off balance and nearly yanked you to the ground. You whipped your head in fury to see who it was, only to meet a pair of blazing red eyes. They glowered at your form, you gladly returning the favour. A gruff voice, one that sounded like coarse asphalt, spit at you.

"The hell is a weakling like you doing here?" An athletically built boy had both his feet crossed onto his desk. His forest green pants sagged and hung loosely around his waist, revealing a peek of his-. No. You scolded yourself and tugged your mind out of the gutter. The frustration that brimmed inside you was more overpowering. How dare this obnoxious man speak to you like you were some sort of lesser specimen? A sever urge to wreck this man's ego and put him in his place highly tempted you. But unlike him, you weren't looking for a fight.

You tugged away from his grip and gave him a bitter glance. His lips curled into a cruel smirk in response before running his hands through ash blond locks. You knew you hated him the minute he flashed you that smile. Indulging in the fantasy of humbling him helped satisfy your need to square him right in his cocky, perfect face. Taking a deep breath, you composed yourself and bluffed an unbothered attitude.

"That is none of your business." You replied through gritted teeth. "Now I suggest you go bother someone else before I report you for harassment." You tilted your head innocently, and cracked a forced grin at him. Bakugo's sneer disappeared from view and he scoffed coldly. He faced away before going back to his own business. Taking it as a success, you made your way back to your desk, plopping down to take you study materials out.

A bubbly brunette to your right whispered to a frog-like classmate. Their hushed conversation consisted of panicked murmurs and what sounded to be a frog-like noise. You fiddled with the stationary placed upon your desk, twirling the mechanical pencil between your fingers seamlessly. You could pick up on their little discussion if it proved necessary, but didn't bother to. The last thing you needed was another headache. After a few more minutes, the brown-haired girl seen speaking before tapped your shoulder.

"You're L/N Y/N right?" You looked up, taken aback by the sudden interaction. She looked at you with wide eyes the shades of dark honey. She was so close to your face that you could see the black lines that traced in and out of her iris. Her frame was small, but not frail, and she had her arms crossed behind her. The frog girl had now returned to her previous business. She appeared uninterested in the topic but occasionally glanced back ever now and then. You answered the girl before you.

"Uh, yeah. That's me!" A smile shone from your features, this time it came naturally. She exhaled out a little before rubbing her hands together. The odd thing was that her fingers never touched.

"Wow! Well I gotta give it to you for holding your ground against that hot head over there!" She pointed her thumb in Bakugo's direction. You noticed how her fingertips had a slightly darker shade that appeared in a circular pattern. The boy subject to the attention caught her pointing, and gave her a teething snarl. You sheepishly laughed and thanked her. She also giggled with a playful tone before leaning in to whisper in your ear. "To be honest I thought that you were gonna get blown to pieces! We all thought a villain was in the making. Anyways, I'm Ochako Uraraka. Nice to meet you."

You laughed along with her, but this time it was more forced. It's not like she was wrong; there were aspects of Bakugo that could be seen as villainous. But something about him being a villain didn't sit right with you. It did not make sense to even yourself, as to why you would think that. Perhaps you thought he had potential to be better. Yeah, you mocked your own thought. Like that would happen anytime soon.

You only proved yourself right as the days went by. The relentless blonde showed great interest in afflicting annoyance and pain into you. For weeks on end, he would belittle you with insults and comparisons. Sometimes he would even take your things and hide them in the smallest and inconvenient places. One time, he had taken your whole backpack and swung it to the top of a tree to hang there overnight. Explaining to Aizawa Sensei why you didn't have your school supplies with you the next day was a complete nightmare, him staring you down with bloodshot eyes the whole time.

Granted, there were some days where he completely ignored you. When you would make eye contact in the hallways, he would always shove his gaze somewhere else and stuff his hands in his pockets. You were thankful for these times, if you were being honest, but they only came once in a blue moon. It was insufferable; trying to predict how he would treat you was maddening and drove you up the wall. Your patience was thinning fast, and every mishap that involved him only boiled your fiery blood even more.

«────── « ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ » ──────»

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[pilot-boi]

The Sun’s Sorrow

When the Fates cut a string, that person’s life is meant to end right away. But there are special cases. And Pyrrha’s string is shorter than most, measured out to one length since the day of her birth. She knew this and she was more prepared than most for when her time would come, and for the time she had she would burn as bright as the sun.

Although not everyone would cope with her absence quite as well, one life’s flame is often enough to ignite another’s.

(Or: The PJO AU that literally nobody wanted or asked for)

You are my sunshine, my only sunshine

You make me happy when skies are gray

You'll never know dear, how much I love you

Please don't take my sunshine away

AO3 LINK

Battles raged up and down the streets of Manhattan.

As he ran, Jaune passed Yang and the remaining members of the Ares cabin taking on a squadron of Lastragonians. His blonde haired friend had long since abandoned the shield her adoptive sister had begged her to use and was clocking demons in the face with her celestial bronze knuckles. One giant took a hit to the jaw, to match the cut across Yang’s cheek, but that was all Jaune could see before he sprinted past.

He ducked on instinct at the yelled command of Qrow Branwen, and a volley of Hunters arrows streaked across the street brushing close enough to ruffle Jaune’s hair. The front line of a horde of hellhounds fell, and he had barely enough time to hear Qrow call for another volley before they too were passed by.

The sounds of more battles echoed through the sleeping streets, in a mockery of the sound of the normally bustling city. Nora called a strike of lightning down on some giant blue… giant down one alley. Sun and Neptune fought back to back down another against a whole troupe of enemy demigods.

A flurry of petals shot past him and materialized into Ren and Ruby, the girl already swinging her scythe to launch Ren up into the air to fight some kind of flying pig. Another street down Weiss barked orders while simultaneously taking down a monster with every expertly placed blow as she and the rest of the Athena cabin took on a phalanx of dracanae.

Jaune had no time for any of them, because just up ahead the person he was chasing was already out of sight.

They’d received word that Cinder- Kronos was advancing on Central Park. Flanked by a million bajillion monsters of course, but what did that matter? The King of the Titans was here, and they were in no way prepared.

Well most of them weren’t.

Red hair and a sash to match sprinted away from their little war council before any of them could stop her.

A chance to stop Kronos before the battle even began? A chance to fulfill the prophecy before the burden of the world fell to Ruby. To fulfill the destiny that the Fates had brought her back for. How could she not? This was what she was made to do.

Jaune had seen it written across her face as clear as day, and his dad was the god of daylight so he knew what he was talking about. He should have known what she was going to do, he should’ve stopped her-

He’d never be able to catch up in time. Even if Pyrrha wasn’t one of the fastest people at camp, Jaune was definitely one of the clumsiest.

Why couldn’t he have inherited his dad’s speed? Nope just blonde hair, a sunny disposition, and crushing abandonment issues. No special powers for Jauney, whoop-de-fucking-doo.

He turned a corner, and arrived on a scene of destruction straight out of an action movie. Or a nightmare. Or a nightmare that he had after watching too many action movies

It was a warzone. It looked like the rest of the Camp demigods had heard the news and also converged onto the park. On the right flank, Sun was leading an assault with the rest of their siblings. On the left, Blake raised her sword into the air and together she and the other satyrs and nature spirits charged in to face Adam and his faction.

Ruby was fighting scythe against sword with a flame bright Titan out on the surface of the lake. His friend was barely half the height of the Titan, and she was only holding her own against the laughing man by shadow stepping behind him every other second.

Pyrrha was nowhere to be seen. Thankfully, neither was Kronos, because they were already getting thrashed as it was.

There was too much blood everywhere to pick out her hair or sash. Bronze gleamed on the chests of campers and enemies alike, blurring into one big shiny mess. He ran through the throng of fighting, squeezing past giants legs, helping where he could with his shield blocking a strike or two. But mostly he was screaming for Pyrrha over the sounds of the battle.

And then he found her. Crumpled at the base of a maple tree just outside of the line of battle, almost looking asleep like the rest of the mortals. Jaune was almost relieved until he slid to his knees by her side and she didn’t open her eyes immediately.

“Pyrrha! Thank the gods,” he yelled, pulling her up and holding her tight against him. She barely resisted, just chuckled softly. “I was so worried, don’t do that!” he reprimanded, pulling away and examining her closely

“I don’t think you’ll have to worry about that,” she promised, smiling weakly up at him. With eyes as bright as Greek fire, and an unmistakable blood trail dribbling from her mouth.

He examined her again, looking for anything that could be causing this. Because people didn’t just start bleeding for no reason. And then his eyes fell on the arrow sticking out of her ankle, just above her heel.

Her Achilles’ tendon.

Jaune’s blood ran cold, but he shook it off. It was fine, just a little scratch he could handle this much. “You’re hurt! Hold on-” he patted himself down for ambrosia, nectar, for anything that he could use to fix this. “Just give me a minute-”

“Hey-” Pyrrha tried to get his attention, but he ignored her.

“I can fix this, just hold on Pyrrha.”

“It’s okay-”

“No it’s not okay, you’re hurt, and I can’t do anything and-”

“Jaune.” His frantic rambling was cut short by one of Pyrrha’s hands closing around his own. “Look at me.”

He didn’t want to look at her, afraid that he’d start crying if he met her eyes. Dammit, his friends were dying behind them, and Jaune was crying over Pyrrha holding his hand. What the heck was wrong with him?

“Please?” And now he did meet her eyes, because she sounded fragile in a way that he couldn’t take right now on top of everything. And she was still holding his hands in hers, but Pyrrha’s hands were shaking. So he looked at her.

And what he found broke his heart and scared him even more than the warzone he’d just wade through to find her. Because Pyrrha was crying. Crying and smiling up at him like he was the most important thing in the world.

Which was wrong, because he wasn’t the prophecy child, Ruby was. Or Pyrrha was. Or they both were, or neither of them were. Anybody but stupid, bumbling, useless him.

“It’s okay,” she repeated, still smiling at him, and although her voice was soft, Jaune didn’t have to strain at all to hear it over the sounds of clashing bronze and fire behind him. It was like they were contained in their own little bubble, hidden away and unnoticed by the rest of the world.

“But it’s not okay.” And now his voice was shaking, and he swallowed back tears. “Pyrrha you’re-”

“Dying?” she replied, sounding vaguely amused by the whole situation, even as she coughed more blood out to land on her chestplate. “Yes I suppose I am.”

“No, no stop that,” he insisted, scooching closer to her and glaring through the tears that definitely weren’t blurring his vision. “You’re not dying, you’re just hurt, and if just hold on a little longer-”

“I… don’t think I can,” Pyrrha repulsed simply, grimacing a little bit. “I can feel it…” She trailed off, eyes defocusing for a moment, and Jaune’s blood froze at how long it took her to come back to the present. “This was how it was meant to be.”

“No,” he swallowed thickly. “You’re wrong, you’ve gotta be, Pyrrha please you’ve gotta be wrong.” Just this once, she had to be wrong. Pyrrha was never wrong, but please just this once.

“You’re more important to me than the world, you know that?” Another one of those sad smiles, and she leaned back heavily on the trunk of the tree. “More than the whole world, or the gods, or anything.”

Jaune couldn’t believe what he was hearing. For one because he’d seen enough movies to know that this was final words type talk, and Pyrrha was strictly forbidden from having any final words whatsoever. But mostly, because how could he be more important to Pyrrha than the world? He wasn’t anything special, which she knew better than anyone.

His heart felt like it was rolling around in a rock tumbler, being worn away by knives and other rocks and fire. He shook his head numbly, unable to articulate any further protestations.

“You made me believe, for just a moment, that the prophecy didn’t matter, that I could actually have a life.” She squeezed his hand, and her Greek fire eyes crinkled into a smile. “Jaune you gave me back my life.” And her voice cracked on the last word, and now they were both crying

He was dumbfounded. Whatever words he might have said died in the back of his throat. But luckily he was saved from having to think of more when Pyrrha reached one hand up and pulled him down into a kiss.

Jaune froze. His brain was going a million miles an hour, too fast for any coherent thoughts. His eyes were wide open in shock, and they stared at her for a moment before sliding closed.

It was a clumsy kiss, too fast and awkward to be anything else. Pyrrha tasted like blood, and tears, and they were both still crying, but they fit together like two pieces in a jigsaw puzzle. Made for each other.

He felt like he was burning up, and for a moment he wondered if this was how Pyrrha lived her life all the time. A flame burning brighter than any other, destined to live life more than anyone else. But to be snuffed out far too soon.

And then realized that it was because Pyrrha was burning alive with fever. Something flickered to life within him, and he could feel it. The arrow was poisoned. And the fire in Pyrrha’s veins had reached her heart.

Jaune’s eyes opened slowly, too dazed from what had just happened, and he gazed at her in wonder for a moment. Her eyes were still closed, and her grip was lax against his neck, but she leaned her forehead against his.

“I’m sorry.”

And then Pyrrha’s hands fell away. And the flame flickered out.

Instinctively Jaune reached out and grasped at that flame. Something tugged in his stomach and he fed every scrap of energy he could find into keeping the flame alight. Into reliting, into anything.

Tears were streaming down his face, and his hands were glowing but he couldn’t see them, and maybe he was yelling something but he couldn’t hear anything over the pounding in his ears. The flame stayed out, and the darkness inside of Pyrrha filled her like a void.

She wasn’t warm anymore.

He leant down and pressed his ear to her chest, desperate for any kind of sign, and crumpled against her when she didn’t move and he found none. Even through the ringing, Jaune could tell that he was screaming now. Pyrrha’s head fell limply against his shoulder, her bangs covering her eyes. Eyes like Greek fire that would never shine again.

With the battle still raging behind him, Jaune laid Pyrrha gently against the tree. Now she looked like she could be sleeping, even though her chest didn’t move with breathing.

He was more angry than he’d ever been. Angry at the Titans for killing her. Angry at the gods for being terrible parents and dragging them into this stupid war. Angry at the Fates for convincing Pyrrha that she was only good as a weapon to point at the enemy. Angry at himself for letting her down in the worst way possible.

Jaune didn’t remember much after that. Just his veins burning like the sun, rage flooding his body like a fire, and a sorrow and mind-consuming determination that this wouldn’t happen to anyone else.

He waded into the battle, tears streaming down a face that was glowing bright enough to rival the Titan still battling Ruby on the lake. Jaune fought like a maniac, paying no heed to any injury he might take from strikes that he wasn’t meeting.

Every ally he brushed past was suddenly bursting with energy like they could fight an army. Fully replenished in a way none of them could be after fighting nonstop for days, weeks, and months straight.

Dammit, nobody else was going to die.

And then the world went dark.

Who knew how long later, Jaune woke up beside the lake and found Ren and Nora kneeling over him. Nora was rambling worriedly and excitedly before his eyes were even open. Ren helped him up and nodded in response to Jaune's thanks as he passed him a bottle of nectar.

Ruby appeared out of the side of a tree, shadow-stepping from somewhere else in the park. “Jaune! Thank the gods you’re awake,” she exclaimed, a grin splitting her exhausted face. “You’re not hurt are you?”

Jaune hesitated, and was shocked to find that he wasn’t. He’d waded into battle without bothering to use his shield, and somehow miraculously he was uninjured? Well uninjured past a weakness in his arms and a shaking in his legs. But that was it, so what in Hades was going on.

“It was Apollo,” Ren spoke up, after a moment’s silence. When everyone looked confused, he explained. “I saw you come out of the woods, glowing like the sun.” He nodded at Jaune’s hair. “You’re still glowing, in fact.”

“I am?” Jaune glanced up, as if suddenly he’d for some reason be able to see the top of his own head. His eyes narrowed. “But what’s that got to do with my dad?”

“Your dad blessed you,” Nora clarified, rolling her eyes fondly at Ren. “Glowing hair, healing stuff, no injuries? What else could it be?”

“Healing?”

“Everyone you came in contact with during the battle was healed,” Ruby confirmed, nodding. “At least until some enemy demigod saw what was going on and clonked you on the back of the head.”

Nora shuddered slightly, and at Jaune’s questioning look said. “You dropped like a sack of potatoes. We all thought you’d died.” Ren nodded in agreement.

“Anyway,” Ruby continued, “I just got the report from Weiss, and we’ve got no serious injuries.” She opened her mouth, and then closed it again, a look of confusion darkening her silvery eyes. “But why now?”

Nora hesitated, shooting a glance towards the treeline, and some kind of understanding flickered across her face. “What happened in the woods, Jaune?”

His heart dropped out of his chest.

The world was moving in slow motion suddenly, and for a moment he was worried that Kronos was nearby. Jaune had heard about what effect the Lord of Time had on the environment, and if this wasn’t the same he’d eat his sword. Up was down and left was right and he felt like he was inside an airplane with how sick he felt.

“Jaune?!” Nora exclaimed. Jaune blinked his eyes open -when had they been closed?- and saw them all staring down at him in alarm. Darkness was blinking into his vision, but he found himself leaning against Ren, who suddenly had to hold him up as he’d pitched sideways towards the ground as all the strength left his body. “What’s wrong, what happened?!”

Jaune didn’t want to say what happened. Didn’t want to think about hair as red as the fire he could still feel pulsing through his veins like the rays of sun on a summer day. He didn’t want to think about Greek fire eyes that burned into his soul, and would never see anything ever again.

Averting his eyes, he swallowed thickly at the tears that blocked the words caught in his throat. Staring across the lake, he looked away and stared instead at the ground, finding that he couldn’t look at the trees whose fall leaves were the exact shade of Pyrrha’s hair.

He’d felt her die, he realized now. That flame had flickered out, and at the same time, in that moment of trying to fight against the Fates themselves, Jaune had unlocked something within him.

Jaune had reached out and grabbed at Pyrrha’s very life in an attempt to keep it here on the mortal plane, and his father had blessed him for that. Finally using the latent godly power that had been passed on to him by his father, Jaune had used Apollo’s own healing to stave off death with his bare hands. And he’d damn near succeeded.

He could still feel the heartbeats of everyone in the glade.

But one critical one was missing, and would remain missing.

“We need a shroud,” he said finally, tears barely letting the words out. His voice sounded hollow, like all the life had been stripped away leaving behind an empty shell. “A shroud for the rebirth of Achilles.”

[lo-55]

Shattered Chains of Fate Ch. 19

Do Dead People Have Therapists?

By the time Ichigo was standing over Hiyori, her throat caught between two blades, there’s a thin sheet of sweat across his brow and his sleeves are long ripped off by her weapon. It’s a serrated butcher's blade, which fits Hiyori perfectly. 

She was stronger than Ichigo expected, and he can feel blood drying along his arms from where it's been stopped from flowing out of him, now white instead of black. He mentally thanks Tensa. 

Ichigo’s knee is on her stomach, keeping her pinned in place as if his blades weren’t enough for it. Her sword sticks out of the ground a few yards away. The rest of the Visord are watching from the sidelines, tense and ready to intervene save Shinji. Ichigo’s servants are much the same on the other side. They’re too protective of him. 

Not that they don’t have their reasons.

The first time they’d seen the mask that is slowly dissolving from his face he’d wrought destruction and nearly died right after. He knows they don’t like it, but it’s his power and he won’t give Nieve up for anything. 

It’s still disconcerting when he pulls it on. The shift of the world snapping into intense focus and the feeling of perfect balance and power coursing through him. There’s a pressure in his head that’s not painful but present, when Nieve is at the forefront. 

As the last flicker of bone falls from his face Ichigo falls against the ground away from Hiyori, his energy drained away. This was going to take some getting used to. But this time he’d lasted a full two minutes by his own estimate. It’s better than it was before. 

Even if it was only by thirty seconds. 

“Now can we be done with this bullshit?” Ichigo asks, casting an irritated scowl out at the other Visored.  

None of them seem inclined to challenge him further. There’s a man he hadn’t seen before, with pale pink hair, who is staring at his entourage with a little too much attention. 

A throat clears in front of him and Ichigo looks up to see Hirako standing over him. His smile is half quirked, not the strange, toothy grin he’d had before. He looks more genuine like this, and less like he’s trying to involve Ichigo in something seriously shady. 

His hand is extended down towards him while the other girl, Lisa, helps up Hiyori. 

Ichigo huffs and slides Tensa back into his sleeve before he takes Hirakos hand and uses him to pull himself up. His body protests and he’d like nothing more than a nap, but by the way everyone is starting to gather around him it’s looking like that’s going to be out of the question this time. 

Great. 

* 

Ichigo doesn’t know when it happened but at some point he became the king of ‘making doctors sleep’. 

It’s a crown he’d rath chuck in the ocean, but it’s one he wears all the same. 

In Chaldeas he’s the one who always bullies Romani into sleeping even when it means dragging him into Ichigo’s own bedroom. He’s made other medical staff leave their stations, and forced Da Vinci to take breaks when they were together, heroic spirit or not. (nevermind that she’s not a doctor. Close enough)

Now, it seems, his luck runs true because he finds Jeckyll passed out over a stack of papers that look like chemistry formulas and equations. 

Ichigo hadn’t gotten that far into school when he’d gone to Chaldeas, and he’s learning more mage craft than science now, so he couldn’t tell you what anything meant if you pointed a gun to his head. 

Still, he knows a sleeping scientist when he sees one. 

He shakes him gently by the shoulder. “Hey. C’mon, you can’t sleep here,” he chides. 

There’s not response besides and grumble and Jeckyll reaching to turn his gas lamp down and almost knocking it off the desk entirely. 

Ichigo manages to save them from a fiery death just barely, but it’s clean that Jeckyll doesn’t want to get up and move. 

Damn it. 

The things I do for my friends. 

Ichigo pulled the chair out and picked Jekyll up easily. He barely weighed a thing already, compared to Ichigo who had been fighting for well over a year now on top of most of his life. 

Ichigo takes him to his room, out of the study and up the hall before he deposits him in the sheets. 

It’s when he’s pulling back to stand that he feels cool steel against his upper thigh, right over an artery. 

He looks down to see bright red eyes. Hyde. 

* * 

Medusa and Achilles did not want to let Ichigo be alone with these people. Not even remotely. Ichigo insisted, after Hiyori finally calmed down and got something for the inevitable bruises that would form from Medusa’s attack. 

Ichigo was, naturally, completely ignored. 

Cu might have let him alone and trusted him enough to mind himself now that he could fight, but when the other two ganged up on Ichigo he threw his lot in with them. 

The filthy traitor. 

Ichigo sits on the couch in their living room area with Achilles to his left, medusa to his right, and Cu sits at his knee. It’s a wonderful show of force, except now no one is talking about anything, even though there’s clearly a lot to talk about. 

“So,” Ichigo says at last, “Why did you want me here so badly again?” 

It’s not the best ice breaker, but he can’t think of anything else. Shinji looks off put from where he’s sat beside Hiyori on the opposite couch from Ichigo. Two of the other Vizord took up residence in chair to left, a pretty boy with blond hair and the long fingers of a pianist and a gruff looking man with his hair shaped vaguely like a star. 

The pair on the couch was joined by a serious woman reading porn. A love seat on the other side of it had been moved to hold a gruff man who reminded Ichigo far to much of EMIYA and a green haired girl who looked ready to bounce away into the sky. 

“Your mask,” Hiyori snapped at him, “You told Shinji something stupid about your mask.”

“I told him the truth about my mask,” Ichigo corrected instantly. “What’s so weird about it? Didn’t you guys have to do the same thing?” 

“No,” Kensei said bluntly. “We didn’t just ‘talk’. We fought.” 

“...I mean, I did that too, but we were just playing.” 

“Playing?!” Hiyori sputters at him. “Playing! A hollow inside your brain and you played with it!” 

“Well shit, what did you do?” Ichigo finally demands, crossing his arms over his chest and glaring at her. “He’s just me, right? A part of me. Like an arm or a leg or something more profound I don’t wanna think about right now.” 

“They are a part of ya,” Hirako admits reluctantly. “But inner hollows chew away at yer sanity piece by piece, just waitin ta devour you. They want out, they wanna kill, they wanna fight they want to take possession of everything ya have. They’re the darkest parts of ourselves, and if ya don’t beat them down and lock them away-” 

“Huh?!” Ichigo stares at him. Beat them down and lock them away?! 

“-They’ll come back and keep tryin’ shred your psyche. Ya make one wrong more, one slip up, let that box open even a crack and it’s over.” 

Ichigo and Hirako stared at each other for a long time. Ichigo leans forwards, steepling his fingers together. 

“Okay,” he says slowly, picking apart what the fuck was just said to him. “You are telling me that you have taken the darkest parts of you, the parts that you don’t like -anger, pain, desperation, every vicious killer instinct inside your body- You’ve taken the personification of them, and you’ve stuffed them into a box where you don’t have to deal with them anymore.” 

Ichigo looked straight at him. 

“Do dead people have therapists? Because you should really see one.” 

Hirako gaped at him. Ichigo had to duck one of Hiyori’s sandals. 

“Would you stop that! Damn, violent women,” Ichigo grumbled. “That’s like the worst coping mechanism ever. You don’t take all you trash, shove it in a closet, and think it’s just magically gone. Eventually it’s all gonna come back out, and now it’s hella rotten. What the hell.” 

‘Did you just call me trash?!’

‘I will say it again. Watch me.’ 

‘I’m still you, idiot!’

‘This is very strange,’ medusa cuts in. 

“There’s not other way to do it,” Rose, the pretty boy, says mournfully. 

Ichigo shoots him a look. “There clearly is. Since I didn’t lock Nieve anywhere and we’re just fine where we are… Ya ever read that book, Jekyll and Hyde?” 

Rose, Hirako, Lisa, and Hachi nod at him. 

“Yeah. Trying to rid yourself of parts you don’t like doesn’t usually end well.” 

He had the scar on the leg to prove it. 

“How did you do it then?” Kensei finally demands, looming over Ichigo. “You can’t really expect us to believe that you just talked.” 

“It’s not my problem if you believe me or not,” Ichigo is seriously starting to lose his temper here. “I told you what happened. He’s me, he’s always been me. He’s my fear, he’s my desperation, he’s my deepest instincts.” 

“I’ve always trusted my instincts, even if I don’t listen to them all the time. It’s the same concept.” 

They’re staring at Ichigo like he’s just disproved gravity or something. 

Ichigo sighs heavily. 

“Can I leave now? I have other things to do, you know.” 

Before he gets the chance though the world tilts with a brand new pressure. A void and a violent rage slam into Ichigo’s senses. 

“...Are you fucking with me?” Ichigo demands, his temper coming closer and closer to snapping. 

* * * 

Ichigo can feel blood slowly leaking out of the shallow cut on his thigh. It’s barely an inch away from killing him and Hyde is staring up at him, his red eyes wild. 

Ichigo slowly pulls his hands away from him. 

“Sorry,” he says blandly, “Did I scare you?” 

“No!” Hyde snaps, digging the knife a little further. For a berserker he is remarkably accurate. Is it Jekyll’s knowledge seeping in? Ichigo’s not sure how they work entirely. How much does Jekyll remember? How much down Hyde? 

“Good,” Ichigo goes with it. He doesn’t show fear. Hyde might get off on that. Or be more temped to stab him. Ichigo’s not sure which one. “Wanna put the knife away?” 

“Fuck you,” Hyde snaps. Ichigo throws him off balance. Others flinch in warranted fear. Ichigo treats him like he does Medusa. 

Something else catches Ichigo’s attention. 

He reaches out, and Hyde doesn’t stab him deeper when he runs his fingers through his wild hair. 

“How does that work?” Ichigo asks abruptly. “I get that you change. You’re broader than Jekyll and stronger too. Your eyes are different. But how does your hair change that much without even touching it? What all changes?” 

The knife slowly eases out of his leg and a new light enters Hyde’s bright red eyes. 

He starts to grin, predatory. “Do you really want to find out? I love breaking in Jekyll’s things before he gets the chance to.” Ichigo can’t tell if he’s being flirted with or threatened. Maybe both. Probably both. 

Ichigo’s fingers twist in Hydes hair and he yanks his head back until Hyde hisses. “Don’t call me a thing,” he chides. 

Hyde grabs him by his shoulders and throws him sideways onto the bed. 

Ichigo realizes he’s going to have to get a little rougher if he wants Hyde to behave himself. 

Fine then. He can do rough. 

* * * *

By the time Ichigo reaches the clearing in the park Chad is unconscious on the ground and Orihime is standing defensively in front of him, her fairies floating around her in four points. Chad is laid out, his arm slowly piecing itself together again under Orihime’s healing dome while her three pronged shield barely holds to another attack. 

Ichigo doesn’t waste time. He’s come in from behind and he uses it to his advantage. The big one doesn’t notice him, but the smaller of the pair glances over his shoulder in time to watch Ichigo vault himself up and over the big ones head so he can use gravity when he swings down and drops with every intention of cleaving him in two. 

Zangetsu sings in his hands, Neive shrieking his delight inside his soul. The blade cuts deep, but it’s like cutting through stone instead of flesh. 

Ichigo bounced back, his eyes locked on the pair, and lands next to Orihime. 

“Hey,” he nods to her, “Good job.” 

Orihime flushes pink at the praise and looks away from him, but not away from their opponents. She’s too smart for that. 

“Not really. I tried to attack before, but he’s really strong. Tsubaki got hurt…” 

“Sometimes that’s how  it goes,” Ichigo says solemnly. “Watch my back?” 

She nods. 

The giant is screaming at Ichigo, curses that spit with no harm. What does he care what these people think of him? Ichigo eyes him speculatively. He’s not that worried about this one though. The smaller one is stronger, power packed into his body. Ichigo eyes them. Broken hollow masks and a zanpakutou. They’re some kind of hollow. A hybrid, too. The opposite of a Visord? Drosiv? 

“Ulquiorra,” the giant finally stops screaming to look at his companion. “Is this the one? The one with the orange hair and the sword as long as he is?” 

The smaller one, Ulquiorra, eyes Ichigo with disinterest. “Yes. That’s the one.” 

“Who sent you?” Ichigo asks, ignoring Neive snarling for release. He wants blood, and Ichigo is inclined to give it to him. Orihime is strong, she’s stood her ground but her hands are still shaking and Chad- 

His arm is in bad shape. If it were anyone other than Orihime treating him Ichigo might think he’s going to lose it. 

“I’ll kill you!” the giant snarled instead of answering. 

Ichigo swings upwards. A sharply concentrated Getsuga Tenshou tears through his arm entirely, finishing what Orihime had started. Vengeance for his fallen friend. Barely a minute into the fight and his opponent is down an arm, cut nearly in two, and bleeding profusely. 

“Damn you!” he snarled. 

Ulquiorra eyed his companion coldly. “You’re struggling. Shall I step in, Yammy?” 

“Shut up!” Yammy snapped at him. He grabbed his sword and clicked it out of its sheath. 

‘Cu, is the Bounded Field in place?’ 

‘It’s all ready for you. No one outside the park will notice anything amiss, even if you blow something up. A couple of yer friends are comin, though.” 

“That’s fine. Thanks.” 

“I wish you’d let us fight with you,” Medusa grumbled. 

“I know. But I want to do this on my own for now. If it looks like I’ll die,save me okay?”

She huffed, but he knew he’d already won that fight. 

Ichigo tilted the point of Zangetsu up and shifted his footing. 

“Now that I’ve taken your arm,” he said suddenly. “Let’s make a deal.” Before his friends showed up. 

“Fuck you.” But Ichigo wasn’t talking to Yammy. 

He was looking at Ulquiorra. While Yammy felt like fury, all rage stuffed into a body that was still somehow too small to hold it all in, Ulquiorra felt like a night itself. Cool and vast, he was several dozen times stronger than Yammy. Ichigo could stand toe to toe with him, but a victory would be hard fought if it came. 

Ulquiorra met his gaze squarely. “And just what would that be?” he asked, his voice smooth and flat. 

“You work for Aizen, right?” He didn’t wait for confirmation. It was obvious. Someone had sent them to find him, and Aizen had disappeared into a mob of hollows, the drama queen. “If I win I want you to take me to him.” 

Ulquiorra looked briefly between the pair of them before he closed his eyes. 

“So be it.” 

Ichigo lunged. 

* * * * *

Deep in a desert of snow white sand sat a legend amongst the hollow. 

It was a myth that sunk into their bones, a knowledge that was granted to them when their hearts tore themselves asunder and they were consumed by their own loss. 

The legend was powerful when it first began. The eldest hollow will tell it as fact while the youngest remember it as a bedtime story and little else. 

Decades and centuries ate away and the truth sunk deep in the depths of darkness. 

It was in that darkness that she waited. The immortal are patient creatures, and her wait was finally coming to an end. 

* * * * * *

[johaerys-writes]

Fandom: The Song of Achilles

Summary: During his two month long sea voyage from Phthia to Skyros in search of Achilles, Patroclus makes an unexpected friendship. 

I always wondered what Patroclus got up to during his trip to Skyros, so this is my attempt to satisfy my own curiosity (and hopefully yours too!). This is a quiet and introspective fic that focuses on Patroclus’ state of mind, being away from Achilles for so long, as well as his unexpected friendship with a sailor on the ship. 

Read here or on AO3! :)

****

Chapter 1: Guiding Star

We don’t always choose where life takes us. Sometimes the choice is made for us. The three Fates spin their weaves, and we must go wherever they lead us. If the world is an endless ocean, we are but pieces of driftwood, mercilessly swept here and there by the shifting currents until we are spat out, discarded at the water’s edge.

Those were the thoughts that drifted through my mind as I made my way to the docks. A red and swollen sun was hanging low over the mountains to the west, and the heavy smells of fish, ship tar and stale wine reached my nostrils. The coin purse that Peleus had given me hung heavy by my belt. I drew the edge of my cloak over it to hide it from view and pressed it discreetly to my thigh to stop the gold coins from clinking as I walked straight past the clusters of dock workers and sailors that lined the stone wharf of Phthia’s docks.

Not a few of them looked my way, stopping their games of dice, obviously impressed by the rich colour of my tunic. It was a deep and vibrant purple, the golden embroidery along its hem catching the light as I walked. It was the best I could find, one of Achilles' own. Their eyes on me, the quiet that fell around me as I walked made me uneasy. I hasten my step, eager to reach the ship that Phoenix had indicated before he saw me off. The captain of the Paralos, Achilles’ old and kindly tutor had told me, is an honest man, and does not ask many questions. He’ll see you safely, wherever you need to go.

I felt more than a little lightheaded when my sandaled feet touched the ship’s deck. The wooden floor was smoothed and sanded, well taken care of. The sailors and ship boys were hauling crates of fruit, sacks of grain, sealed amphorae filled with wine and honey. They would be trading them on the islands we would be passing on our way, receiving gold and even more goods in return.

I eyed the vessel warily. It was large and wide, heavy, meant for slow sailing. Slow enough to keep the goods safe even when the winds were rough and the waves battered against its wooden belly. I didn’t know much about ships. I had never spent much time at the docks, preferring the quiet gardens of the palace, the olive grove beyond it or the beach nearby, or the solitary pleasure of Achilles’ company, yet even I could tell that with a ship like this it would take weeks to get to Skyros. Perhaps even months.

My heart tightened at the thought. My worry, that I had tried so hard to rein, slithered to the surface. What was Achilles doing? Was he safe? Would he still be there when I reached Skyros' shores, or would his mother have whisked him away somewhere else, somewhere further still, as soon as she caught scent of my arrival?

I shook my head lightly, letting the humid, salty breeze that combed through my hair take the thoughts away. I had a destination now, a place to go. Achilles was somewhere, somewhere I could sail to, and I took heart from that knowledge. However ominous the future felt right then.

The golden coins I had given the captain clinked softly in their pouch when the man walked behind me up the long wooden plank that connected the ship with the long board walk of the docks. He was watching me from the corner of his eye. He did not know what to make of me, I supposed; I was neither a boy nor a man, I had not given him a name that he had recognised, yet my tunic was fine and well-made, my manners as regal and commanding as I could make them, and my coin had been enough to take me to Skyros and back three times over. I needed him to believe that I was important. It was the only way I could gain passage on a ship like this, which was not meant for it.

“We leave at dawn,” he told me flatly, coming to stand beside me as a ship’s boy brought the leather bag that carried my few belongings. I winced when he deposited it unceremoniously before my feet; my mother’s lyre was in it.

The captain asked me if there was anything more for them to bring up, to which I shook my head. He made a non-committal grunt, then waved at a young man that was gathering a length of wet and heavy rope up the side of the ship. “Xanthos will show you to your berth,” he said, then walked away without a second glance.

The man the captain indicated hastened to my side. He was tall and broad of shoulder, but his bare feet were light and quick when he approached me, barely making a sound. The ship was rocking gently with the waves, but he never missed a step, practiced after years of sailing, no doubt. His smile was wide and friendly, and there was a warmth to it that I had not expected to see from someone that barely knew me.

“First time on a ship?” he asked merrily, bending to pick up my bag. I nodded reluctantly as I followed in his footsteps as he led me through the twisting passages of the ship’s underbelly, careful to move around the other sailors going about their business. The whole ship was astir with activity, in a way that I had never before imagined while gazing at the ships from a distance, from the safety of the palace.

“First time is always rough. You’ll get used to it soon enough, though.” He pushed open a door to a small and narrow room, barely wide enough for two men abreast to fit through. He almost dumped my bag at the feet of the small cot like the previous sailor had, when I stopped him, my arms raised in alarm.

“Please, be careful with that.” I held out my hands to take the bag from him.

“Oh. Forgive me, my lord. I did not know—” He stood for a moment, shifting awkwardly on his feet. He seemed too large for the small room, out of place. Our gazes met, and at that moment I was sure that I was the one that must have looked entirely out of place to him.

He ran his fingers through his hair. It looked like it was usually cropped short, yet now had grown longer, wisps of it falling over his sun kissed brow. Its colour was a light brown, bleached lighter still at the ends from the merciless beating of the sun. His name, Xanthos, meant blonde, aureate, with a quickness and sparkle like the light that catches on polished gold before it disappears. People often called Achilles that, but where Achilles was fair and golden, Xanthos was burnished bronze. It suited him well, I thought. I figured it was more because of the golden brown tan of his skin, of his honey brown eyes. Among the other sailors, with their dark hair and weather beaten skin, he would have looked the fairest.

He was peering at me now with those golden brown eyes of his, as if afraid to inconvenience me, and the natural, unadulterated kindness in them took me by surprise. His gaze was clear and honest; I felt like I was looking at crystal clear waters, so diaphanous that I could see right down to the sea bed.

I had not realised I had gone quiet until Xanthos spoke again. “It must be important to you.”

I swallowed thickly, then tore my gaze from his to place my bag gently on my cot, as if it was precious glass. “Yes. It is.” My answer sounded too harsh in my ears, so I softened it by saying, “There’s a lyre in there. It used to be my mother’s. I took it with me because—”

Because Achilles didn’t.

My throat tightened, my eyes burning with the tears I had tried to suppress since that morning, when I had woken up in an empty bed. The lyre had been at its usual place, leaning against the wall adjacent to our bed, untouched. Achilles hadn’t taken it with him this time. I believe it was this that had unsettled me the most. I knew he could not have gone willingly, not if he'd left it behind. Now I know how to make you follow me everywhere, he’d told me once, years before, when he’d brought the lyre with him to Pelion. I would follow him anywhere, it seemed, with or without it. I would do anything, cross oceans and mountains and plains, just to be with him.

My worry and sadness swelled, ready to consume me. I cleared my throat, pushing it down. “I took it with me, because I need to give it to someone. Someone… important to me.”

The words seemed paltry and frail, too small to encompass the true depth of what Achilles was to me. But for now, they were enough. They had to be. Otherwise, the emptiness of his absence would swallow me whole.

Xanthos nodded solemnly. “I understand. I do hope you get to give it to that person… whoever they are.” When I did not reply, he bowed his head and slithered past me to the door. Even though he was tall and broad, the muscles in his bare arms strong and defined, he moved quickly and agilely, not missing a step despite the smooth rocking of the ship. He stopped at the doorway and glanced at me over his shoulder. “The food is served after sunset, usually. You don’t have to come if you don’t want to. Most visitors don’t like spending much time with the crew. Not that we have that many visitors, but, uhm…” He seemed not used to speaking with many people other than his crew mates. He moved with much more ease and grace than he spoke, and my fine tunic and royal bearings did nothing to put him more at ease. Still, he smiled at me, quick and fleeting, before he continued, “You are more than welcome, in any case. There’s good food, and perhaps even some good company too.”

“I…” I started, then stopped. I wanted to tell him that no company would be enough to take my mind off my troubles, however pleasant. That there was nothing to soothe the ache that plagued me, to make me forget the worry that was gnawing at me from the inside. Instead, I bit the words back and inclined my head in gratitude. “Thank you.”

With another small bow, Xanthos left, closing the door softly behind him. I was left alone in my narrow cot. Suddenly, the walls seemed small and tight, closing in on me. There was no window, so I was half drowned in darkness, too. I lit the small lamp that had been left there for me before I’d arrived, and sat on the bed that would be mine for the foreseeable future. The mattress was hard like dry, packed earth, and the blanket on top of it rough and scratchy.

I sighed. It was not going to be a pleasant voyage, or easy. Of that, I was certain.

~

I was falling. A stone sinking in dark waters.

The world around me was darkness. I could not see where I was, nor could I tell where I was going. I was looking for something, at the same time that I was running from something; what, I did not know. My mind was seized in an icy grip, and I felt cold and hollow. The weight of that emptiness crushed me. I did not know how to fill the void, yet I knew I had to find what I was looking for soon. Before my time ran out.

Footsteps echoed behind me, ringing hollowly as if I were in a deep, dark cavern. The light of a lone candle trembled in the darkness, but its light was grey and lifeless. I moved towards it, following the tremor of the shadows it cast. That was when I saw him.

Clysonymus.

He was standing before me, watching me solemnly with empty, transparent eyes. He was perfectly still, his countenance ashen and grey, but all I could see was him falling, tipping backwards in a moment that felt never ending. The sound that his head had made when it cracked against the stone like an egg, the brightness of his blood that had made every colour seem dull, crimson poppy petals drifting with the wind.

He opened his mouth.

Terror gripped me, flooded me to the brim. I turned around and ran, as fast as my legs could carry me. I could not let him take me with him. I could not, not before I’d found Achilles. I knew, with a certainty that seemed to be embedded deep in my bones, that I had to be with him, no matter what. Otherwise I would be caught in this dark, desolate place of haunted and desperate souls, and everything bright and brilliant and beautiful would be taken from me forever. I would be caught, trapped; I would slip and slide and disappear in the depths of the underworld, never to be seen again.

I would never see Achilles again. Not ever.

Despair consumed me, a wave that curled over me. I called out his name, again and again, hoping he would hear me, desperately wishing he would take my hand and pull me back up to the light with him.

Achilles, I whispered, pleading. Achilles, Achilles—

I woke up with a start, jolting bolt upright on the bed. My breaths were coming in fits and starts, clawing at my throat. For several moments I could not tell where I was, what I was doing. I fumbled on the mattress, searching for Achilles’ hand that surely lay beside me. The safety of his presence was always enough to calm my beating heart, to ease my terror after every nightmare. I searched frantically in the dark, but my hands only found scratchy blankets, a wooden wall, the leather bag that lay beside my bed. Panting, with trembling fingers, I lit the lamp beside me, blinking as the shadows were driven away.

The trembling flame illuminated my narrow berth. The floor beneath me bobbed gently, in time with the rocking of the waves underneath the ship. I took a deep breath, leaning back against the wall as reality slowly solidified around me. I was alone, on ship filled with strangers, that knew nothing about me and cared not for me. I was alone, without him. Without Achilles.

The realisation bore down on me like a mountain. My throat tightened and my eyes burned as tears started streaming down my cheeks in an unbroken stream. I pressed the back of my hand against my mouth to muffle my sobs, hugging my knees tightly as I curled in on myself. I could feel his absence as acutely as a missing limb. It was as if part of him was still there, his presence tugging at the edges of my consciousness, but I couldn’t see him, couldn’t hear him, couldn’t reach him. My mind struggled to comprehend it, but nothing seemed real. It would surely drive me mad, if I let it.

I took in a deep breath when my sobs had finally ebbed, wiping my cheeks on the fabric of my tunic. I felt weak, lightheaded. I had had nothing to eat since the day before when we had sailed away from Phthia, so tight the knot in my stomach had been. Even if I tried, I wouldn’t have been able to keep anything down, not with the way the ship rocked as it glided over the waves. Sleep had left me completely. Even if it hadn’t, I was too scared to close my eyes, in case my nightmares found me again.

With a sigh, I swung my legs over the edge of the narrow bed. I hastily pulled on my cloak, eager to leave the small, suffocating cabin behind me. The ship was largely quiet when I walked out onto the deck, the sea wind and the waves that crashed against the ship’s belly the only sounds. I walked up to the railing and gripped it tightly as I stared out into the dark and frothy sea. The salt air whipped at my hair, the fabric of my cloak. It was a chilly night, but the sky was clear and bright with stars.

I started slightly when I heard footsteps behind me, light and careful, in sync with the rhythmic whispers of the waves below.

“Can’t sleep, I take it?” Xanthos asked, and his voice was laced with genuine concern. I had learned soon after I’d boarded ship that he often took the night’s watch. I made a weak attempt at a smile.

“The ship’s rocking is keeping me awake,” I lied. He believed me.

“It takes a while to get used to it, but once you do, you can’t sleep without it.” He leaned against the railing, reaching for something at his belt. He offered it to me, and I gingerly plucked the wineskin from his hands.

“It’s from Lesbos,” he said. “It’s good. Try it. Might ease the nausea a bit.”

My first instinct was to decline, but then I thought better of it. What did I really have to lose? At the most, I might be able to sleep a little easier. I uncorked the wineskin and brought it to my mouth. The wine was strong and aromatic, already watered and spiced. It was indeed good, I realised, though I had little taste for wine. I took a sip, then another, before handing it back to him. “Where are we now?” I asked, nodding at the dark outline of the mountains in the distance.

“North of Euboea.”

“And where are we headed next?”

He pointed to the bright constellation right above us. “See that?”

I squinted at where he indicated. The stars twinkled in the dark, one among them shining the brightest. “Polaris,” I said quietly. “The guiding star of sailors. We’re going north.”

“That’s right. We’re going to to Alonissos. The captain wishes to sell the amphorae and the fresh plums we got from Chalcis and Eretria there.”

“I see,” I replied, though I had scarcely heard what Xanthos had said. My heart thumped painfully in my chest as I traced the constellations with my eyes. Micri Arctos, Megali Arctos. Orion. The Pleiades, just starting to glow in the horizon.

So many times had Achilles and I named them together, either in the open sky or the painted ones of our cave, that it felt odd now to do it without him. Unnatural. Wrong. My sadness mingled with my anger at Thetis, for taking Achilles away from me, for trying to keep us apart— for I was sure that was the reason for her spiriting him away to Skyros. She must have known what had transpired between us the moment we stepped foot beyond Chiron’s protection. But more than that, I was angry with myself, for challenging my fate, the gods themselves. I had been drunk on love, on my own foolishness, holding him like nothing could ever come between us. At that moment, it all seemed so hopeless. My entire life felt like an uphill battle, like I’d been fighting waves large enough to engulf me, with the only moments of respite being the ones when I was with him. The time when I had felt invincible, happy beyond measure seemed distant, a dying star on a winter night.

I hadn’t even realised that my eyes had filled and overflowed once more until the tears that had been coursing down my cheeks had soaked the top of my tunic. I heard Xanthos opening his mouth to speak, to ask if everything was alright, but I cut his sentence short.

“Have you been travelling on this ship long?” I asked, hoping to change the subject, and that the darkness hid my puffy eyes and reddened nose, my haggard appearance. “You seem perfectly at ease here.”

He gave me an awkward smile and glanced politely away from me, yet I could still see the concern that furrowed his brow. He wasn’t particularly good at hiding his feelings. Like someone else I knew. “I’ve been with this crew for two years now,” he said softly, gazing out into the sea. “Before that, I was a ship’s boy in a trader that travelled the coast of the Peloponnese. I even went to Crete twice. This one, it only travels through the northern islands, for the most part. Modest pay, but decent work. Fewer pirates around these parts, too,” he added. “It’s good work, really.”

“I don’t doubt it,” I responded, and instantly I felt my sadness ebbing. Xanthos’ voice was gentle, almost soothing. His eyes and expression were earnest, and he was surprisingly easy to talk to. At that moment, I couldn’t have asked for a better distraction from my own thoughts. “Where are you from, Xanthos?” I asked in honest curiosity. His accent was light and sing-songy, with a strange sort of rhythm to it, and had none of the flat and clipped vowels of the Phthian dialect. It had always sounded rough to my ears, until I’d heard Achilles speak. After that, I had come to love it. “Did you grow up far from here?”

“I’m from Naxos,” he replied. “From Apollonia.”

“You’re a long way from home, then.”

He huffed softly at that. “I suppose I am. There isn’t much there. It is beautiful but barren, and the winds are high in winter. They can tear the doors from their hinges, and blow the roofs away. My father was a fisherman. That’s all you can do there, really, if you don’t own land. That,” he tilted his head to the side, “or join a ship crew.”

“Do you... still have family there?” I asked, half-dreading the answer I would get. To my relief, Xanthos nodded.

“I do. My sister and my brother in law never moved away. My mother died many years ago, and my father is old. He can’t row the boat anymore. Aktaios, my brother in law, has taken over now. He fishes and sells what he catches to the market. It’s not much, but it’s enough for them. As for me… well. If I stayed, I would have just been an extra mouth to feed. So when I was strong enough to pick up an oar, I left.” He leaned with his elbows on the railing, letting out a soft exhale through his nose. He seemed to want to talk more, then thought better of it. We remained in companionable silence for a while. The sun was just peeking over the horizon, painting the sky in gentle shades of pink and violet, when he asked, “What about your family? Are they in Skyros?”

I blinked, taken aback by the question. I hadn’t realised how completely I’d been distracted from my thoughts in the handful of minutes that Xanthos and I had been talking, yet now they all came back to me. I remembered that I had no one, no family to speak of. Other than Achilles.

I swallowed thickly. ���You… could say that.” I let my words trail away, unable to say more, and looked away from him. There was no way I could explain to him in simple terms what Achilles meant to me, what I stood to lose if I never managed to reach that island. How he was an extension of myself, and more than that; how we completed each other, like two pieces of a whole. How he was the one light in my life that never went out. My guiding star.

Xanthos noticed my long pause. He shifted on his feet, shooting me an uneasy glance. “If I’ve offended you, my lord, forgive me,” he finally said when I let the silence linger between us.

“You did not.” I smiled to brush off his concern. “This person I’m meeting in Skyros… he is very dear to me,” I said quietly, and even those words seemed small and trivial. I took a breath, then tried again. “Family, friend, companion. Everything. He is everything to me.”

He did not reply to that. He just stared out into the sea, the frothing waves that were turning from black to grey to golden pink with the sunrise. “I envy you,” he said softly, yet there was no malice in his voice. “It is a rare thing, to have someone that means so much to you.”

The signal for the change of watch sounded cleanly across the deck, startling me. Xanthos, on the other hand, seemed quite used to it. “That’s me,” he said with a sigh as he pushed himself upright. His bronzed skin was gleaming with the light from the rising sun, his eyes a deep golden brown. “It was nice talking with you.”

“You, too,” I replied, and I meant it. “Thank you for your company, Xanthos.”

“You’re welcome, my lord.” He turned around to leave when my voice stopped him short.

“Patroclus.” He looked at me quizzically over his shoulder, and I said, “My name. It’s Patroclus. You... can call me that, if you’d like.”

He turned to face me then, his expression unusually solemn. "Patroclus," he said, and something in the way he said it, so slowly and deliberately, as if testing out the sounds, reminded me of the only other person that spoke my name thus.

Patroclus, Achilles always called me. Pa-tro-clus.

“I’ll see you around then, Patroclus.” He smiled warmly before turning around once more. “Make sure you get some sleep.”

I listened to the muffled sound of his retreating footsteps, to the ship slowly stirring awake. I stayed by the railing, for a long while, watching as the sun rose higher, bathing the world in its amber glow. Somewhere, beyond those waves, across that great divide, my guiding star was waiting for me.

I would not rest, until I reached him.

[afaithy]

86 for the prompt list with Takari. :)

I Finally MADE IT. The world was conspiring against me as I tried to write this. What a day. Hope this suits your likes though! 

Am I scaring you?

Scary with you is better than scary without you

-Tamora Pierce-

Takeru was no stranger to the concept of love. He had read an endless number of stories where love was the engine of the plot, giving the protagonist a motive and strength to keep going. Of course, love was not always a positive catalyst and  sometimes it gave rise to the desire for revenge, hatred and envy. In other words, it didn’t only move the heroes, but also de anti-heroes. 

For a long time, love was just a word to him; something that simply existed. There was family love, which despite its ups and downs, had always been present in his life; there was friendship that, in one way or another, was still an embodiment of love  and, then, there was romantic love. 

Ah! the elusive and ever feared romantic love; the enemy of reasoning and logic. 

In his few years of life,Takeru had yet to have an encounter with the Achilles heel of human existence. People did crazy things for love and because of love; but being a young man, in the spring of life, he had yet to experience the sting of romantic love and all the luggage that came in toll. Being honest,  he wasn’t actively interested in chasing after it. Growing up in  the shadows of an unsuccessful love was enough to make him have little faith on the prospect of such a sentiment. 

He didn’t need love or at least, that’s what he thought. Everything he had ever said about the unnecessariness of "love" crumbled down the day because of her.

Mahogany hair, pale skin, chocolate eyes and a smile that could melt the hardest heart in the world. Those words could barely describe Yagami Hikari, and for sure, they weren’t enough to make her any justice. He had always claimed them to be friends. Well, that’s what they were until one day, he stopped seeing her as just a friend. 

“ That’s love.”

“What?” Takeru said, dropping his pencil in surprise.

Hikari rested her chin on her hand and shrugged. She had just returned from buying some drinks for him and herself. Her chocolate eyes were glowing and she seemed quite amused. 

“ Love. It’s obvious that Tsukasa- kun is in love with Akari-chan.” 

Takeru released the air he had been unconsciously holding back. Hikari was talking about the characters in the story he was writing. Writing little stories had become his hobby lately, and Hikari, as a good friend, was his number one fan, his editor - in a way - and his creative consultant.

“Is it? I wasn’t writing them to be a couple though…”

“Weren’t you?” Hikari replied, tilting her head a little and passing him a bottle “But...it sounds like Tsukasa likes her…”

“As if...you’re just being a romantic looking for romance.” Takeru chuckled. He picked his bottle and took a sip of its content.

“But…” Hikari continued, picking one of the loose pages “ Tsukasa stared at Akari in silence. When was it that she had become such a power of nature? Her eyes were glowing, full of life and intensity like he had never seen before in other girls. Something about her was breathtaking and it made his chest tighten whenever they crossed paths and she smiled at him with that lovely smile of hers and her beautiful mahogany hair…Oh, you have a mistake here. Wasn’t Akari’s hair platinum blonde?”

Takeru choked with his drink. He had unconsciously written his own personal dilema into his work with out noticing.

“Either way...it is clear that Tsukasa-kun has feelings for Akari-chan, just  by judging what he feels in this paragraph.”

“What? No, I mean...why? They’re good friends, like very, very good friends….so naturally they get along and he sees her with great esteem and respect. It doesn’t mean he likes her, well, he does like but not that way...I mean, thinking she’s pretty doesn’t mean he likes her, right? Or feeling his chest tighten and those awful butterflies in his stomach, or…”

What was he doing? Takeru felt like smacking himself there and now. Hikari, on the other hand, seemed a little confused by his outburst first, but soon after she let out a soft giggle.  The look in her face was a mix of amusement, curiosity and mischief.

“Takeru-kun...haven’t you fallen in love before?” Hikari said, looking at him sympathetically.

“Me? No...of course not, why would I? I have girl friends like Sora-san and Mimi -san...like you. That’s more than enough...why would I...?”

Hikari snorted and stared at him amused.

“Well, you could have fooled me. What you wrote for Tsukasa was really well done.”

“You talk like you know what being in love is like.”

Hikari smiled mysteriously at his comment.

“And what makes you think I don’t, Takeru-kun?” she said, leaning closer to him and blinking naughtily.

Takeru’s eyes widened in shock. That was something he had not expected. Hikari and him were best friends and they  pretty much told everything to each other all the time. How come she had never ever spoken about this?

“You...do?”

Hikari replied with a nod and a childish grin. He instantly felt his throat go dry.

“Who? You never told me.”

“Uhm, sometimes there are things I can’t tell you, Takeru-kun.” she said, smiling again “His name is a secret, especially for you.”

“That’s not fair…” he said with a pout. A knot had formed in his gut and he was feeling inexplicably annoyed “Fine. Don’t tell me…”

“Someone is moody.” Hikari chuckled “What’s so bad about love?”

“Nothing...it’s just annoying.”

“Why? Love is something precious…”

“It isn’t...it makes you act strange and sometimes it just messes up everything.”

“Just because it doesn’t turn out well all the time, doesn’t make it a bad thing.” she said “love is really a wonderful thing, you know? Just how everything seems to lighten up when you see that person come into the room, or how all worries just disappear when you talk to them. You just feel warm and protected...don’t you think that’s wonderful?”

Takeru sighed. Well, he could relate to that. Even the worst of his days seemed to improve when Hikari appeared and gave him that sweet smile she always had. 

What? Why am I even thinking this?

“Forgot that you love romantic stories.” Takeru said.

“It’s not about romance. It’s just something you know. The moment you look at each other eyes and everything just seems to be okay even if some crazy monster is chasing after you.” 

That was an interesting metaphor, Takeru thought.

“Love isn’t a fairytale, Takeru-kun. It’s not a princess falling in love with a prince charming. Sometimes it is just a friend loving another friend.”

Takeru frowned. A friend falling for a friend. How close that was to his current situation, but if Hikari ever found out, their friendship would change forever and he couldn’t nor wanted that to happen.

“Want me to tell how he is?”

“Oh, I thought you said it was a secret.”

“I said his name is a secret…” Hikari replied with a giggle. She took a deep breath and her eyes glittered as she began to describe this “mysterious boy” to him “he’s wonderful. Pretty smart and knows his words. He could probably charm his sassy self out of anything. He’s  also popular, sometimes a little too popular for my comfort, but somehow he always finds a way to remind me that no matter what, I’m always a priority. ”

So he was someone who interacted constantly with her, he thought. Takeru began to list the boys that spoke to Hikari and there weren’t two many except for himself and the other digidestined. Maybe it was someone he hadn’t met yet, but Hikari spent most of her free time with him, so that wasn’t possible.

“...He's cute. Always has been and he knows me well. Sometimes I wonder if he doesn't know me better than I do. Maybe that’s why he’s so overprotective of me...he’s been since we were little.”

Well, naturally, Takeru thought. Who, who had known Hikari at some point in his life, would not feel an inexplicable need to protect her? It was then that Takeru began to realize what she’d just said. The person she liked was her friend; he was good with words; he had a sassy and charming attitude; he knew her like no one else did and was extremely overprotective of her. Based on that description, there were only two possible options among her close acquaintances. The first one being Taichi, whot obviously was out of the options, and the second one was ...

Takeru suddenly paled. She couldn’t be…

“Am I scaring you now, Takeru-kun?”

Takeru said nothing, trying to put his thoughts in order. His mind was blank, he couldn’t come up with  any smartass comments or even speak at all.  In the middle of his confusion and stupor, he  heard Hikari snort. The girl pushed  her chair back and moved gracefully to his side. 

 Before he could try to say something, Hikari leaned in, planted a playfull kiss on his cheek and smiled again. 

“Think about it…” she said winking at him. She, then,  turned around and walked away as if nothing had ever happened.

Takeru looked at her back as she disappeared through the library’s door, still in shock and for the first time in his life he was out of words.

 I love dropping this ugly chibis here lol

[atiny-piratequeen]

Character Analysis: Park Seonghwa, the 'Frozen Prince'

Name: Park Seonghwa

Languages: Sabir, English, Portugese, French, Turkish, Greek, Arabic, Korean (Modern Day) Japanese (Modern Day), Mandarin (Modern Day), Thai (Modern Day), Italian (Modern Day)

Crew Position: First Mate, Tactician

Powers: Cryokinesis/Ice Powers (Inherited from Greco-Roman God, Boreas)

Compass Position + Arrowpoint Stone: Eastern Facing located on his right wrist , Blue Celestite 

Eye Color: Gray (Natural)/ Snow White (Demonic Form)

Hair Color: Blonde (Natural)/ Jet Black (Demonic Form)

Likes: Reading, Seafood, Making Flower Crowns (He’ll never admit it without a fight), Training, Horseback Riding

Dislikes: Lazy People, Cowardice, Fruitless Gossip

Prince Park Seonghwa. 

A man rumored amongst townsfolk to be blessed by the gods. Unusual blonde hair, stunning gray eyes, it has been a long time since the kingdom has seen such a capable leader. 

A foreigner, brought to the Mediterranean kingdom by marriage, he spent the entirety of his childhood learning to be the model prince. The prince’s posture is perfect, he never dodged his studies, he could tame the wildest mare, to everyone, he was the obvious choice for the kingdom’s king. 

Something...more than a few people are opposed to. 

First Mate Park Seonghwa

No longer a prince, but still just as elegant, Seonghwa has yet to lose any of his old habits during his time out at sea. Being the first person to join the crew once Hongjoong became captain and the first person to be turned immortal, Seonghwa worked hard to prove himself and continues to be one of the most reliable members of the crew. 

Seonghwa may be a little stiff when it comes to meeting new people, but being so close to a certain ‘Kind Pirate King’ has opened his mind-and heart-to meeting new people and the prospect of second chances. 

-Mythology-

As one of the four wind gods of the seasons in Greco-Roman mythology, Boreas is the purple-winged god of the North Winds and Winter alike. In some depictions, instead of his wings being purple, he has white wings with purple attire fluttering behind him. 

His parents are Astraeus and Eos. Astraeus is often said to be the father of two notable sets of sons; the Astra Planeta, five sons representing the stars. The other set of sons are the Anemoi, the four wind gods, with Boreas representing the frigid North Wind.

Boreas’ wife, Oreithyia, (the princess of Athens, as her father was King Erekhtheus) was swept away by him one day as she played in a riverside meadow, with companions (remember, folks. Don’t sweep away your crush and basically kidnap them. That’s not cool.)

Older tellings would depict Boreas residing in Thrace, an area described as the lands around the north of Thessaly. In those depictions, Boreas lived either in a mountain’s cave, or in a beautiful palace, with his home said to be upon the Balkan Mountains (or Haemus Mons).

Oreithyia would become the immortal wife of Boreas and bear him four children; Zetes and Calais (their sons), Chione and Cleopatra (their daughters). (Also, no, this Cleopatra isn’t that Cleopatra). All of their offspring have their own tales about them, and Chione is even regarded as the goddess of snow. 

Boreas’ tales are not as widely told, compared to other gods and goddesses, but he has been mentioned in some of Homer’s tales (specifically in Achilles’ tale), as well as being included in Aesop’s Fables, in a contest between himself and sun god Helios.

-Power Applications/Demon Transformation-

When Seonghwa completely reverts into his demon form, his hair will go from whatever color it currently is to an inky black color, with his gray eyes lightening to an almost pure white color. Elongated ruby-colored marks will appear over his eyes, with the one over his left eye being slightly longer than his right. The same elongated ruby-colored marking will stretch over his lips to form an elongated smile, though I assure you, if you make this form come out, the last thing he’ll be doing is smiling. 

Having been bestowed Boreas’ power, Seonghwa can create ice and snow at will and his prefered method of combat is to dual wield his falcatas, one being the rune-engraved one he took from his kingdom and the other being an ice one he forms at will. 

Seonghwa has mastered his power, using it in small applications here and there for domestic things aboard the ship such as keeping food items cold to prolong their life while out at sea and also using his powers to slow opponents in combat. Since his powers are a part of him, no amount of cold will affect him negatively. 

In fact, if he was in the tundra or somewhere equally as cold, his powers would only be heightened.

Despite his proficiency with his falcatas, as well as any other form of blade, Seonghwa is more than capable to fight hand and hand, and will use his ice powers to freeze body parts of opponents he touches. 

-Character Song Breakdown-

All of the main boys have a song assigned to them in the AtT playlist to go alongside their origin chapters. Seonghwa’s character song is Friction by Imagine Dragons.

I’ll only go through some verses and talk a bit about their connections I put to the chapter. If you haven’t read Chapter Two of Against the Tide, I suggest you do that first, as the song breakdown includes some major spoilers.

‘Get down with the victim

We both know you need them

You're stuck in the middle

Of all irrelevance

And your heart is beating

'Cause you know that you gotta

Get out of the middle

And rise to the top now’

Seonghwa’s accomplishments overshadow that of his older brother, Zafer’s. The bloodborne prince is lazy and very much inadequate, but believes it is his birthright to be crowned prince regardless. Feeling victimized and finally feeling the weight of his adequacy, Zafer decides to rise out of his mediocrity, unfortunately at the expense of everything. 

‘You can't fight the friction

So ease it off

Can't take the pressure

So ease it off

Don't tell me to be strong

Ease it off

You can't fight the friction

So ease it off’

Zafer runs from his problems and finds the easy way out of things, while Seonghwa tackles his problems, no matter how difficult, head on. Though these lyrics can be directed towards Zafer and his avoidance of responsibility and desire to ‘ease’ his responsibilities off onto someone else, the delivery in-song fits perfectly well with scenes where there is physical conflict. Whenever I envision this song, I definitely imagine Seonghwa fighting with his falcata in-hand. The power, the intensity, all of it kept in every graceful and deadly swing of his blade. 

‘Oh why can't you let go

Like a bird in the snow

This is no place to build your home’

In the middle of Seonghwa’s transformation, he reveals his true fears, how he doesn’t need to trust in anyone, how him opening up and trusting someone (his brother) got the closest person to him (Queen Dahlia, his mother) killed. 

The Boreas-infused version of Seonghwa nearly takes complete hold of him, had it not have been for Hongjoong breaking the ice-literally. 

Once he’s calmed down, defeated his demonic self and taken control, Seonghwa is much more open to trusting others, though he still often takes the longest to warm up (ha) to newer members of the crew. 

-Character Blurb-

Seonghwa gently wove various tropical flowers into one another, a small, peaceful look on his face as he held up the tiny ring, jolting when he looked past the hole to find Hongjoong staring curiously at him. He startled, all but throwing the ring of flowers behind him as he stared at Hongjoong with wide eyes. 

“P-Putois-”

“What was that?” 

Seonghwa’s eyes narrowed as he moved to hide the ring with his body as Hongjoong tried to peek onto the bed. 

“Nothing.”

“You’re lying.” 

Hongjoong dove onto the bed, laughing merrily as Seonghwa tried to scramble and snatch the ring out of view. The captain wrapped a shadow around his wrists, yanking them back before he grabbed the ring, blinking in wonder at the simple, elegant item. 

“It’s a ring of flowers. Why are you hiding this?” The smaller man mused, sitting half way in Seonghwa’s lap. Seonghwa went beet red, clearing his throat as he took the ring, hesitantly putting it around his wrist as he looked away, huffing. 

“Petite peste-” He muttered before he sighed, running a hand through his blonde hair. 

“It’s...embarrassing. It reminds me of my mother. We would make them together…” He trailed off, biting his lip.

Hongjoong looked at the flower before he smiled, wrapping his legs around Seonghwa’s waist, holding his hand out as an assortment of blossoms grew from his palm. Seonghwa’s lips parted in surprise as Hongjoong held his hand out. 

“Show me how to make them, then. We can make them together.” He offered. Seonghwa blinked in surprise before he chuckled and nodded, kissing his head lightly. 

“Oui, mon putois. Pay attention, okay?” He moved Hongjoong out of his lap and showed him step by step, all with a small smile on his face. 

-M.List-

[vee-angel]

Bimbo Bailee (Chapter 1, part 1 repost)

Bimbo Bailee (Chapter 1, part 1)

(Part of the Pervert Pentet Series. Content warning: subtext of tragic loss)

         ——————————————————–

She woke up in a daze. How long had it been since she’d been in control of her own mind? The trance was lasting longer each time, how long until it’d be permanent? The thought of being… her… forever made her heart race with fear. But it was also something she found incredibly erotic.

She never would have started dating Mark if the thought of mind control wasn’t so incredibly arousing to her. It started with minor things, she’d find she wasn’t wearing underwear in the middle of the day despite clearly remembering putting it on in the morning. She wasn’t sure if the memory was false or if she’d removed them at some point in the day while in a hypnotic trance. She kept pushing for more, the idea of giving up control over her most valuable asset, her conscious mind, thrilled her more than anything else could.

In her youth, her parents had always pushed her to work hard and be smart, but it was never enough. Even when she graduated high school as Valedictorian at age 17, all they wanted to know was what she planned for college. At age 24, she graduated with a doctorate in neurology. She began dating Mark after she’d interviewed while she’d been completing her thesis on the effect of external stimuli on the long-term functioning of the mind. He was a hypnotist who claimed that with enough time, he could turn a person into someone completely different. They often debated, with her claiming that what he said was impossible. No matter what, she argued, there would always be certain core personality traits that would be innate, either because they developed in the formative years or because they were genetically determined.

She began submitting to things she thought of as “experiments” with him. The first few times she felt the influence of his “mind control” she was fascinated. To be able to experience something like this first hand! It was invigorating as a researcher. At least that’s what she told herself in the beginning.

Over time, she became more and more addicted to the idea of leaving her mind in the hands of another. He went from being her boyfriend to becoming her Master. And their “experiments” had taken on a more intense and erotic tone as well. He created this other persona that he could snap her into any time he wished. It was so liberating, the other her was so… happy, carefree. It was as if she could have a respite from the cacophony of thoughts and considerations she grew up being taught was expected of her as an intellectual. She was never happier than when she was with him; and despite knowing every neurochemical reaction that came with being in love, a part of her felt like she’d found her soul-mate.

Eventually they went on a trip together to an isolated cabin, someplace they could do some of the more daring things they’d been wanting to try without fear of her being embarrassed by interactions with other people.

She remembered they did something… daring. Foolish, even. She couldn’t remember exactly what it was at the moment. She flexed a cognitive power that felt like it hadn’t been flexed in quite some time and tried to remember. There was a distinct recollection that her Master was the only one that could release her from the trance once it was activated. But there was something else… something even more reckless she’d asked him to do, to program into her ever-more-pliable mind. What was it?

Her heart sank as she remembered how the trip ended. Her Master had been taking a walk outside the cabin and had slipped on some of the autumn leaves, breaking his skull on a sharp branch jutting from a tree-trunk. She reasoned that the trauma must be why she was having trouble remembering. A sickening hollowness began to form within her the more she thought about him. Her mind instinctively reviewed all the neurological changes that could occur in response to the loss of a loved one. Yet the memory felt distant, like enough time had passed that she shouldn’t feel as bad as she did. She just couldn’t remember what had happened in the interim.

She looked around the room and found that it seemed foreign to her. The layout was definitely her and her late Master’s house, but the decor looked more like it had been done by a middle-school cheerleader, and a slutty one at that, judging by the small, brightly colored clothing strewn haphazardly about.

She took a step out of bed and was immediately floored by a lightning bolt of pain that shot up her Achilles tendon the moment she tried to stand up.

“AAAHH!!!” The pain turned to a slow throb after several seconds, and she tried to examine her feet. She determined that her range of plantar flexion, pointing her toes, was a bit greater than it had been before. But dorsiflexion was severely limited, she couldn’t bring her foot flat enough to take a step. It was as if her Achilles tendon had shortened somehow, as if she’d been wearing high-heels every waking moment for… months? Longer? She couldn’t be sure.

She noticed a pair of hot-pink heels near where she fell and naturally assumed that they were there for the purpose of allowing her to walk. She strapped herself into them and climbed to her feet. The throbbing in her heel had mostly diminished, and she found herself to have an inexplicable ease when she tried to ambulate in the four-inch heels. She rushed to the bathroom mirror; she had to see herself, as much as the thought terrified her.

When she saw her reflection, it took her a moment to believe that she wasn’t looking at an obscene poster of some comic-book bimbo that had been rendered to look realistic.

Her short brown hair had been dyed blonde, and tied up in loose pigtails that hung from the top of her head down her back. By her estimation, her hair terminated just above the sacroiliac joint just superior of her tailbone. She frantically brushed her fingers through the long, platinum locks. Surely these are hair extensions. She couldn’t possibly have lost that much time in her trance-state. This was over a year of growth. Way over.

And her breasts! They didn’t even really look like hers anymore. She’d gotten implants soon after she began dating her Master, as he had a thing for the bimbo look. She figured she could go up to just barely a DD and still seem like a respected professional so long as she didn’t dress to show them off. But it looked like they’d been enlarged at least twice since then. She couldn’t even guess at their current size

32J.

It had just popped into her head, but deep down there was a sense that it was a point of pride for her. The other her. Her lips appeared inflated as well, to a size that would be considered a good bit more than just pillowy.

After the shock wore off, she had to admit, she liked the way she looked. Mark would have loved to see her looking like this. It seemed she’d overcome her habit of stress-eating, and found the time to go to the gym. At least based on the fit, lightly tanned body that appeared to serve mostly as a transportation system for her firm, basketball sized tits.

She took a few deep breaths, trying to determine if this was all a dream or some kind of delusion. She’d tranced out before since her Master’s death, but never for more than a few days. And for the life of her, she couldn’t recall what triggered it. Needless to say, she’d never stayed in her trance state for this long.

Another memory suddenly popped into her head from that terrible night. Something she’d asked for to ensure that they keep pushing things further and further. He had programmed her so that every subsequent trance had to last longer than the previous one.

Shit!!! She thought frantically, They were supposed to be longer by hours, maybe a day or two at most! This wasn’t supposed to last for months. Not… years.

She’d only pushed him to do those things because she knew in the back of her mind that they’d be temporary. He was responsible, and if things got out of hand, he could undo the programming. Unfortunately, that was no longer an option. She still got a sense that there was something else she was missing. Something big. The trigger! That’s it, she’d just have to avoid the trigger phrase! Now what was it? She couldn’t remember! That’s okay, she would just need to avoid interacting with anything until she figured it out. Don’t go outside, don’t talk to anyone, don’t turn on the tv. You don’t want to get accidentally triggered and wake up years from now with even bigger tits.

She tried to steel her resolve when she heard a sound from the other room. An electronic beep and a tinny voice beginning to talk. The answering machine!!! Her master had been her senior by a few decades, and his house still had a landline and an old-style answering machine. She rushed out frantically to try to turn it off. The person on the line explained that they were from her old college and explained that they were calling for…

That was it… The trigger! The impossibly stupid thing they had done in the cabin that night in the woods. They made the trigger phrase… her own name.

“-University and we’re looking to contact Dr. Bailee Holcum.” She tore the machine out of the wall, but it was too late, she could feel the fog setting in…

***

She looked down at the broken machine on the floor with puzzlement. “Well uhh, that’s like, what you get for saying stuff that’s, like, totally boring, Mr. Answering Machine.”

There was a phrase she noticed echoing through the cavernous space of her mind. She said it aloud to try to work out the puzzle. “Bailee… Holcum? Bailee… hole… cum? Oh!! Bailee’s holes need cum! Duh! I need to get dressed so I can go out and get laid! That’s like, totally super important. No wonder I was thinking that!”

[skaryskylar]

Castor and Pollux

Pairing: BakuDeku, KatsuDeku

Type: One-Shot

Prompt: Twin Stars Week/Day 0-Ground Zero

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Mild smut, Minor ShindoDeku, Minor BakuCamie, Angst, Characters Semi-Die, Manga Spoilers

Read on AO3

         He knew him the way a right hand knew the left. They were different, but the same. Connected. Mirror images born under the inverse of one another's stars.

So when Katsuki entered the world, it surprised no one that Izuku was only a stone's throw or two behind him.

   He was a crier. Not an angry crier, but a constant one. Tears ran hot and fat down his ruddy cheeks.  He would whine in tiny, stuttered gasps till his voice went hoarse. There was little that could appease him. When his mother would pull him to her breast to feed, he would turn away. The television scared him. The lights were too bright. The grass was too green. Mustafu was too polluted. The world too weary. Izuku hated it all.

(Perhaps that was why his father left. Maybe he couldn't handle the pressure of such a disagreeable child. His mother say his father was dead for the first couple years. It was only much later, lying on her death bed, that she would admit that he got up one night and never returned. It was first night he silently slept through.)

So when his mother dragged him to park, clearly at her wits' end with her frayed hair and tired eyes, he expected the worst. She thought the fresh air would do him some good, but as soon as his green eyes blinked open to the sky of violets and pinks of late afternoon, he opened his maw to begin his hourly wail.

"Oh, he's adorable! How many months is he?" This new voice was strong. Confident. The giant lady had a baby on her hip, towering over his own mother like Angel Gabriel over the mortal Mary.

'Be not afraid,' her stance said. 'For you have found favor with God.'

Tossing a winning smile his mother's way, she leaned over to peer down at his face, nuzzling his cheek with her index finger.

He did not fear her, but he didn't appreciate a stranger, god-sent or not, in the space he deemed his own. He opened his mouth once more.

"Five months." His mother replied, rocking him to keep him silent. She craved this. Human contact. To know another mother. To listen and be heard by someone who would finally understand.

"Ah! He's gonna start teething soon huh? This cheeky little guy started growing 'em out 4 months in. It was horrible. Katsuki! Say hi to this nice Auntie!"

She turned so they could see the tiny thing swaddled tight against her back. Even in his sleep, he fought, little fists raised by his nub of a nose, nuzzling into it.

Izuku gave a tentative gargle.

At his command, crimson eyes blinked open. They looked over each other. He took in the light blonde curls growing untamed at the edge of that wide forehead, the silent, steady gaze that considered him for only a moment, then decided he wasn't worth sacrificing sleep for, going blind once more to the weary ways of the world.

Izuku could not connect concepts and thoughts to words, but there was a feeling in his tiny chest, a lightness in his heart that could not go ignored.

Though he could not speak, he knew something must be said.

He laughed.

Wriggling in his mother's grip, he reached out for another pudgy hand to hold and he laughed and laughed and laughed.

           Izuku's first word was 'Kachha'  Katsuki's first word was 'No'. There was no greater way to sum up the first years of their friendship. Wherever Katsuki was, Izuku was not too far behind. He crawled while the other walked on unsteady feet, stumbled when the other was stable, and lagged behind when the other could run. But he still followed. His devotion was absolute.

He panted, watching licks of pink heels slip through low grass, kicking up dust in his wake.

"Kacchan! Wait! Wait for me!"

But it was as if he were speaking a different language. Kacchan was in a different world, eyes wide and bright with the promise of adventure as he ran and leapt over tree roots, crashing through brambles and bush, slipping through a rumbling brook with ease. He did not falter nor fade, bathed in gold from head to toe as the sun doused him in its favor.

Izuku had no such luck. His limbs were awkward on his body; his head too heavy for his spine to support. Nature did not part to make his path easy. Each step he took, each squelch of his toes in the mud below, was one made with great effort. He had to work twice as hard to cover even an inch of Kacchan's ground.

He pumped his legs till they burned, forced breath into his lungs till they threatened to burst. Sweat dripped down his face. His head swam and the taste of air on his tongue was bitter with pain. Still, he reached for the black t-shirt in front of him, fingers swaying as he pushed.

They would close on empty air, as they had many times before.

He could not touch Kacchan with his hands. There was a barrier between the two of them. The older boy was behind a veil, ascended to a level he had no hope to reach.

Divine, just as his mother. Blessed in a way Izuku was not.

A hand no longer pudgy slapped against the trunk of the great wisteria tree. Kacchan turned on him, pumping a fist in the air as he gave a roar of victory, purple petals dancing around him.

"I win again ZuZu! Try and catch up next time!"

Izuku would nod. He'd enthusiastically agree to race again tomorrow, knowing full well that the next day and the days following that would yield the same result.

On the walk home, he would stare at Kacchan's back, watching how the world bowed before their golden prince, how the ground would clear and birds sang his praises with their little chirps.

How Kacchan would take it all in with an arrogant smirk on his lips and expectation in his eye, ever the conqueror in his little kingdom.

Izuku would walk, and he would stare, and he would stumble, glowing the entire time at the prospect of just being near him.

Kacchan would walk on, pink slips of heel sprinting towards something in the distance. A place Izuku, in all his mortality, could never reach.

He followed anyway.

           Kacchan wasn't speaking to him. He wasn't sure what he did wrong. He went along with every request, worshipped at his feet, paid homage with All Might posters and his share of apple slices.

But as soon as Kacchan was able to wring fire from his hands, he burned.

His words were hot, quick and cutting to the core. His quirk was strong and vicious where Izuku's was absent. He could fly, Izuku realized a week after the sparks started. If he grew into it proper, Kacchan could shoot himself into the sky to join the others of his kind.

(The golden ones. Achilles. Perseus. Michael. Gabriel. Hercules. The divine ones. Katsuki would have his name nestled amongst theirs, and when he died, he would become the night's brightest crimson star.)

Kacchan wasn't speaking to him. Izuku was still loyal. He waited for him so they could walk home from classes together. He had to walk behind Kacchan and his new devotees, but he was there nonetheless.

Faithful. Stubborn. He would be the last one standing. He was sure of it.

He didn't speak because Kacchan didn't like it when he did, and he didn't want to be sent away.

"Honestly Deku." A new nickname he'd gotten. A symbol of his quirkless status. "Don't you have friends? Other people you can annoy?"

"W-W-We're f-friends Kacchan, aren't we?"

That would make the boy's face twist into something bitter. He clasped his lips tight into a thing line. Those other faceless kids-the sycophants- would try and speak for him. They'd ridicule Izuku till his eyes swam with tears and he shook with fear. Then the boys would grasp him by his clothes, ripping the already threadbare fabric, and shove him in the dirt while the girls laughed.

All the while, Katsuki would stand behind that veil, watching him cry and squirm with a look of indifference. The distance between them widened. Izuku knew it would get wider still.

He still followed.

           He wasn't talking to Kacchan. He couldn't walk with him after school anymore. Instead, he ran down to the beach. His legs were new-steady and stable-sprinting down concrete roads, kicking up dust with the soles of his sneakers. The roads cleared to allow him passage, traffic lights unable to catch him in the red. The air in his mouth was sweet, winds whipping at his face as he ripped through town, down to the sandy hills of the beach.

A familiar tall skinny figure was waiting for him at the shore.

"Hey!" He yelled with a wave. The thrum of One for All was electric in his arm. "I got in! I got in All Mi- uh, Master! I got in! I'm going to UA!!!"

The letter in his hand was proof of it. He approached the giant, grinning from ear to ear when blue eyes turned down to look at him.

"I got in!" He said through his tears. "I'm gonna be a hero!"

"Midoriya, my boy, with determination like that there was never any doubt."

When All Might pulled him into a hug, his skin didn't burn. There was no barrier between him and the Symbol of Peace. They stood on the same ground, the cool tide washing over bare feet, tickling their ankles.

One for All was a comforting presence, constantly running through his body, taking refuge by his soul, assuring him of his place amongst the immortal. There were ghosts in this presence, voices still raspy with sleep, with some still refusing rousing from their slumber to join the cacophony. He couldn't decipher them past the main feminine chimes, but he would learn.

He had all the time in the world after all.

He was golden, on that shore, a light in the wake of the setting sun.

           He wasn't talking to Kacchan, but he was watching him. Had been watching him from childhood. There was not a day he remembered without the boy's silhouette burnt into the glow of day.

But there was something different about these glances. They were longer for one; his eyes could roam for hours on end, drinking in every detail, every curve, drunk on them as if they were sweet ambrosia. He started noticing things. Had his shoulders always been that broad? He could fit both his hands on one alone. Kacchan had grown into himself. That large forehead was controlled under wild spikes of blonde hair, the fine hairs rough and unshakable where the tufts had once been soft and curled, easily swept by the wind.

The slope of his neck was an elegant curve, contrary to the breadth of it. The typical vein that betrayed annoyance was absent as he listened to Aizawa's lecture. The tan from the hot sun lingered, summer freckles only just beginning to fade. He tried to spot each one.

(He had to get the notes from Ochako later.)

It was worse when it came to hero training. Kacchan's suit was tight. It clung to each muscle if not leaving them bare. Each ripple, hill and valley emphasized in a black dark as night. Izuku would stare, blaming his distractedness on 'a study of a powerful quirk' when each time he just wanted to see the muscle of a bicep shift before an explosion. How his abs would clench before a powerful burst of explosions for flight. The wild grin on his handsome face as he weaved through the air, taking himself to new heights others didn't dare venture.

He looked until his eyes were sore. He observed and studied even as others called him out on it, teasing him about a 'childhood crush'. He watched till he could recognize Kacchan by the curve of his jaw alone.

Kacchan didn't look back.

           Someone was watching him. Izuku could sense it. He was a hero-in-training after all. Detecting something as simple as that was instinctive.

           Rising from where he bent over the file cabinet, he cast a surreptitious look around the office.  There weren't many interns in Miruko's office. She only started taking on her 'little kits' when she was injured after a fearsome encounter with Nomus, back in his first year. She ran a tight, fast-paced burrow, and only took on the best of the best. It took him two years to build up the resume to snag this opportunity, and that was even after he was noted for his work in the final battle against the PLF. There were few who walked through the same halls as him, as Miruko preferred a small elite team over a sprawling agency. 'The Warren' they called it, nestled in the heart of the city, underground and out of sight.

     Hawks came to visit sometimes. He liked to play pranks, sweep in to cause a little chaos and sweep back out again. But this didn't feel like one of the pro-hero's mischievous glances. This was somewhat more...heated.  He glanced about, but only saw the other staff scheduled for the day.  Yui was typing away at her computer.  Ochako was in Miruko's office. Which left...

Yo Shindo. Not an intern but full on side-kick. He was already set to breach the top 100 not even two years after he graduated. He didn't see the man often, but enough that they had a friendly repertoire.

Catching his gaze, the other man dropped his, falling back to his work with a renewed focus.

Strange.

The incident passed, but there were more like it. He would catch Yo's eyes from over the meeting table, feel an ankle rub against his beneath it. In the locker rooms, the man never strayed too far, always offering to 'help'  Izuku with his suit.

    It came to a head when they were put on patrol together. It was nearing midnight, almost time for Izuku to return to the dorms and for Yo to go back to wherever he was living. They kept up easy conversation in between stopping various petty crimes. The other man was oddly intense whenever Izuku spoke. He would stare, dark eyes unreadable, as Izuku went on his rants. Always silent. Always respectful. As if he cared about what Izuku had to say, craved to hear his rambling voice breaking through the night.

Till one moment, he was pulling Izuku into a dark alley and kissing him. It was slow, chaste. Izuku could push him away at any time if he wanted.

But he was curious. Looping his arms around Yo's neck, he kissed back, letting his lips fall open and accepting a gentle tongue.

He thought kisses were like fireworks. He wanted the excitement. The flame. The quick, confident plunge into the unknown and danger of falling.

This one had no fire. Izuku was not burned, he was held. This was was slow, stable. It tasted nothing like smoke and ash, but of fresh mint. He smelled the rain coming before it hit, relishing the calming scent of the earth, pattering of droplets against rooftops masking the shuddered exhale of breath as his curls fell flat, damp against his skin.

It was not what he expected, nor what he particularly wanted.

But it was fine. Fun, even.

    So when it happened again, he didn't resist. They started to make a game of it. They would sneak into abandoned alleys at the end of patrols, pawing at each other till Izuku had to run for curfew. Eventually they upgraded to the closet room, then the locker room, that one time in Miruko's office when she was out to a meeting with Endeavor. They grew more and more daring till Izuku found himself breathless on the floor of the staff room, lips swollen and red, a throbbing ache distracting him from all other thoughts.

"Wanna go on a date?"

He spluttered, because surely he misheard.

Make no mistake. Yo Shindou wasn't golden like he was. He did not wring fire from his hands nor did the masses part at the sound of his approaching feet.

But he was still born with favor. Izuku had to fight to get a blessing bestowed onto him. There was no way-.

"You can say no, if you want to. I just...I haven't felt like this since Tatami and I broke up and you...You seem like you'll be good for me. Stable. I want that."

Stability? Isn't that what everyone wanted? Is that what he wanted?

Would he ever get a chance like this again?

Shoving down the instinctive 'no', Izuku smiled, taking the man's larger hand into his own.

           Their dates were by the book. Dinner and a movie. Izuku chose. Yo didn't complain when they sat through the corny romantic comedy; he only ate his popcorn, snickering at the corny jokes.

Picnic under the stars. When they raced barefoot through the prairie, wildflowers crushed beneath their toes, Izuku was the first to smack the trunk of an oak tree. He roared in laughter when Yo caught him by the waist, twisting him around till his back was to the wood, soft lips pressed against every inch of skin he could reach.

They were the same size, he realized dazedly. He didn't have to lean up to kiss him. Their grips were equal in strength. They stood on the same ground, soil bending beneath their feet.

Strange, he thought, shutting his eyes. When had that happened?

"Do you want to come in?" He asked one night, heart thumping in his chest. He chewed on his lower lip as soon as he asked, licking over bite marks given earlier by teeth sharper than his own.  The answering kiss told him all he needed to know.

           Sex was a fumbling of lips, limbs, tongues and teeth. The sheets were the only thing to muffle their sounds, that and the locked door. He panted, relishing the burn of his lungs and tight coil in his core. It was awkward sure. They tried to figure out who went where, what felt good and what made one another uncomfortable. But they managed eventually, setting an easy pace, locked in a stable embrace.          

But with each thrust, all Izuku could think of was crimson eyes staring up at him. The shoulders his hands were clutching should've been wider. There was a fire missing. He was too comfortable.

(He was bored.)

He shoved the traitorous thought to back of his mind, brushing his nose against the tip of the other man's as Yo came with a breathy sigh, hot spurts coating their skin, friction between them slick.

It took him another couple minutes. He had to adjust, flipping the other man around so he didn't have to see his face, bracing an arm against his back as he thrust into the tight, smooth heat.

(He pretended the hair gripped in his hand was a platinum blonde and that breathy sighs were muttered curses.)

He saw stars when he peaked. They exploded behind his eyelids, a stunning burst of red and gold against the dark.

"Fuck, that was good." Yo said, falling to the mattress. Izuku didn't trust himself to reply. He was a gentleman though. He walked the other man back to the gates, seeing him off with the promise of another date. He waved as the older man hopped onto his motorbike, revving down the road till he turned a corner.

Then his skin began to tingle.

Someone was watching him.

He turned from the iron bars of the gate to find red eyes, narrowed in their fury. Slowly, Izuku's hand fell to his side.

"You two could've been quieter." Katsuki said. His face burst into flames as he wished for the ground to open up and swallow him whole. (It didn't. Maybe if Kacchan asked, it would.)

"S-Sorry," he managed to mutter through his embarrassment. Their relationship had improved after their first year. The secret of One for All between them had strengthened their bond. Katsuki's heartfelt apology in their second year had done ever more, but they weren't at a level where he was comfortable with sharing that kind of intimacy. Being floor-mates couldn't have proven to be more awkward. Cursing the thin walls, he made as if to walk away, when Katsuki grabbed him by the arm.

"Spar with me."

"It's 1 am."

An arrogant smirk. Teeth bleach white.

"You scared of getting caught?"

           The challenge had him take off in a run to Ground Beta. One for All hummed through him, making his limbs light as feathers as he sprang through the air, too quick for the surveillance cams.

But Kacchan had always been the quickest. His arms stuck out, tiny, controlled explosions crackling from his hands propelling him forward, past Izuku into the looming darkness beyond.

They started as they always did. Quirkless.

Simple hand to hand combat. They were on equal footing here, blocking and dodging each other's attacks with an almost languid ease. It was more for Katsuki's benefit than Izuku's. He needed to work up a sweat to use his quirk properly. He pretended not to realize when they agreed to the terms long ago, scrabbling for any interaction he could get.

Izuku was careful. He knew the body before him. He had studied it for years on end. He knew which twitch of his left forearm meant an uppercut and which meant a feint. He could see his kicks coming from miles away, blocking each attack with palm, elbow and thigh.

He was beautiful like this, but when his quirk sparked up, when his golden head was surrounded with a crown of red, was when he was striking.  His arms tensed, skin smooth over taut muscle, swinging in blazing arcs before unleashing a flurry. Izuku blocked as best as he could.

But Kacchan was quick, quick, quick.

It could've taken twenty minutes or an hour. Either way the results would be the same. Katsuki had him on his back, hands hoisted in a tight grip atop his head, with firm thighs on either side of his waist.

The whisper was low, vicious and full of heat.

"Is this how he fucked you?"

"...What?"

           Then greedy, jealous lips descended upon his own, and there were fireworks. They bit and claimed, hot, vicious tongue plunging to search every inch of his mouth. His skin burned with each place Katsuki touched, torching his lips till they were numb, hanging open limply as he was taken in a way that was anything but chaste.

He moaned. Katsuki froze. Getting up, the man wiped spit from his mouth, and shook off Izuku's outstretched hand.

He walked away, steps echoing in the night.

They never spoke about it again.

           Graduation happened on a sunny day. Principal Nezu handed him his diploma with an affectionate pat on his hand. He gave Aizawa a hug, lifting the man from the ground, before he ran off the stage, the teacher glaring daggers at his back.

It was a wondrous affair. He cried no less than three times. Each and every time there was someone there to hold him.

The first was his mother. It was a bit of a mess because she was crying too. The others gave them a wide berth as they just sobbed into each other's arms, making fountains out of their tears. All Might held onto their shoulders to stop them from causing a scene but ended up crying himself.

The second was with Eri and Kota. They approached him, thick red sneakers on their feet, hoisting up a huge cardboard cut-out of his face. He couldn't help but laughs, sobs interjecting between, bringing them both into an embrace as they wished him success as a pro.

"When you're Number 1, I'll be able to say that I knew you!" Eri said excitedly.

"Don't suck." Kota groused.

Aizawa and Hizashi had to physically remove them from his grip so others could get to him.

The third was the Deku Squad, because the people he entered this journey with were the same he wanted to end it with. Ochako was soft in his arms as he clutched her close. She was tiny. Three heads shorter than him, along with Aoyama and Tsuyu. Even Shoto was only up to his chin. Iida was the closest, reaching his ear, but there was no mistake. Izuku had grown to be the tallest of the bunch. Laughing at the revelation, he gathered all of them close, hoisting them into the air as they shrieked in surprise. Aoyama was the first to laugh, turning himself into a dazzling ball of light in his white graduation gown, drawing the attention of the room, including a certain surly graduate.

           Izuku blinked as red eyes met his from across the way. Katsuki said nothing, but offered a solemn nod.  Amusement tempered, he offered the same back.

(The week he and Shindo broke up. Katsuki got together with a girl from Shiketsu. No matter how hard he reached, he could never catch up.)

           Their final night in the dorms was a huge party. They drank till some were vomiting in the bathroom, friends holding their hair back. Izuku was dragged into quite a few dances, holding each partner a respectable distance away as they moved to the beat.

Katsuki stood in the corner, body still as a statue but eyes constantly flashing from place to palace, watchful and wary despite the drink in his hand. He wasn't sure what possessed him to walk up there. The man watches his approach with careful eyes. Intense, leering, daring him to pose a challenge.  Izuku didn't let his gait slow.

"Congratulations Kacchan! I'm excited to see what you do after graduation! Maybe we'll be able to work together in the field?"

The final word lilted into question. He reached out to affectionately grip the man's bicep like a fool. He could feel his fingertips heat up, skin threatening to melt like wax wings ventured too close to the sun.

Katsuki saved him from himself, leaning back before contact could be made. With an arched brow and a smirk, he sent Izuku tumbling back to earth.

"Don't try and compete with me nerd. You'll end up disappointed."

Izuku knew. He had tried and faced disappointment countless times before. He couldn't surpass Katsuki if he couldn't catch him in the first place.

He swallowed his bitter smile, nodded a friendly goodbye, then meandered back to the couch, clutching a bottle of vodka like a lifeline. The party passed by in a blur of color and noise. He smiled at each face that looked to him pityingly, pulling out the brightest of his smiles for those who asked questions.

It's not until Mina dropped over the side of the couch that he finally got a chance to truly grin. She sidled in real close, whispered a brilliant idea in his ear, and watched as his face filled with wonder.

"Deku and Ground Zero of 1A Hero Agency are on the scene!"

He knew Katsuki's back like he knew his own hand. He could recognize the man by the curve of his hip if not the burst of flame in his hands as he rocketed ahead.

(Quick. Quick. Quick.)

"The Twin Stars!"

He could smell the sweet nitroglycerin on the air, practically taste it in his mouth.

(He craved it. He knew where the smell would be sweetest: at the junction where a pierced earlobe met strong jaw...his tongue knew the spot all too well...his teeth had tattooed heir mark onto the skin.)

"The Wonder Duo!"

           The villain made her first mistake when she thought she could outmaneuver them. She stopped short, grinning when Katsuki flew past her.  The silver tip of her bisento swung through the air before she slammed the hilt into the ground, sending quakes through the Earth. Izuku leapt up, legs hiking up as his hands went down.

("We're rabbits, you and I," Miruko once said. "We must be strong, quick, and full of tricks.")

Quick. Quick. Quick.

He had his paws on her before she could slither through the earth to make her escape. Ignoring her screams, he ripped the weapon from her grip then launched her up into the air, where Katsuki was already waiting with a powerful kick that sent the villain flying up higher. Total knock out. It had to be. But there needed to be an arrest. Black whips burst from his outstretched hand, binding her in the mid-air as Katsuki went in with the handcuffs.

"Another successful capture by Japan's #1 Hero Duo. Is there anything our boys can't do?"

           He'd gotten used to the flashing cameras and roar of the crowd by now. They were focused on their task, delivering the villain to the awaiting police unit, before taking the customary photos with fans and giving out autographs. Katsuki's warmth was a constant at his side, persistent.

They stood as equals on the ground. When they walked, their steps were in sync. He wasn't sure quite when it happened-.

No.

No, that was a lie.

He knew when it happened and what brought it on. Camie, that girl from Shiketsu, was the one that talked Katsuki down, that brought him down to earth to learn to walk as the mortals did. She was the one that led him through the pearly gates of therapy and drove him back home again.

(Why was it her? What power did she have that Izuku didn't? She wasn't golden. Not by a long shot.)

He was grateful for it all the same. It was the only thing that allowed their relationship to fully mend, to grow as strong as it did. They had an understanding of one another than no one in the world could ever hope to compete with.

It was with this understanding, that he knew when Katsuki was over the situation and entirely ready to leave. He made up excuses for their early departure when the blond caught his arm, tugging insistently. He went with Katsuki through the air, leaping from roof-top to roof-top under the cover of night. Red eyes were keen, sharp as a bird as it fixated on the streets below.

Till they found an abandoned alleyway and Katsuki forced their descent.

Hands were ripping at his suit before they even hit the ground. There was a mouth on his, mashing his lips till they separated and a hot tongue tried to plunge down his throat.

Gauntlets hitting the ground were a distant thud compared to the roaring in his ears.

This part? This was the change Izuku could mark. He could tell you the date and time they started doing this, what the position the moon was in the sky, the exact temperature of that night. It was the best day of his life, after all.

           Katsuki kissed like he fought. With power, demanding control over the situation with hands strategically placed on Izuku's jaw and the curve of his ass. Ravenous, taking already-swelling lips between his teeth, sucking long and hard.

With speed. He moved so fast, Izuku could only hold on for the ride and hope he made it out with all his wits. There was a knee between his thighs that wasn't there a second ago, fingers that had him squirming in the rush of stimulation.

Quick. Quick. Quick. Katsuki was always so quick.

           There were lips on the corner of his mouth, his jaw, the budding bone of his clavicle. Katsuki's hand were hot. The warmth seeped through even through his uniform as expert fingers knew which zippers to snatch and buttons to press to ensure Izuku was bare-backed against the rough stone of the wall.

Calloused hands wrapped around his arousal, tugging him at a vicious pace. Unrelenting and unforgiving, Katsuki twisted his fist in a vicious pace before clenching the base.

Then he went on his knees and took Izuku into the thick, wet, heat of his mouth.

           He was good at this, much like he was at everything else he tried.  He couldn't even bring himself to be jealous, grabbing the man by the jaw as he lost himself to the thrill of the moment, arousal fighting the fear of getting caught till he came with a short, shallow gasp, hands wrapped into soft blonde tufts tightening as Katsuki swallowed.

He wanted to return the favor, but just as he moved to do so-,

"Never fear for I am here!"

They sprung apart. Izuku scrambled to answer his phone, looking away from Katsuki's eyes as he swiped to answer.

"Zuku?"

"What's going on Eri?"

"We need you back at the agency. Remember the Kumamoto incident? Mina found the insurance bill."

He cringed. Hard. He hid it under his desk hoping he could soften the blow when it had to be dealt. Thanking his intern, he ended the call, pushed the phone back into his pocket, and chanced a glance up.

The heat in Katsuki's eyes nearly persuaded him, but then the other man smirked, long and full of promise, before leaning up to whisper in his ear,

"See you at home Hero."

He followed the trail of red blasts till they were small, twin stars in the sky.

           There came a day when Katsuki began to slow. His explosions sputtered from his hands. It took longer for him to get a sweat worked up. His reaction time wasn't as quick nor his temper as blazing.

Izuku watched as he always did, as the man set his sights ever-forward towards the unknown.

But Katsuki no longer had to reach out towards the horizon. The darkness of the unknown came to meet him.

Izuku took him by the hand, pressing a kiss to the cold palm, to the still blue veins at the wrist. Then to the lips that no longer seized him in their storm, clammy and motionless no matter how hard he mashed his own against their plump curve.

Katsuki was always running ahead of him. He could never catch up. There was time-a golden age when they were in their prime-that the other man slowed to let Izuku walk at his side.

He could never truly catch up unless Katsuki wanted him to.

It was about time he accepted it. Tears slipping down his cheeks, he let the man he loved go, watched him run into the distance, pinks slips of his heels sprinting to a place he in all his immortality could not reach.

           He wept. He cried till his chest felt ready to split open from grief. He wept till his throat was hoarse, long suffering moans ripping through his maw as he cursed death, the divine, god and his angels, the fates. Any being that could be blamed for ripping the earth from under his feet, for thrusting the brightest red star to the night sky without his consent, leaving him down below to watch with the rest of the common-folk, unable to touch for fear of being burned.

He did not fade as Katsuki did. His steps never faltered nor did his muscle denigrate. His hair was ever-green and his gaze bright.

But he could choose to abandon it all. The thrum of One for All had grown to be a comfort. He turned to it one night in his bed, prodding at the lingering remnants who fell before him till they roused from their endless sleep. Then he spoke his request,

"He waits for me."

"The world is in your hands and you would give it all up?"

"For him? Always."

           He did not doubt. He hadn't done so in a while. They knew this. So as soon as the final hiss left his lips, he was gone.  The last embers of the immortal quirk blew out in the winds of death, and miles away a brighter fire received more tinder.

           Izuku struggled to find his place amongst the night sky. He stumbled and inched his way through the constellations. He wanted to run- maybe he could catch up even after all this time-but he was afraid. One slip and he would fall through the darkness, out of the domain of the divine into the pits below.

Suddenly, all he could see was red and gold. A hand gripped his arm tight.

"You could never catch up could you Zuzu?"

He clutched back. The skin beneath his did not burn.

They settled in their place, the brightest amongst all the stars. Fingers clasped together. Divine. Eternal. Effervescent.

[maggotmouth]

          hello, i’m nora ( she / her, 24, gmt ) and i almost exclusively join dark academia rps. please find below everything i have thus far on otto ballantyne, a theatre and classics student who was arranged to be married to one of the students who disappeared. i’ve honestly been itching to write otto again for months, so thanks to this lil group for giving me the opportunity. can’t wait to get my teeth stuck into him again. please bombard me with discord messages for plots. here is his  pinterest.

act one: application.

THOMAS DOHERTY   ,   CIS-MALE   ,   HE/HIM         →         according   to   the   school   records   ,   OTTO HORATIO BALLANTYNE   has   been   attending   sacred   heart   for   the   past   four   years   .   i   last   saw   them   hanging   around  the  cliffs   ;   i   think   they   were  reciting   shakespearean  soliloquies  to   the   wind   and   a   weathered   old   skull.   at   twenty   -   three   years   old   ,   otto   has   been   studying   theatre   &   classics   and   get   this   ,   i   heard   that   he   was   arranged   to   be   married   to  alice   rosseau   before   her   untimely   disappearance  ,   and  was   desperate   to   call   off   the   affair  —   figure   it’s   true   ?   everyone   around   here   always   associates   them   with    an   aged   bottle  of   malbec   glugged   carelessly   at   the   after - show  ,  the   kind   of   confidence   that   only   a   private   education gives ,  white   lines   of   powder   snorted   off  a   marble  sink  with    lovers  you’ll   later   deny  .   in   the   time   since   these   strange   happenings   ,   they   have   have   not   encountered   any   unexplained   occurrences   .         (   written   by   nora   ,   24   ,   she/her   ,   gmt   )

act two: the muse !

ok so lemme start off by saying otto is heavily inspired by if we were villains by m l rio and the secret history by donna tartt. very serious actor. into the classical plays, but would definitely fit in a production of posh by laura wade. originally i wrote him for a murder mystery dark academia group but when the group ended i missed him so much i decided to bring him here.

born in south london, but raised in cheltenham. went to eton or harrow or one of those posh english boarding schools for boys. we love the homoeroticism of learning latin with your homies and chanting sonnets in caves by candlelight.

youngest son in his family. was fiercely competitive with his brother nathaniel growing up. having an older brother who was incredibly intelligent and successful made otto learn to treat his life like it was a fight. constantly trying to be better and ‘prove himself’.

otto’s a brat. filthy rich public school boy vibes, very riot club. champagne all over the ceiling and driving well over the limit. custom-made cuff links he loses in taverns when he rolls up his sleeves to lean on the bar. needing to know so much about a character you’re playing that it consumes you ; you can no longer tell which parts of you are otto and which parts are macbeth.

characters who have inspired him:  alistair ryle in the riot club, francis abernathy in the secret history, anthony marston in and then there were none, oliver marks in if we were villains, achilles in the song of achilles, dorian gray in tpodg.

a fun fact is he is a natural blonde and spent most of his childhood that way but he now dyes it dark because he thinks that’ll give him more versatility in terms of the roles he can play. blonde ppl are usually cast as only the lover or the innocent n he wants to play villains and heroes and leading men as well.

very gay, n that’s pretty much a known thing by everyone but his family?? his family have arranged to have him married to women twice n both times its not worked out. the first time he basically drove her away with his reckless hedonism and alcoholism, and the second arranged marriage was to alice, one of the four students who went missing

archetypes: the figurehead. the challenger. the magician. the knight. the underdog.

ENTP-T / the debater personality. 

theatre arts major, minoring in classics.

trigger warning for internalised homophobia / familial prejudice.

act three: the biography !

     heavy is the head that wears the crown, though yours is the size of a tennis ball when you are born three weeks premature, barely formed enough to open your eyes. for those first few weeks all your parents knew were fear and love — fear that you would leave them, love that you had made it through so much, hooked up to wires like a fish in a cryogenic tank. to them your heart that learned one day to beat of its own accord was a miracle. perhaps that’s why you became their golden boy.

     being born as a boy on the brink of death makes you invulnerable. you were achilles and the world couldn’t touch you for you were shielded from harm by a mother’s protective spell. should nathaniel lay so much as a finger on your skin, a voice would raise like the sound of a god from the veranda where she sat sipping her wine, play nice, boys! the sound of it thick with merlot. in every fight they took your side ; angel-headed creatures never lied. you soon learned that adults would believe anything if they liked you, that flattery will get you anywhere and to the well-trained mind, conversation was little more than a parlour game.

     you harboured your mother’s beauty, the softness of her voice, the firmness of her skin and light in the corners of her smile. of your father, they’d say you inherited his wit, though that was your own — as was the golden hair that tousled your head, taken not from ambrose ballantyne but rather the bout of his three-week business trip to germany when your mother had bedded the gardener. if he knew, he never mentioned it. to believe such a fate would imply that he was not enough for her. though you noticed one day when you were nearing five and the sun was ripe on your freckle-flecked skin that the gardener had stopped coming at all. the grass, once shaven to its scalp, now grew to your knees.

     at school, you learned with porridge still clinging to your mouth that the way to win over your teachers was through your smile. yours was the kind of school where the christmas play was not the nativity but rather the story of the gods, and stardom came to you in the role of apollo, sun shining from your beaming face, a bright halo of hair around your head. this was the first time you noticed a coldness in nathaniel’s eyes as your father threw you over his shoulder and your mother drenched you in praise. a bout of food-poisoning on your brother’s part rendered the italian restaurant, visited in your honour, abandoned. you never did find out if he was faking.

     the room to his door remained shut after that and you learned to wile away your hours in the company of nannies and children from neighbouring castles, played at knights and rescued princesses from nearby dungeons, a tin-foil crown lopsided on your head. you learned to seek influence in the faces of those around you, how their eyes would widen as they hung like stalactites to your words. storyteller. prophet. riddler. prince. you cut your tongue into a well-kept sword and sparred with it thrice a day.

     by nine you had read all of dickens novels. by eleven, all of shakespeare’s comedies — though you understood them as much as a cricket knows the meaning of the cosmos. still, it sounded rich and impressive when asked by aunties at dinner parties, what are you reading in school, otto? he finds the curriculum tiring, your mother would say, stroking a hand through your thick head of hair. otto’s just finished the merchant of venice. soon you grew to ignore your brother’s glowers at your back. your mother’s was the only smile you needed.

     in cap and blazer your mother would drop you off at school, gated and turreted, the kind that was the envy of poorer neighborhood wives. when you were young, you were sure the gifts that came your way were yours alone, though as you grew older, you learned to expect them in the same way the school expected cheques from your parents. they named them benefactors, you noticed one day, on the wooden plaques fixed to the common room walls. the same plaques you would one day notice their names engraved upon in the arching hallways of sacred heart. acclaim was bought, not earned, and your success was littered with blood money.

     what’s a king without a kingdom? your father surely wanted you to inherit his, though it was not in law and corporal finance that you found yourself a castle, but rather upon the stage. when red curtains split, you found you could become anything with the power of your will — boy, man, lion, snake, each of them wrung out by wordsmiths dead in their graves, a certain romance in the dusky smell of stage lights. when every eye in the room was focused on you — that was when you felt most powerful. like a piece of art, you were something to be looked at and admired — and perhaps in the absence of self-earned merit your vanity blossomed, for even if the trophies that lined your cabinets and the a-grades in columns on a sheet came from heavy pockets, your parents could never buy the sound of applause.

     actors are by nature volatile. though your facade was swifter than an arrow, backstage they would call you tempestuous, bigoted, vain. still, it never left the wings of the theatre. there was a kind of reverence surrounding you that words could not taper, godliness following you from school to college, a peer admired in the practice rooms of sacred heart where you poured over chekhov and ibsen but yearned to read sophocles and euripides.

     you learned to pride yourself on your looks — a sharpened jawline and a sharper tongue — and found that people would do almost anything for a beautiful face. in the beginning, alice was one so much. first colleagues, then friends, then a frequenter to the table in your family’s house. with arrogance carried in the curve of your brow, you only ever saw her as an accessory. that changed when you met her brother, let yourself stumble, brogues in a size that differed from your own kicked beneath your bed, a shirt with a larger neck size, pulled sheets, the smell of a foreign cologne.

      talk travelled. it wouldn’t do to have word of your deviance spread further than the ballantyne house. while your parents would claim they were forward-thinking, more lenient than their parents had been, there was a conservative priggishness to the way they’d brush such matters under the rug, your father scarcely able to meet your eye over the dinner table. soon after, the arrangement was set with you all but exalted from the plans until alice had been informed. too late to back out, neither of you all that eager to be wed, though your families would coo when you fixed your hair or she, in keeping with the role, adjusted your tie. at first it amused you to play house with one such as alice, but soon you grew listless. like a caged beast you felt suffocated by the falseness of it all. you’d leave the dinners held by your joint households and return bedraggled, smelling of whiskey and sex. you’re not sure alice ever knew the reason why you couldn’t love her, though perhaps she suspected. at night, the names that would fall from your lips would never be hers. oliver. daniel. mason. rupert. charles.

act four: character investigation !

        otto’s an extremely materialistic character who obtains pleasure through the things you can buy in life rather than that which comes to you by way of humble experience. he likes rolex watches, armani suits, louis vuitton travel bags, silk scarves imported from india. he likes to drink wine from decades gone by, where he can almost taste the funk of a victorian farmer hand pressing the grapes into a pulp, or to read a manuscript from the special collections section of the library that he knows has passed through hands which have gone on to achieve greatness. to otto, alice was always an extension of this hedonistic, pleasure-seeking attitude — she was something to be paraded like the equestrian trophies on his bookshelf, or his name on the honour roll. it’s not that he didn’t see her as a person — he’s hardly a chauvinist, although it could easily be inferred from the disdain with which he talks to some women — but rather that he saw her as someone ethereal and admirable and of high social standing who would elevate his social standing, by extension, were he to spend time with her. (this was such a convoluted sentence omg sorry)

         the engagement was not his choice. even the idea of it had never crossed his mind. he had never thought to marry – marriage to otto was a tool used for financial gain — and being already wealthy, he was content to live out his days as a bachelor. he would take lovers, of course, but it would be on his own terms without the involvement of the law. alice was chosen as a match for otto because she was from a wealthy, well-liked family and the two had been friends since childhood. it seemed to their parents inevitable that they would marry, and so all that was left was the agreed arrangement between the families and the exchanging of rings. strictly speaking, if the marriage between otto and alice had gone ahead, then alice would have been nothing more than a trophy wife to otto. it would have been a miserable marriage for her, and he would have grown to resent her for it — not resent her for the fact that he could never truly be free to love someone he wanted (for he still would) but resent her, and by extension his family, for taking the option to do that openly and publicly away from him. she would always be seen as the beard, the scorned lover, the cuckold, and it would dampen any future relationships he held with the stain of that upset.

act five: wanted plots !

people who he was friends with as a child (either in london or cheltenham if anyone in this group has a muse from there) but grew apart from when he was sent to private school / they view him as entitled now and the two no longer have much in common

someone who auditioned for the same role as him, but otto got it, and they’ve resented him for it ever since !  want this bad. or put your thang down flip it and reverse it: someone who got the role otto wanted and he loathes them for it.

hasn’t really dated anyone? at college, he tends to hook up with people in a vapid sort of way? so he wouldn’t rEALly have past relationships with boys unless it was….. incredibly quiet and on the DL, literally meeting up in the woods after school to read plato and play with each others hair. suddenly realised i want this. someone give me someone he reads plato in the woods with and kisses up against tree bark because even though everyone basically KnOWS otto isn’t out n probably never will be :/

alternatively someone who he had a vapid, senseless hook up with and grew attached to  :/ rude.   in this house we lov angst

i guess some friends he actually likes would be cool. maybe someone who he has a hold over, because he’s quite an engaging character with good leadership qualities, like at parties he’ll be the one telling the story and gesticulating wildly and everyone’s watching him or looking to him for where they’ll go next / how the night will pan out. if he has a hold over someone maybe he has some sort of leverage whereby they’ll complete his work for him if he’s out getting drunk which he usually is. if tht sounds like ur character is naive n could be coerced, hit me up

people he knows on a very superficial and base level in the fact that their only interactions together involve doing coke off someone’s sink and stumbling home in the dark. otto’s a massive hedonist. if he were a greek god, he’d be a mix between dionysus and apollo, but he has achilles’ vanity.

[frekydeki]

Cupid Can’t Fall in Love

Part 1

Summary: (AU) Eternal and true love is a business transaction for you. Soulmates are simply two file folders tied together with a golden bow. But when eight folders come across your desk, your job gets a little bit stickier with each passing day. Being a Cupid isn’t so easy as it sounds...

Pairing: (Jihyun x Reader) 

| Part 1 | Part 2: Upcoming 

It’d be beautiful. The golden grass, the falling sun, the gentle and warm wind, the serene silence… It would all be so beautiful if he wasn’t staring into your eyes so tearfully. You trace your eyes over his blue hair and follow the line of his jaw, then his neck, over his collar bone and to his heart. Your e/c eyes widen to the size of the moon; a glowing arrow burns frantically in his chest. You harshly draw in a breath and smack your hand over your own arrow, hammering in your heart.

         You can’t process the tear trailing down your cheek as you turn your eyes away and up to the scattered clouds in the sky. Why? How did this happen? It’s got to be a mistake…

         It’d all be so beautiful… If only you could fall in love.

         How… Did it come to this?

Working for Aphrodite isn’t the most exciting employment option. When you were first born, you took a little bit more to your father’s side, preferring to kick ass here and there. But after a run-in with a seething Achille’s, – you told Zeus to just kill the guy but he insisted you talk it out – you got your butt kicked so bad that even Ares himself worried over you. Your mom said your warrior days were over that day. Nobody defies the word of Aphrodite, after all, and that’s why you’re holed up in this stupid office. Battle armor feels much more natural than the pencil skirt and blouse you’re wearing, but this is what you have now; platform heels, scrunchies, paper cuts, and the sound of typing like chinese water torture to your ears. Lucky you, though! You’ve put in your two millennia to get a personal office, away from all the typing and scratching on parchment; its maybe one of your greatest achievements in the past two thousand years since Aphrodite and Ares put you on the bench.

         This tiny little office is your hell a little bit away from hell, you like to say. You still have mental break downs and panic attack under your desk, and you’ve forgotten what wood your desk is made out of; but at least you get some damn silence. Except for the obnoxious banging on your door that’s happening right now. Is it eight already? The dread of a thousand punished souls in the underworld escapes from your lips in a groan; you barely even filed the cases you finished yesterday. Nevertheless, you roll in your rock hard chair – Hera was kind enough to make you a small cushion, even if it looks like a grandma’s afgan turned cushion, you and your butt love it – to swing your door open at a dangerous speed.

         The young blonde before you smiles and points towards the soft close door.

         “Isn’t it great Ares installed those personally for you?” Her raspy voice sputters to you quickly. Her scrawny finger then points to the coffee mug in your hand, “Hey, is that coffee.”

         “Yeah, what el-“ Your hand becomes lighter as she snatches it from you and takes a long swig.

         “I haven’t slept in like three days,” She babbles to you as she puts the coffee back into your hand and turns to the cart littered with folders, “Finals are next week and I haven’t studied all semester.” You’ve grown used to the incessant mumbling that Angelia lets loose every morning while handing in your cases… She’s like this every week, even without finals. “Becoming a god sure isn’t easy work!” She loudly laughs before continuing on about offerings and the rules of appearing to humans.

         “You know, Angelia, if you didn’t spend all of your time programming social media sites for humans, you’d be able to get your work done.”

         “How else is a messenger god supposed to stay relevant? Dad already does all the messaging between gods, so there’s no work for a dumb college god like me.”

         “You’re in college… That’s your job right now.” Your lidded eyes meet hers as she blows a loose strand of curly hair from her face and drops two folders onto your lap.

         “Yeah but I’ll disappear if I loose followers.”

         “No. You won’t. You’re a god born of two gods, not a god born of need. There’s a clear difference. We survive whether or not humans worship us individually. Plus there’s other jobs for gods to do other than meddling and fucking around.”

         “Yeah but I wanna be a messenger god!” She whines as she drops four more folders onto your lap. “Only eight new assignments today. Lucky you.”

         “L… Lucky me?” You screech at her. “I already have two hundred and eighty- eight active cases!” She surrenders her hands and pursues her lips at you.

         “I don’t decide who gets what cases.”

         “Yeah but you could also maybe throw in a word to Aphrodite and be like, ‘Yeah, boss, don’t you think MC already has enough assignments right now?’ You know, maybe stick your neck out for a friend once in a while?” Angelia continues to stack cases on your lap, unphased by the explosive temper you let loose every morning, and you keep on crying up to her, “Are you listening to me Angelia? I’m drowning in stress right now! If I were a nymph I would’ve shriveled up and died three hundred years ago.” With your pouting expression and whiney voice, you can be compared to a kid whose mom put her favorite cereal back on the shelf.

         “But you’re not a nymph. Yay! You won’t shrivel up and die.”

         “But if I were a nymph I would have. Doesn’t that concern you? I could die!”

         “Gods don’t die.”

         “Yes we do!” You snap up to her grinning face, “And the leading cause is stress!” The over caffeinated girl isn’t moved by your whining, so you switch to a bargaining strategy quickly.

          “Okay, hear me out,” You begin with a lowered voice, “Maybe if you just slip these onto someone else’s desk, and then pretend that you didn’t notice when Aphrodite asks you “What the hell?” By then that Cupid would have already started the assignment so there’d be no point in bothering me to do it.” Angelia drops the last heavy file folder on your lap and shakes her head. You blink as the weight of your coffee is lifted from your hand again.

         “No can do, my friend.” She begins as she sips loudly from your coffee mug, before her face scrunches, “Too much creamer.” Angelia puts the mug back in your hand, all the while you watch her with eyes the size of the moon; is she serious right now? Of course you know there’s too much creamer in there; you just had a late morning so for all you care she can take her scrutiny and shove it. “Anyways, Aphrodite and Eros both said - very strictly, I might add - that these files are meant for your hands only. Anyways, I’m only part time, here. That all is way above my pay grade.”

         “Angelia,” You suck in a heavy breath through your nose to try and curb your frustrations with the shrugging girl before you say, “You suck.” At that, she laughs heartily. She giggles her good-bye to you over the sound of her clicking heels as she moves to give the next guy his shackles for the day. “Hey!” She turns over her shoulder to acknowledge your head poking out of your office, “You tell Aphrodite that if I get any more cases this week I’m going to go ahead and fall in love, ya hear?”

“Yeah, right. Someone like you, fall in love?” She snorts, “Not even Eros would take that assignment.” You lift your lip, eyebrows pinching together, and shout back to her:

“Go bother someone else… I’m gonna be here all night because of you.” She waves and smiles pleasantly, which you return half-heartedly. The door shuts gently, and you groan back over to your desk.

         Eight files don’t sound like much to the human ear, but these files hold every single aspect of the subject’s life, so it looks like the holy bible. It’s not that you mind the read all that much – it’s like a nice little short story – but it’s the paperwork and scheming that you hate with every fiber of your explosive being. You look to the mirror hanging on your wall after glancing through one of the files – these were all a little bit bigger than the normal case – and decide to put your work order in for their vial’s early; it’s going to take a while to gather their life essence. You grab a drachma and turn it about in your hand as you scribble the eight names onto separate blue ribbons.

         “Ánoixe.” You cough, watching the solid mirrors surface begin rippling like water after a stone is thrown into it. “Eudorus.” The rippling increases before orange begins to reflect in the mirror; it slowly stops to reveal the freckled and smiling face of your good buddy. “How are you this fine morning?”

         “Don’t play coy with me, MC. I know you’re only here to give me more work.” Your lips snap shut before you laugh lightly.

         “I’m sorry. I usually wouldn’t bother you about it until tomorrow but… I just got eight new assignments and they’re really big files. I thought I’d give you a head start on getting their essence for me.”

         “Eight!” He cries at you, his freckled cheeks becoming red and eyes watering. “You’re already drowning in work already!” He purses his lips and puffs his cheeks as he mumbles under his breath, “Mom really has to stop giving you so much work. You’ll keel over soon because of lack of sleep.”

         “Can you do this for me? I’ll buy you dinner tonight?” He smiles at you.

         “I’d do it even if you didn’t offer food, but since you did you can’t take it back now. Give me the ribbons and I’ll give ‘em to you at dinner.” You push your hand through the mirror, flinching as the humid air of his workplace gathers to your hand.

         “How do you even breathe in there Eudorus? It’s so humid.”

         “You get used to it after a little.” He stops as he eyes you, his lips parted and brows slack in what you can only dreadfully identify as one thing; concern. “Are you getting enough sleep, MC?”

         “With all these cases on my desk, I can’t afford sleep.”

         “We might be gods and all, but we need our sleep just like the humans.” You grin as you roll your eyes playfully.

         “You’re starting to sound like Apollo.”

         “If he sees you like this MC he’s going to tear you a new one about taking care of yourself, and you know he’s going to crack down on your eating habits! You’re worse than Hades sometimes…”

         “I know, I know… I’ll just avoid him at all costs.” Your half-brother grins at you before he waves the ribbons held lightly in his smooth hands.

         “I better get to work on theses. And you better to, if you want to cut down on those piles on your desk.”

         “You’re right. Have a good one, Eudorus.”

         “Yeah, you too.” You watch as your red-headed brother disappears, and the mirror hardens again. Staring at your reflection, you realize you really do look like you’re on your deathbed. Your skin is a shade or two lighter from its usual hue, hair messily tossed into a bun, your bags much more prominent, and lips pulled down in a frown much more than usual. You look away quickly, recalling Angelia’s words from earlier…

         “Yeah, right! Someone like you, fall in love?” You stare critically at the stack of finished reports you need to put in their rightful files; you will never have one of these for yourself… It’s strictly off limits for you as a Cupid. If you fall in love, you lose your job. Sometimes it makes you mad, other times sad, and some rare times, you’re glad.

         Filing cases is the easy part of your job; all the hard work’s done, now all that’s left is topping off the paired folders with golden ribbons and filing them into your large bookshelf for review and approval by Eros. Eros, that sleaze. It’s been at least a millennium since you went through the trouble of pairing him with Psyche and he still has the nerve to waltz into your office and flirt with you shamelessly. Plus, he gets to keep his job despite being head over heels for his wife; who cares if he’s a primordial? He should be held to the same standards as everyone else!

         That’s not what matters at the moment though, you guess. Getting these cases off of your desk is the priority! You managed to close thirty cases last night, so you just need to focus on getting them all patched up nicely. You glance to the new files on your desk; once this is done you can stick your nose into the new assignments. 

         “Is this a joke, mom?” Saying you sounded as loud as Zeus when he and Hades butted heads would almost do a disservice to your anger. You are livid, fuming, downright insane with rage. Her beautiful violet eyes snap up to your own as she gracefully pushes her blonde hair from her face and folds her hands in front of her.

         “Is what a joke, MC?” Most of the time, her voice would’ve calmed you down to the point of rational thought, but not today. You’re ready to body slam her into Tartarus. You wave the files frantically in front of you and drop them onto her desk, eyes on fire and steam running out of your ears. You’re an Ares level threat right now.

         “What the hell are these assignments?” You screech. Opening the top folder you drop the picture of the blonde on her neat, tidy desk. “Yoosung Kim, 21, college student. He’s fucked up right now, mom. He recently lost his cousin, who, might I add, is also one of these files. How the fuck am I supposed to make a dead woman fall in love? And how the hell am I supposed to make someone like Yoosung fall in love while he is like this?” She opens her mouth to respond but you slap another picture in front of her. “Jumin Han, 26, an executive who doesn’t know the half of relationships and trusting another person. I can’t work with this yet! And don’t you even get me started on Saeran and Saeyong, have you even looked through these files? And Jihyun? What the fuck is going on with this guy?” You feel a large hand plop down on your shoulder. A growl nearly comes from you as you look up to your father, his yellow eyes telling you to try and calm down. “Well when the hell did you get here?”

         “I was here the whole time MC. You just marched in, ready for the kill.”

         “Well if she wouldn’t hand me such bullshit cases on top of all my other cases I wouldn’t feel like murdering everyone on this damn mountain!” Ares chuckles as he shakes his head in amusement.

         “You sure are my daughter, but you’re almost worse than me. What have I always told you, little soldier?” Your mouth draws into a thin line, before you mumble your response so lowly that no one could understand you. “No matter how hard it gets, it is your duty, and so you shall finish it.”

         “It could also be Eros’ duty. Or Agata! She only has like, ten assignments right now.”

         “Yes, my dear. But Agata is also very new to working as a Cupid.”

         “She’s been in the department for two hundred years!”

         “These cases require experience and power greater than that of a two hundred-year-old nymph.” You draw your lips into a thin line and eye your mother critically. What the hell does she expect you to do with this? You’re originally a war goddess. You were meant to fight, not shoot people with metaphorical arrows and make sure they fall head over heels with each other!

         “This is the life you have now, MC.” Ares begins, for like, the millionth time this month. You grind your teeth and step away from him. You know that you have to content yourself with working in a quiet office, watching others fall in love, constantly typing on a computer, wearing these stupid pencil skirts and bows…

         “But I hate wearing these damn heels!” Is all you can screech, childishly. Aphrodite giggles as she stands and walks to you.

         “But they make you look so beautiful.” You send a harsh glare up to her; of course, she doesn’t even flinch cause your glares are as harmless to her as a feather is to a rock. “I trust you to handle these assignments better than anyone working here… Even myself. I wouldn’t have given them to you otherwise.”

         “How do you suggest I start these, then?”

         “Drink their essence and see what they need.”

         “I’m not a damned therapist.”

         “Hear, hear!” Ares uselessly calls as he resumes his seat on the couch. He shrinks a little when Aphrodite sends him a harsh, menacing glare; if there’s one thing all the gods have learned, it’s that Aphrodite – and possibly Persephone – are the scariest when they get mad.

         “Yes, but you will know where to go. I can assure you.” You puff out your cheeks and cross your arms.

         “Fine, but you owe me three weeks of vacation since I can’t go next week anymore!” You hiss as you take the files she’d gathered in her hands before you even simmered down – it’s like she knew she’d win you over – and stomp to the door. “I had tickets to the premier of the new marvel movie! Do you know how expensive those are?” You cry, ready to slam the door shut, but giving your mom one more, half-hearted stare.

         “You’re a goddess, sweetheart. You have an endless supply of money.”

         “That doesn’t mean I want to waste it!” And you move to slam the door shut, but it slows just at the end. You swear your eyeballs set on fire as you realize that your father installed yet another soft close door because of you.

         What’s your plan? Dive in head-first and get blind-sided at every corner like Zeus? No way, just thinking about that has you ready to start another war. You need a plan, a good plan, and as much information as you can get. Meaning you’re going to have to work with their guardians. Pompous, inconsiderate, above the law shit heads is what guardians are. In your millenniums, you’ve avoided most, if not all, contact with them. You don’t work well with big heads; they always mess things up because they’re always right, narrow-sighted, and rash. Add to that the state that these wards are in, you can’t imagine these guardians will be the best help… But you’ve got to take whatever you can get.

         And that’s why you’re sitting at a large table of seven guardians, enjoying a measly meal of chicken tenders and fries; ambrosia is too damn expensive these days. But you suppose that as the times have changed, your offerings and followers have fallen to a measly, absolute zero. No worshippers? No ambrosia. It’s a good way to stir up some envy here on Olympus.

         “So, what do you need, Cupid?”

         “I need to know about your wards.” You sigh as you plant a folder in front of each guardian. You point to the empty chair and raise your brow, “Where’s Mina’s guardian?”

         “Uh, she’s out on sick leave.”

         “I thought you guys were invincible?”

         “Well, after all the times she’s worked, I’m sure she needs a break for a little.” Aeneas snaps at you. You roll your eyes; guardians were specifically designed to do everything but need a break. You’d have to check in with Zeus later to see what the hell is going on with her.

         “Okay, whatever.” Continuing, you decide to get straight to the point, “Tell me everything you know about your wards. Why are they in the state they’re in?”

         “Some wards are harder to guide than others.” Jac gently speaks. You look to the soft-featured man, nodding your head. You know that… You’ve always treasured Jac as a guardian, he’s one of the few to look at you on equal grounds.

         “I know. I’m sorry if it felt like I jabbed at you. Could you all maybe explain to me what you’ve learned does or doesn’t work with these wards?”

         “Of course… We’ll do as much as we can to help…”

[fixaidea]

Paris, 1840

It was in the early days of the year 1840 when Monsieur Nicolas Barré, a young, moderately successful novelist fell in with Augustin Perrault and his group of friends. Perrault, done with University, was pursuing a career in journalism and met M. Barré for work related reasons. The working relationship quickly turned into friendship (a quick and easy thing with the young journalist), and soon enough, over a shared glass of wine, Perrault invited him to meet up with the rest of his closest friends.

‘I must say’ Nicolas huffed, clinking his glass against Perrault’s ‘Whatever you told your friends about me, they better lower their expectations. Sure I’m a delight, a true treat to have around’ he winked ‘But political I am not. Not nearly as much as you are.’

Perrault waved his hand in airy dismissal.

‘Never fear. You are no monarchist, and that is all they need. Clavier is more hands-on when it comes to politics but the rest like to hold such issues at arm’s length. No one will begrudge you for not keeping a pet guillotine in your backyard.’

Nicolas chuckled and refilled their glasses.

‘So you’re telling me buying a closetful of red caps to impress them was a waste? Ah well. Now, we are men of the pen, you and I, even if we employ our words quite differently. How about the rest? All writers?’

‘Alain Clavier certainly is, he’s a playwright. Well, in theory at least. In reality he’s a true Renaissance man, doing all things Theatre. Manager, designer, stand-in actor, all of it. René Giraud is an engineer, or rather, currently an assistant to one, Yves Belarbre is a painter. A portraitist, but he has some novel ideas about painting dreams, you’ll see.’

After a couple of more glasses Perrault announced that he still had some obligations to attend to. Just as they were about to part, he turned to Nicolas.

‘I must warn you about one of my friends though, Giraud. He has some peculiar habits, but the one that most concerns you is that he’s rather picky about who gets to touch him. He’s going to allow a handshake, but do not attempt anything more. If he takes a shine to you, he will come to you in his own time.’

Nicolas smiled and nodded, although he did not understand why he needed such a warning – certainly he was affectionate, but nowhere near as much as Perrault, pawning at random strangers was usually not the first thing on his mind. Surely keeping his hands off of one would not be much of a hardship. His nonchalance regarding the matter lasted exactly until the moment of meeting the man in question. René Giraud was on the shorter end of average height, thin and tired looking and, at least in Nicolas’ humble opinion, utterly adorable. He had fluffy, white-blond hair and big, pensive blue eyes.

They did not get to talk too much that first day – as Nicolas later learned this was not simply because Perrault and his friend Alain Clavier dominated every single conversation they took part in, but also because of Giraud’s own quiet nature. Still, all through the evening Nicolas kept sneaking glances at the man and, to his immense satisfaction, found himself being watched in turn. Just before the company disbanded for the night, Giraud sidled up to him. He cocked his head to the side and spoke, eyes fixed on the floor:

‘What do you call a medical-minded dog?’

Caught off guard, Nicolas scratched his beard.

‘I have no idea. What indeed?’

‘Un physi-chien*’

Nicolas blinked. For a moment he was not sure if he truly heard what he did, but René was watching him expectantly out of the corner of his eye. Nicolas’ big body began to shake and soon he was howling with laughter. Giraud, proud of his work, bounced on his heels and smiled, blushing with joy. Nicolas raised his hand to clap him on the back, but caught himself in time and hastily showed his fist into his pocket.

He wiped off his tears. That was it. He needed to win his René-touching privileges as soon as possible.

***

It was the end of May, but the weather resembled the worst of August and Nicolas was painfully stuck. Again. His serialised novel was running out of pre-written chapters at an alarming rate, he needed to catch up with it and soon. He could practically feel his editor breathing down his neck. He was sating at a blank page. In fact, he had been doing just that for the last half an hour, but the words stubbornly refused to manifest. With a deep sigh of defeat he donned his lightest coat and hat. If inspiration would not come on its own, the best he could do was to try and seek it out. After a brief consideration he headed to the Louvre.

He regretted his decision to leave the flat the moment he stepped out of his building. The streets were scorching hot, vibrating above the cobblestones. Dust filled the air and the sun was so blinding, that without the straw hat to protect his eyes, Nicolas doubted he would be able to see a thing. Still, he steeled himself and faced the inferno of the city.

He was richly rewarded for his effort – the inside of the museum was shady and blessedly cool. Few people took the effort or had the time to drag themselves here at his hour, so it was also mostly deserted. He sighed again, this time in relief, and was about to zone out and let himself get lost in the centuries of art surrounding him, when out of the corner of his eye he spotted a familiar mop of blond hair. René Giraud was sitting on a bench, an open notebook in his hands, though when Nicolas stepped closer he noticed he was staring at his feet rather than at the pages. He started when Nicolas greeted him.

‘Ah, hello there, Monsieur Barré! I mean. Nicolas.’

Nicolas smiled and plopped down beside him. He was pleased René was finally gave up on the formal ‘you’ with him, even if he still called him by his surname sometimes.

‘You must be quite the patron of arts to cross the city on such a wretched day just to look at pictures! Or are you, like me, in need of inspiration for something?’

‘Neither, I’m afraid’ René answered. He kept his gaze on his notebook. When they first met Nicolas wondered if he did this because he did not like him or was especially flustered in his presence, but had since come to learn that this was simply something he did with everyone. Avert his eyes or, remembering that you ought to look people in the eye, fix his unblinking gaze upon you.

‘I am here exactly because the day is wretched’ René went on ‘My quarters are unbearable and so are the streets. Everything seems to be so much more intense in this horrible weather. The people are loud and irritable and they stink. I stink, the horses stink, I can barely see, everything is bleached white by the sun, even the sky. It’s either white or that unsettling shade of lilac.’

‘Lilac? I never noticed that.’

‘It is though. A pale lilac. I find it deeply disturbing. Here though…’ he looked up ‘Here it’s cool and quiet and the smells are subdued. I like this place.’

‘Still, it must be boring to just sit here. Walk with me?’

Nicolas thought of offering his hand as they got up, but René was on his feet before him. They wandered the halls in silence for a while. Nicolas knew his friend was not exactly loquacious, but he wondered if this silence was stretching too far. Testing the waters, next time he spotted a particularly interesting painting he stopped before it and quietly started to explain what he knew about it. With others, he tried to guess what the artist might have meant, making up stories on the spot, one wilder and more colourful than the rest. René mostly kept quiet, but seemed to be enjoying himself none the less. Every now and then he inserted his own small remarks or chuckled lightly at Nicolas’ jokes. Encouraged by this, Nicolas was gaining momentum, spinning one astounding, ridiculous tale after the other, compensating for the low voice he kept with sweeping gestures and exaggerated expressions. Soon René was pressing his hand against his mouth, his whole body shaking with the laughter he desperately fought to hold in.

And then he froze.

His smile faltered and slowly disappeared as something behind Nicolas caught his eyes. Nicolas turned, following his gaze.

They were standing in front of a large painting. The canvas was populated by a crowd of figures, faces and bodies contorted by the pain of grief. In the centre, a male figure, a warrior, cradling the body of his fallen companion, face twisted into a mask of anguish.

‘Achilles and Patroclus.’ René whispered.

Nicolas nodded. He waited for his friend to turn away and move on, but he seemed to be hypnotised by the painting. They stood there in silence for a long while, before René finally spoke again.

‘I envy him, in a way.’

‘Who? I cannot for the life of me think of a single enviable character in that story.’

‘Patroclus. How much Achilles loved him, unashamed. He was no dirty little secret.’

It took the both of them a moment to fully realise what he just said. René, scrambling to save face, blushing so fiercely it was visible even in the dim light of the museum, and rushed to continue:

‘I-I mean it’s a touching story no matter how you look at it, I mean, anyone would be grateful for such loyalty from a friend…’

Nicolas took a deep breath and, momentarily forgetting himself, laid a hand on René’s arm. The little engineer froze. Nicolas quickly released him.

‘I understand.’

René peered up at him from under his curls.

‘Do you? Truly?’

Blood was rushing into Nicolas’ face and he suddenly felt very light and somehow detached from his body, as if he was watching the conversation from afar. Still, his friend laid his soul bare before him, if only on accident, he had to know he was not alone.

‘I do. I understand what you meant.’

René kept his big eyes fixed on him for a moment then slowly, so slowly, reached out and laid his hand on his arm. Nicolas’ heart leapt to his throat – carefully he raised his own had and covered René’s with it. They held the connection for a second before René stepped back. He cleared his throat.

‘I must be going now, I have some plans I need to double check. Thank you for this afternoon.’

‘My pleasure’ said Nicolas, eyes fixed on his toes ‘See you back at our café?’

‘Yes. Yes, certainly.’

***

Nicolas wondered if things will change between them and indeed, there was a small but noticable shift in their interactions. Nothing dramatic – unlike Augustin, Nicolas still was not allowed to just walk up to René and cuddle him. Though of course he never tried. Still, at least René would now touch him every now and then. Nothing too personal or overly familiar, rather he simply did not go out of his way anymore to avoid contact. Nicolas tried a little bit of flirting but as the engineer did not respond – or even seemed to notice his attempts – he soon ceased.

It was now July, and Nicolas was in the middle of revising his latest chapter (or more precisely re-arranging the bookshelves while thinking very hard about how he should be revising said chapter) when the knock came. He left the bookshelf somewhat begrudgingly – he was hard at work, creating, how dare people hinder his genius! – and went to answer it, grumbling all the way. He schooled his features into what he hoped was a polite but slightly haughty expression and he opened the door.

The corridor was empty.

Nicolas rolled his eyes – was the half a minute it took him to get to the door truly too long a wait for his visitor? He was about to retreat when he noticed a sheet of paper at his feet. A message then? A prank? A strongly worded appeal from his editor? It turned out to be neither. It was a poem. It was not written in pen, but in letters carefully cut out from a newspaper and glued to a sheet.

TO THE LOVE I DARE NOT NAME

FROM THE SHADOWS I SING YOUR PRAISES SCRAMBLING IN VAIN FOR THE RIGHT PHRASES YOU ARE ROUND AND WARM LIKE THE SUN IN JUNE THE COPPER OF YOUR HAIR IS THE CAUSE OF MY DESPAIRE

HAVE MERCY ON ME, O MUSE

He read it – and read it again. And again. It seemed to be a sincere if terrible love poem. Nicolas tugged at his beard. Was this dedicated to him? The mention of the subject’s bodily proportions and hair colour suggested so, but he was still uncertain. Humming lightly, he folded up the paper and got back to work. He resolved to show the strange little letter to his friends and thought nothing of it for the rest of the day.

When he did in fact pull the sheet out on their next get-together, the reaction of the group was, in the mildest possible terms, explosive. Alain ripped the letter out of his hand and studied it for several minutes, muttering to himself all the way through, before he was forced to relinquish it to a nagging Augustin, and then to Yves. René, reserved as ever, did not attempt to grab for the page, but followed the proceedings with eager eyes.

‘Well then’ Nicolas said ‘What do you gentlemen make of it?’

‘Why, my dear fellow’ said Augustin, leaning back in his seat ‘It is quite obvious. You have a secret admirer!’

Nicolas propped his chin on his hand and laughed.

‘Well, there’s no debating I’m a right catch, any lady would agree I’m sure, but don’t you think it more likely that this would be a nervous amateur trying to show his work off? Maybe try and get a foot in the door of publishing through me?’

Yves waved a hand with a little huff of dismissal.

‘Quite unlikely. If this were a poet interested in getting his name known, surely he would have included just that: his name! No my dear, this is quite obviously a love-stricken if unusually daring and forward lady!’

‘A true little firebrand!’ Alain exclaimed.

René remained quiet. Nicolas searched his face with a slight flicker of hope for any sign that he might be the one behind it, but then dismissed the idea. He could not picture him resigning himself to such bold a move.

‘All right then’ he said, folding up the sheet ‘I suppose my best bet now is to wait and see.’

And see he did. The very next day, about the same time, the knock sounded again. Nicolas, hard at work on his novel (he was cleaning his windows), took some time to answer, so the mysterious visitor was long gone by the time he got to the door. In her – his? wake he left an elegant box of high-end pralines. Nicolas inspected the gift for a message, but found none.

Well then. This certainly seemed to underline the ‘secret admirer’ theory, opposed to the ‘hopeful amateur poet’. Smiling to himself, Nicolas plopped a piece into his mouth and retreated. Excitement was starting to bubble up in his belly – who could this be? Sure, he had his secret hopes for a certain engineer, but with all his loveable qualities, René just did not look like the type for grand romantic gestures. Who else then? Nicolas made a list of all the ladies and gentlemen he knew, but found it entirely unhelpful. He had half a mind to drop everything and go seek out Augustin, even though they were not meant to meet up that day, but decided against it. The group regularly met on Tuesday and Friday nights, sometimes on weekends, and it was only Wednesday. Let’s not rush anything, let’s wait and see what happens next!

Thursday brought him a nice set of steel-tipped pens, complete with ink, all tied up with a bow. Now Nicolas was all but crawling out of his skin with excitement and resolved to catch the person responsible in the act.

On Friday he was fully expecting the knock, but he made a fatal mistake. The weather turned damp and cold, so Nicolas decided to make himself a cup of tea as he waited. The problem was only that his visitor was a full hour early compared to the previous days, so he had a kettle full of boiling water in his hands when the knock came, and by the time he managed to carefully put it down without spilling any of it on himself, his mysterious suitor was gone again. In their wake they left a bouquet.

Nicolas snatched it up and inspected it excitedly. It was a nicely arranged collection of reds, blues and yellows. On a whim, Nicolas quickly averted his eyes. He was keen to find out what message might be coded in there in the flirty language of flowers, but he wanted to decipher it in the presence of his friends. He placed the bouquet in a vase and resolved not to look at it for the rest of the day.

It was an excruciating exercise in temperance and patience and he came close to failing several times, sneaking glances at it every now and then, but miraculously he persisted. Still, it felt like the longest day of his life. He tried to proceed with his writing, but his thought kept floating back to the mysterious gifts and the sound of footsteps fading in the hallway.

When the clock finally struck five he practically flew out the door and did not stop until he reached their café, the Poule Rouge. René was already there, nursing a cup of coffee at his usual seat. He nearly jumped out of his skin when Nicolas flung himself down beside him. He looked up – only be greeted by a mass of flowers shown in his face.

‘From your admirer?’ he asked around the clump of vegetation.

‘I’m assuming yes!’ said Nicolas, leaning in close ‘What do you think?’

René regarded him solemnly for a long moment, then looked down.

‘I think it’s pretty. It has happy colours. I think whoever gave it to you wanted you to be happy.’

Nicolas could feel his lips stretch into a grin. He was about to answer but Alain’s booming voice cut him off. The man entered with Yves on one arm, Augustin on the other. Nicolas held up the bouquet like a trophy.

‘Well, well, well’ said Alain as he slid into the seat across Nicolas and pressed a cup of wine into his hands ‘What have we here?’

The three newcomers – all experts in courtship and all the delicacies it involved – pulled the bouquet into the middle of the table and began to pour over it. Nicolas watched in excitement, but his enthusiasm began to falter as their faces fell. After a couple of minutes they sat back and exchanged some deeply confused glances.

Yves scratched the back of his head.

‘Well this… All right, let’s see. The good news is the cornflower, which means wealth and fortune, the yellow rose, which stands for joy and friendship and the blue iris for faith and hope. But we also have marigold for jealousy and yellow carnation for disappointment and rejection. Also red poppies which mean consolation. So. There’s that.’

Alain propped his chin on his hand.

‘It might not mean anything at all.’

‘No no no, let’s not give up on this so quickly’ said Augustin ‘The lady went out of her way to play this intricate game, surely there must be some sort of message in there. So what do we have? Wealth, friendship or joy, consolation, hope or faith but also jealousy and either disappointment or rejection. This to me speaks of someone who was for some reason disappointed in you, but who values your friendship more than her pride and has hope in repairing your relations. It’s simple!’

‘I don’t think that’s it, not at all’ Yves objected ‘Look at this closely! The poppies and the yellow carnations out-weight the rest – to me, that says the sender has been disappointed to the degree she wants to now part ways. She includes the rose, the iris and the cornflower as a reminder to why she started this game to begin with, but does not wish to continue.’

A heavy lump settled into Nicolas’ throat. Still, he tried to hide his disappointment, so he arranged his features into a smile and laughed.

‘Well, I suppose we shall see about that. We’ll find out if she truly wishes to quit before long – tomorrow at the latest. If the gifts cease I can assume the lady truly meant it and lost interest.’

Soon the topic was changed as Augustin brought up a play he was interested in seeing and the rest of the evening was spent with amicable chatter, though René excused himself early. He had not spoken a single word all evening and after a quick round of goodbyes he hurried away without explanation. As he retreated Nicolas could have sworn he had seen him rubbing at his face.

Nicolas for his part was crestfallen. The presence and chatter of his friends took away the edge of the blow but he was sad to see this interesting affaire come to an end. Not to mention he had no idea what he did wrong to put off his secret admirer this much. With one last sigh he downed his wine. Ah, well. It was nice while it lasted.

The next day he all but managed to put his disappointment out of his mind, though a shard of it was still lodged in his heart like a persistent thorn. He tried to concentrate on his work, failed, tried again, failed, gave up and went for a walk. He went all the way to the Jardin de Luxembourg in hopes of clearing his mind. He was in great need of that – he wrote himself into a corner and had no idea how to rescue his own heroine. Sadly the fragrant air of the park failed to deliver any flashes of inspiration, so with a heavy heart he returned to his flat.

He was almost through the door when a flash of red caught his eye.

A red rose was lying on his threshold. Nicolas carefully picked it up and turned it over in his hand. There was a note attached to it, composed in the same manner the very first poem was, of letters and words cut out from a newspaper.

I HAD NO IDEA FLOWERS MEANT THINGS. THIS IS WHAT I MEANT.

Nicolas stood there, rooted to the threshold for a long time, grinning.

Now he was almost certain of his mysterious admirer’s identity, but still, he was curious about the reactions of his friends. When he entered the tavern the company gathered that night he held aloft the flower like a banner of victory.

‘Confess, gentlemen’ he said ‘Which one of you tattled?’

The rest looked back at him with wide, all-too innocent eyes.

‘What makes you accuse us so?’ Alain asked in the high-pitched, affronted voice of a man who had carried the gossip over half of Paris already. Nicolas showed him the rose and the letter attached.

‘That doesn’t prove anything’ Yves muttered, though he too was reluctant to meet his eyes ‘Your lady may have learned of her mistake independent of our conversation yesterday.’

‘But in such short a notice? Gentlemen, if not someone you passed the news on to, I’m forced to believe it might be one of you!’

Yves and Alain protested loudly, Augustin did not comment, merely shook his head with an amused grin. René, Nicolas noted with some cautious hope, was beet red and refused to move his gaze from his drink.

***

The next week went by without further communication from his suitor. Nicolas was beginning to fear he might have scared him (…or maybe her) away.  He was close to despair when finally, on a rather wet, gloomy Saturday the tell-tale knock sounded again. Nicolas raced to catch him, but as usual, his visitor was quicker. He left a letter behind, this time written in ink but in all capital letters so Nicolas still could not recognise the handwriting.

DEAREST,

MEET ME AT THE PÈRE-LACHAISE, AT THÉODORE GÉRICAULT’S TOMB, ONE O’CLOCK IN THE AFTERNOON.

This time he did not wait for the agree-upon get-together, he flagged down a coach and raced all the way to Augustin’s lodgings. Luckily he found the man at home and, upon being let in, quickly pushed the letter into his hands.

‘Look at this!’

Contrary to his exuberant enthusiasm so far, Augustin frowned and scratched his head.

‘This could be very good or very bad news. All through this little adventure I had a feeling that all this is way too daring, shameless even, for a lady.’

Nicolas did not wish to draw unneeded attention to the fact that he was quite all right with the mysterious suitor being a man, so he merely hummed his agreement.

‘Still’ he said ‘What’s the worst that might happen?’

Augustin raised an eyebrow.

‘You could be ridiculed at best, robbed or even killed at worst. You will be in the middle of a graveyard. Secluded, with plenty of places for the members of a gang to hide.’

This gave Nicolas a pause.

‘None the less’ he finally said ‘I want to know who is behind this.’

‘At least permit me to go with you!’

Now it was Nicolas’ turn to frown and tug at his bear.

‘A kind offer, but I must decline. Actually…‘ he took a deep breath ‘I have a good idea who this might be, and in case I’m right, I do not want to compromise this person.’

Augustin chuckled lightly and swatted his arm.

‘A true gentleman! Very well then, but promise to be careful!’

Nicolas smiled and pressed his hand.

‘I promise!’

***

The graveyard was all but deserted – Nicolas came across a couple of elderly ladies, the sort that is a permanent fixture of cemeteries all over the world, but none of them paid any attention to him. Though he did ask for directions at the gate it still took him a long time to find Géricault’s grave in the dense labyrinth of tombs. When he finally did he found the scene deserted. Not a single sound, except for the distant murmur of the city beyond the graveyard’s walls. His stomach fell. Was all this an elaborate prank? All this for nothing? And the culprit would not even stick around to witness his humiliation?

He dejectedly kicked a pebble and was about to leave when there – just there behind the edge of the massive block of the monument – he spotter the rim of a top hat. In two quick strides he rounded the tomb.

René Giraud was standing there hunched over, dressed in his best dress coat and shiniest shoes. When Nicolas came to stand in front of him he made an attempt to raise his head and look him in the eye but the task proved too much for him. The rose clenched in his hand was trembling. He wordlessly held it out.

Warm fondness bubbled up in Nicolas’ chest. He yearned to pull René into a hug and never let him go again, but he knew better than to grab him without his consent. He took the professed rose and opened his arms. René shuffled closer, fisted Nicolas’ vest and hid his face in his chest. Slowly, carefully Nicolas completed the embrace. He took off his friend’s hat, set it and the rose aside and gently ran his fingers through his hair. René was trembling from head to toe – Nicolas could only imagine how much courage it must have taken him to go through with this plan. This courage evidently carried him to this point and no further. He looked ready to collapse on the spot. Nicolas held him tighter and began to rock him slowly, continuing to pet his hair.

They stood there for a long while, locked together in an embrace, gently swaying from side to side. Nicolas nuzzled René’s hair. The heart fluttering against his chest started to calm down a bit. Eventually René snuggled against him and spoke up.

‘I’m sorry about the first bouquet.’

‘Don’t be. I think it was beautiful, artificially assigned meanings be damned.’

René giggled and pulled back just enough to be able to rub the back of his neck. Not daring to initiate any other contact just yet, Nicolas quickly nuzzled his nose. René took a deep, shaky breath, latched on to Nicolas’ lapels and pecked him on the lips. Before Nicolas could react he ducked his head again.

Still carefully, as to not scare him away, Nicolas slid a finger under his chin. René allowed this and obediently tilted his head up at Nicolas’ gentle push. Emboldened, Nicolas cupped his cheeks and pressed their foreheads together. After a small pause he tilted his head to the side and kissed him. René’s lips were velvety soft and a little wet – he was clumsily pushing back against Nicolas, evidently unsure of what he was supposed to do. Nicolas slid his hands down onto his shoulders and moved on to kiss a line along his smooth cheeks and jaw. They broke apart, stepped back a bit – and dissolved in a fit of nervous giggles. Nicolas tried to stop but the laughter only intensified, relieved and yet slightly hysterical. Face burning, stomach flipping, Nicolas wiped at his wet eyes and swept René back into a tight embrace. René flung himself into his arms without hesitation. Nicolas smacked one more big, sloppy kiss on his cheek.

‘Sweet René’ he murmured ‘My sweet René.’

  *un chien = a dog