#prompt taken metaphorically

[mayblossomss]

Whumptober Day 27: Voiceless

Being the middle child was almost like being invisible. You weren't the oldest, who got to pick out their clothes without only being handed hand-me-downs, and were allowed to be held to no special standards. You weren't the youngest, who was the family's pride and joy, being excused from any punishment no matter the crime.

No, as the middle child, you were given the hand-me-downs and you couldn't buy new clothes unless you absolutely had nothing else to wear. You were treated as though you had no opinions of your own and were mere reflections of what your older and younger siblings wanted.

You didn't stand out from your athletic superstar brother, and you were an academic failure compared to your genius brother who skipped a grade while you were on the verge of failing yours.

You were always "Darrel Curtis' younger brother" and never "Sodapop Curtis, his own person, with a personality and hobbies and an entirely different story!" It was like he was defined by his brothers and nobody gave him a chance to introduce the real him. And it hurt, it really did.

Since Darry was so athletically talented, everybody assumed that Sodapop would be too. His parents enrolled him into sports like soccer, baseball, and cross country, all of which sports that Darry had done and excelled in. Soda was decent at them, no better than any other kid on the teams, but preferred to spend his practices chatting near the back with the other lazy kids. His parents stopped making him go after realizing it was a waste of money, and that focusing on their more gifted son would be a better use of that money.

Nobody asked him if there were any other sports he was interested in, because if they had, they would've found out that Soda loved badminton, and every time he went over to Two-Bit's, the boys would spend forever hitting the birdie back and forth.

If Ponyboy wanted to go watch a movie, or needed to head to the library to pick up a new book, Soda was the designated person to accompany him. Sodapop adored his brother, and would happily escort him to wherever he wanted to go, especially when he was younger, but sometimes it was annoying. Soda would have plans with Steve or Two-Bit, but without even asking him first, his parents would sign him up for babysitting duty. If he spoke against it, he was being a brat.

He was voiceless at the end of the day. Nobody listened to him,he may as well have been muted. Soda knew his family loved him, and he loved them too, but they didn't understand that he was his own person most of the time. They treated him like a shadow, one that followed exactly what they expected him to, and mimicked whatever they did.

Sodapop felt especially voiceless whenever an argument between his brothers would break out. It had always been like that, since Soda was thirteen, and Ponyboy discovered how easily he could get on Darry's nerves. They didn't fight too badly then, only an occasional squabble that always ended on a positive note, but ever since their parents died, their fighting became constant. Every week, Soda would sit on the couch, staring absently at the cartoons playing on the TV as Pony and Darry hollered at each other from the room across from him.

It was exhausting, and it took a lot of willpower to keep from blowing up. He was expected to see both of their sides and completely empathize with them, while disagreeing with the other.

Soda could see why they fought so much: Darry was stressed from having to go from a boy to a man within hours. He spent all day working, whether it be at work or at home doing chores, the last thing he needed was to constantly fret over Ponyboy. With Ponyboy, he was only fourteen-years-old and still trying to handle his grief. He was a teenager, of course he's both hormonal and ready to pick fights over every little thing. Neither of them were wrong to be prone to fighting.

Neither of them could stop and think about the other person's point of view, though, as they were very stubborn. If Darry paused and thought about the fact that Pony was trying his best to accommodate to Darry's authority shift, and if Pony stopped to think about all of Darry's stresses, maybe the two of them could tone down the bickering.

Soda tried explaining it to them, but it went right through one ear and out the other one, as always. His words were passionate, but they were weak to his brothers' hard heads.

On one particular morning, Soda wasn't woken up by birds singing outside his window, but by screaming coming from the kitchen. A part of him wanted to roll over and shove his pillow over his head, but ultimately, he pushed himself out of bed, threw on a shirt, and walked to the kitchen. There, Ponyboy was screaming away, rolling his eyes and crossing his arms like a kid. Darry was a few feet away from him, eyes narrowed and jaw tense as he yelled back, their voices overlapping and coming out unintelligible.

"What's going on?" Soda asked, his voice drowned out by their fighting, so he repeated himself with more force. "What's happening?"

Ponyboy noticed him, shoulders slumping and a hint of relief flashing through his eyes. "Soda! Tell Darry he's being unreasonable!"

"What's this about?" Sodapop questioned tiredly, looking from Darry to Ponyboy.

Darry turned to him, pinching the bridge of his nose and sighing. "Ponyboy got a B- on his history test even though I told him to study. What did he do instead? Went to the damn movies with Dally and Johnny!"

"It's one B-, Darry! What's the big deal?"

"What's the big deal?" Darry scoffed. "Soda, tell him what the big deal is, since it doesn't seem to get through his skull any other way!"

Soda's body tensed as their fighting continued. They asked him to pick sides, assuming he'd pick their own, but it wasn't fair to him. They were both right and they were both wrong. How can they make him pick when there wasn't a correct answer? If he picked Darry, Ponyboy would be upset with him all day, but if he picked Ponyboy, Darry would be mad.

"Why don't you both stop yelling?" Soda suggested, taking a slow step toward them. "Can't we talk about this rationally?"

They ignored him, their voices only increasing in volume. It got to the point where they were practically chest-to-chest, screaming in each other's face. One of these days, one of them were going to take their fighting too far, and Soda dreaded it, knowing he'd have to stand witness to it, but ultimately be helpless. Tears of frustration began to brew behind his eyes, but he pushed them down and kept trying to speak.

It was pointless. Soda's pleas for them to quiet down fell deaf ears. After a few more minutes of it, he couldn't take it anymore. He crept away from them, heading for the front door. Neither of them noticed, after all, he may as well have been invisible, his voice silenced by their refusal to acknowledge him.

As always.

[silhouettecrow]

365 Days of Writing Prompts: Day 272

Adjective: Metallic

Noun: Waterfall

Definitions for those who need/want them:

Metallic: relating to or resembling metal or metals; (of sound) resembling that produced by metal objects striking each other, or sharp and ringing; (of a person's voice) emanating or as if emanating via an electronic medium; having the sheen or luster of metal

Waterfall: a cascade of water falling from a height, formed when a river or stream flows over a precipice or steep incline

[comfortless]

Hello! This is the Frankenstein anon back with more praise and another prompt that you might like. Again you are amazing and everyone you come out with stuff, I weep for joy! Please continue what you are doing because it is absolute art✨

Okay onto the prompt. So lately tiktok has been putting onto this telenova drama called Hilda Furcão which is pretty much this priest and prostitute fall in love but due to societal pressures, cannot be together. The YEARNING in this show is amazing and I can’t help but think of Priest Konig in this situation. Imagine he falls in love with reader who works at a brothel but because he’s a churchly man, he’s fighting demons in his head (and down yonder) cuz he YEARNS for her but the lord says no🥴

Please keep doing what you’re doing and I’m constantly cheering you on with your work! ❤️

In the Arms of Flowers

content/warnings: 18+. minors do not interact. pining, lots of talk of religion/silly metaphors, fluff, ridiculous attempts at courtship from both, dark (if you squint), implied cyber stalking, violence/murder, minor character death, some angst, sexual violence (not done by König), König becomes horribly obsessed and reader is fine with it, virgin!König-> oral (both receiving) piv smut.

wc: 11k.

There’s a garden in the churchyard, one that’s always been, even before his vows were taken and the cassock was pulled around his shoulders.

It’s the very place that the arching den window in the clergy house faces out towards, and the very place that an angel descends from Heaven to stalk through night after night.

Even when the thunder clamors and rolls to light up the sky above, the pretty thing is there, kneeling amongst the blooming lilies. A listless sort of purity swallows over her, bathes her in the white of petals and the bright illumination of each bolt of lightning above, arcs a halo over her head like a proper mirage.

The whole town knows these doors remain open, but never does she even look toward the church or the home of holy men at all: only the flowers. The lilies and carnations seemed to be her favorite to haunt, weaving through the petals as they sway for her in breezes like whispers from the pouting lips of cherubim.

He’s prayed for this lost soul many times already; clutched the rosary between his fingers and whispered to the Lord to protect her, to heal whatever aches, to bring her wandering feet into the chapel one of these days. But as most lilies, this one’s beauty is gone away by mid-morning.

Tonight, he wills himself to bring her in for prayer and refuge from the coming rain. Its been a long time coming, and regrettably he’s hesitated at every other opportunity. Nothing’s changed, the scene was so commonplace even the others have commented on it prior.

Maybe he hallucinates her holiness; the halo has become made up of fallen petals now as they arch over the crown of her head where she’s found sprawled out amongst them. She raises herself to sit upright, dusts the dirt from her knees and offers a wary glance with each step he takes until his soles halt in soil that would soon be mire.

“I’m sorry. I’ll leave,” the angel breathes out with her eyes darting from his collar down to rest at the expanse of short blades of grass between them. “I don’t mean to cause you any trouble.”

She doesn’t meet the concern in his eyes, and König is no stranger to sin. To the shame and grief that he’s absolved from far worse than her in the stuffy wooden confessional.

“You’re welcome to stay.” A silent prayer rests there in his breath — please stay, though even he wasn’t certain as to why there’s a demand stirring in the pit of his stomach for this woman clad in a dirtied white dress.

She smiles then, gazes right up at him in such a way that immediately sparks something misplaced, something tucked away beneath studying scripture and kneeling before the wooden altar. A sin of the flesh, a heated poker jabbing at both his heart and his loins.

“No, I’m okay,” she assures with a slight dip of her head, already taking steps back to dart away, back to whichever gilded little nest of baubles and starlight she took flight from. “I was just heading home.”

And that’s it. He doesn’t plead for her to come inside, the offer has been laid out already. It’s not his job to force a belief that one doesn’t want, only lend a kindness and a cushioned pew, advice for the lost and a choir for bleating lambs.

He bids her goodbye and walks back to the clergy house, ignoring the strange looks of his peers as they all prepare to bed down after a nightly prayer. It’s rare to smile here, when sacred words are passed from the wrinkled, cracked lips of his seniors. But König does smile, the grin is as bright as the seconds of white lighting up the sky in intervals as he silently thanks God for such a sweet vision amidst such darkness.

The fixation does not falter for the following three nights. She doesn’t return to the churchyard to whisper secrets to the blooms, but the angel weighs on his mind so heavily that König finds himself convinced that she must have been his calling, a soul that he would assuredly save.

His sermons now lack their passion. The parishioners come to him with weighty hearts and misery in their eyes, but bless him all the same, even when he’s distant. Away with the fairies, some would say. He can’t help but wonder when one such service rolls to a closing prayer if whoever conjured such words had also been in the presence of a seraph.

“Do you need prayer?,” one of his fellow priests asks as the flock trickles out, worry clear in the wrinkles laden beneath this eyes and the way his lips draw down before pressing thin. “You don’t seem to be sleeping well.”

And König regrets the words he speaks next, when he describes the woman from the flowers in detail greater than necessary: how her eyes seemed so soft, her smile fragile, and her body language more docile than that of even a lamb. He mentions the dirty dress, the way she seemed to be trying to escape something yet refused the shelter he offered.

The other priest nods and sighs, his eyes squeezing shut in thought, and though König has not feared a scolding since he abandoned home nearly two decades prior, the way the ordinarily calm priest seems so frustrated by this sends a swell of fluttering anxiety beneath his ribcage.

“The woman you describe is a temptress,” his elder explains coldly. His sharp, dark eyes rest on König’s face as though the disparity in their height does not exist at all. “Best to let her be, she does not want our help. Leave it alone.”

“Ja. Verstanden.”

The warning is enough to dull the buzzing in his chest, the mush that’s been made up of his head until he sees her again.

The bakery in town regularly makes donations of pastries and thick loaves of bread for church goingson. It isn’t regular that he’s been asked to pick them up; the eldest of the priests usually does so, some blood relation to the owners that König has never cared enough to ask about. The old man never did well in the summer months, though, far too frail now to bear the heat snaking over his pale skin and leaving burns.

With the mistake of rambling onward about this perturbing fascination still grating at his mind, he doesn’t hesitate to volunteer, to take the old truck and step away from the stained glass and crucifixes for a brief outing. A moment of respite.

There’s a complimentary mug of coffee presented across the expanse of the counter when the cashier greets him with a smile so broad it seems faked.

König’s fingers twitch when he grasps at the handle; the uncertainty was something he had sworn he would outgrow one day with God’s healing, but it never seemed to stray far from him. It rests over the back of his neck like a feeding vampire when he takes his first sip, one that burns his tongue and stings at his eyes when he notices the woman seated at a table in the corner.

It’s her: temptation and fate packaged up in a loose fitting sweater that covers the pulse in her neck and a short skirt.

She holds her phone, not the mug stationed before her, staring down at the thing with the most somber expression he’s ever seen on a lady before. She taps her thumbs at the screen, talking to someone, but there’s a loneliness in her expression apparent like the rust on the old truck parked outside.

Poor little thing.

She glances up when his staring is detected, confusion stripped bare upon her with a pinched brow and a slack jaw. Then, follows realization and she offers the same smile she did that night, some seventy or so hours prior.

“Morning, Father.”

There’s not a fractal within König that wants to make the sweet spirit uncomfortable, but each step he takes towards her table seems to make her shoulders tense. She knows that he knows, sees that sympathetic look in his eye and hates it.

Maybe even hates him for the divinity he wears in the sable cloth pulled over his shoulders.

That doesn’t stop his approach.

König sits across from her with shaking hands and a forced smile like the one the cashier wears, drops his mug onto the table and offers her his hand. Fingers bending to graze the palm as though beckoning a frightened animal when it’s he who feels most afraid.

The angel merely eyes him cautiously for a moment before she takes the cup into both of her hands and gives him a fragile huff, dismissing his attempt to pray for her soul. Again. Yet, the sting he feels is not from a lack of a starved savior complex being satisfied, only… that he has yet to touch her somehow. That sudden thought stifles him in full.

But angels are nothing if not merciful and loving; she picks up on his dejection and speaks again in his place.

“How are the carnations?”

“Hm?”

“The flowers in the garden… the red ones,” she elaborates with a soft laugh, hides it behind the rim of her cup when it’s raised for her to take a sip. Her mouth looks soft, compelling, and he’s staring again. “I like them the most.”

He knows he should stop this, that what’s become of an innocent meeting has left him feeling anything but. There’s a howling chasm in place of the heart of a worthy devotee. She’s nothing like the women who frequent the church — the only other women he sees. Brighter at best and alluring at the worst.

“I thought the lilies were your favorite…” It’s unsuited for a priest and a man so tall and broad to sound so breakable, but his voice only comes in an hurried breath, embarrassed and small.

She shakes her head, tousles her hair in the process. “I like all of them. The ones at your church grow prettiest.”

“I see…”

The woman gives him an expectant look, as if prompting him to speak more, before her phone chimes and the air seems to shift from tentative yet sweet to something vast and cold. She doesn’t seem eager to be interrupted in such a way, either; her expression falls from that subtle playfulness to something akin to a regretful acceptance.

She stands from her seat abruptly and takes a step towards the door. “I have something I need to take care of.”

God gives and takes away.

“I can bring you some,” he offers, winding in the too-small wooden chair to face her. Too late to reel in the flirtatious nature of such an offering, too late to bite his tongue and remember the vows he had taken. The burden upon his heart seems far more pressing than any words from an old book. “Carnations and lilies… some of the others, too.”

The woman almost seems shy when she glances over her shoulder and offers him the most imperceptible nod. “Yeah, sure… I’ll see you around.”

His angel leaves him to rot in thought at that lonely table, in this tiny bakery. He does not think to repent for the way his temperature and pulse spiked in her presence, for the way he takes her empty cup and stuffs it into one of the boxes of baked goods to collect later.

Riding back to the church is dreadful, because she’s already fastened to his heart like a ribbon on a pretty bouquet. He’ll ask the sisters from the cloister to clip flowers for him, tie them up in a lace that will leave her face warmed and lips pouting.

When the people in the church have their fill of sweets and bread, König tells a lie, maybe several.

He claims he doesn’t know why that innocuous porcelain thing is resting where food once had, doesn’t know why the baker would have stuffed that in there too. He takes it to his room and claims that he would return it come morning.

The bed has always felt far too small for him alone, but he pictures her there with him, sat upon his lap when he brings the cup up to his lips with his eyes closed.

It’s cold and hard, difficult to imagine it to be a kiss at all, but he pretends her lips are upon him, eager and willing. It takes only rolling his tongue back to flick over itself, envisioning it being her own, for him to feel his trousers grow too tight. He doesn’t touch himself. He can’t bear the thought of it, not with the cross staring down at him from the far wall.

And finally, regret comes.

Shame, too, because König is aware he’s become a bit of a creep; enchanting himself with second hand kisses whilst his angel takes another man to bed. A man undeserving, but… he could be. He was deserving enough to become a holy man, surely she could see he was worthy of her as well.

The bed is too small even when he curls into himself and pulls the blanket up passed his eyes. Sleep is too skittish to come for him, even when he prays in a whisper to be absolved of his lust.

The dreams are only filled with images of an angel trapped in a rose bush, the thorns sinking into her wings until blood is drawn, but still she smiles. She reaches toward him with shaky limbs, whispers something so dreadfully mournful he knows to his very soul that she is his purpose alone.

It’s what wakes him in a fit, compels him to venture out through the yard with a heart set on seeking guidance. There are moonbeams above and animal calls from the surrounding trees. All of God’s creations are in perfect, dreamy harmony.

Why couldn’t he be the same? Always the outsider in one way or another; always the sore thumb rather than the loving green. Desolation is an art, a skill he’s learned to hide back: clenched teeth to still a wrathful tongue and a layer of muscle to guard that wounded thing in his chest.

There is no better peace than the quiet of the church in the late hour. Moonlight through stained glass and empty, antique seats that would make the worldly whip out their phones to snap pictures in a heartbeat. The doors are always open, for the sinners and the devoted alike, though the confessional is rarely touched when there would be no saint awake set on absolving.

Perhaps that’s why he takes to the booth he needs to make himself smaller to fit into: one shoulder and one foot first, then the next set. He’s never cared for it, left it to the better and smaller. The sound just past the thin partition rattles him. It isn’t the creaking of wood below his feet, but something softer. A weak sniffle. A cry from the other side.

“I’ll leave in a moment,” comes a voice, broken from tears and so horribly sad that the usual script entirely fails him. He recognizes the voice, though a bit warbled now. The voice that would make the choir pause, an angel’s sweet tone.

“Wait… no. You can stay. I’m hiding, too.” A breathy laugh comes forced and misplaced. Priest or not, König has never been the best at consoling anyone, let alone one so far above him.

“I’m not hiding,” she tries to sound braver now. He can imagine her chin tilted forward and that sweet smile trying it’s damndest to paint its way across her face. “But… why are you?”

“Don’t know.”

“Who are you?” The crying seems to have ceased entirely for now. Clearly whatever seemed to ail her could be remedied by her own curiosity. A cute, unorthodox little thing.

“König.” It served well enough as a confirmation name when he could not settle on one of the saints. King of them all, one of the other saved men had said in jest. Ironic, now.

“I like your voice, König,” she murmurs, deliberately testing the pronunciation on her tongue in such an alluring way that a small shiver runs its way down his spine.

“Danke… and you?”

God forgive him, he doesn’t even try. Doesn’t try to bring shame or guilt, read her scripture or pray for her soul. He only listens in silence when she tells him her name, beautiful and charming as he had expected it to be. The woman then tells him of her work, of the motel she ventures to at night… the troubles with money and even vaguely, some of the men she suffers through. This had been a bad night. Strange how a singular hour could have broken someone down to such a desperation to open up, to grasp for what small comfort they could receive.

But she came for him.

She must have hoped to see him.

He thanks his god for that.

— — —

“I bought a phone.”

“I see that.” Her fingers graze over the stems of the flowers, cleanly cut by hands more patient and stable than König’s own.

The angel isn’t looking up at him, not this time. There isn’t even a smile on her face when she cradles the bouquet close to her chest, petting over it where she sits upon the motel bed wearing nothing but some strappy, barely-there lingerie. Pure white with pink lace over the cups of her bra where her breasts swell with each shaky intake of breath.

In this week apart, he’s kept the device hidden in a loose pocket and spent many a night scouring the seediest websites looking for a hint of a body that may belong to her in this very area. Only one seemed to match. The messages exchanged were about hours and pricing, establishing a location, and terms he didn’t quite understand. He didn’t harp on the small details, but finding her messages to be so rigid and dry did surprise him. There were no cute hearts or winking emojis, it all felt horribly transactional.

Priests don’t make a lot of money, it all goes back to the church, but he’s thieved enough from the offering bowls to have a night with her alone. As disheartening as the lack of flirtations seemed, he hoped not to squander whatever opportunity this outing proved to be.

The balaclava covering his face wasn’t purchased with the intention of making her nervous, only… shielding himself from curious stares. The whole town knows his face, his name, the words he speaks so resolutely to his flock. Just as well as they know of who she is, what she does.

Even this knitted shield couldn’t hide himself from her, though. The very moment he entered this drab, modestly decorated room with flowers in hand she had only looked further lost.

“You look very pretty,” he tries as he removes the mask and drops it to the floor, kneels just a hair from where her feet dangle from the bed. “I’m glad that I found you.”

“Thank you.”

The flowers are placed on the side table, petals falling down to the thin carpet below. A cascade of red like blood and white like doves feathers. Purity and a wound in one.

The poor thing looks scorned when she does give him a glance then, but she forces herself into a position that stokes a hellish, unnatural flame within him. Her thighs part as her hands rest on the cups of her bra, pushing the thin fabric down to reveal areola, her soft nipples, sights that he had never seen before.

“You shouldn’t even be here, König,” the lady warns when his gaze sweeps over the innocent flesh laid bare before him. The angel isn’t even wet. Her panties are pristine over her womanhood, and it dawns on him that… she wouldn’t risk what he was even for the generous donation he had given.

“I don’t want to ruin you.”

But she should. Crumble him into salt, cast him away with the wind. Should.

She sees something holy in him too… albeit, not in the way that he would like for her to.

He swallows hard as he rises to his feet and sits next to her. The hands that were so accustomed to being joined in prayer find her breasts now with tentative touches, a curious squeeze, until he wills himself to readjust the fabric and conceal her properly.

“Ja, but… I just wanted to visit you.”

“You don’t need to pay me just to see me.”

The tension in the room finally begins to dissolve. Not by much, but when she sighs something that sounds like amusement, the restless throbbing of his heart does begin to settle.

As much as he would like to take her like some beast in rut, lay some claim to her in bursts of white seed, he doesn’t even know where to begin. Each curve of her body looks as though it would feel like a miracle beneath his palm, under his tongue.

It’s just that nothing is going to happen, not here, not now that he’s brought a prostitute flowers and revealed who he was to her. She sees something pitiful, where he only sees someone to love.

He can’t tell her that he dreams of her, that he views her in the same way he views his god. That would only scare her away, lead her to believe he’s a lunatic rather than a man only just now having his first taste of love.

“Then could I see you every night? So that you don’t have to…” His head dips, because no matter how he tries he knows any word he says is foolish.

This isn’t something she’s doing because it is fun for her; it’s a job just like his own. Flesh or words spoken… did it even matter? And yet, König could feel a malicious, gnawing envy at the thought of a bolder man taking his place tomorrow evening. That man wouldn’t hesitate to peel away her pretty lingerie and fuck her, shove his tongue into her mouth while his cock sat between her legs as if it belonged there.

“König,” she sighs next to him, pityingly.

His jaw tenses as his fingers curl into his palms. The hopelessness of it all crashes down around him as though sung out from the loudest of the choir. He hardly notices when she presses her head against his shoulder, only realizes how close she’s come to him when her hand curls over one of his own.

“You’re the strangest man I’ve ever met.” It’s not a compliment but it feels like one when she laughs like that, airy and soft. “The sweetest one, too.”

He smells her perfume from this close, something scented like fruit or maybe maple, sap-sticky and saccharine. All of her flesh feels warm against the plain t-shirt he wears, a warmth he would give anything to dive into, but not without her explicit command. A powerful seraph in the form of one painfully cute, gentle lady. If anyone could see what he saw now, they too would forsake those holy books and eat from her open palm instead.

“I don’t know what to do,” he confesses, a peculiar bitterness hanging on his tongue.

“How about a walk?”

He pulls the balaclava over his face again when they make their way out into the quiet, darkened street. Hand in hand. It’s not from shame, but a necessity, perhaps, because his pale face has only flowered into a lasting pink since laying eyes upon her on that mattress, sprawled out and waiting. The blush only deepens with every squeeze she blesses him with, every hushed word spoken as she tells him about her favorite places.

She’s dressed in the same white dress they had initially met in, now clean of the dirt from flower beds. Somehow even more radiant at this close, too.

The churchyard and the clergy house are nothing in comparison to the way the rest of the town feels when the moon rises. It’s a world all their own, a place where no one looks at her as if she were a simple harlot, but a queen amongst chipping wood and tarmac. There’s even a skip in her step as she walks ahead of him, her hips swaying beneath her skirt. All because there’s no one here but she and her most loyal and only acolyte.

He wills himself out of her grasp when they cross the threshold into the cemetery. The darkness there is enough to pull him back to earth; thoughts of how easily swayed he’s been linger in the back of his mind. The want doesn’t even begin to reel back its claws, but the guilt does sink its pearly fangs in alongside it.

“I get it. You don’t want to be seen with me,” she says a small step away, drawing her hand up to her chest. It’s the saddest she’s ever looked, and he doesn’t have the words to further explain that he has no god damn idea what he’s doing: here, with her, in the midst of something that feels so normal even though it should not.

“Nein! That’s not—“

“You don’t want to touch me. You barely talk…”

Because the words don’t come easy. Because he’s never felt such an overbearing devotion to anyone, anything apart from what he prays to. How could she… this woman that shared in such loneliness with him not see him for what he was, not see him in the way that he sees her?

“You’re misunderstanding.”

“You just want to… to convert me, is that right?,” she hisses, sounding more shaken up than he had ever hoped to hear.

All hesitation had to be swallowed back.

There was no other option. He could feel her slipping away, a pain he wasn’t prepared to face.

God gives and takes away, but König refuses to let go.

His eyes narrow, his breath halts entirely, and he cups her face in his hands as gently as he can. The distance between them feels like miles as he lowers his head to kiss her through the knit barrier. It’s flighty and petrifying on his side… he feels cold sweat wet his brow when the warmth of her pulls through.

She could hit him, spit her curses like a proper witch, and he would only fall to her feet and kiss her heels. But… she does none of those things. Whatever pain was brewing here is ripped away with the night breeze.

Her hands peel away the balaclava, discard it somewhere into the tall grass where it wouldn’t be found, and she grants him his first, proper kiss.

With only the cracked headstones and cemetery angels watching, what once was tentative becomes a full indulgence. König samples from her mouth as though it weeps honey when the gentle peck graduates to a parting of lips. His hands run down the length of her sides as she grasps at his shirt, they pull her in close until her chest meets his own and two pairs of eyelids flutter.

She feels more heavenly than his imagination could have prepared him for, her tongue hotter and her sounds… the soft sighs and shaky murmurs of approval that fill him with both a maddening love and an urge to burn everything away if only it would keep her safe and near.

The world ceases to be entirely, cast down with Lucifer to the sulfur and smoke. Her lips remain parted when they break apart, a haze over her eyes reflecting the veil clouding his own irises.

Was a kiss really forsaking his vows? Was that really such a painful treachery? No… no it shouldn’t be. The issue remains that he can not see her as just some woman. Something as small as this could consume him entirely.

The night is spent with an abundance of those shared kisses when they return to the motel. Tentative touches, too. He’s never held a woman, not in the way he gets to hold her then. She presses tightly to him, her back to his chest with her hand keeping his own in place over her middle. She’s so soft, swans down plush and smooth as silk ribbon.

There is mint lingering on her breath each time she speaks. No talk of her work, only… she confesses how she had feared him so initially, how she worried that a holy man stepping into her life would only be further condemnation: an angel terrified by a devil that does not exist at all.

He knows he’s lost a part of himself here when he tells her he wishes to meet with her again, that if the church is no longer the place she fancies to walk, he’ll meet her amongst the dead again and again when the old clergymen sleep. Those promises he had reserved solely for God turn on themselves now, when he reveres the idol he shares this bed with.

Though her hips press back against his groin when his fingers crawl up to her sternum, and the desire strikes up within him, his cock remains untouched here. He doesn’t whisper a prayer for forgiveness into her hair when he grows hard, just tucks her in closer and smiles where his head rests atop her own.

It’s the closest to bliss he’s ever felt.

— — —

“You weren’t here for morning prayer.” The voice isn’t accusatory, just observant. The nightly prayers were missed too, though a reprieve is granted by way of those remaining unmentioned.

But the guilt does eat at König when he sees the concern in this man’s eyes, splinters at his very soul until he asks in a fragile voice if he can speak to the old priest in the confessional.

Everything here feels much too small and the booth is more or less the same. The wood closes in around him, bathes him in a blackness that even the glow of candlelight within these walls can not reach. The partition separating them does not help bolster courage, it only leaves him feeling more alone.

The clergyman listens in silence as König confesses that he has become weak. He does not mention the lady of the night, but there’s no need to at all: finding himself so captivated with a woman that he considered breaking every promise to the higher power was bad enough. He does not mention how he’s considered pleasuring himself, touching her too… only that they shared a night together embraced, counts the kisses that were exchanged with each digit of his hands.

There’s a pitying sigh from the other side before the man begins a lengthy prayer that König does join him in. With the “Amen” that follows, he’s told only to rid himself of those thoughts, to bury them with fasting and prayer. No more visits with this temptress, remain on the right path. The very, very simple things he must do to receive God’s forgiveness and favor once more.

“You are not a disappointment,” his elder reminds him with a small pat to his cheek and a smile. It’s more fatherly than the sparse affection he received from his own flesh and blood before coming here.

“Danke… thank you,” he breathes when his eyes bear the burden of tears.

God loves him and so do the sainted men.

But to never see her again would be worse than flagellation.

He chokes down the pain with more water when his stomach roars with hunger, hides the broken heart with smiles and prayer. Holy clothes feel heavier now. The money he stole to spend that night with her is returned to the collection pool in a week's time. The smartphone he had purchased is tossed out with the rest of the garbage in the bins. Even the cup is returned to the bakery after being rinsed in the sink.

Still not a part of him feels absolved from this torturous puppet show.

He thinks of her more than he ponders over his fear of Hell itself. God feels like an old memory as the days pass. He counts them in his daybook, an ‘X’ next to the dates he had gone without seeing her. Ten becomes twenty, and it becomes no less agonizing.

The prayers come easier, at least. He joins with his fellow men, kneels with his hands clasped before him, speaks such heartfelt words now that on more than one occasion he’s shared a healing tear or two with the other clergymen.

God is an old friend, yes, but that title is just a placeholder for the one his prayers are truly for. The little angel of the garden, the woman who has given him nothing at all but stole his heart all the same. Was she not the same as God from that aspect?

After a month, he’s finally given the privilege to stand before the altar and preach to the parishioners again. His sermon is directed by the other clergymen, a subtle admission of his own misdeeds as he guides the flock away from the sins of lust, of worldly pleasures that would steer them away from the right path.

Amidst the men and women crowding the pews sits a new face. She wears a hat, looking uncertain and skittish as a bunny amidst a pack of starved hounds beneath its curved brim. Her coat is tugged tightly around her where her hands grip to keep it closed and snug. No one is out to get her, not here, but there’s a purplish bruise on her neck. A sad stare trails up to meet his gaze when he stammers through the words of scripture.

Then, she smiles and his heart only feels full.

The sermon ends clumsily enough, but she waits for him in the center pew. He ensures the others have cleared out before he takes rigid steps toward her, where he sits a foot or so away on the bench; the feigned friendliness is only a front for the rapid beating of his heart and the way the blush upon his face paints up to his ears.

“I waited to walk with you… like you promised we would,” she says in place of a greeting. There’s no chiding in her tone, just curiosity. Gentle, like she’s speaking to a wounded bird, and perhaps that’s what he’s become: some big, ugly vulture. Holy in its love of everything from the sky to the rot down below.

“I’m sorry. I..,” he laments, grasping for an explanation that does not come.

“No, I understand. It’s alright, König.”

He knows he doesn’t deserve the gift of her redemption with how easily he turned away from her, from the blooming of… something. It was best not to use that word anymore.

“I just didn’t want to wait any longer. I missed you,” she huffs when the silence extends between them, breaks up the tension in the air but not what creeps over her own shoulders.

“Your bruise..” He wants to tell her of his sleepless nights, of how he pictures her in place of any old deity upon a throne in heaven, but settles for where his eyes linger on her neck.

No explanation is provided, but she lets him bring his fingers to it, ghost over where the purple melds to yellow in the shape of thick fingerprints. Add wrath to the ever growing list of his sins, because it’s all he feels amidst the envy and love.

His fingers dig into the plain back trousers when they rest upon his lap again, something foreign buzzes beneath his skin. The thought that any man would be brazen enough to lay hands upon his very own angel.. It’s unbelievable, unforgivable. His thoughts spiral so quickly it’s frightening. Timid things can become vicious, too, when backed into corners.

She manages to keep this growing storm in check when she stands and smooths her skirt, and offers to tidy up the church in an act of ‘repentance’.

The chores are simple and the sisters that linger far past service seem grateful to have her here as she takes up the broom and sweeps away at the dusty floor. They chatter away with her, take her hat and rest their hands over her shoulders when the cleaning winds to an end. His angel closes her eyes in prayer, doesn’t so much as open them to send him a knowing glance when they pray for her to find a good husband, someone who deserves such a lovely, godly woman.

She shares a meal with them while König keeps to himself with scripture in hand, mindlessly roving over the words even when his thoughts drift to the night of their first kiss.

He reasons that it’s only natural when she gives him such a display of acceptance too. It only solidifies what he knows already: this woman is no succubus— she has not crawled from the depths of Hell to drag him back with her, she’s only heavensent. An angel with a broken wing or a gaping wound somewhere… something to care for.

She’s encouraged to return by several fond voices. A few of the women even offer to walk her home, the daylight is dying and it’s dangerous for a lone lady out at night. The angel smiles at him then, sharing in the knowledge that she prefers the dark. Not the wicked things, but the peace and the beauty of the moon.

And she returns when he abstains from her.

She confides in him after each sermon that she does long to see him more often, but she likes the way he speaks of Mary Magdalene and the other women in scripture, pokes fun at the lilt to his voice when he notices her amidst the crowd of others. She says she likes him a lot before they part ways in the evenings, but she doesn’t tempt him with pouts or trailing fingers.

He thanks her for respecting his faith each time - despite being the one who crossed several boundaries initially. Though he keeps his hands to himself now, the looks he gives to her are pleading and soft. If she would pull him into a kiss now, he would let her have all of him. They could run away together, from the church, from her clients…

It’s on one of those cloudy Sundays that he does ask her if she’s stopped. He braves the look she gives him when his question comes as a hushed stutter. The comfort between them no longer feels tentative. It’s just there. Ever-present as the sky above.

“Well, you haven’t,” she whispers in response, propping her elbow up on the back of the pew. It’s as if she believes it could be so simple, but it’s not. Not for either of them.

The spiels of Heaven and Hell won’t reach her, so he doesn’t bother with those. She offers him an invitation with her words and the way she remains so open that it’s difficult not to take.

It’s been months since he touched her last and the love has only seemed to have grown. Strange. Perhaps he is as odd as she’s imagined him to be. There have been weddings in this very church, talks of long years of courtship, and even then what those men must have felt for their brides had to have paled in comparison to this. It had to.

“Tell me how to,” he breathes without any underlying thought. Saints don’t question their gods, they only serve them.

“You’re actually considering it…?”

“I might.”

The silence crowds around the bench while her fingers brush over the pages of a hymnal in repetition and his only inch closer to her clothed knee.

“You could meet me at the cemetery tonight… We could talk more there.”

“At night is probably not the best time.”

“Well, we’re friends, aren’t we?”

Friends don’t kiss. Friends don’t feel the way he feels now, or how he’s felt for the past few months. Platonic arrangements don’t require repentance. But, he bites his tongue and tilts his head back, lets it roll off the shoulder when his hand draws back to his lap. Another time.

Not where the Heavenly Father could see, if he were even watching any longer.

“… Tomorrow morning would be better.”

“Then I’ll come get you. Don’t you dare try and get out of it,” she chirps with the wildest glint of mirth alight in her eyes.

Stay.

If the church caught fire now and the rafters came to sink into the earth not a part of him would or could even care as long as she were just here. But he watches her go without a word of opposition, watches her nod toward the sisters standing out in the yard and clasp her hands in front of her, smiling to herself as though the world were made for just the two of them.

It stings during nightly prayer, and it burns when he lies in bed to wait for the morning. There are cicadas singing and footsteps on old wooden boards to remind him that he isn’t entirely alone, the scent of tobacco drifting from his window when another plaster saint hides beyond the veil of night to smoke. He doesn’t sleep, his eyes remain fixed upon the ceiling until the darkness of the room drifts to a dull gray with the sun’s slow rise.

And König does not wait for her to fetch him. Morning prayer dissolves into a mournful cry because there is no part of him that can fathom or interpret any of this. A trial should not feel like a blessing when he’s faced with it. God must be playing the stupidest game imaginable to test him with someone so lovable, so charming. Where the church leaves him feeling filthy with remorse, she purifies him with only a curl of her lips and starlight dancing in her eyes.

None of it is fair.

The guilt must be something obligatory, summoned up like puffs of dust from the floorboards. Worshiping idols is a sin, but it’s not the angel that feels like one, it’s the attention he pays to the cloud in his head that does. That’s the one that should go.

He grits through prayer with the other men, doesn’t chime in with unnecessary words of devotion this time. The coffee burns his tongue when he downs the mug and forgoes breakfast. There are dark rings beneath his eyes when he ventured to the washroom to brush his teeth, and there are whispers in the halls that the young priest must be either coming under a possession or God is preparing him for something. Something big and exciting. He ignores those and the stern glances from the little nuns in their robes, huffs something of a joke about a momentary sabbatical when he lumbers out of the walls of the church.

There are no new bruises this time, but König has the memory of the last ones stuck in his skull. A clear image of four small marks on the side of her neck, another on its opposite. Larger, more pronounced. Five marks from a hand that never belonged there. Kerosene and a match are what the thoughts running rampant in his head would look like to an outsider.

She tells him on the thin picnic blanket that she’s got a new client, that he gives her enough to where she doesn’t have to consider any others now. The man has a much stranger set of interests, ones she hadn’t delved into before him, but she’s merciful enough to withhold the details that would lead König to make the crucifixion seem a gentle affair.

She tells him because she wants him to be proud that it’s only one now. That she’s making some sort of progress for him. None of it is fair, and he knows without asking that she feels more akin to the way that he does than any of the holy men.

And still he can’t help but ask, “Do you love him?”

“Of course not,” comes her immediate response, and there’s a near imperceptible glare there, judging by the fire in her eyes. It’s cute… and he feels the world's ugliest fool for daring to ask for reassurance as though this relationship was any sort of normal. If it were even a relationship at all.

Their hands touch, reaching for the same flaky pastry in the basket she brought along and Heaven’s bells ring out in his ears when her gaze sweeps over him. Everything is sugared dough and right again. She offers him her lap in place of a pillow for his head when the clouds grow thick and gray above, feeds him from her own hand and runs her fingers across his face with the other.

“How did you get the sky in your eyes?,” she asks him, makes him blush so easily his heart stutters within his chest. He feels like a boy in her presence, and in a way, to her, maybe he even is just some inexperienced whelp nipping at her heels.

The angel does not judge, she softly rakes her nails behind his ear and neck until he shivers in her hold. His hair is next, a victim to her comfort as she tousles it between her fingers, strokes him like the smallest of kittens when he feels anything but.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he mutters, raising a hand to brush at her cheek. Warm as he expected, yet softer. There’s nothing wicked here, only a woman. A woman who loves him as he loves her.

“Your eyes are pretty… sad. I love them,” comes the sweet reply that reduces him to nothing but scattered feathers and a howling ache.

Did he even exist before now? Before her? This woman has filled him with such purpose, breathed new life into a stagnant soul. The church was a safe place for a man scorned by the rest of the world, but that blanket felt unnecessary now. He wanted to feel her hands move over him like this, smell the petals in her perfume, hear her voice speak to him, all of it. Forever.

“I think that I lose myself when I’m with you.”

“Does that hurt you?”

“Nein… I’m happier like this.” It’s the closest to a confession he can whisper.

And he returns to her, morning after morning König rushes through paying his dues to God and his men to return to her like this.

When the graveyard is silent and the dew still sticks to the blades of grass, her voice sounds sweeter somehow beneath the glow of the rising sun. The birds sing around them and often she pushes wildflowers into his hair, clasps her hands around his neck and teaches him to kiss.

Her tongue moves with grace, his is only a thing of greed. Each chaste peck is met with a hunger from somewhere so foggy and forgotten it never had a home at all, not before now. The angel needn’t show him where to rest his hands, they pry at every part of her: gentle brushes against her cheek and neck, kneading at her shoulders, further, further until he does finally starve off any lingering thought of what is good or evil to explore the curve of her lower back.

Most of the time words come in afterthought, once lips are wet and plush from this gentle devouring, after she steels herself from running her hands any further down than his stomach. He tells her in truth that he prays to her, not for. Not anymore.

The shadows cast from the aspens keep them tucked far away from sight, from God and his people alike. A temple for two without four walls to close them in. The only place on this earth that he’s ever found himself in perfect solace.

“I want to try something,” she breathes just when he’s prepared himself to leave. The tree at his back, knees parted, where she remains sat across from him. There’s nervousness there, not the fretful way she looks after a long night, nor the way she looked to him upon their first meetings. “Do you trust me?”

“Ja… more than anyone,” he reassures in a soft tone of voice, tipping her chin up with the tips of two fingers to further accentuate it. Her beauty and her uncertainty always strike a chord within him, a fire that never dwindles. When her eyes search his own, his breath catches.

He doesn’t say a word when she peels away the robes from the front of his trousers. Her hands linger on at the waistband for a moment, takes enough time to offer the gentlest peck to the side of his neck before continuing. It’s another first, being exposed to a woman like this when she lowers the band and has him shimmy backward to free his cock from his pants. Soft with shame or embarrassment, a concoction of other things he could not name, but the moment she looks up at him with pure delight he feels himself grow stiff.

“Wow… You’ve got a perfect cock,” she assesses with a laugh, finger running up the length of it as it twitches to life under her touch.

Scheisse.

He strokes her cheek with reverence as she bends down before him, watching him carefully through her eyelashes. Her warm breath drifts over his manhood and he’s already horribly aware that this would not last long. Another lesson, like the kisses, maybe. She could mold him any way that she likes and he would be pleased to play the role of her Adam.

The tongue isn’t what he anticipated. She flattens it against the tip, breathes a laugh when a keening whine is pulled from his throat. To see such an ugly, vulgar thing pressed to the beautiful mouth he’s kissed a dozen times now. It feels wrong. There’s no hesitation when her lips wrap around him. And then all of it— everything is just right. Every moment spent in this hazy, loving glow with her is right. If Hell were to come from this, then let it.

He can’t tear his eyes away from her, can’t bring himself to speak when he feels the way his cock hits the back of her throat, feels her swallow around him and make such a pleased noise as she wraps her fingers around the expanse she can not take.

Its pitiful, the way he must look: mouth agape, eyes lidded and heavy… He brings a hand to her hair, and runs his fingers through it as if she isn’t letting him fuck her mouth, but rather in the midst of something far holier, softer. Sacrilegious or divine. If God we’re watching, let him.

She pulls back a little, an obscene, wet sound in answer when her mouth is drawn back enough to merely press a kiss the tip, puffy lips glossy with drool. “Is this okay…? Not too much?”

“You are so pretty… it feels… just keep going.” His voice no longer possesses any feigned confidence, it begs like a wounded thing, chanting, “Bitte. Please…”

His hips tilt up when she parts her lips again, all trepidation be damned. This is something, something he’s aches for and never had the chance to feel. All of the ache, the longing to be diminished, to unite with the angel who fled Heaven for him. The cock pushes at her open mouth, smears thick beads of precum over her cheek, before she takes him in again with a delighted, muffled sound. Her soft mouth, the tongue that thoroughly laps at his shaft and follows her movements to wrap and suck at the head. Otherworldly, and… unfathomably bittersweet.

Her lips suction around him, the movements of her wrist only increasing, and with the second roll of his hips he feels his stomach begin to tense as pure heat rolls its way through him. A gentle coursing becomes a blinding inferno in mere seconds, and regrettably, instinctively, that hand so gently combing through her hair comes to snare it instead and force her down further.

His soft grunts and low pleading morph to something choked and almost agonized. It’s the purest rapture, a pleasure so absolute his eyes prick as he bows lower to cover over her as she swallows his devotion by mouth. The angel pants breathlessly when she pulls away with saliva and semen still stringing them together, cleansed by his thumb tracing over her lips, replaced so swiftly by his own mouth. The kiss is so chaste it feels misplaced here, but she nuzzles against him in this comedown from ecstasy, doesn’t even chastise how he lasted a mere two minutes.

And he vows, vows in the sweetness of her comfort and love that no one else will ever have this again.

— — —

Abstaining from meals during a fast is a struggle in and of itself; abstaining from her is some long-forgotten circle of Hell.

It’s not avoidance, but a necessity.

To think that his first sexual encounter would provoke days of concern, a wistful daydream about a future he never would have thought to have had otherwise. There was a desperate, starving desire to repent when he first arrived home after that, but nothing that a bottle of communion wine and a cold shower could not wash away. Repentance has lost its merit to him.

And after seven days, he’s perfectly aware of what he must do. To absolve them both from things where atonement seems far from a necessity at all. He folds his holy robes and leaves them on the bed in the room too small, set neatly next to his Bible. The rosary was the one thing that König could not bear to part with. The beads, red and shimmery, were chosen and strung together with him in mind. It’s slipped into the pocket of his jeans after the plain, black t-shirt is pulled over his head.

There’s a hammer in his gloved hand, and he doesn’t recall where he found it. Lying with its head rusted in the churchyard, perhaps half buried beneath the soil. Some of the other clergymen are talented at fixing things, but König’s never been very good with that. His first rosary was broken with a careless slip of his fingers, and he’s shattered more porcelain than he could count on accident.

Even communion wine can be a bit too strong, sometimes. Or maybe that’s only when the bottle’s been entirely downed. He’ll blame one of his betters when the stock is counted and one turns up missing, if they bother to come seek him out again at all.

The motel is dead at this hour, so late into the night. The few normal visitors have already been accounted for with watchful eyes, and the angel waits in one of the rooms on the second floor. He imagines the laces on her lingerie, the healing bruises on her throat, and that sweet expression upon her face. Or maybe that one was reserved solely for him. He prayed… no, he hoped so.

After tonight, there would be no more mercies for him. Or perhaps there would be an abundance, blessings from the vultures and the wolves and the maggots he would feed. New gods that were still far lesser than the angel who suffers men in sheets, but only looks to him with love.

And he doesn’t have to wait long, because the demon finds his way here with haste. Does he come here every night looking as proud as he does now? His attire even resonates with death, black with those white details, a costume that seems so fitting for one about to meet the very face he wears.

Killing someone isn’t so easy. Cain murdered his brother with a rock, described in such loose detail that one would think a playful throw led to Abel’s end. But it’s not so, not when the victim is hellbent on living.

The demon is smaller, but strong. He’s been in situations like this before, doesn’t have to spit the words to tell König so. They’re felt with each blow, with the sharp edge of the knife this bastard manages to dig into his side. Just barely, before it’s jerked out of his hand and thrown several paces away. The skittering across the tarmac is enough to chant doom.

There’s blood. More with the first strike of the hammer. It seemed so much easier in thought rather than practice. In his imaginings, the head would split with the first fall like an overripe apple, crumple in and the breath would leave the demon in an instant. Instead, it’s dozens. Blow after blow while the smaller man struggles below him.

A strange catharsis comes over him when his soul grows murky, when his hands are slick and the struggle comes to an abrupt end. The sobering only comes when he’s spent an hour driving down the most forested roads to find a place to dump the body. There’s no tact to it, laying a man to rest in shrubbery and dirt. With a head so collapsed it’s hard to think of this as a man at all. A corpse, something no longer simply human.

König does not pray for him when he rests the hammer in the deceased’s hands. Does not offer it more than a passing thought when he peels away back toward home. The deed is done and he’s free of those horrid burdens tainting his heart, keeping him held back on a short leash to divinity.

Like fate, she’s found out in the garden again after the bloodied shirt and stained gloves are discarded. The wound is patched with what he could find available, a hastily tied strip of gauze covers his side. A week or so at best until the gash would heal into an ugly, jagged scar. It seemed even a bastard devil’s blade couldn't be sharp enough to fell a Goliath when he’s caught by surprise and horny.

He feigns merely emptying the garbage into an outside bin, plays off the sting of the gash with a humble, lumbering gait. She beams up at him through lines of tears running down the sides of her face like small, silver streams beneath the darkened sky above.

He’s not a saint anymore, no… a guardian angel. The archangel Michael with his sword set ablaze and divinity scrawled into every scale of his chest plate. Something holy and glowing, unsullied and beautiful.

Like her.

“You’re crying…”

“Sorry… bad night. Client just ghosted me.”

No. This was good, couldn’t she see that? All the sleepless nights, the prayer and the constant, overwhelming longing. Everything he had suffered for her, and still she only comes to him with the thought of that horrible thing in mind.

“He’s dead.” Maybe it was just the fear of a loss of money. He had enough saved up someplace, and the collection pool would be beneficial enough to pivot them towards a new life. No church. No lonely motel. He had to test it, give her a trial and hope that she did not simply break.

The look that crosses her face is one of confusion… Then comes a strange twist of relief. Her mouth falls slightly agape and her arms squeeze slightly around his middle.

“We just spoke a few hours ago. How…?” Finally, suspicion.

Maybe he’s too drunk on playing God now to care, to realize this isn’t how a good man would have handled things. The only thing that holds any weight, that resonated with him any at all is the thought that he loves her, that he will protect her until his dying breath, pray at her feet and anything else she might ask.

That’s what pulls him to press her down against the bed of the truck, to kiss her with every lesson she’s blessed him with in mind. Tongue and teeth, fire and spit, she accepts all of it. She doesn’t beg him for an answer: she’s seen the worst of men, taken cocks far less deserving. Her hands find his hair as they drift away here, gives the strands a sharp tug to usher him closer, roll her tongue against his own.

The sheer tights she wears beneath her skirt are ripped at the seam between her legs by large hands, panties pushed to the side before she finally presses against the broad chest against her to gain some space. Her breath is shallow, face warmed and hair a mess, still the loveliest thing he’s ever laid his eyes upon.

“Are you afraid?” He tilts his head to the side, curious, as if there were no reason for her deny him of this now after he had just *killed for her*. After he forsook what once was all he knew all for her. He would do it again without question, with no gain at all, but the sting of rejection was not something he could entirely choke back.

But his angel never runs out of mercies, it seems.

“No… just give me a second.”

She slips her hand down between her parted legs, demonstrates for him just how to prepare a woman. He watches, mesmerized, as she circles the bud above her slit, dips her finger downward to spread wetness along her flesh. Dew over petals. A finger slips inside of her, and all at once is shoved aside.

“Let me,” he pleads, already pressing both hands to her inner thighs, tilting her hips upward as his head sinks between them.

“You don’t have to,” she whispers, but grants him his wish with feverish nods that betray her words, allows him to kiss her sex as he shifts himself into a better position.

There’s nothing to go off of but her sounds, the cries of pleasure when his tongue lolls out to lick at the nub where most of her reactions stem from. He mutters against her about her taste, something so ethereal he could not even begin to place. Her scent envelopes him in full, and he’s never felt closer to anything prior. She allows his clumsy licking, moans louder for him when he can’t stifle his own groaning. The pants are too tight around him, and patience is another virtue he finds that he lacks.

She doesn’t reach some fantastical height of pleasure when he presses a finger into her cunt, but her body seems to fit even that like a glove, squeezing around him as he lazily circles her bud with his tongue. She doesn’t come, but she tugs him by the hair to usher him back into another kiss, hands roving down his abdomen to free his manhood from the barriers of fabric. And finally… finally he’s granted entrance to Heaven.

The first thrust leaves him spiraling, lost into a world of silk and honey. And the angel does not give him any time to recover, she writhes beneath him, shifting her hips to pull him in deeper, muffles each whine and groan from his lips with her tongue hungrily lapping over his own.

He’s thought about having a woman many times, but never imagined it could feel this good. To be so complete, every woe or fear cast aside in the act of mindless pleasure.

He doesn’t know where to put his hands, to keep his eyes shut or gaze down at her and cease this assault on his mouth to tell her that he loves her, that she feels like pure fucking paradise and he’s already on the verge of coming undone. He settles for moving, dragging himself in and out of her in slow movements, turning his face away to bite down on her shoulder when the feeling of her walls cinching him like a vise threatens to spur him into finishing on the spot.

“That’s just… god… you’re good at this,” she gasps when a hand is sunk between their bodies, flicking at her clit as he spears her open. Her hands find his back, raking her fingernails down past his shoulder blades. It’s agonizing, trying to fight back the urge to breed her full, watch his come spill out from her perfect cunt until he finds himself hard again. The very thought makes him gasp, grind himself deeper inside of her as her nails dig into his back.

“Mein… this is… you understand…,” he’s babbling, hardly coherent, and she only seems to accept it. The angel chants her agreement amidst the beginning of her rapture.

She cries out for him when she comes, her sex pulsing around him as she shivers that all restraint is immediately lost. She hugs him so tightly, squirms as she hisses a curse into his ear.

It’s a miracle he’s even lasted this long. He halts his pace for a mere second to prop himself up, gaze down at her in absolute reverence before that fire swallows him whole. It’s unceremonious when he comes: a growl and a wail as he buries he face into her neck and pumps every last drop of his seed into her pussy.

He doesn’t want to pull out, doesn’t want to leave such a complete embrace. The world has already ended for him, a long time ago on the very night they met. There’s no need to drag out their ruin with whatever else occurs when she’s out of his grasp.

She strokes over the marks she’s made, gentle, tickling touches of her fingertips and shy giggles when their eyes meet again.

“I thought I would never get to do this with you,” she admits, quiet when her hands drift to cup his jaw instead. “You’re perfect, you know that…?”

He wants to cry, wants to fuck all of his woes away, kneel before her and beg that she find a place where they can never be apart. Steal her away to some cabin up in the Alps, where flowers grow in thick patches on the hillsides, a wild garden of her very own.

“… You should stay with me,” he huffs into her ear, fingers dimpling the flesh of her hips as he tries desperately to force himself closer to her.

“You can’t mean the church,” she giggles. “So where should we go?”

“We can figure that out in the morning, hm?”

[delicrieux]

. . . l'oeuf

˙⋆✮ summary. just another evening at henry's.

pairing. henry winter x f!reader warnings. smoking, swearing, mentioned drug use, bad aspirin use specifically, use of alcohol, +18 (p n v sex, no condom henry DOES NOT care, very minimal dirty talk), pretentiousness, an inkling of classicism, bunny™ wc. 6.9k ✧˖°.

author's note. happy october everyone ! i always wanted to write smth for the loml henry winter but i never had the patience to sit down and do it. well, now i did. this was written with prompt 1. thick, acrid smoke. feel free to rqs more for the prompty thingies! x . . . side note! the fic is named by this song since i listened to it while writing. you can draw a metaphor from it if willing

creds. hd., div.

mlist | buy me coffee ♡ྀ

it was at the start of october on that fateful senior year that you had found yourself in henry winter's illustrious townhouse. from the lacquered brazillian hardwood floorboards to the ivory plasterwork on the ceilings – every corner pertained a certain degree of finery that reflected poorly on the rest of its objects: a well-worn armchair perpetually stuck in henry’s physique and fraying at the edges, the trampled rug that snaked upstairs and held all of your secrets, the coffee table with too many wine stains. in the dim light, the dried rorschach looked like blood.

the present company consisted of six and was slowly dwindling. your dear friend francis, the only boy who had never cared to peek up your skirt in childhood tennis practice, was a moment from collapsing into himself like a weary, old star. holding a champagne coupe from which he exclusively drunk only campari, he had thrown himself over henry’s couch not unlike a discontent lead from a penny dreadful novel. his face kept twisting according to the sounds: bunny’s voice was met with pursed lips and a tightly shut eye (only one, closest to bunny’s person sat by the aforementioned coffee table), charles’ – with a look of defeated boredom, and in the odd bouts of silence and music, bliss.

you offered him a cigarette, and he barely managed to crane his neck to kiss the knuckles of a helping hand before he snatched it away and searched his pockets for a lighter.

sweet camilla sat by the fire, with her knees drawn to her chest. one black stocking was torn on the side, rippling up her calf and sneaking into her inner knee, an action bunny had noted and all had taken particular interest in. there had been a metaphor about literature resembling her glossy stockings – all that language and reference weaved into a fabric that stretched till it could no more, thus marking the end of innovation and intertextuality. a book can only fit so much, and as all of them cared for ancient greek only – a language that no one spoke, and so, could never refine past its perfect state – the topic soon waned in favor of more brandy.

bunny cowed a story about richard papen, the outsider that had joined their coterie, who was not present, as he had not been invited. he was a fine orator, had a specific sense of humor that, while not always understood, could charm an audience when fidgeted with enough. only bunny was too drunk, and his glass of whiskey kept spilling on his trousers till it left an undignified blotch crowned by cigarette ashes, which only painted him a blubbering buffoon. ‘the fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man knows himself to be a fool,’ came to mind as you admired the embers dancing in the halo of his blond hair.

then, there was charles, drunk as always, who had opted to lay by camilla’s feet, the place where bunny’s drunken attempts of metaphor had landed him.

lastly, there was henry, your own personal virgil, who had not wanted you to come, but allowed it still. he looked tired from across the room, an arm thrown over the cushions of the armchair in which he sat. in his left hand he held a book, a cover and a title too out of frame for your eyes to see; amber reflected in his wiry glasses, the color of his brandy bottle (half empty) before the orange glow of the fire burned it copper. a plume of cigarette smoke curled into the ceiling from his two fingers. only he could have full concentration among the chaotic symphony in the living room.

the record spun to silence, and you quickly abated your seat on the windowsill to pad to the cabinet and change the vinyl. the collection of classics had not increased since your last visit, which was roughly a week ago, and it had not changed since henry moved out the dorms during the winter of your junior year. there were chopin’s nocturnes and etudes, beethoven’s piano sonatas, and wagner’s tristan and isolda, just to name a few. something lulling, quiet. you picked debussy and placed the needle. lilting, soft and steady, like you supposed love would feel.

instantly, you were met with bunny’s ire.

“no, no,” a wave and a body too weak to stop you. you ensured he was gifted your most sly smile, “no, woman, put on somethin’, somethin’ grand,” a larger wave, like a poorly coordinated conductor, he smacked his hand too close to francis’ head. a groan from charles, as if he had grown nauseous from watching the motions, “somethin’ for me and charlie here,”

charles tried to turn away in his discontent, yet did not manage. camilla, concerned, laid a hand on his shoulder, “should we go? i think we should head home.”

“see?” bunny’s accusing tone found you once more, “you’re scaring the guests. put on some real music. like the... the...” he trailed off, lighting another cigarette. for good luck, one could imagine, “like goddamn— listen to led zeppelin, man! the rolling stones!”

you glanced to henry and found yourself surprised. a shared look.

“no such things in our humble repertoire,” you stated.

“mile davis, at least?”

“no,”

“i don’t believe you,”

“you’re free to check for yourself.”

amidst this small argument, which was much too common when dealing with bunny, camilla had somehow managed to wrestle charles into standing on his own two feet. unstable, he leaned onto his sister, the added weight making her stagger.

“goodness, take care of charles,” bunny whined, though his complaints never amounted to more than simple sulking. you chose not to pay them much mind.

it was henry that helped, carefully balancing his book on the armrest and coming to take charles from camilla’s embrace.

“should i drive you home?” he asked.

camilla shook her head, en route to retrieve her red scarf and new coat, “no, no, we’ll call a taxi.”

it was always mildly fascinating watching the two interact. camilla, never able to meet his gaze directly and for too long, and henry, who only ever extended wordless aid without prompt or reason to her only. what had she done to earn such favor was beyond you – beyond everyone, perhaps – but you were certain you weren’t the only one that saw this careful act of piety and kindness.

you observed them shuffle out after moments on the telephone, camilla’s hand ghosting henry’s arm, or grazing the bend of his elbow, and only when they disappeared past the large door to wait for the taxi did you look away.

loving henry winter was a sisyphean task, unworthy of the effort which it required. you thought yourself too smart for it, and thus, never cared to entertain the notion, not even when he kissed you.

you caught bunny staring at you: not scrutinizing, not calculating – simply staring. a curious leer that often fell on you after some semblance of mirth had worn down. almost shy, somewhat longing.

“this richard of yours,” you began, helping yourself to henry’s lucky strike. out of all the brands that you had smoked, this was the most bitter and always left a tart taste in the back of your throat. you craved it, “papen, was it?”

“yup,” bunny mumbled into his glass.

“and how is he?” your gaze jumped from him to francis.

“poor,” bunny said.

“californian,” francis tacked on.

“but he pretends he isn’t,” bunny continued.

“californian?” your brows rose. the smell, the taste – too powerful, almost choking.

“no, no,” bunny shook his head, disoriented for a moment, “rich. pretends to be rich. see, i didn’t tell you this, but,” and he reached for henry’s cigarettes, too, even if his own pack laid abandoned, two-three left untouched. he did this, at times, this odd mimicry: you smoked, he smoked what you did, you drank, he drank what you did, you decided a getaway to italy was your dream destination for a week and later learned he had haggled henry into buying tickets for the two of them, “but i, you know me: never judge a book by its cover, i say. invited him to dinner. the usual place, the one on-”

“god,” francis winced, and if he could move, surely he’d flee, “stop talking.”

“the lady asked, am i to deny her now? i thought he wouldn’t show, but he does, doesn’t he? with a goddamned tweed jacket, like i wouldn’t notice,” he hiccupped mid-explanation, the liquor long congealed into his system, “and, you know, me, i know people. i know people. i see them for what they are, and i knew he was a no good cheat from a mile away, but hey,” a straight spine, a bit proud, “i think to myself, you know what, old man, i’m gonna give this guy a chance. pop’s always-”

“aspirin,” francis interjected, this time directed at you, “bring me some, would you, juliet?”

you snorted, “a moment,”

“thank you, desdemona. you’re a midsummer night’s dream,”

“she’s from othello,”

“my point stands.”

you sauntered off into henry’s kitchen and scoured his cupboards for painkillers. the layout of this place you knew too well – perhaps, even, if you closed your eyes, you could discern each obstacle and map it in front of your eyes with the grace and certainty of a guidebook. you did just that.

behind you, a sudden coldness pierced through the humidity and a door shut harshly. the influx of fresh air was a brief slap to the face.

it’s been silent for a while now.

“what are you doing?” henry’s voice, not close, yet not too far. always observing at a distance, since closeness was never his intention. henry winter. what a fitting name.

“looking for aspirin.”

the tick of an unseen clock.

“top drawer,” there was no urgency; something you didn’t understand was what made him hurry to answer, “i hid them there. bunny keeps stealing my entire cabinet.”

your eyes fluttered open, “my, my. what a snitch,”

“don’t give him the aspirin,”

“it’s for francis,”

“very well.”

an impasse. you closed the cabinet and thought against bringing water with you, knowing it’s unneeded.

“may i?” henry asked, and when you turned to look at him, he was as always – unbreakable, unmovable. expectant, perhaps, his heavy gaze a familiar pressure upon your cheekbones, the curve of your jaw, your swollen mouth (from biting, not being kissed).

“they’re yours,” you said easily, turning the cap and spilling a few into the bed of your palm as he approached, “here.”

to make matters harder, there’s but a foot of space between the two of you. the smallest separation, every part of him and every part of you entangled into one odd constellation. an immensity of motion before him and an immensity of energy after.

“water?”

“whiskey.”

“is it also hidden?”

“no.”

so you retrieved him a glass, and then the bottle, and lastly you poured the amount enough to swallow in one gulp. when he took and drank, and you watched his adam’s apple bob, you wondered, briefly and hazily, was your act in any way similar to camilla’s. a star that constantly drew him into her orbit.

“you didn’t leave,” he uttered quietly, tired eyes flicking to the maw of the kitchen opening. down the foyer, the firelight danced. bunny’s voice rose in a toast, no doubt to shake francis out of his stupor.

“i did,” you said, a slow smile curling, “what you see before you is a specter. the delirious imaginings of an impoverished mind.”

“ridiculous,” the quirk of his eyebrows: mock-offended.

“amusing,” the narrow of your eyes: contagious, “was everything my spirit foretold the same as you saw it unfold?”

weariness. you looked for it and found it easy enough. his fingers flexed, his tongue went behind his teeth. the cogs turned. for all his genius, henry was too susceptible to fable and entirely too superstitious. he could ward himself off it well, yet when his inhibitions were down, there was a hint of something else, a spark of pious faith in the impossible, what not might come next. he kept looking at you for an extended moment, until the corner of his mouth, minutely, drew up into a not-quite-smile.

“hermia!” came francis’ voice from the other room, “i’m dying.”

henry said nothing.

you expected bunny drunkenly swinging an almost empty bottle around to try and cheer up francis (it rarely worked, unless it was wine), and yet, he wasn’t there. the living room felt very big, somehow, devoid of him and the makings of his gullible heart.

“and where is bun?” you questioned, almost scolding.

“bathroom,” francis succeeded sitting up, yet only just.

you heard henry curse under his breath. he disappeared, and soon you heard the continents of a stomach emptying down the hall and henry’s monotone behind a closed door.

“time to end this sabbath, me thinks,” you said. francis took the pills with a fresh glass of campari, nose scrunching from the taste.

“d’you think henry could drive me home?” francis asked.

“do you trust him with your life?”

“do you think he’d let me die?”

“depends,”

“no. i’ll cab it,”

“wise decision.”

henry returned, seemingly exhausted from his small adventure. no one followed after.

“bun?” you asked again, which seemed to displease him. he only shook his head. passed out, then. unfortunate, yet expected. if bunny could somehow gain authority over all of henry’s things – even the minute ones, the ones that don’t matter and exist in the peripherals without henry’s notice – he would. it was the same reason francis once insisted that bunny had been in love with you.

the incident occurred during your first year of college in early november. a rather somber and chilly day with leaves sticking to wet asphalt and stone walls amidst the rainy season. a monday. bunny had broken his ankle and complained terribly about it, and henry, who had become his caretaker, was sick of it and instead abhorred him. by accident and complete mischance, the handling of bunny corcoran had fallen onto your graceful shoulders, and in a single day – full of obsolete complaints and impulsive questions – the theorized affection was born.

if there was a way in which bunny’s countenance had changed in your presence, it was lost on you, for your attention, at the time, was solely pilfered by charles. he was, back then, the most handsome of the greek class, and oddly enough, the only one pleasant, thus you sought his favor. but charles never returned your fondness, no matter how minuscule it could be, and he never gave the impression of fleeting interest. only sometimes, when he thought you would not catch him, he would stare at you for a bit too long. you never got to figure out what he had thought in those moments.

instead, you figured yourself an actor – a pretty one at that – and decided to ignore this indelicate sort of charm and pursue a new mark. there were many, of course, plenty of faces to consider, yet the outcome was always the same. as it were, they were all terribly boring and reminded you greatly of the peers you’ve encountered in private schools, the self-proclaimed intellectuals of the new age that had too much time and too much heartbreak on their hands. good looks aside, not the slightest hint of culture nor comprehension, just money and nothing to show for it.

and then there was henry, of course, so quintessentially different that his existence, still, was hard to define. something outside the realm of you. something above or beyond, or perhaps below – always somewhere you could not reach. there was an irrecoverable arrogance to him and in his aloof demeanor. an inviolable space that never invited others.

yes, there had to be some appeal to the strangeness of him, yet never could you put your finger on what exactly it was. at least, not immediately. at first sight, though, there were more poetic reasons to it – of the tragic and of the divine kind, yet that was no truth but some novel-born whim, a pointless obsession, some meager infatuation. an involuntary fetish. he had not wanted you, which only made it so that you wanted him in turn. it wasn’t an ugly thing – it simply was.

he must’ve known. henry always seemed to possess the knowledge of things you had never dared to question or to think twice of. or, perhaps, maybe not: but, despite your inability to identify the cause of it, there was a certain change to your disposition upon entering his shared room. one, maybe, akin to the sudden fear brought by dark enclosed spaces, though a bit more subtle and complex.

it was, ironically, a winter’s night.

when you phoned the same taxi and requested it’s return, francis spoke in a hazy murmur, sluggishly trying to shrug on the coat you brought him, “god, i really need a cigarette.”

“hm?”

“do you see mine anywhere?”

a rueful search, hands grabbing the scattered glass and hardbound that littered the surface of the coffee table. a valiant attempt to move the couch cushions and dip fingers into the cracks.

“no,”

“well, fuck me,”

henry offered his, but francis refused. the living room lit up in that thick, acrid smoke anyway.

the foyer echoed with your footsteps. outside the townhouse, rain had started again. a few drops at first, tapping the windows, before quickly it grew and gained weight. soon, it was battering against the glass.

with your scarf in your hands you suddenly found yourself unsure what to do with it. the taxi was coming and it was time to go home and plead to a higher power for reprieve from the headache you knew would cripple you in the morning. perhaps, an afternoon tomorrow to mull around, dazed. yet there was no respite in any of that. you realized, then, with this abrupt trepidation, that the cause of your discomfort, or the cause that exacerbated it, was within this confided space. a chasm-deep disquiet, like an open mouth of a ravine, dark and shadowy, or the pull of a tide at sea, which was, as they say, irresistible to even the most levelheaded.

somewhat uneasily, you lingered by the coat hanger, and when francis ambled over, tripping over his own two feet, he downed the rest of his campari and shoved the glass into your useless hands. then, he kissed your cheek, quick and wet, before ripping the door open and shoving it closed behind you, hence halting your escape.

the house was deafened, and your palms itched. the overwhelming urge to twiddle with your scarf became unbearable, or it was because a pair of eyes bore into you from the depths of the room. the closest thing you’ve ever considered to a tangible aura: the smell of ozone and rain water and tobacco.

“don’t suppose he’s waiting in the rain, is he?” you said.

“no, i don’t think he is.”

it didn’t make sense, none of what happened afterward – the decision to face him instead of making off into the chilling night. your arms crossed in a quiet and peculiar motion, clutching the coupe a bit too tight.

“whiskey?” henry offered, and you felt like the silly ingénue in some high-brow noir thriller donning all that cashmere by the door, “or bourbon.”

“fine.”

a crease of his eyebrow – the sole indication of surprise. your jacket found its rightful place on the rack along with that dreaded scarf. hesitance was unfamiliar to you, as you had not known it growing up – neither a sense of propriety nor a loss of footing. the dandy act had been adopted and perfected to such a degree that to relinquish the mask itself was oddly relieving, the discomfort born merely by knowing that francis was aware of your unusual situation and the upcoming events that would take place once the theater was done. there was a brief thought to how henry might’ve perceived you then. perhaps the removal of a layer of pretense might’ve intrigued him, if anything.

you remained at a slight distance and watched him traverse his domain, stepping around the askew items left behind by bunny and a bottle of gin haphazardly upended by charles, warm by the fire. there was an anomalous sort of patience to him. the silence was an abrasion. so often, you found yourself chattering to fill the void, even with other men who took the shape of strangers.

“there’s quite a storm brewing,” you said, only to be met with more silence. when your words simpered, the feeling they left was inexplicably ominous. ‘all that is transitory is but a symbol,’ yet only a bad poet would dare to draw a soliloquy from henry’s figure by the flames.

thus, you sat down on the couch, still warm from francis, and held up the beloved champagne coupe. henry’s hand did not tremble as it poured, but your fingers quivered when his attention fell onto you.

“is it good?”

you never felt the alcohol, only the burning in the back of your throat.

“very,”

he found himself beside you, not too close. the distance was not unlike orpheus’ journey, or so it appeared in the dim firelight – the familiar pangs of the unwilling, the sudden, selfish urge of wanting to see him in his entirety, his visage unhindered

“may i?” you asked, meaning, of course, his cigarette. he acquiesced easily. the only telltale of his everlasting unbothered mien: his focus had, and always seemed to be, too acute. it was enough to unnerve anyone. flattering, perhaps, if only you could tell what he was thinking, but you never could.

in your lap, the half-empty coupe. you left a smudge of your lipstick on the cigarette butt. henry inhaled. it was not unlike a kiss.

“francis mentioned you didn’t want to see me,” you said.

“i didn’t,” he responded.

“a lie, was it then?”

“you assume to know?”

“yes.”

another drag. smoke parted his mouth, slow as molasses and heavy as clouds.

“you’ve changed,” you said.

conversation with henry had always been difficult, before and after your frequent follies in the dark. if you did speak, it was never about one another, or anything that resided past skin and bone, nestled somewhere in the marrow, only felt. in instances where you did find common ground it was only ever art – literature, specifically, and when he was in a good mood, painting. henry only had one fascination and refused to entertain others; here lied his fatal flaw. thus, in a crowd of three and more, you could exchange remarks that would seem and sound important but held no real meaning.

“what sort of change have you noticed?” henry murmured. the lighting cast shadows. his hands twitched.

you were not sure, as you remembered him in much more detail and color. here, ashen-faced and obscured, all you saw was the ghost of his image, as though he had grown morose in a way that a single season could not alter. the greek class had often suffered for the aesthetic – self-imposed punishments of grandeur and excess that to everyone outside their circle seemed quite ridiculous, along with their dark clothes and mysterious miens and enigmatic jokes. some said they were haunted or blessed, but none envied them. alas.

troubled is the closest you could find, though if you were to voice it, he might take you for a child. it was never good to seek out his vulnerability. he would say you could never find it, and, inevitably, it would end up being the truth. henry wasn’t good at love. no one of were.

you shrugged, “you’ve become quiet.”

“am i, now?”

“more so than you’ve been,”

“perhaps you’ve just gotten better at listening,”

“unlikely,”

henry cocked his head. his hand, once again, twitched and there was an urge to reach out and grasp his fingers – some sort of absolution or at least a consolation for something neither one of you might’ve cared to mention. never did the man in front of you appear unsure, yet somehow, despite his best effort to the contrary, you felt a similar trepidation of an undefined thing.

henry was impossible to read. not just a mystery, but undeciphered in ways so beyond the mundane. over the years, you had collected enough clues to form a humble dictionary, yet much of what was missing could only be determined through his own misfortune and complacency – things which would, then, by nature and by fate, stray into your arms.

it did not matter, not entirely, at least. you did not love henry, but you thought that camilla did, and he, in turn, her. once you exhausted your inspection, perhaps you would pass that glossary to her, though you doubted that she would ever find any use for it.

“well,” henry said, “i suppose that’s to be expected. anything else?”

“would you enjoy a dissection?”

henry hummed, perhaps in agreement or curiosity, but it was very possible that he thought you foolish.

“no need,” he said, “yours is transparent.”

“really?” you countered, “they never are. people, i mean.”

“who are you thinking of?”

your mind drifted to bunny, likely curled on the cold tiles of the bathroom. with the first few buttons of his shirt popped and tie loosened, there was the picture of one not withering away but merely on the incline of a steep and lonely hill. all quiet in the dark of a windowless room from which he couldn’t even turn his head and see the stars.

it felt as though he would wake soon and interrupt. his presence always breached spaces he did not occupy, and the anticipation of his arrival always lingered in the air, unspoken but palpable. perhaps bunny would always exist in the shadowy corner-room between you and henry, because, if what francis said was true, henry was the first to know of it and had you, still.

you wondered if he regretted it, if he felt like brutus sticking the first knife into caesar’s rib, closest to the heart. you considered asking: in that moment, the urge felt insurmountable. instead, you said, “a little bit of everyone.”

inclined, you caught his gaze. an abysmal color and a disorienting shade, as deep and gloomy as the woods surrounding mount cataract.

“and me?”

“of course,” you smiled and slid a bit closer, “it’s not like you to ask. have you become sentimental?”

“not exactly,” his eyes moved to his hands. then, the flecks in the fireplace, the piles on the floor, “i’ve been thinking.”

“care to elaborate?”

“no,” he said. you understood his need for privacy, and a small part of you could appreciate his effort, or maybe, rather, that you got something of an answer at all. he did, occasionally, tend to disappear in thought. he remained, despite his reluctance, sitting with you. this, in a way, spoke more to you than the words that could never leave his mouth.

“this weather makes a body wistful,” you told him, “and the greek have always liked their tragedies.”

he clicked his tongue to the roof of his mouth before lighting another cigarette, “what do you know of greek?”

always the same argument. always the same contradiction. your attraction was tempestuous, and so, it should have surprised you neither the sudden bite or the wicked sense of amusement.

“all that any student would, naturally,”

“so, nothing,”

“i suppose,” you would not admit, for he would win, “henry,”

something in his posture betrayed him, but it was not his eyes, nor his tone, “yes?”

you were close then, much closer than you were moments ago. his lips thinned in a brittle, noncommittal line and his eyes drooped – more of a warning than anything.

“are you going to kiss me?” you asked.

he wanted to, he must’ve, for it had been the only sensible action – you always pressed for what would hurt least. to drown and swallow poison. it was a favorite, and, for some reason, one he allowed, like an agreement reached. to your knowledge, he only ever let himself indulge in you.

henry only leaned in, which was enough for you. his mouth, a second, not any less tantalizing than the first. and you had kissed him with a brazen softness, enough that his hands snaked to grasp the back of your neck. another hit. the smoke and ash settled deep in your lungs. you had pushed it out in a groan when he dropped his hands to your thighs, pressing hard and confident as he had on those nights when you found each other too lonely. the ache he created was wonderful.

you grabbed a fistful of his shirt and pulled it until it untucked. he swallowed and whispered in a language you were familiar with but couldn’t speak, and lifted your skirt.

you kept the cigarette between your teeth as he mouthed down your jaw and neck. his finger traced the skin at the back of your knee and that tickling spot right below your ribs. goosebumps rose and followed his touch. he nipped at the crook of your neck and dragged you onto his lap.

“you are dressed far too heavily, and terribly,” you heard him say, and when his lips found the shell of your ear, you could not stifle the shiver. the whole room felt claustrophobic, hot and steamy, like the aftermath of a scalding bath. your breaths grew labored. you closed your eyes against it and clawed into his arm.

henry said, again, this time more slowly and with a dull emphasis, “terribly.”

“how dare you insult my taste,”

“would you allow for a remediation of my sins?”

“luckily, i’m in an agreeable mood.”

henry’s own sigh was long and somewhat labored, as though a great pressure had been taken off him. and his hands flexed, moving up and down your back. a rare instance, to find him restless. you could admire this in private.

the press of lips to your neck. the collarbone, jutting sharp in the firelight.

there was the urge, sudden and quite novel, to caress his face, cup his cheek, graze the edge of the scar of the eye that’s colder than its twin, that shrouds you in a mist. such an act was outlawed, naturally, thus, the opportunity came and went, carried away on a drafting wind of smoke. an irredeemable misfortune, and you flicked the cigarette into your abandoned coupe.

“are you comfortable?” the gentle cadence of his voice sent a wave through the warmest depths of your abdomen.

“yes.”

henry, having brushed away your stockings, stroked at the insides of your thighs. there was a light feeling in your head, an almost dizzying sway. a subtle rocking, like boats at port, from where the two of you were perched. his digits dug into the firm meat. beneath his hands, a stretch of burning skin and sinew. muscle clenched and quivered, “terribly inconvenient, by the way.”

“how do you mean?”

“all the layers,” he muttered.

“good,”

“never good,”

and then, suddenly: “are you wet?”

“if you touched me properly, you could tell,”

henry ignored your response. his hand climbed upward, and found a place between the gusset and the middle seam, rubbing, testing.

“recently,” you said, “i’ve become fascinated with joseph cornell.”

“you’re stalling,” henry informed you without inflection, slipping a finger through the damp center. a harsh noise of pleasure left you when his tongue slid between your lips. one, then two, circling and sinking with the utmost delicacy.

“why? are you not curious to hear what i think of his boxes?” you managed, halfway.

another stroke. his thumb rubbing, slow and considerate, in the spot that makes your toes curl, tight and demanding. when his eyes opened and found yours, it was almost comical – his fingers in you, mouth and mind on a completely different path, yet the connection was there all the same. even more so, while trying to be detached, fumbling over buttons and laces.

“no,”

“you might learn something,”

he quirked a brow, “you truly wish to waste time talking?”

“aren’t you?”

“i am taking an assessment of your willingness to submit,”

“are you certain it’s not the other way around?”

henry rarely responded with malice; each action was carefully devised and, in conjunction, quite merciless. in this case, he dropped his hand from the vee of your legs and tugged at his shirt collar. the emptiness was startling, as was the feeling of tension that coiled tightly in your gut. then, he grabbed his drink and sipped from the sparkling glass. petty revenge, something he always assured was beneath him.

sensing defeat, you decided to placate him. after a dramatic roll of your eyes, you slipped onto the ground and knelt.

“henry,” you began, and reached for the fly of his pants. the outline of his cock was obvious beneath the smooth fabric, thick and promising, “home ruler,” in one instance of drunken curiosity, the lot of you agonized the meaning of your names, that perhaps they, somehow, unknowingly dictated your fate, “unwilling to shed his crown. is the head not heavy? most kings lost theirs, you know.”

“flattery doesn’t suit you.”

“folly, then,” you replied, dragging the flat of your palm across his groin and taking pleasure in the strained hiss, “are you going to let me do as i please?”

“i think that is,” at the peak of his inhale, you reached into his trousers and curled your fingers around his stiff cock, “quite apparent.”

you grinned, lazy but triumphant, thumbing the blunt ridge. smudging the dribble of white at the leaking head and reveling in his restrained reactions: the minute tremors, the twitch of his jaw, a gasp caught in his throat. you would have kissed him, again. his face might’ve twitched, something uncontrollable that would’ve given away his longing, if only he hadn’t pushed it down.

with a slow pump, your hand traveled. the size was admirable, familiar, nearly to the point of nostalgia. henry had touched more parts of your body than some of the lovers you took as an earnest attempt for passion. you had begged him once, half-gone, half-wild with what you thought was need and impatience, to only fuck you – without his clever mouth and his careful hands, but he hadn’t said yes, no, had only grabbed your jaw and pressed a sucking kiss to the soft and sensitive skin beneath your ear. a promise, almost. and in a way, it had been.

“you remember?”

henry’s voice snapped you to attention, and when you looked up, his expression matched his darkened eyes, intense. something flared hot and needy in you, and with it, the desire to be open and dripping for him. he curled a hand in the small hairs on the back of your neck, stroking the skin there and, even briefly, allowed himself an indulgence in the pleasure he could get from a single touch, and rocked his hips.

“vividly,” you told him.

the flames, behind you, cast him entirely in silhouette, and his shadow projected forward and rose tall, stretched. a ruler, indeed.

his chest moved slow and purposefully, and when he released your hair, the lack of contact felt like a shock to the system. his hand closed around your forearm, “come here.”

the tone, hoarse and hushed and so quietly demanding, startled you, and you stood up so quickly that your head spun. henry placed his hands on your hips, steadying, ushering you back to where you belonged.

“just there.”

legs, parted, framing his waist. fabric, bunched between your thighs. breathing, slowed. a firm, calming weight, pinning you down. the firelight glinted in his eyes.

“henry,” you called. and the only thing to signal his movement was a bob of his adam’s apple. the cufflinks of his sleeves swayed and flickered. he hummed, neither affirmation nor disagreement and entered you with a grunt.

more. skin flushed. eyes crinkled and tightened. more. nails curled and scrabbled for purchase.

there, your name on his lips. it was disorienting – not so much a cry, or a whisper, but something between the two. henry always spoke carefully, as though each word should carry the most weight, so each syllable, in turn, he would construct and cut, meticulous and mathematical. but here, breathless and wanting, they rolled out in a steady litany, never faltering.

all fire and scorching, the pitch of it high and needy. to thrust and bruise, the idea fizzed bright and brilliant at the apex of your spine. with each snap of his hips, a part of him carved a piece of you out, and each ragged noise shook loose a piece of your skin. it would fit him perfectly. then he would slide right into those hollow spaces that swelled and throbbed, expanding beyond tolerance. in moments like these, you loved him – his body, his touch, his face, everything that could not be articulated.

“please,” you begged him, trying to curl around the ache, “i want-”

“i know, i know,” he murmured, with a tilt of his head. his hair, you noticed, had lost its immaculate shape, wild and frazzled by your fingers. your heart swelled and contracted: you wanted to do it again, over and over until his whole countenance resembled nothing more than that of a ravaged man. your power, the only thing you had over him. henry closed his eyes.

“spread your legs a little wider,”

a moan slipped when his tongue flicked and curled against the side of your neck, wet and sloppy. the sweet roll of his hips, his fingers pulling at the buttons of your attire and squeezing the fleshy swell of your buttocks. it was always too much.

you licked your lip, shaking when his teeth gently pinched. and, for a moment, the smell of pine permeated the room. as though it were his own sweat and the heady musk of his natural scent, and not a waning bottle of cologne.

“hold onto me,” henry whispered and allowed for nothing more, driving the movement out of your hands. the tempo spiraled upward. at the center, the tension was building. there was a moment of vertigo.

and it was easy enough, as things had always been between the two of you, to ignore the disjointed voices in the back of your mind. how when you two first kissed, it’d been without grace. how the rain fell, trickled, all around you, drowning the dryness in your throat. how the next day, he asked if you would regret what you’d done. and here, now, a different but striking feeling: the warm haze brought on by alcohol, his palms were hot, slick with sweat, his belt digging into you.

henry grunted and swore to a god neither of you had put much faith in. the flush on his cheeks was impossible not to reach out and touch, his eyebrow scarred with the same sort of smooth texture and fading red, his lashes, long and fine, flickering against the high edge of his cheekbones. i love you, you wanted to tell him, but the high struck you ruthlessly, turning you to liquid.

in the aftermath of this brief paradise, you shared a look.

“i still despise this weather,” you said.

henry’s mouth quirked. and what had been the impulsive dalliances of two desperate people became, once more, two lonely creatures with enough distance between to fill one of henry’s beloved epics. the quiet, in the wake of catharsis, was rather terrifying, and the clatter outside – the rain, the wind, and the cold – almost accusatory. he offered you a cigarette.

you took it without thank you and let him light it.

“should i drive you home?” he offered, voice raspy. his shirt had wrinkles and his collar sat funny. the skin beneath was pink, and there was the barest mark where you had sunk your teeth or dug a nail too hard. you bit the end of the filter, watching the flame waver before rising into ash.

“you’re drunk,” it felt necessary to remind him, though it never stopped him.

“do you want me to drive you home?” he asked again. a long pull and a thin veil of smoke.

“yes,” you said, “i’ll go wake bunny.”

“no,”

“no?”

“stop it.”

“stop what?”

“speaking of him,”

“has he done something?”

silence.

“henry?”

“leave it,” he said, but his tone was tight.

“alright. i’ll get my coat, then,”

“of course,” he murmured, standing slowly. you shouldn’t have seen him put his hand against the wall to steady himself, as though any drunken spell had fled, and with it, his equilibrium. the movement was both conscious and contrived, a fact of necessity, and not like the rest of him, braced by his surroundings and firm in stature. a self-constructed illusion, designed to project a set of attributes meant to create the atmosphere of authority. he embodied it well, but he was still, stripped of the mythos, simply human.

you watched him settle and raise his head with a gentle exhale. a mere lift of his shoulders, and he resembled a man in control, content, satisfied – everything henry was, and yet, within the façade, you could see the truth of his discomfort, recently, and without fault, brought upon by an uttered name.

in the upcoming months, you would understand and wonder if there was something you could have done or said to warn him of a future that was inevitable. no matter how many nights you had spent distressing over this question, the answer would always make itself obvious.

there was nothing you could have ever done.

thank you for reading !

[zuureleena]

i now present to you!!! NOCOVEMBER 2023

i decided to give you guys two options for each week this year and i wanted them to correlate to one another in some shape or form + an extra month to work on it!

the rules are simple!

⋆ use #NocoVember2023 and tag me when you post your art/story (i wanna see it so badly u guys 🥲🫶)

⋆ comment/reblog saying that you'll be joining and tag 3 people who you think might be interested (it is totally okay to still be unsure and not participate in the end okayyy :D)

⋆ you can pick one theme, both, or mash them together for each week! the choice is yours, and you don't even have to do all of 'em

⋆ feel free to post your work at any point in november (or if you want to do it a month earlier or later, it's up to you :0)

⋆ for the angst and older prompt, please don't do anything nsfw related. i'm asking you to not draw/write smut, but if you want to do something gory for the angst prompt, always put a proper warning!

⋆ remember to have fun, never hesitate to ask me questions, and don't feel pressured to join <3

each prompt is explained under the cut

Week 1 - Sun & Moon / Cat & Dog

these can either be taken literally (as in you make them into for eg; noah, a black cat, and cody, a golden retriever) or metaphorically (noah has moon energy so you include things that symbolize that, and same goes for cody with his sun energy)

Week 2 - Monsters / Angst

you can turn them both or one of them into (a) monster(s)! this could be tethered to the angst genre or you could make a completely different angsty scenario between the two of them

Week 3 - Older / Childhood Friends

they can either be in university, full-grown adults, or heck! even elderly men 😭 so how do they look now? what's changed in their lives and in their relationship? do they still keep in touch or have they strayed away from each other? who knows! it's all up to you

as for childhood friends? they could be toddlers like on dramarama, maybe prepebusecent teens? just make sure they are younger than they are on the show (aka 16)

Week 4 - Canon Divergence / Reality TV Duo

i wanna see you put these two nerds in a completely different reality tv genre! it could be a cooking competition, something like wipeout or love island, a quizz show! anything as long as it isn't total drama.

unless,,, you do want them to be a duo in TD then you could make a canon divergence situation where these two are the ones participating in ridonculous race, or write/draw them in a scenario that's based off any scene in total drama (one that either has them or has nothing to do with them whatsoever) and twist it in a way that makes Noah and Cody's relationship the main focus

PLEASE GO ABSOLUTELY WILD WITH YOUR CREATIVITY!!! I HIGHLY ENCOURAGE IT :D

[scary-grace]

25 police lights flashing on concrete with shigaraki

thank you so much for the prompt! i wrote multiple different ideas for this one, all of which I hit trouble with, so if you end up hating it, let me know and I'll rev up another one of the ideas. I hope you like it! (dividers by @cafekitsune)

magnum opus

As a crime scene photographer, you're prepared to see some blood. But the crime scene you've just been called out to document is on a different level, and the longer you spend looking at it, the more convinced you are that everything about it is intentional -- not that you can convince anyone else. As you try desperately to raise the alarm, the man responsible for the murder grows more and more interested in you, and whether Shigaraki Tomura kills you or not, he'll be sure to show you things you can never imagine first. (cross-posted to Ao3)

You got the call at eleven-thirty, when you were already most of the way to bed, and by the time you get to the crime scene, the detective on duty is already pissed. “Took you long enough. The press is climbing the walls.”

“I got here as fast as I could,” you say, ducking past the tape securing the scene. “How long since it was called in?”

“Half an hour, but the press got here just as fast,” the head of the forensics unit – your boss – says. “It was all the responding officers could do to get the perimeter set up before they could contaminate the scene.”

“The scene contaminated the scene,” the fingerprint tech says. He looks grossed out, big-time. “I mean, look at it.”

There’s a lot to look at. So much that it’s hard to decide where to point your camera first. You usually start with the body, but the body’s not usually in so many pieces. The victim’s been gutted, and what was left after the murderer dug their innards out of their body cavity looks like it’s been drawn and quartered. And if you look away from the body, widening your vision to the scene as a whole, there are dozens of items that could be evidence. This is a construction site. Construction sites are a murder weapon all on their own.

Setting all of that aside, there’s the blood, a puddle of it beneath the body and enormous smears on the skeletal walls and concrete floor. It hasn’t congealed completely yet. When you crouch down to peer at it, you can see the flashing lights from the police cars reflected within it. Before you can think better of it, you snap a photo. “Hey,” the detective snaps at you. “This is going to take all night as it is. Let’s get a move-on. Start with the sketch.”

You wait for the sketch artist to step up, but nobody moves. You realize too late that they’re looking at you. “No,” you say. “I’m the photographer. Where’s Monoma?”

“Budget cuts,” your boss says. You wince. “Start sketching.”

It’s not a pretty sketch, because a) you’re not a sketch artist, and b) you’re rushing it. Forensics protocol insists that the sketch of the crime scene and all the photographs be taken before anyone else enters the scene, and with every minute that passes, you can feel your coworkers’ frustration growing. Once you’ve got rough outlines of where everything’s supposed to be, you set the sketchbook aside and pick up your camera at last.

You weren’t born with a metaphorical camera in your hands the way real, talented photographers are supposed to be, but there hasn’t been a point in your life where you weren’t more comfortable viewing the world through a lens. Maybe in a different life, you’d have been a fashion photographer, but in this one, you were plucked out of your university’s photography program by a criminology professor who’d spotted your photo essay chronicling the decay of a tanuki that was hit by a car. Patience, an eye for detail, and a strong stomach – according to Professor Sasaki, you were born to be a crime scene photographer.

Whether you were born to do it or not, you’re good at it, and you get to work documenting the carnage. It’s not like any crime scene you’ve come across before. The sheer violence of the victim’s death is startling on its own, but more than that, there’s something strange about the evidence that’s been left behind. The longer you spend looking at it, through the lens of your camera or with your own eyes as you add to the sketch, the more convinced you are that it’s not an accident. Nothing about this scene is an accident.

It looks that way, sure. When you were still a photography student, you got some practice setting up still-life shots, and you remember focusing on the smallest details, trying to make the scene you wanted to shoot fell into place naturally. You were good at it, but not good enough – there was always something that revealed the truth. No matter how realistic and accidental your shot appeared to be, you knew it was composed. Just like this crime scene is.

The arcs of blood spatter on the floor and the walls are too perfect. The dismembered limbs are cast out at artfully careless angles, hands arranged with palms turned up, fingers half-uncurled. When you’re photographing the victim’s head, you note the angle it’s been turned to – and when you zoom in, you realized that there’s something up with the eyes. The victim’s head is turned, and his eyes are focused on something that’s not there any longer. Is that where the killer was standing? No, you realize, it can’t be – in order to sever the victim’s head, the killer would have had to stand much closer. Which means the killer didn’t just turn the victim’s head. He moved their eyes, too.

You catch one of the fingerprint techs by the arm. “This is going to sound weird,” you say, “but you need to dust the victim’s eyes.”

“Huh?” Toru gives you a weird look. “Why?”

“I think the killer moved them.”

“Somebody like this? No way.” Shinsou, the detective in training, walks past, trailing after Aizawa, who’s actually in charge. “With this much violence and this much evidence and this dangerous of a scene? This killer’s out of control.”

“What if that’s what they want you to think?” You know it sounds crazy even as it’s coming out of your mouth, but at the same time, you’re absolutely convinced. “If a killer really wanted to, they could make a crime scene look like something it wasn’t. Like it was accidental, when really it was staged –”

“And why would they?” Aizawa turns around to stare at you. From behind him, you can see your boss, Sekijiro, looking up from the blood spray he’s been analyzing. “Why would an organized killer spend valuable time disorganizing their own crime scene? Why would they take that risk?”

“I don’t know,” you say. “I think there must be –”

“What is it?” Aizawa cuts you off. You don’t have an answer ready, and Aizawa takes it the same as if you’d admitted there isn’t one. “I would expect someone who works in forensics to know this already, but the business of finding and apprehending criminals has very little to do with psychology. The simplest explanation is invariably the best one.”

You know profiling doesn’t catch criminals. Evidence does. But you’ve photographed plenty of blood-soaked crime scenes in your career, and none of them have given you the same uneasy feeling as this one. “But what if –”

“Which answer is more logical? That an organized killer would waste time that could be spent escaping on making a mess of their crime scene?” Aizawa’s tone of voice makes it clear how he feels about the idea, as if his expression hadn’t told you already. “Or that a disorganized killer left a disorganized scene behind?”

You know the answer, but you’re not about to open your mouth again. Aizawa’s made his point. But because he’s a detective, and detectives can’t resist an opportunity to be right about something, he hammers it home. “I don’t give you direction during your photography. Don’t give advice about things you don’t understand.”

He goes back to talking to your boss, and you take the last few pictures you need. Then you step past the crime scene tape, find a place to sit on the hood of a cop car, and go back to your sketch. It’s hard to focus when you’re smarting over Aizawa’s comments, which sting all the more for the fact that he’s right. You don’t know anything about catching criminals. Your job is to gather the evidence and hand it off to people who know what to do with it, not to come up with crazy theories of your own.

Still, though. You can’t shake your certainty off. As you fill in the details on your sketch, you can’t help but feel like you’re sketching a still life of another still life. It’s a perfectly disorganized crime scene, but in your opinion, the only thing real about it is the body in the center.

Like any performer, Tomura wants to see the audience’s reaction, but showing up at his own crime scene is a beginner mistake. Thanks to the drone he planted at the scene before he left, he’s got a front-row seat to the early-stage investigation of his latest murder, and he was so excited to see what the cops think of the it that his hands were shaking on the controls. That didn’t last. He’s been watching for an hour, and he’s more disappointed than anything else.

They aren’t getting it. Tomura doesn’t know how to make himself any clearer, but they aren’t getting it. They’re getting distracted by the location. By the timing. By stupid shit like the fingerprints everywhere, which aren’t even his. Tomura picked this city and this precinct on purpose, because the detective squad here is supposed to be good at cracking cases. Not that Tomura’s looking to get his case cracked. He’s looking to get his point across. But this group of cops is just like the rest of them. They can’t see that Tomura’s trying to make a point at all.

Disorganized. Tomura fucking hates that word. It’s the word the cops use to write his work off every time, and once they get that word in their heads, it’s all over. The only person who even suggested that there might be something more to Tomura’s scene was the photographer out of the forensic unit, and the detectives ignored you completely. It’s too bad they did that. You were onto something.

In fact, you were onto something from the second you showed up. You took your first photo before you even crossed the police line, and Tomura liked what you focused on – not the body, but the pool of blood underneath it. Something about it got your attention, and Tomura doesn’t need to know what it was. All he needs to know is that when you looked at his crime scene, you saw something more than fucking disorganization. And once you saw that, you kept looking, catching details Tomura’s been waiting for somebody to notice forever. Tomura wishes he could get ahold of your photos. He wants to see what his work looks like through the eyes of someone with vision.

Right now you’re sitting back from the scene, finishing a sketch of it. Tomura manipulates the controls of his drone, edging it a little closer and zooming in on the page. He can tell that photography’s what you prefer. You’re a lot slower with the sketch. But there’s one detail that jumps out at Tomura, one that fills his vision and makes his heart lurch out of step. You noticed the way he turned the body’s head, the way he moved the eyes, and you drew that – and you drew a line of sight to the corner of the sketch, where you’ve already put an outline.

The outline is person-shaped, which is fine for now. Tomura doesn’t care what it looks like. All he cares about is the fact that you figured it out. His crime scenes aren’t disorganized. There’s a purpose to the things he does. He didn’t spend fifteen minutes screwing around with the position of the head just for fun. It was hard work, and you noticed it. As Tomura watches, you add a question mark to the center of the outline.

You want to know what was there. You want to see more. Tomura feels a grin break across his face, opening splits in his dry lips. He knew all it would take was someone to notice first, someone to spread the word and get the rest of the world thinking in the right direction. He’d just thought the person who noticed would be Aizawa, the lead detective, rather than the photographer from the forensic unit. And he thought they’d have a better idea of the point he’s trying to make.

But maybe that’s on him. Tomura frowns at the thought, but once it hits, it won’t leave. If you noticed that he’s trying to say something but couldn’t figure out what he wanted to say, he might need to make it clearer. For whoever comes next, anyway. It’s not going to be you. Tomura still doesn’t want to get caught, after all, and he needs another victim sooner or later. Given the message he’s trying to send, his victim pool is kind of small. If he branches out from cops and detectives and soldiers and prison guards, it might throw the so-called justice system off his scent. Or it would. If he had a scent, which he doesn’t.

Killing you wouldn’t help to make Tomura’s point clearer, and killing somebody off the forensics team feels less like justice to Tomura than he wants it to. When he set out to expose the falsehoods at the center of society’s moral code, he focused on the people who actually enforce it. Sure, forensic specialists are a cog in the machine, helping to keep it running, but a photographer like you is just the one who collects the evidence, not the person who looks at it and turns it into a lie. Tomura could kill you. But your death won’t matter to the world. Tomura needs to save his kills for when they’ll count.

And with that in mind – Tomura lowers his hands to the controls again, lifting the drone away from its perch and sending it further over the crime scene, focusing on the cops and detectives. He keeps a running list of potential kills in his head, and he likes to add a few law enforcement personnel from every crime scene. It’ll be a while before he comes back to this city for a kill, but when he’s ready, he wants to know exactly who he’s targeting.

Detective Aizawa was a disappointment, and he shot down the only person on the scene who had even the slightest idea of what Tomura was trying to say. He’ll do. In a few months or a year or two years, Tomura will come back to this city, and when he does, he’ll give you another crime scene to capture. That should give him time to figure out how to make his point clear. And give you some time to get better at your job, so that by the time he gets back, you’ll know exactly what every detail of his crime scene means.

When it comes to crime scenes, you hate the ones with living victims the most. Your job requires you to be dispassionate, not to linger on the horrors, and as terrible as it is, there’s some peace in knowing that the victim of a murderer will never see the aftermath, or have to reckon with what was done to them. Living victims make it harder. Living victims are haunted. Living victims stare at you and everyone else with blank eyes, empty except for the questions: Where were you? Why didn’t you save me?

Saving people isn’t your job. It’s not even the cops’ job, really. But that doesn’t mean you don’t feel sickeningly guilty every time you break eye contact, lift the camera up to hide your face, and turn back to taking pictures.

Today’s crime scene is what’s probably going to wind up being investigated as attempted vehicular homicide. Or a carjacking. Or both. In any case, the evidence is scattered across a busy intersection, and you’ve been crawling around for half an hour, taking pictures of body parts, smears of brain matter, piles of broken glass, and all the parts of the car that flew off when its bumper basically exploded on impact with an oncoming bus. You’re irritated, and you can’t figure out why. With every picture you snap, your frustration grows.

It’s so senseless. And random. A snap of unthinking violence and a bad decision, and now three people are severely injured, not to mention everybody who’s been traumatized by one look at the scene. There was no point to this, and there’s nothing to solve. You aren’t helping anybody by snapping dozens of pictures. You’re just creating a record of the worst moments of someone’s life, a record they’re going to see in court if they’re even out of the hospital in time for the trial. You might be good at your job, but sometimes you really hate it.

It’s a relief when your supervisor calls you away. “I appreciate your thoroughness, but someone else will complete the photography,” he says. “You’re needed elsewhere.”

“Why?”

“A murder’s occurred in a district without its own forensic team,” Sekijiro says. “They need a photographer.”

You’d love to get out of here, but – “Don’t cops in districts without a forensics team know how to do their own photography?”

“For an ordinary murder,” Sekijiro says. “This isn’t an ordinary murder.”

A chill goes down your spine, and it must show on your face, because Sekijiro sweetens the deal with zero prompting. “You’ll be paid time and a half.”

“Okay,” you say. “Where am I going?”

The site’s an hour and a half away by car, but that’s crucial time for a fresh murder scene, so Sasaki calls ahead and lets the traffic cops on your route know that you’ll be speeding to get there quickly. You get there in forty-five minutes – you did a lot of speeding – and check in with the detective in charge of the investigation, a big, friendly guy named Toyomitsu. “Thanks for coming,” he says. “We have a trainee photographer, and he was going to do it, but –”

He nods at a guy with spiky red hair who’s sitting on the hood of a police car, looking all kinds of queasy. “No problem,” you say. “Did somebody do a sketch?”

“My partner. He’s not half-bad.”

Detective Toyomitsu’s partner looks queasy, too, but you think his is more stress-related. You look over the sketch, then pick up your camera, duck the tape, and come to a dead stop at the edge of the scene.

It wasn’t a chill down your spine earlier, when Sekijiro told you about the case – it was déjà vu, because in spite of the fact that this scene looks totally different in its setup, you can still see how carefully it’s been arranged. The blood spray exiting from the victim’s open body cavity looks almost artful, a near-perfect fan rather than the splatter you’re used to. The limbs are more contained this time, hanging by threads but still attached, and the same goes for the head, held upright by a meat hook jammed through the back of the neck. And even from a distance, you can see that the head’s turned at an angle.

“Is there a problem?” Toyomitsu asks – not accusingly, the way Aizawa would. “Need help with anything?”

You shake your head, and try to stiffen your spine in the bargain. You have a crime scene to document, and you’re getting time and a half. And this time, once you’ve done your job, you’re going to follow the victim’s eyeline. This time, you’re going to see what the killer wanted the victim to see. What he wants the investigator to see, too. Maybe that will help someone catch him.

You’re back.

Tomura was watching a stagnant crime scene, with the detectives and forensic unit standing around uselessly after the trainee photographer took one look at the scene and upchucked, and he was having a hard time staying awake. Which is bullshit – laying out murders like his takes effort, and no one was appreciating it, courtesy of some kid who spilled his guts. Tomura was so annoyed that he broke his no-forensics rule to add the kid to his hit list. You didn’t waste time throwing up. You were focused on his work. On him.

And then, like thinking about you conjured you up, you stepped onto the scene. Just like before, you were thorough, capturing every detail of Tomura’s scene. Tomura was thinking you’d be better at it by the next time his drone captured you, and he was right. You’re not just better than last time. This time, you catch all the details Tomura agonized over, focusing on exactly the things he’d want someone to see. It made Tomura feel weird. Almost anxious, but not quite. Giddy, or something. Weird, but good.

It would have been enough to see you study his scene, trying to understand what he meant. But once you were done taking photos, you left the scene and followed the eyeline he constructed for his kill. And now you’re climbing up onto a pile of crates, looking for what Tomura planted there for anybody smart enough to find it. He should have known it would be you.

The trainee photographer is following you. Once you’re on a level with the nook Tomura tucked the hint into, you glance back at him. “Hand me the camera.”

“I don’t think that’s evidence,” the trainee says. Fuck him. He’s just moved up a spot on the list. “It’s way outside the crime scene.”

“So make the crime scene bigger. Camera.” You hold out your hand, waiting, but you lose patience fast. “Fine.”

You’re taking pictures with your phone now, capturing the hint Tomura placed from every angle. Tomura feels weirdly exposed, and it doesn’t go away when you stop snapping photos and put on a pair of gloves. You’re pretty thorough. It won’t matter – Tomura took care of his fingerprints before he made his first kill – but he appreciates the effort. At least someone’s paying attention.

He leaves the drone where it is and turns his attention to the camera, zooming in on the details the same way you do when you’re taking pictures of his work. Your fingertips carefully unfolding the newspaper article. The focus in your eyes as you read it. The way one of your legs is shaking from the awkward position you’re staying balanced in. Your mouth grabs more of his attention than it should, given that it’s got nothing to do with his crime scene, but Tomura gives it a second look anyway. Maybe a third.

You glance back at the trainee. “I need an evidence bag.”

“That’s not evidence.”

“You’re not a detective. We don’t decide what counts as evidence. We collect everything and let the cops work it out.” You hold out your hand, waiting, until the trainee hands you an evidence bag. You slide Tomura’s hint carefully into it, then hand it back to the trainee while you climb down. “Give it back. I’ll bring it to the detective myself.”

The trainee really doesn’t like your attitude. Tomura doesn’t give a shit. In his opinion, your attitude is right where it should be. You care about the truth. You care about seeing things as they really are. If there were more people like you around, Tomura wouldn’t have so many people to put on his kill list. At the rate things are going, he’s going to be killing people until he drops dead.

The detective doesn’t want Tomura’s hint. Fuck him, too. Tomura puts him on the list, but absently – he’s still focused on you. “Do you mind if I keep this?” you ask the detective, and Tomura’s face goes up in flames. “I want to look at it a little longer.”

The detective nods. He’s barely paying attention, too busy directing his tiny gang of borrowed forensic specialists to dust for fingerprints that aren’t there. You, though. You’re studying Tomura’s hint through the plastic, lost in thought. Because you get it, just like Tomura thought. Or at least you get him. Enough. Enough to understand that he wanted you to see something and actually go looking for it.

He’s been wondering why his message keeps getting lost, why no one understands when he’s being clear as a fucking bell about it. Maybe he’s been going about it the wrong way. He doesn’t need the world to understand. Tomura needs one person, one person who gets it and can spread the word. And you’ve just made yourself the first and only candidate for the job.

Tomura sits back in his chair. The satisfaction of finding an answer, figuring out how to stay five steps ahead of the cops while still spreading the word, is familiar to him – but it’s cut with something that isn’t. After six murders, Tomura’s finally gotten what he wanted, so he should stop watching now. Instead he keeps watching, some part of him still unsatisfied, even as you slide the hint carefully out of its evidence bag and start reading. You’ve found everything he wanted you to see, but he wants you to keep looking. He wants you to keep looking until he doesn’t want to be looked at anymore.

It's a stupid thing to want. Tomura switches off the drone, irked at himself. He wants you to keep looking? That’s easy. The next time he sets up a crime scene for you, he’ll leave enough hints to keep you looking at him all night.

You’ve taken pictures of four weird murders now, found multiple pieces of evidence at the sites, and you’re starting to see a pattern developing. A couple of patterns, actually. It’s not just the eyes that give away where the extra evidence might be – it’s the angle of the hands, whether the fingers are pointed or not, and on the last victim, the killer even took the time to point the toes. Or toe. He cut the other four off on each foot, leaving only the big toe to indicate where to find the other things he left behind.

He always leaves things just outside the radius of the crime scene, things the cops dismiss and things you know to look for. There are never any fingerprints on any of it, which means the killer’s wearing gloves, deliberately covering his tracks. That means he’s organized. That proves what you’ve thought since you saw the first scene: Nothing this guy does is by accident. What you or anyone else who looks at the scene sees is what he wants you to see. And he really wants someone to see the pieces of evidence he’s leaving.

Well, you see it. You even went back to the first crime scene to grab what he left there – a plastic police badge, a kid’s toy. At the second site, it was a newspaper article about abuses of power committed by prison guards. At the third site, you found another newspaper article, a toy gun, and a military training manual with every single page torn out. You found the pages at the fourth scene, crumpled up and scattered amidst artful smears of blood, and that wasn’t all you found, either. This time you found fake diplomas – four different kinds of fake diplomas – and a military medal that may or may not be real. You’re not a detective or a profiler or anything, but it would be hard to look at all of this stuff and not conclude that this guy has a serious problem with the system.

It's borne out in the victims, too. The victims take forever to identify, just because he puts in so much effort eradicating their fingerprints, faces, and teeth, but each victim has been somebody with authority. A cop, a soldier, a prison guard, and a detective from a jurisdiction on the opposite side of the country, which is worrying on a whole new level. Not only does this killer set up misleading crime scenes, he’s willing to transport victims across the country to kill them in the exact spot he wants them dead. You don’t know if there’s ever been a more organized serial killer.

You’re comfortable calling him that. Four murders of victims who share a particular characteristic makes him a serial killer, and when you searched missing persons records by profession, you found three or four more who fit the killer’s specifications. You found a crime scene or two that might have been his also – his before he got comfortable being so elaborate. The photographer and sketch artist on those scenes didn’t follow the victim’s line of sight, but you have a feeling they’d have found something if they had. You do, after all. You find something more every time.

You tried to bring it to Aizawa after the third crime scene, and he all but told you to drop it. You’re creating a pattern out of circumstance, or exaggerating your own abilities, or turning this killer into some kind of mythical monster instead of acknowledging him as the twisted freak he actually is. But you think you’re right. No, you’re convinced. There’s a serial killer haunting Japan, gruesomely murdering public servants and running marathons around the police, and you’re going to make sure someone’s aware of it, even if it tanks your career. You just need a little more evidence first. One more piece to tie things together, so that when you go up and over Aizawa’s head to the head of Investigations, he won’t be able to ignore what you have to say.

And if he does, you’ve got a backup plan. The evidence you’ve collected is yours. You got yourself on the record asking the detectives if they want it, and they’ve all said no. The research you’ve done into the victims is based on their names being released to the public, and the dots could be connected by anybody who viewed the same evidence as you have. If Head Detective Yagi won’t listen to you, you’ll go to the press and blow the whistle yourself.

It's a solid plan – two plans – but you can’t help but feel a little uneasy. You aren’t on Criminal Minds or anything. You’re more like the dumb reporter from Red Dragon, the one who publishes a bunch of crazy stuff and gets himself whacked by the Tooth Fairy. And at the same time, you have the sense that something different is going on here. The way the evidence has been placed at the last two crime scenes has felt – not deliberate, because everything this killer does is deliberate. Not deliberate, but targeted. Like he’s leaving evidence in places only you would look for it.

But that’s insane. The killer’s not coming back to observe his crime scenes – part of your job is to snap photos of any crowd that gathers, and you haven’t seen the same person show up at any one of them. There’s no way the killer could be watching, and even if there was, there’s no way he’d be leaving things specifically for you. You’re not Clarice Starling or anything. You’re the dumb reporter. You’re finding things because you know where to look. That’s all.

You’re sitting at your desk, staring off into space, when Monoma, who got rehired a while back, bangs on the wall of your cubicle. “New scene,” he says, once you’re done jumping out of your skin. “The guy who called it in said to bring a barf bag or four.”

“Yeah. Okay.” You gather your workbag, ignoring the knot of prickly anticipation that unfolds to wrap its tentacles around your ribcage. It’s not the serial killer. It’s been less than a month since his last murder. There’s no way he’s at it again. “If it’s as bad as they say, bet you six bucks Shinsou throws up.”

“Six bucks says it’s Kaminari instead.”

“You’re on.”

Neither you nor Monoma win any money, because you’re both right, and the bets cancel each other out. You’re feeling sick for an entirely different reason. This is the most elaborately disorganized crime scene you’ve ever photographed, and it’s got the serial killer’s nonexistent fingerprints all over it. You wait until Shinsou’s done throwing up, then ask him to ask Aizawa to widen the perimeter. You have to come up with a lie about extensive blood spray, but it works.

It's not even that much of a lie – the scene looks like the killer attached a garden hose of blood to a ceiling fan and cranked it up to maximum – but you still feel guilty. Less guilty when Aizawa expands the crime scene to include the radius where the killer likes to hide his clues. You take your standard series of photos, by the book as much as you can possibly manage, and once you’re done, you go looking for the killer’s clues.

They’re inside the perimeter now. Aizawa and the other detectives will have to take them. You document each one extensively first, dragging Monoma over to sketch their positions, too. Then you put on gloves and lift them out of hiding. “This is weird,” Monoma remarks, as you lift an article about a defense attorney’s series of victories in child abuse cases out of hiding and set it down alongside a printout of cops’ salaries. “Slasher types like this guy don’t have a reason.”

“He’s not – that. The violence is an attention grab. He wouldn’t do it if he didn’t enjoy it, but I don’t think it’s the whole point.” You slide the second article into an evidence bag, then follow the victim’s severed index finger to the next hiding spot. “Every crime scene has had clues like this. He wants people to find them.”

Monoma hums the Criminal Minds theme song. “If this guy’s smart like you say he is, why would he leave clues so we could catch him?”

“That’s not what they’re for,” you say. You’ve gone so far as to look for links between the cases the victims have interacted with, and you’ve found nothing. “He doesn’t want us to catch him. He wants us to see.”

“Sure. Maybe that’s how we’ll catch him,” Monoma says. You glance at him and find him smirking. “He’s going to want to know if the lambs have stopped screaming yet.”

“Shut up.” You elbow Monoma, then crouch down to take a picture and pry the next hidden object out of hiding. It’s harder to remove than usual, and it comes free in two pieces. One of them is the needle off a polygraph test, which you only recognize because you’ve seen them in the lab at work. “Okay. Maybe if we can figure out where this is from –”

You hand it off to Monoma to be stored properly, then turn your attention to the other item. Compared to everything else the killer’s left, clearly identifiable and clearly linked to his cause, a single bullet casing isn’t exactly a smoking gun. You pick it up with a gloved hand, upend it, and find that a piece of paper’s been rolled up and wedged inside. The handwriting on the paper is bad, and the sentence is only two words. Look up.

You do, out of shock more than anything else – first straight up, then up and out, then pivoting in a slow circle, trying desperately to figure out what you’re supposed to see. There’s nothing. Whatever the killer wants you to see – and you’re sure now that he wants you to see it – it’s beyond your vision, beyond your understanding. There’s one thing you do understand, though. The killer’s watching his crime scenes, somehow. And now that you’ve been at so many of them, he’s watching you, too.

Fuck, that’s it. Tomura takes a screen grab, and then a second, and a third, capturing frame after frame of you, making eye contact with the drone camera. You didn’t know it was there. Tomura knew you’d raise the alarm if you saw it, and he doesn’t want his view of his crime scenes to be cut off, so he camouflaged it better than usual. But you found his messages, just like he knew you would. You found his note, too. And you followed his instructions, looking up and at the camera just like he wanted. At the camera. At Tomura.

It's a dumb thing for Tomura to want – you, looking at him. You already look at him, every time he makes a kill and sets up a crime scene. You’re looking at his work, which is the most important thing, so important that Tomura doesn’t need anything else. Or shouldn’t. But no matter how elaborate of a crime scene Tomura sets up for you, no matter how much time you spend carefully documenting it and gathering his hints, you never look at it as long as he wants you to. Or the way he wants you to, even though you’re doing exactly what he thought he wanted in the first place. Like Tomura said – dumb.

Dumb or not, it’s been on Tomura’s mind, and worse, in his dreams. He doesn’t usually have dreams, and the ones he has are bad, so the fact that he’s started having dreams about you taking his picture is a sign that he’s put too much thought into you. Every time Tomura wakes up from a dream where you’re taking photos of him instead of one of his scenes, he tells himself that he’ll kill you soon. And every time, he – doesn’t.

Killing you is the right thing to do. You’re a distraction from Tomura’s mission. Time spent thinking about you, puzzling over his dreams, wondering why it’s not enough that you only see his crime scenes – all of that is time wasted, because he’s not spending it on planning his next kill or crafting his next message. You’ve served your purpose, too. Even as Tomura pulls the screen grab over to a second screen and refocuses on the video feed, he can see you talking to Aizawa again, making the case that Tomura’s crime scenes mean something. Unlike last time, Aizawa’s actually listening.

He’s listening. The story of who actually cracked the case will come out, and when Tomura kills you, it’ll mean something – you’ll be a real, visible member of the system, someone whose absence will be noticed. Tomura will set up his best crime scene yet for your body, and when he moves your eyes, he’ll make sure he puts something special there for you to look at. The idea keeps him happy for about six hours or so. Planning out a crime scene’s always fun – sometimes more fun than the actual killing, or it is lately. It gets less fun when Tomura realizes that you won’t be there to see it.

When the so-called peace officers hold their press conference, announcing that they’ve strung five of Tomura’s murders together and declared him a serial killer, you’re nowhere to be found – not on the podium, not in the crowd. You’re not visible. That means you can’t be on Tomura’s list, and Tomura feels an unpleasant surge of relief at the thought. Your photos are in some of the articles written about the case, though, and looking at those makes Tomura feel even stranger than he does when he looks at the still shot of you he’s taped up over his bed.

He’s done his research on you by now. He’s got files for all his potential victims, and then he’s got a file for you, featuring everything about you he could find on the internet. You’re Tomura’s age. You’re single and you live by yourself. You wanted to be a real photographer at some point, which is where you learned how to turn every aspect of Tomura’s crime scenes into a work of art. Tomura finds some of your old portfolio still kicking around a defunct Instagram account, and he’s impressed against his will.

Tomura’s a serial killer, not an art critic, but he spends a lot of time around blood, guts, and dismembered corpses, which means he’s qualified to judge the whole set of roadkill photos you took. They’re – good. Even before you came across one of Tomura’s crime scenes, you knew how to photograph disgusting things and make them matter. Tomura’s scenes already mattered before you turned your camera on them; you just helped expand his reach. That’s not why he’s interested in your art. He tells himself otherwise, but every time he catches a glimpse of himself in one of the cracked, filthy mirrors in his apartment, he lingers for a second, wondering what you would do with his reflection. What he’d look like through your lens.

Tomura gives you another crime scene to photograph, this time featuring the corpse of the trainee photographer who was giving you a hard time at the second crime scene of his you shot. He can tell that you recognize the victim. He can tell that it throws you. So does the message he left for you – another bullet casing, another instruction to look up. Tomura sees your shoulders stiffen, and he leans forward in his seat, tense all on his own. You look up again, and – that’s it. Fuck. Tomura takes so many screenshots that his computer freezes for a second, already planning where he’ll tape them up, convincing himself that this will be enough for him.

It’s not. Tomura dreams that you’re taking his picture again, but this time, it’s weird. The two of you aren’t at one of his crime scenes; instead you’re somewhere else, somewhere with good lighting, and you’re taking pictures of Tomura from every angle, not quite close enough for him to touch. Tomura’s not posing for you, exactly. He just awkwardly shifts position, and you keep snapping photos. It’s warm in Tomura’s dream. After a while he takes off his coat. Then his shirt.

You don’t lower your camera entirely, but Tomura can see your eyes, and you look – interested. He holds still, and you take another few photos. Then you stop. Tomura knows what you’re waiting for. He’s seen that expression on your face at every crime scene as you hunt for his clues. Focused, intent, engaged, and being the target in person scrambles Tomura’s brain. What? he demands, embarrassed without reason. Do you want to see more?

I see what you want me to see, you say. Your eyes drift over Tomura’s body, shoulders down to his hips, lingering somewhere in between that makes Tomura’s face turn red. Is there anything else you want to show me?

When is Tomura ever going to get a chance like this again? He unbuttons his pants, but you don’t lift your camera again. Instead your gaze follow his fingers as he pulls the zipper down, stays centered between his legs as he takes off his pants. His hands are shaking, like they were the first time he laid out a crime scene, and the feeling he’s had every time he’s watched you crawl over his scenes with a camera rushes through him, more intense than before. He waits for you to lift your camera this time, to take photos of him from every angle, but you don’t. Instead you set it aside. Then you reach out to Tomura and –

Tomura wakes up mid-climax, his pants and his sheets halfway to being ruined, his hands miles away from touching his cock. The first thought that punctures the fog is surprise. Tomura knows bodies do this – he’s not an idiot – but he didn’t think this was something his body did. He’s a serial killer. If he’s going to get off to anything, it should be his murders. He’s never gotten off to killing anybody. But the idea of you looking at him face to face, you reaching for him yourself instead of waiting for him to act, you putting your camera down because you needed something else more – Tomura almost loses it a second time.

You didn’t even touch his cock in the dream – your hand brushed against his waist, slid to his hip, fingers brushing his inner thigh. Even the thought is enough to make Tomura squirm, and for the first time since you set foot on one of his crime scenes, Tomura’s head feels clear. No, he can’t kill you. He doesn’t need to kill you. What he needs is more.

How much more? The question’s too much for him. Tomura’s hands slide between his legs, pushing himself past overstimulation, into near-discomfort. How much more doesn’t matter yet. He can figure that out later. Tomura decides faintly, as his hips jerk and he shifts away from the pressure of his own hands, that a close-up would be a good start.

You know something’s wrong the instant you wake up, even before the headache kicks in, because you can’t remember falling asleep. What’s the last thing you remember? You were on a walk, you think. You smelled something weird – something sweet, that didn’t make sense for the park you were walking through. A thought had crossed your mind, some dark joke about chloroform smelling better than you thought it did, and almost as soon as you had the thought, a mask was clamped down over your mouth and nose, the sweet scent flooding into both when you inhaled and opened your mouth to scream.

You remember a little more, but a little more doesn’t matter. You’re being kidnapped. No, you’ve been kidnapped. You open your eyes, shocked to find that you can see. You’re in a small room, light on one side, shadowed on the other, and you can see someone moving around in the light, making adjustments to things here and there. Stand lights. It almost looks like a portrait studio setup, except it’s in the grossest basement you’ve ever sprawled out in. Not that you sprawl out in basements for fun. You only do that when you’re on the job.

Your job. Kidnapped. You’re in someone’s basement and you aren’t blindfolded. You aren’t tied up, either – your arms and legs are completely free. You sit up too quickly, grimacing at the pain in your head, and the figure amidst the lights turns towards you. “You’re awake. I was worried,” he says. One hand rises from his side to scratch the side of his neck. “Usually when I do this, I don’t care how they feel afterward.”

“You do this a lot?”

“Yeah.” You can’t see your kidnapper’s face courtesy of the backlighting, and whatever he’s wearing to hide it. “You should know.”

“I should?” You’re confused, but you shouldn’t be. You know what’s happening here. Someone kidnapped you. Someone who doesn’t care whether or not you hear his voice or see his face. You’re in his goddamn basement. “Who are you?”

“You don’t know?” He sounds surprised. “Come on. You know who it is. Who else could it be?”

Someone who kidnaps lots of people, who’s interested in you – he’s right. That could only be one person, and as the knowledge you’ve been pushing back against settles over you more fully, your vocal cords constrict so badly that you can barely speak. “You’re the Symbol of Fear.”

“That’s right,” the serial killer whose crime scenes you’ve been shooting says. “But you can call me Tomura.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, even though it’s too late, even though you’ve seen more than enough. “Symbol of Fear. If they were gonna give me a name, they should have picked a better one,” the killer – Tomura – continues. “What would you have named me, if you got to pick?”

“Are you going to kill me?” As soon as you ask the question, you kick yourself. That’s what kidnapped people in movies always say, and it always annoys the killer into killing them faster or more or worse. “I mean, of course you are. That’s what you do. And you told me your name.”

“My name’s not going to help you find me,” Tomura says. So it’s an alias. Fine. it’s not like you’re going to be able to tell anybody either way. “I know your name, so you should know mine. You’d have named me something better, right? I would have gotten a name a lot sooner if the cops had listened to you.”

You hear his footsteps. He’s coming closer. If he’s going to kill you, why hasn’t he tied you up? Is he trying to trick you into running for it? “Hey,” he says. He nudges you with his foot. “I didn’t bring you here to kill you.”

Your heart is racing so hard you can barely breathe. “I bet you say that to all your victims.”

“Not really,” Tomura says. He crouches down next to you. “They need to know what’s coming, so they have time to think about how they want to die. If they want to put on a brave face or beg for mercy or scream the entire way.”

“Which one do you want them to do?”

“I don’t really care,” Tomura says. He pauses. “Maybe I would, if I was thinking about letting them go. But I’m not. I don’t tell my kills I’m not going to do it. So you can believe me when I say I won’t kill you.”

Part of you wants to believe. You’re desperate to believe that there’s some way out of here, but you know better. And if you know better, it doesn’t matter what you do now. “Then why did you bring me here?”

“I’ve been watching. Your work. You do a great job with my work,” Tomura says. It’s quiet for a second. You open your eyes, sneak a sidelong glance, and find him scratching his neck again. “Since you’ve been doing such a good job, I thought I’d give you a chance to shoot the real thing.”

Something taps against your leg. You open your eyes partway, without looking over at Tomura, and find yourself looking at a camera, identical to the one you use at work. “I set up lights and everything,” Tomura continues. “You can move them around if you want. I mean, you shouldn’t need to – my scenes always look good even when the lighting’s shit, but –”

“You want me to shoot you like one of your crime scenes,” you say. You see Tomura nodding out of the corner of your eye. “Um – why?”

“Can you do it or not?” Tomura sounds irritated. You risk a proper glance at him and see him looking away, his pale skin stained with a flush. His face is barely visible – not because of a mask, which would make sense, but because of a life-sized model hand, which serves basically the same purpose and looks ten times as weird. “I know you can take photos of other stuff. I looked you up.”

You can’t see his whole face. The name he gave you is fake. If you take his picture like he wants you to, he won’t have a reason to get angry, and maybe – no, he won’t let you live. He’ll kill you just like he’s killed everyone else. But like everyone else he’s killed, you’ve got time to think about how you want to die, and although you’re pretty sure you’re going to scream and beg like everybody else once he starts cutting you into pieces, you want to keep it together until then. Having something to do will help.

“You saw my other photos,” you say. “Were there ones you liked?”

“I like how you shoot my scenes,” Tomura says. “Just do it like that.”

He gets to his feet, then turns to face you, holding out his hands to help you up. The incongruousness of it catches you off-guard first, but only for a second, and it’s obliterated by just how strange it is to be confronted with his hands when you’re already so familiar with the terrible things he’s done with them. Tomura is a monster. His hands should be gnarled, clawlike, stained with blood. Instead his hands are clean, with ragged nails and a bad case of eczema, and they’re shaking slightly as he holds them out for yours.

You don’t reach for his hands. You raise the camera he got for you and snap a picture.

It startles him, and that means it startles you. “What are you doing?” he snaps. “Why are you taking a picture of that?”

“You’ve seen me shoot your crime scenes,” you say, thinking fast. “I take pictures of all kinds of things. Sometimes it’s just stuff that catches my eye. Your hands are like that.”

Tomura doesn’t answer. He takes one of them back to scratch the side of his neck, and you take a perfunctory grip on the other while getting to your feet under your own power. Tomura’s taller than you, and he doesn’t give you your hand back right away. You have to pull it free. “You can go stand over by the lights if you want,” you say. “Find somewhere you’re comfortable and I’ll adjust them to match.”

Tomura skulks over to the lights, and you take pictures of him as he goes, taking the opportunity to adjust the settings on the camera where you like them. Different parts of the Symbol of Fear come into focus as you take test shot after test shot – his blue-grey hair, tangled and worn to his shoulders, his red eyes, his dry lips – and you fix each of them firmly into your memory. Soon enough you’ll be able to describe him with your eyes closed, even with the hand over his face.

That feels good for only a few seconds. Just as long as it takes for you to noticed the bars on the inside of the basement windows and the barbed wire outside them, and to remember that you’re not getting out of here alive.

Tomura knows you like to take a lot of photos, but it seems to him like you’re overdoing it. You’re taking so many, and you’re taking them of nothing – in most of them, he’s not even looking, or his face isn’t in the shot. “Some of these are test shots,” you say, when he asks. “I’m seeing how the lighting looks from different angles, on different parts of your body. See?”

You hold out the camera for Tomura to check, and he looks away. He doesn’t like looking at himself. “What about the ones that aren’t tests?”

“Just things I’m interested in.” You let the camera fall to your side, then go back to messing with the lighting one-handed. “If you like where you are right now, you can stay there. I’ve fixed the lights so you’ll look good from every angle.”

“That’s funny.” Tomura snorts, but you don’t laugh. You look puzzled. “Me, looking good. It doesn’t matter where I stand.”

“If it doesn’t matter, then stay where you are,” you say. You lift the camera again, and Tomura ducks his head on instinct – and you take the picture anyway.

It doesn’t feel like it does in Tomura’s dreams when you take his picture, but Tomura’s willing to admit that it’s probably a good thing that he’s not affected so strongly. The thing this real-life photoshoot has in common with his dreams above all is the feeling of vulnerability, of exposure. Even with the hand over Tomura’s face, you’re seeing him. Like he’s been seeing you all along.

No, it’s not like that. He couldn’t talk to you through the drone like you can talk to him face to face. “Did you really not know it was me?” Tomura asks. You nod from behind the camera. He’s not even sure what you’re taking a picture of right now. “Who else did you think it was?”

“I didn’t know,” you say. “I knew you were watching the crime scenes somehow. I would have had to, after I got your message. I just didn’t think I was on your list.”

“You’re not on my list,” Tomura says. “Not like that, anyway.”

You nod. You’re adjusting your camera, and Tomura asks you another question. “Who do you think is on my list?”

“Cops. Detectives. Soldiers, prison guards, lawyers.” You take another picture. “People who are part of the system. Or adjacent to it. The guy at the last crime scene was just a photographer, like me.”

He wasn’t you. That was the problem. “I didn’t like his attitude. He was a special case,” Tomura says. “He got talkative towards the end. He was trying to figure out what I wanted to hear. By that point I just wanted him to shut up.”

“Is that why you tore out his tongue?”

You sound a little grossed out. Tomura thinks it’s fair to ask – when he’s arranging his kills, he tends to avoid sticking his hands in their mouths. “He bit it off, and I had to take it out so he wouldn’t swallow it. And since I had it, I figured I should put it to use.”

“The hear-no-evil, see-no-evil, speak-no-evil thing played well with the detective,” you say. You shift where you’re standing, and Tomura shifts to match. “No, stay there. This angle works.”

“Works how?” Tomura says. You shrug. “The three-monkeys shit is on the nose. You guessed way before that, didn’t you? You were paying attention. You always are.”

Tomura likes watching you work over a crime scene, but if he set up that many crime scenes, he’d get caught. Sometimes he watches you at others, car crashes or assaults or murders with no meaning behind them. They don’t deserve your attention, not the way Tomura’s scenes do. “It’s hard not to pay attention to your murders,” you say. “You make them flashy on purpose, but people get distracted by the flashiness and miss out on what you’re trying to say.”

“What do you think I’m trying to say?” Tomura asks, trying not to sound like there’s a lot riding on the answer. “I want to hear it.”

You take another picture. “You have a problem with the system as a whole, but the thing that bothers you is when people fail to do what they promised to do and don’t pay for it. Or people who protect the wrong people, like that lawyer in the article from the second crime scene. The rest of us ignore it, so you want to make us look. Or make it so we can’t look away.”

You take another picture – of Tomura’s face this time, which is bad, because Tomura’s face is heating up. You didn’t just notice that he was trying to say something, you got it exactly right. Now it feels like it does in Tomura’s dreams. His skin crawls in a way that’s better and worse than itching, and when he looks away from you, you take another picture, and another. The flash is off, but Tomura can hear the shutter click, every sound winding him a little tighter. He scratches his neck with one hand, pulls at collar of his shirt with the other. “Did it work on you?” he asks, forcing the words out in an even tone. “Could you look away?”

“Not really,” you say. Tomura breathes a sigh of relief that’s a little too loud, and it catches your attention. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” Tomura says through gritted teeth. You snap another picture. “What were you even looking at this time?”

“You,” you say, and you turn the camera in your hand, holding out the viewscreen so he can look, too.

Tomura recoils from the sight out of habit, but he keeps looking, and the longer he looks at it, the more he starts to see what you were trying to capture. Tomura’s eyes are averted from the camera behind his disguise, but the light catches his face in a way that startles him. Even the flush on his face looks different – not disgusting and contagious, but natural. Normal. Some word that makes it look like it belongs where it is. Is this how he looks to you? No wonder he needed you to keep looking. Looking feels good. Tomura’s never liked himself better than when he’s seeing himself through your eyes.

Still, you haven’t seen everything, and he needs you to. Tomura reaches up and grasps the hand, ready to pull it from his face.

You avert your eyes in a hurry, then close them entirely. “I can’t,” you say. “If I see you, you’ll never let me leave.”

“I have to,” Tomura says. His voice is oddly ragged. “Nobody else gets it like you do. It’s better for me if you’re out there.”

You set the camera down without looking back at him, and his hands close over your wrists tightly. “We’re not done,” Tomura says. “Keep going.”

He’s getting off on this. You can tell by the sound of his breathing, the unsteady rise and fall of his chest, the way he’s shifting in his seat, and your instinct is to flinch in disgust. But you’ve been watching him closely this entire time, and you didn’t see this response when you were talking about his crime scenes. It’s not violence or murder that gets him going, so what’s causing this? It can’t be this simple. There’s no way it’s just because you’re taking his picture.

If he gets off, maybe he’ll let you go. “I’ll take as many pictures as you want if you leave your disguise on.”

“Done.”

You pull your hands from Tomura’s grip and raise your camera again, wondering how much you’re allowed to pose him. If you’re allowed to. “Can I touch you?” you ask. “There’s this pose I’m –”

Tomura nods. His eyes are closed, and you take another picture, this one of the scratched side of his neck and his shirt pulled to one side, before you think about how you might want to pose him. He’s seated. If you could find something for him to lay back against, that would be ideal, but there’s nothing. “Lean your weight back on your right hand,” you tell him, and he does. “Do what you want with your left hand. Tilt your head –”

It’s beyond uncomfortable to see him follow your instructions, given who he is and what he’s done. You take a picture or two of the preliminary pose, focusing on the new angles created by his extended arm and single bent knee. There’s an awkwardness to him, but there’s something compelling about the way his form and features come together. Maybe in another life he’d have been a model, somebody’s muse. Right now he’s the subject of what’s probably the last photo you’ll ever take.

Tomura’s hair is in his face. You say his name to warn him, then reach out and brush the strands of blue-grey hair out of his eyes. At first your fingers are against his forehead; then you let them drift downward, from his cheek to his jaw to the It’s a mistake. Tomura shudders at your touch, the arm he’s balanced on barely holding him up, and you take a picture of that, too, struggling to stay out of the shot while capturing everything that needs to be seen. Everything needs to be seen. The perversity of the Symbol of Fear, a man who’s thrown the entire country into terror, coming almost untouched and almost on camera, is something you can’t resist capturing forever.

And if the sight of him does something for you, too – if knowing that you and your camera can make him like this ties your chest in a knot and sends heat flooding through you – you don’t need to share that with anyone. You’re the photographer. You don’t matter.

Tomura fumbles at the hand over his face, and like before, you shut your eyes. “Don’t,” he says. “I want you to see.”

“No.” You shake your head and lower your camera, for good this time. “If you meant it about letting me go –”

“Knowing my face wouldn’t help you find me,” Tomura says with disturbing confidence. You wonder why he’s so convinced. If he’s right. “I have to let you go. Nobody gets what I’m trying to say the way you do.”

“You’re okay with that.” Why are you trying to talk him out of it? “You’re okay with me going out there and trying to track you down.”

“Counting on it,” Tomura says. A hand that’s ended the lives of at least six people that you know of lands on your shoulder, then drifts upwards along your throat to cup your cheek. “You’ll keep looking. You’ll know when you’re getting close.”

“How?”

“I’ll come find you again,” Tomura says. You dare to open your eyes and see him smiling at you, through the fingers of the hand. His smile makes your skin crawl. “And that time, I won’t let you go.”

He’ll kill you. Or he’ll hang onto you forever and make you wish you were dead. Tomura sits up, still moving awkwardly, somehow relaxed. You’ve never seen a guy who just came in his pants look less embarrassed about it. You can’t reconcile the two pieces of Tomura in your head – the murderer of half a dozen at least who’s planning to kill more, alongside the man who craves connection and understanding so badly that it’s become a turn-on. One of them is reprehensible, unforgivable. The other is just human. How can he be both?

You’re lost in thought, so much so that you don’t see the mask in Tomura’s hand until it’s descended over your face. Tomura pulls you back against him, holding you upright as you struggle for breath. His arm is secure around your waist, and his voice is soft in your ear, if still a little breathless. “I’ll be in touch,” he says. “Keep looking. I’ll see you soon.”

His dry lips brush against the corner of your jaw, too light to be a kiss, too lingering to be an accident. It’s the last thing you’re aware of before everything goes black.

When you wake up again, you’re in your apartment with another splitting headache and a single bullet-point of certainty boring into your skull. You will keep looking for Tomura. You’ll have to, to try to stop him from committing even one more gruesome, vengeance-driven murder over a wrong you can’t begin to guess at. You’ll come close to stopping him, and when you do, Tomura will come for you again.

The thought is nightmarish. He’ll almost certainly kill you then; he won’t have a use for you anymore. But even as the certainty settles in, you find your stomach twisting into a dark, heated mess at the thought that at least one more time before you die, you’ll see him in a way no one else ever will. You’ll have one more moment with your camera, and the Symbol of Fear undone before you. If it’s the last shot you’ll ever take, whether it’s tomorrow night or next week or ten years from now, you’ll have to make it count.

When he kills you, and he will, Tomura will make your crime scene a composition for the ages. It’s only fair for you to turn him into a work of art.

[raileurta]

I saw these amazing fan art of sparkling bulkhead. It got me feeling inspired so take this au based off of it.

The autobots and the humans come across a relic of some sort, when Bulkhead goes to pick it up a mist of light blue is released into the air. The other autobots are far enough away from him to not get hit themselves. When the fog clears it's revealed that the wrecker had been turned into a sparkling! Miko immediately is like "this is my child now and if anything were to happen to him I'll kill everyone in this room then myself."

She turns out to be a good temporary carrier to the autobot's surprise. Miko has taken care of babies before and in all honesty transformer children are heaven compared to human ones in her opinion.

This statement prompted Ratchet to look into human sparklings and was very horrified but also extremely confused. Why, why in all of Primus would a species willingly continue to reproduce when their children are like that?!? He now truly understands the whole "motherhood is the hardest job" saying he heard from some humans.

Thankfully for transformers sparklings are extremely easy to take care of. Provide some energon, make sure nothing hurts them, and they're essentially good.

Miko of course says idgaf then goes all out. She's reading bulkhead stories, spoon feeding him, giving baths with a waxing finish, tons of affection, making him the comfiest nest, all of it! Bulkhead is a very happy spoiled little guy.

Of course something eventually has to go wrong. Miko has restrained herself from sneaking through the ground bridge for bulkhead's sake but one time she just couldn't resist it. She grabs the apex armor and runs through it. Being a baby bulk follows after her.... you can probably see where this is going.

The autobots are kicking ass as usual when they all hear a shrill shriek. Pan over to a group of vehicons with the leader holding bulkhead. They use him as hostage threatening to kill him; to emphasize their point they cut one of the little mech's cheeks.

Miko goes absolutely insane. She's acting like a feral animal and is doing things that would even make bayverse Optimus clutch his pearls. By the time Miko is done bots have thrown up, some passed out, and Megatron is metaphorically shitting himself. Obviously he calls a retreat because fuck that in all honesty. He can destroy Optimus another day.

Miko is already pretty protective of Bulkhead/her family so I imagine if you touched her "baby" she go full on psycho mama bear mode.

Following Miko's slaughter the autobots at home base obviously want to know wtf just happened. She just explains how she was protecting "her child" and any decent human mother would do the same. This prompts another look into humans but more specifically mothers. They see all the stories of human carriers pulling off seemingly physics-defining things to protect their children. It's a real eye opener for them.

After this Bulkhead is still a sparkling for a few more days but everything is pretty peaceful. He gets turned back and while she'll miss baby bulkhead Miko is glad to have her friend back.

[steviewashere]

In the Fire of the Sun

Rating: General CW: A dementia fic, that's as much of a warning as I'll offer Tags: Established Relationship, Married Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson, Future Fic, Wedding Anniversary, Steve Harrington Has Dementia, Steve Harrington is a Sweetheart, Eddie Munson is a Sweetheart, Eddie Munson Takes Care of Steve Harrington, Falling in Love Over and Over Again, Yearning, Pining, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bittersweet Ending, Inspired by The Notebook (2004)

For the @steddielovemonth prompt: "Love is a fire that never goes out." (in the most metaphorical sense possible)

💕—————��

Eddie shuffles through the carpeted hallway of this center once more. He comes in right as it opens for visiting hours. Eight in the morning, sharp. Every single day. And has been doing so for the last few years.

Why?

Simple. Steve’s there.

Has been, actually, for the same amount of time Eddie’s been visiting. They’re both in their late seventies now. Time has treated them nearly equal. Aching limbs. Wrinkled and spotted skin. Grey hair. Crows feet. Though, time gave Steve one extra thing that Eddie will fight God about.

Dementia.

It’s ravaging him little by little. And Eddie bears witness. Began with the minor forgetting, always soothed by words and gentle touches, the praise. And then it was bigger things. Confusion and getting lost and mood swings that were almost unmanageable. It all felt so rapid, even if it was slow. But Eddie was there. For every moment of it. And still is there, just…Not in the same house anymore.

He hates coming through the center, though. It’s so clinical and sterile and depressing. Well, technically it isn’t. The rooms are done all nice, filled with furniture and soft blankets and beautiful fake plants that Steve can water if he feels the need to. But it’s not their house, which was painted by the people they love, filled with knick knacks of their lives, photos of their child and their grandchildren and all their friends. Though, Eddie supposes he shouldn’t complain, if Steve is mostly comfortable here. There’s a few things for Steve to interact with, hobby wise. A piano, some knitting circles, board games, but mostly music. It’s nearly poetic, to Eddie, that music is what dementia patients seems to cling onto the longest. It’s especially poetic considering Steve fell in love with a musician.

Sometimes, while Eddie is here, he’ll play music for everybody. The nurses and doctors and patients alike. Still able to share his gift, even in the face of something so…not dark, exactly, but challenging. Because any moment with Steve is pleasant—even if he doesn’t remember most of the time.

Eddie gets his visitor badge. A little sticker for his shirt. He’s taken up to Steve’s room and waits in the doorway for permission to go in. It could be a bad day, but based on the soft smile received from the nurse, it’s one of the better days. Meaning, Steve’s less irritable, still long term forgetful, but lovely.

Steve looks over to him. The hazel eyes that Eddie fell in love with nearly sixty years ago, soft and glistening. His forehead prominently wrinkled. Hair thin, but mostly there, a light silvery grey. He’s got better hair than Eddie—that can be admitted, his hair is just like Wayne’s now, gone with the wind. At least time hasn’t taken Steve’s beauty.

“Hello,” Steve greets, polite and sweet. His voice is slightly garbled, deep and velvety.

“Hello,” Eddie parrots. He holds out his right palm for Steve to take. Smiles softly when he does so. “I’m Edward,” he introduces, “though you can call me Eddie.” He taps his sticker. Loves the way Steve’s eyes still track his every movement, even with something so simple and mundane. The nurse hangs by Steve’s shoulder, nodding at Eddie when they lock eyes. Eddie smiles bigger at Steve, letting their hands drop. His palm tingles from Steve’s ever glowing warmth. “You must be the Steven Harrington I’m always hearing about,” he says.

Steve visibly grimaces, which is a good sign. A great thing. He groans. “That tastes awful in my mouth,” he states. “Though I can’t—How come that tastes bad?” He looks over to his nurse, but doesn’t get an answer.

“Oh,” Eddie mutters. “I’ve heard some people call you Steve, does that sound okay? Shorten your name like mine?”

He nods. Relaxing. “That sounds great.” Steve smiles. And Eddie is like a sunflower in the face of the sun. Yearning to reach out, to touch, to feel and hold. But he knows that he can’t, or at least shouldn’t. “So…Eddie, you’re a visitor?” His finger taps on Eddie’s chest, on the white word: VISITOR. Eddie blossoms. “You came to visit me, I’m assuming. What are we going to do today?”

Eddie bites back his grin. Steve’s finger is still on his chest. He wonders if Steve even remembers putting it there, part of him hopes that he’s doing it on purpose. He hums, thinking. Though he’s got planned, “We’re going to take a walk outside, if that’s okay. I brought some music for us to listen to while we look around. It’s a pretty day outside, a little chilly, but the sun is bright out there. What do you think?”

“I like that,” Steve enthusiastically says. Which makes the good day even better. “Though I don’t know who you are, you have really good ideas. You seem like a really nice guy.”

“Y��know, I’ve heard that before. From somebody you might know,” Eddie says, offering out his hooked arm. Almost dances in place when Steve wraps their arms together. “He’s a good guy, too. Really good looking. Very kind. Think you’d like him.”

“You should bring him with next time,” Steve says. They make their way down to the front doors of the center. Arm in arm.

“Maybe I will,” Eddie says, even though the guy is already there. “I will if it’s a good day.”

The day really is beautiful. Leaves littering the ground, browns and dark greens, many of them bright yellow. A good color. Everything is just…good. There’s a little concrete path on the side of the center. Nestled really nice to a small creek. It’s quiet.

Steve is a comfortable weight at his side. They step in tandem. Feet matching each other. Eddie makes them stop at the end of the path, walking out to a grassy clearing, standing out watching the subtle ripples in the creek.

“It’s pretty,” Steve murmurs. “Reminds me of fish. For some odd reason.”

“Mm,” Eddie hums. “Makes me think of fish, too, funny enough. The guy I told you about?” Steve nods beside him. The slow up and down bobbing of his heavy head. He’s still got glasses after all these years, they’re kind of crooked. Eddie itches to fix them. But Steve stares ahead of himself, at the water, a little crinkle between his eyebrows. An instinct in Eddie says, Soothe. But knows he shouldn’t. Knows he can’t kiss that away, not anymore. He takes a deep breath to reground himself. “Well,” he begins. “That guy is my husband. Or…No, he still is. He really likes to go on adventures. Loves doing things in silence. And when my dad—“ He means uncle, but that doesn’t matter. “—when my dad was still alive, we’d go out and fish. My husband and I, we’re too old to fish comfortably now, but he was always better than me. Earned him my dad’s respect, tell you that.”

“Your husband sounds fun,” Steve says, smiling with it. “Y’know, I have this friend—“ Eddie perks up at this. Usually, there’s nobody that Steve talks about. But if he’s willing. “—She has a wife. I don’t remember much about her, but I’ve heard she’s sweet.”

Robin, Eddie knows. Of course. He can’t wait to go home and call Robin to tell her all about this. “I’ll have to meet them some time.” He moves his palm from where it hangs loose at their hooked arms, brings it up slowly, and settles it on Steve’s bicep, squeezing. Steve doesn’t move away, thankfully. “Do you want to listen to some music?”

“Sure,” Steve mutters. “I just hope you have good taste.”

Oh I have the worst, Eddie thinks, you’ve told me that before. He walks them over to a nearby bench, still staring out at the water. It’s glistening ripples, the few birds that swoop down to rest, some stray leaves. Pulls out his phone, looks at their playlists he’s left the same over the years. Finds Steve’s. And clicks shuffle. “I think you’ll like this one, actually,” he says.

The first song to play is Billy Joel’s “Just the Way You Are”, their wedding song. 

Beside him, Steve hums, settling back into the bench. His eyes are closed peacefully. A small smile to his lips. Face soft in the glow of the sun. Eddie is a sunflower, a sunflower, a sunflower. He aches so bad to trace his fingertip down the bridge of Steve’s nose, on the curve of his lower lip, to kiss him and dance with him and hold him like there’s no tomorrow. Like there’s no tomorrow where he comes back, a stranger.

“I’ve heard this before,” Steve whispers. His eyebrows furrow. He’s still smiling, but he’s focusing somewhere on something. And Eddie wants to comb his fingers through Steve’s brain, pet over the diseased areas, pat the memories, nestle the good that Steve remembers. “I see a face in my head,” he says. Asks, “Can I tell you what I see?”

“Sure,” Eddie whispers as soft as possible. “Tell me all about this face.”

Again, Steve settles. Shimmying further into the bench, taking Eddie with him. They lean back. Like sitting on their couch, watching reruns, eating Chinese takeout, gossiping about their neighbors, gazing at their daughter painting messy pictures of their love—pink and yellow splatters on the coffee table. (Eddie thinks about how those dried paint stains never left. How he never cleaned them. How Steve never complained. He’ll go home tonight and look at them. He will weep.) 

“It’s a man,” Steve starts. “He’s white. Clean shaven. Got this bulbous nose and pretty pink lips. Kind of pouting,” he murmurs, chuckling to himself. Eddie snorts beside him. His eyes burn a little. “Dark, dark brown hair. Wavy around his face, kind of frizzy. But it looks like it’s been styled back into a bun, his bangs curled inwards.” Steve takes a deep breath, sighing dreamily. “His eyes…Wow, Eddie. These eyes are probably my favorite thing I’ve ever seen. So deep, big, almost like a deer. They’re shiny with tears. But he smiles at me, I’m warm.”

Eddie squeezes at Steve’s bicep again. He takes a stuttering breath. “The way you describe him…He sounds like a—“

“A painting,” Steve finishes. “He says something to me. Calls me Stevie. Calls me baby. That…I like that.” His eyes flutter open. And he swings his head to the right, looking directly into Eddie’s. “I like that, but there’s also a number there.”

“What’s that?” Eddie kindly asks.

“Fifty. I don’t really know why—Hey, wait a minute,” Steve rushes. He sits forward slightly. His eyes widen. The arm still wrapped with Eddie’s squeezes in a vice grip. “Your eyes…I’ve seen your eyes before.”

Eddie perks up. It’s happening again. Doesn’t occur all that often, especially in the last few months. But sometimes, sometimes his belly flips and his chest flutters and he’s taken back to the clearing that Steve confessed his love in—twenty years old, his eyes alight with passion, hair flopping all over the place. Him beautiful and peaceful. And, yeah, that’s what Eddie sees in front of him now.

“I’ve seen them before,” Steve whispers. He raises a hesitant palm to the side of Eddie’s face. Landing gently. Cupping, warmth radiating from him. He’s still a furnace. He’s the same. The Steve that Eddie fell in love with, he’s here and still inside there, he’s in the palm and in Eddie’s chest. He’s here. Steve inhales sharply. Clarity in his eyes. How he tells a story with just his pupils, the quick darting, the tears that pool in his waterline—Eddie will never know. “Eds?” Steve calls out.

A part of Eddie crumbles to his feet. He hasn’t heard that nickname in so goddamn long. He bites back the sob that wants to tear through him. Instead, places his free palm over the back of Steve’s. Thumb tickling his knuckles. “Hi, Stevie. Hi, baby,” he murmurs back. “How are you, love bug?”

“Eds,” Steve breathes. “I—What are—You look different.” He chuckles, it’s congested, it’s wet. “Is it our anniversary? Please, is it—“ Eddie nods in the hold. Steve sighs, crying slightly with it. There’s so much ache here, it hurts in the sweetest way possible to even have his simple touch. “God,” Steve softly sobs. “I’m sorry that I forgot. Please don’t be mad at me. I promise I tried to remember.”

Eddie squeezes where he’s still touching Steve. “It’s okay, sweetheart,” he breathes truthfully. His chest seizes, that sob yearning, creeping. “Just sitting here with you for our anniversary is enough.” I’ll always be here to help you remember, he doesn’t say.

The way Steve relaxes, the relief rushing through him is enough for Eddie. Every single day with Steve is enough. Even in the moments where he’s completely lost in the world, somewhere dark and cold and lonely. Even when he gets angry and lashes out, slamming his palms on Eddie’s chest. Even if every time it makes Eddie physically pulse and hurt. He hurts. He’s a sunflower, a sunflower, a sunflower.

“Okay,” Steve rasps. “Okay, Eds. Okay.” He leans into the warmth of their bodies, sides a single line. Connected. Stitched together by everything, the matter of the universe. “Happy anniversary,” he whispers.

“Happy anniversary, love,” Eddie murmurs.

They’ve got maybe five minutes before Steve is gone again. Back to Steven. To the stranger in his room. A guy who sees brown eyes in his sleep and is unsure who they belong to. They’ve got five minutes, but Eddie will treat them like lifetimes.

He’ll come back tomorrow. And they will remember. And he will ache. But he will love.

“I love you,” he says.

And with the last thirty seconds they have together, Steve sighs, all the emotions under the sun (and Eddie is the sunflower soaking up all that is Steve), “I love you, too.”

💕—————💕

[itsxeo3]

Hello everyone, I'm crossposting my nortalice week onto Tumblr ! ! ! 🧲💕🗞

I'm a little nervous, since this is my first time doing this kind of thing, but I hope everyone here enjoys it 🫶

It's open for writers and artists starting August 4th to August 10th, it's strictly 16+ and will use the first hashtag seen below when creating works for this week 🙇‍♂️

Here's some basic summaries on each prompt of the a week to give a better idea on what each theme entails!

Pre-Manor:

Anything that happens before Oletus Manor, a coincidental run-in, scenarios relating to Alice is investigation on Norton, or Norton being hired to go after Alice, even once concepts!

Matching Costumes:

Alternative universes or just costumes that match! Ex. Eternity/Infernal Sin, Summer Frisbee/Trainee Editor, Spinel/Wolframite etc, etc...

Banquet:

Based on the official artwork for Ashes of Memory Chapter II featuring all members of the group dining together, can also reference the endless banquet MV, or a scenario loosely akin to a dinner date.

Interview:

The canonical interaction between Alice and Norton during their time in the Manor, I suggest looking at Norton's 2022 letter for more information in regards to this event.

Chase:

Another canonical event that took place during Ashes of Memories, this is the prompt most focused on Fool's Gold and Alice's dynamic, it also doesn't necessarily have to be about that specific chase, can take place in any part in the story that you'd see fit!

death/Life:

more of a metaphorical concept to tie into the theme of their characters and such, this prompt is intended to be interpretive but can be taken literally if you choose to do so.

Post-Manor:

A prompt with a lot of ideas to work with; escaping the Manor together, having an unlikely run-in after the manor, tending to their injuries after their game, so on and so forth.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

I wanna start writing poetry but i have no idea where to start or how to properly express my feelings

Don't chase after poetry. It lies dormant inside you. Like a shadow. It reveals itself at the right time. In the right light. At least, this was how it was for me. When I needed poetry—there it was.

But what do I know of poetry? Here are what some great poets have to say:

“A poet is, before anything else, a person who is passionately in love with language.” —W. H. Auden

Are you passionately in love with language?

“Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquility.” —William Wordsworth

You say you have the feelings, but you have no idea how to properly express them yet. Try to get to that place of tranquility and recollect those emotions. Then perhaps poetry will flow out of you.

“Don't write love poems when you're in love. Write them when you're not in love.” —Richard Hugo

It's not impossible to write when you're in love. But it is difficult. And personally, I find that's when too many adverbs show up.

“A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness.” —Robert Frost

You already have those feelings. It seems you already have the beginnings of a poem.

“If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry.” —Emily Dickinson

I remember writing my first "poem," and asking myself, "Is this even a poem? Does it have enough rhymes, pretty imagery, are the metaphors intricate enough?" So after having written your poem, read it. If you feel physically as if the top of your head were taken off, you will know it is poetry.

“All bad poetry springs from genuine feeling.” —Oscar Wilde

And if you feel like you have written a "bad" poem, that just means your feelings were genuine. And when that happens—when you have become your own worst critic—I would say, you are now a poet.

To answer your question more technically, here are some posts I have on poetry: Poetic Genres A List of Poetic Terms

A few writing prompts that might inspire you: Lemons Untitled A Poetic Map No Words Word Lists

And here are some articles: How to Write Poetry Writing Your Own Poem Poetry: What is being said and how is it expressed?

If this (in any way) helps you write your poem, I would love to read it. If you don't mind :)

[musamora]

𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖊𝖈𝖍𝖔 𝖔𝖋 𝖘𝖞𝖓𝖈𝖍𝖗𝖔𝖓𝖎𝖈 𝖍𝖊𝖆𝖗𝖙𝖘 「𝔣𝔶𝔬𝔡𝔬𝔯 𝔡𝔬𝔰𝔱𝔬𝔢𝔳𝔰𝔨𝔶」 ༉‧₊˚

content. f!reader. implied breaking-and-entering, fireworks, metaphors about stars, soft!fyodor, he's secretly down-bad, he's also incredibly possessive. descriptions of moscow (red square, st. basil's cathedral), mentions of eastern european food (pirozhki), references to greek mythology (perseus and andromeda), jokes about greek incest. not proofread. 2.2k+ words.

author's note. starting the last of my fics for the year with the first bungou stray dogs character i've ever written for. thank you for such a lovely year! ࿐ ♡ ˚ .

would you like to see more? fill out the taglist or comment under this post.

synopsis. within the last minutes of the year, sitting underneath the stars, two lovers discuss the stories mapped within constellations. in themselves, they find that some tales are timeless.

"It's so lovely at this time of night."

You couldn't contain your astonishment as flurries coasted to the earth in silent swells, dusting the city in a sheen of sparkling white. With an outstretched hand, you gathered flakes into your palm, admiring them before they melted with the heat of your skin. The riverside stilled as you coasted along the sidewalk, frozen in thickening ice as parents ushered their children away from its tempting surface. Tourists clustered under trees, shivering in their thin hats and coats as they underestimated the spite of Russia's wind. But despite the chill, there was an unmistakable gaiety in the air, smiles strewn on glassy faces as they awaited the new year.

You tailed behind Fyodor as he sauntered forward with broad steps, unable to catch your breath as the basket of freshly baked pirozhki settled heavily in your stomach. Your eyelids threatened to close as exhaustion crept into the corners of your vision; journeying between museums, promenading through parks, and scowering various foods had taken a toll on your energy.

You groaned. "Do we have to go tonight?"

He merely chuckled, the velvety bass of his voice tracing goosebumps down your spine, easily distracting you from the fact that he hadn't answered your question. Your field of vision spiraled into a haze, thoughts shot far in the distance despite the frost attempting to rouse you, left unaware as an assured hand ushered you inside a concealed entrance to the luminous structure slumbering outside of Moscow's main square. You walked forward into the endless darkness, only to bump into something sturdy. Your fingers carded through the puffed fur of Fyodor's coat, tugging on its ends.

"Fyodor?"

With a click, the room was brought to life. The high-vaulted ceiling outstretched to reach the heavens above, walls embellished with intricate frescoes of ancient Abrahamic tales. Flares of resplendent color danced across the floor as moonlight met glass, casting waves of softened light upon your skin. A labyrinth of winding corridors hid in the shadows, prompting any curious wanderer into a trove of antediluvian alcoves and chapels.

Your jaw dropped, gawking at every deliberate component. "What is this place?"

"It was a cathedral erected in honor of Tsar Ivan the IV." His gloved hand puckered altar cloth between his gracile fingers, tracing the embroidery as his mind drifted elsewhere.

You hummed, racking your brain as it itched in anamnesis. "Wasn't that the terrible one?"

He was silent as he released the fabric from his fingers, but the self-satisfied smirk told you everything you needed to know. "Indeed. This place once brimmed with life, hosting religious gatherings and services for the denizens of this city." His boots snicked against the tile, the noise reverberating as it spun towards the ceiling. "It has been left as a relic of time."

You ever-so-delicately brushed your hand against one of the columns, not wishing to disturb the peace of stillness and rest that blanketed the cathedral.

"How marvelous."

Your attention went astray as Fyodor tinkered at a lock, the hinges of a thin door ricketing with unsettling squeaks as he stood aside, uncloaking a never-ending staircase to the unknown.

"After you."

Your muscles cramped with every step, dread buried deep in your gut as your vision remained impaired, the flashlight beam smattering inconclusive rays of light as it aimed at your back. It was almost like the architects had attempted to reach the clouds, their grandiose endeavor churning a flare in your back as you slumped against the wall, your lungs burning with every passing moment. Your spirit was invigorated at the sight of a door through the dime ire of light, basking in your relief as you stepped out the door, the crisp breeze of winter striking your skin as—!

"W-Woah!"

Your feet teetered over the ridge of the roof; only your ankles remained flimsily rooted onto solid paneling as your arms swung out to balance yourself. Fortunately for you, an arm wrapped around your waist, drawing you back against Fyodor's chest. A quick peek upward towards his impish expression revealed everything you needed to know.

"You must be careful, любимая."

Your breath was shuddery, inwardly wavering on whether to punch him or kiss him, the indecisiveness reigning victorious as you pointedly ignored the mellifluous lilt of his tone, hands binding to his arm as your gaze locked onto the ground several hundred feet below.

"Good lord, we're high," you muttered between pants.

His arms braced you further against his chest, leaning away from the perilous drop. "You're trembling." The tension in your grip eased at the sensation of a gentle kiss against the crown of your head. "You know I'd never let you fall, hm?"

"Right." You released the amalgam of tense breath that clawed at your throat, able to balance on your own two feet as you settled your view to the skies.

Your feet shuffled across the panels as you slogged onto a wider expanse of the roof, slumping against a wall as the tension evaporated out through your fingers, the nightmare of plummeting from the roof erased from your mind. However, you swallowed a yelp as the flashlight flickered off, leaving the both of you enshrouded in complete darkness—at least for a brief moment.

Clouds stacked in bunched within the stratosphere, mirroring fragments of light that bounced from below in a nebulose aurora. But despite the wonderment of their decadence, they lost their luster once the stars peaked through their fogged edges, the finite speckles scattered like freckles across the canvas of the heavens. They felt close enough to touch if only you reached out toward them, daring to do so. Your fingers trailed maps of these celestial bodies, finding a sense of peace in their familiar patterns.

"Are you familiar with Ovid's Metamorphoses?" Your voice pierced through the silence.

"I can't say I am."

You withheld the impulse to laugh—he had the entire compendium of books in his personal library. It would be a surprise if he hadn't at least skimmed them, but you decided to humor him this once, scooching closer to point towards a specific cluster of stars.

"Those are the constellations of Perseus, the son of Zeus, and Princess Andromeda, the daughter of King Cepheus and Queen Cassiopeia."

You took his silence as an encouragement to continue. "Perseus found Andromeda chained to a rock as a sacrifice to the sea monster, Cetus, by her parents in order to save her home." Your fingers drew out the character within the stars, a grin upturned on your lips as you envisioned the archaic tale in your mind. "It was told that he found her so beautiful that he slayed the monster, rescuing her before fighting against her uncle for her hand-in-marriage."

"Her uncle?" Fyodor mused.

Your nose scrunched in a grimace. "There's a lot of that in those stories, I'm afraid."

"The couple went on to live happily ever after—an extremely rare ending to most ancient stories."

"There is a simple explanation for that," he replied.

You snickered, already aware that your open-ended commentary would eventually lead to some thoughts from the infamously brilliant man.

His eyes rolled in return at your amusement, disregarding the tightness of his chest. "We hold onto ancient tragedies because they are a reflection of life. Nothing in our world is as simple as a happy ending." A vacant look ruled over his features, a familiar expression that often shielded his thoughts within the dark, contemplative hours of the night. "Most aspired heroes never reach their potential due to their blind devotion to selfish aspirations and goals."

"You're right," you sighed, hands balled against the corner of his cape in an attempt to thaw your frozen fingers. You wanted to say more, but it felt like your mouth was cotton-filled. So, instead, you returned your eyes to the sky.

"Sometimes, I wish I was a constellation." He looked at you. "Even with its flaws, this world is undoubtedly beautiful from above. I like to think the stars admire us just as much as we do them."

And he didn't say anything more; he didn't need to. Instead, he reigned you onto his lap, his coat shrouding your shoulders as he shared its warmth. You leaned into his embrace, basking in the flutter inside your chest.

"You're awfully cold, милая," he grumbled, his fingers mapping your frigid palms.

"Our roles are reversed now," you quipped. "I hope you think about this the next time you decide to stun me with your hands in the morning."

"I'm afraid I might forget," he whistled.

"You little—"

But you found your voice hidden underneath layers of crackling. You ogled as fireworks wiggled their way into the night sky, shimmering onto the city square, the towers of the Kremlin becomen heavenly statues as their structures temporarily glistened. Without a second thought, you grabbed onto his hands, giving them a squeeze with each pop. You were so attentive to the collections of radiant sparks that you didn't notice the eyes boring into your skin; Fyodor's gaze averted from the fireworks to contemplate the interlacement of your fingers.

He surmised you were to be his future the moment you had locked eyes for the first time—his destined, pre-ordained other half as he journeyed to actualize God's promised land. It wasn't a surprise that someone was fated to remain in his keep—another loyal follower, too intertwined in their own aspirations to connect to his cause without deliberate guidance.

But not you. 

You may not have supported his cause with the devotion of his witless flock, but you understood it better than anyone. And most importantly, you understood him. You peered through his intricate plans and performative malice, reading into his cause as you unraveled his intentions. It had been an enticing cat-and-mouse game, the both of you constantly entangled in a mental match, intellect and morals clashing. He knew you were his perfect match from your analytic dexterity, but he had no idea that you would pull at the strings cast around his heart, ones he believed had been severed long ago.

His heart had never belonged to anyone or anything—his mind and will were forever devoted to his cause, but his heart hadn't beat since before he could even remember. The sudden constriction of his chest was so foreign.

You must've been quite the powerful woman to kickstart the heart of a demon, excavating a trove of humanity he had buried within himself with a simple glance of your eyes—and all without knowing, your gentle expression puncturing through his abstruse masquerades, somehow able to see everything except the turmoil that you left in the wake of your very touch.

He found himself less and less concerned about the echoed beat of his heart within the emptiness of his chest, too captivated by your smile as you beheld the heavens with a benevolent expression, savoring the burning red and gold sparks despite their dullness in comparison to you. In spite of himself, your everlasting happiness had become an intrinsic component in his plans.

You were made to remain at his side—not as a brainless devotee, but as his equal and often opposite. The world, so rotten yet somehow divine through your benevolent gaze, may try to pull you away, but he'd have no issue burning cities to their ashen roots if anyone dared attempt to pry you from his hold.

His lithe fingers outlined the constellations of every freckle and beauty mark, star patterns copied onto your skin as his touch drifted your attention from the flashes and flickers to him, your inquisitive eyes scanning his face as he remained unmoved.

"Федя?" 

He shuddered with unparalleled delight at the euphonious sound of his mother language slipping like honey from your tongue, foreign to your lips yet dulcet all the same. Your bonniness beaconed him forward, a heat flowering in his once cavernous chest as he captured your lips, which were as soft as the powdered snow that glinted on your skin. His heavy breath tickled your nose, which crinkled in tandem with your eyes as you drew him in for another. Words became meaningless, his skin seared like static as your arms drew him closer, skin scorched from the cold of your hands against the nape of his neck.

He tucked your hair behind your ear, ensuring that your empyreal features weren't veiled further as flakes of snow flurried once more, your parted lips and shallow breath leaving him in a helpless state of complete limerence. He stirred as his hand brushed against your pulse, your own heart racing concertly with his.

You parted in bittersweet bliss, yearning imbued in your bones as your hands drifted towards one another to intertwine. His forehead rested against yours, your shared breath permeating in spirals within the open air as he peered into your hazy, glossed-over eyes.

His hand cupped your cheek, the frame to a divine masterpiece. "Ты согреваешь мою душу, мое нежное солнышко. Твоя красота вне всякого сравнения; твой разум безупречен." He had never looked at anyone like this before, his ire thawed by the brilliance of your tender gaze as if he had melted. "Я бесконечно благодарен, что Бог привел тебя ко мне."

And you laughed. "You know I don't understand anything you're saying, right?"

He kissed your forehead, concealing his smile as his lips pressed against your skin. "You will one day, солнышко. You will."

любимая = darling милая = dear федя = fedya ты согреваешь мою душу, мое нежное солнышко. твоя красота вне всякого сравнения; твой разум безупречен = you warm my soul, my gentle sun. your beauty is beyond comparison; your mind is beyond flaw. я бесконечно благодарен, что бог привел тебя ко мне = i am eternally grateful that god brought you to me. солнышко = sunshine

TAGLIST: @imhandicapableofmath @lovedazai @hauntedsol @ruru-kiss @ishqani @zyilas @lovesick-fairy @fedyascoffin @squigglewigglewoo @kelperspelt @miloofc @thesilvernight0wl @s1eepybunny @dazaisms @deepseafragments @justanotherjester @kotysluny @aureatchi

© MUSAMORA 2023 — do not repost or modify my works for any reason. do not steal graphics w/o explicit permission. reblogs are appreciated.

[paddockbunny]

The Gloves are Off

Summary: Mick’s downside was he was too nice. So it falls upon you, his girlfriend, to stand up to Guenther Steiner Rating: 16+. Pairing : Mick Schumacher x Reader. Word Count : 1,212 - ONE SHOT! Trigger Warnings : 16+, NSFW implied, adult material implied, anger discussion, “bad” boss vibes, slightly toxic work environment, bad language, this isn’t explicitly an 18+ and only has a little bit of sex talk at the end Images : found on Pinterest 💕 Authors Note : again, I forgot to reply to this as a request

List : List A Prompt : 1 - “You want to kiss me so badly right now don’t you?”

You watched as your deflated boyfriend was brought back to the garage on the back of one of the safety mopeds. He had kept his helmet on the whole time as he pushed through the disappointed team members. From what you could tell it wasn’t his fault. The front left tyre locked up, he was nudged from behind by Albon and there was really nothing he could do. You were just thankful he wasn’t injured.

As a few dejected technicians and mechanics patted him on the back as if to say “hard luck” or “don’t take it too hard, it happens” you spied his Team Principle Guenther Steiner furiously charge across the pit lane from the grid wall. Mick had only just reached you and began to remove his helmet when his name was shouted. You saw the look on Mick’s face as soon as he heard Guenther call his name. To everyone - including you - Mick was Mr Nice Guy. It was how his parents had raised him. He always kept his cool, stayed calm and not once had you heard him raise his voice to anyone. You watched as his trainer took his helmet from him and he ignored his angry boss as he removed his gloves. Being a life long F1 girl you begged to see a glimmer of his father in him. Michael wouldn’t stand for being shouted at and publicly humiliated. You were always praying Mick would find his fire and his flame and bite back, just once.

But as he sheepishly turned round to face the metaphorical music you knew today wasn’t going to be that day. Instead you watched your boyfriend take the blame for something that was pretty out of his control. He remained reserved when Guenther harped on about how much the car rebuild would cost the team and how Mick needed to think of his future as his crashes were becoming more and more expensive. “You know, I need to call Gene and have words about this Mick. We might decide not to keep you next year because you cost us too much money.” And although that wasn’t Mick’s breaking point, it certainly was yours.

“No, no, no…” You moved so fast Mick couldn’t grab you in time. Guenther had already taken off back toward the pit wall and you rushed to get in front of him. You knew the cameras would catch your interaction and replay it over and over again but you didn’t care. “You can’t talk to him like that. That crash wasn’t his fault. The front left locked up and then Albon smacked into his rear. Everybody saw it. You can’t blame him for something that wasn’t his fault.” You had to shout to be heard over the noisy sound of the race happening only meters behind you. Guenther seemed shocked that you - Mick’s sweet, polite girlfriend - was having a pop at him.

“I don’t have fucking time for this. We still have one driver left in the race.” He tried to wave you off and it only frustrated you more. “Fuck you Guenther!” You hissed at him “It isn’t Mick’s job to fund this team. It’s yours and if you’re struggling to do that then maybe Gene should fire you instead.” He looked down at you and his face was a mixture of anger and pure shock. You doubted anyone had bit back at him, especially not so publicly. You knew he had something to say about how you were questioning his authority. Something like “what the fuck do you know?” was probably most accurate but regardless he was trying to hold back from making a scene in the middle of a heavily camera covered motor-race.

Mick’s hands were suddenly around your upper arms and he started pulling you back toward the garage. You had a lot more you were prepared to say to the middle aged team principle but you let Mick remove you from the situation before you could get him in anymore trouble. He practically frog marched you in the direction of his drivers room and. Glancing round at him you could tell he was unhappy and you suspected it was due more to your outburst rather than his race being ruined. You knew now you had severely overstepped and you might never be allowed back into the Haas hospitality area. Even if you did some serious ass kissing.

Mick didn’t let up on you. He pulled you the whole way till you were practically jogging to keep up with him. His hand was like iron around your wrist and it was kind of beginning to hurt. When he pushed open the door he let go of you so you would go in in front of him. You hesitated but conceded to his wishes. This was it. You were sure Mick was about to scold you, tell you you embarrassed him, and the worst thought of all, break-up with you.

You noticed how hard he was breathing. How quickly his chest was rising and falling gave it away. He had this mad look on his face but he just continued staring at you. The tension made you feel nervous and when you felt nervous you ended up giggling or saying something stupid. This moment was no exception. “You want to kiss me so badly right now, don’t you?” You scoffed playfully. Never did you think you were so right on the money.

“Yes.” He practically lunged at you. He cross the space between your bodies so quickly you didn’t have time to register what was going on. Mick’s hands were either side of your face holding you where he wanted you as he roughly smacked his lips to yours. Mick was the possessive type - in private - and incredibly passionate yet this still took your breath away. The way he kissed you so roughly, his tongue dominating yours effortlessly had you vibrating with anticipation. The adrenaline from yelling at his boss only minutes ago was being replaced by a pure pleasurable thrill from his wild side coming out. As he pushed you back against the door to his drivers room you gripped hold of his race suit. The white material rippling in your hands. You loved him in his uniform but you liked him in his fireproofs even more so you wasted little time pulling down the zipper for him. His hands roamed from your cheeks. They trailed languidly down your back before he tore them away to remove his arms from his suit. His lips also removed from yours and it was in that moment you needed verbal confirmation to what you mentally already knew.

“Do you wanna fuck?” You we’re gasping. Mick had stolen all the air in your lungs. “Yeah.” He nodded once, as it it were already obvious to you and you suddenly admired the fire bubbling away inside the man in front of you. He might not have been the type to get angry and frustrated in public but in private he could switch quicker and harder than anyone you had ever met. He might have been angry with how you handled things but evidently his horniness was a far more important matter that needed attention first. And you were more than willing to oblige him.

[bamsara]

Oooo, for the dialogue prompts "you should have thought about that before you got into a fight" and "I only wanted to help"

I love your works! Your art looks like itd taste like sour patch kids, v nice!! ^^

Sun (Mostly) Centric | Wordcount: 1,147 | AO3 Version

The world has not yet adjusted to the flood of robots merging with day-to-day society.

At least, not in the form they had taken prior. To say that there was some backlash was undercutting it; using arguments of humanity vs machine to its core, despite the clarity that those walking alongside them weren't just AI made to mimic human traits and personality, but sentient beings that develop their own. There's a difference between a chatbot app and your next-door neighbor who just so happens to be made out of metal.

Still, there is progress as much as there are incidents. A recent ruling states that all robots don't need to look human in order to receive the same amount of respect and rights (which is fantastic for all of Fazbear's line up of robots, considering they were animals in nature and all, in all franchises and pizza plexes across the country) but there were...incidents too, some of them making the news.

So when you're out doing some quick shopping for groceries one day and a stranger with a taut face and a sour attitude starts heckling Sun, and that heckling turns to harassment, and thus turns into him reaching for the back of the animatronic's head and pulling at the vulnerable wires there, you clock him.

Hard, actually. Your knuckles hurt like a bitch, but you don't have time to shake the feeling out from your hand because the guy sends one right back and oh, there you go, tumbling in the isle and knocking baking soda and sugar and other cake ingredients off the shelf as the two of you yell profanities and arguments while Sun has a metaphorical loading symbol over his head while he processes the last five seconds.

Now you're both banned from that store. The other guy is too, thankfully. Still sucks though. You didn't get to check out the ingredients for the cake.

"You're a real mess." Sun scolds you, dipping the rag back into the warm water, and bringing it back up to your face. He dabs at the dried blood under your eye, careful not to rub too harshly so as to not irritate the darkening skin beneath it. "Honestly. That could have gone so much worse-"

"Like pulling wires out of your head?" You interrupt. You're not too keen about the bathroom being turned into a lecture hall, and the lid of the toilet seat being your 'time-out' spot as he tends to you. "Yeah, sure. I'll just let the stranger rip out what is essentially your brain cords out of your flat skull and be fine with it."

Sun shoots you a look. The default smile is strained.

"What?" You hiss in the silent pause, and not because of the sting of your eye. "All I'm saying is that this-" A point to your face, "-is preferable than the other outcome."

"Our wires are welded in with steel, so I highly doubt a human could rip them out without some sort of power tool." Sun tuts. "You remember Parts n Service."

He had a point. The machine in Parts n Service did weld his arm back into place at the time, and all the other repairs since then didn't go without some sort of heat tool to make sure everything was properly molded in place. Still, you frown. "It's still fucked up that he did that, though."

"Language."

"We didn't even get the cake mix." A light dab on the eye, you bite your tongue as Sun clears the last of the dried blood from the area. "Shouldn't have banned us. Now we have to go across town to get groceries."

Sun pulls back the rag, stained pink and light brown with old blood, dropping it in the sink to be washed later. "You should have thought about that before getting into a fight."

"I was only trying to help!" You defend, continuing as Sun pulls out the disinfectant in a rather knowing manner. The cut underneath your eye from the guy's ring was about to sting like hell. "And it's not like I was the one who started it!"

He pours a dab of alcohol onto a cotton ball retrieved from the first aid kit, a small puff of white in between large silocone fingers, it's almost comical how he pinches it into place before crouching back down, the cotton ball hovering over your face. "Hush. This is going to sting."

Your mouth thins at the underlying tone of Moon's voice in his scolding, leaning away from the offending ball. "You're such a hypocrite."

A hand comes underneath your chin to hold you in place, thumb pressed into your jawline. "Stop whining."

"How would you feel, huh?" You wrinkle your nose as the disinfectant ball comes closer. "What would you do if someone attacked me like that?"

The cotton ball presses against the cut and you flinch, hard enough that your shoulders hike up and your neck tenses. It stings like hell, searing for a moment before dulling to an aching throb, a hiss in the back of your dry throat.

The Daycare Attendant's thumb keeps in place for a second, then pulls it away, expression unreadable. "The same thing we did the last time someone tried."

You grit your teeth, pressing your lips into a thin line as the stinging starts to fade.

"Though," He continues, pulling the cotton ball away and tossing it into the trash. "While your help is appreciated, It would be very much appreciated if we were to avoid something like that in the future!" He waves his hands, the bright smile returning, and Sun's fingers go behind your ear, pulling back out a colorful bandage. "I think it goes without saying that it makes me very sad to see you all hurt. Not fun at all!"

You blow hot air out of your nose in a huff as he applies the sticky bandage. "Hypocrite."

"There you are! Right as rain, dandy and peachy." Sun pulls back to observe his handiwork, and there's a slight pause. "Well, not quite. You've still got a bit of a shiner. I don't think I have a medicine for that one."

"It makes me look cool." You jest. "I look badass."

The animatronic sighs, heavy and loaded for a robot with no lungs, though his exasperation is evident in his voicebox. "Pulling my wires, our wires, please, you're constantly on them-" He's mumbling, quickly. Still talking even as he cradles your head gently by your jawline, and presses his faceplate to the skin above the black eye. "Afraid that's all I can give."

You wrinkle your nose, smiling. "I think a cake would be great too."

"Thanks to someone-" He starts, rising from a crouched position and taking your hand to help you stand. "It looks like we'll be ordering one from the bakery instead."

[b0xerdancer-writes]

Paper Faces on Parade

Tamlin x Reader

Summary: Tamlin was once mates with Rhysand's younger sister, but in his eageness to properly court her he did not see his father's deception and almost got her killed. Rhysand let him live upon realizing it was a honest clouded judgment error but that Tamlin would have to spend the rest of his life making it up to her, though when she believes Tamlin to have given up on her she begins moving on with Azriel yet Tamlin threatens to envoke a blood duel over her.

Prompt: Masquerade

Warnings: Heavy descriptions of violence, Blood duel, Wing cuting, murder, assassination attempts, depression and self deprecation. Mor x Elain because no one can stop me. Im sorry i hurt Azriel in this (not really). implied smut.

Word Count: 14,265 Yep this is a beast.

Notes: Phantom of the Opera was my inspiration from this prompt so uhhhh I nerded out a bit combining two of my favorite hyperfixations. its about 14,000 words/39 Pages of me being a phantom nerd. Msquerade from royal albert hall and Devil take the Hindmost from Love Never Dies are quoted here highly recommend those songs btw. Not proofread at all, I think i caught most of the plot holes/contradictions though.

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Hybern had finally been defeated and all of Prythian was celebrating, the high lords especially. Even with the tragic losses they were planning a ball or some kind or an event to celebrate what they had overcome. It had only been six months of peace when Rhysand suggested a masquerade ball in the court of nightmares.  Tamlin was less than pleased with the idea but he knew Rhysand’s little sister, his mate would be there so he agreed to attend. As far as anyone knew he had always had a thing for her, no one was quite sure what it was, save for Rhysand; it had started as children when he had taken her under his metaphorical wing. He had taught her everything he had known about music after the female had taken an interest in it. Her presence left a throb in chest and sorrow in his heart.

In truth they had been incredibly close before her family was murdered by his father. He had been bitter at how they had left it, she had been screaming, crying, and punching his chest; he couldn’t blame her it was partially his fault, he misunderstood his father’s intentions. He had asked his father for permission to court the female and his father had requested he speak to the girl's father for permission, he had said that they were staying at an illyrian camp for several weeks.

So he replied to Rhysand that he would attend, his heart yearning for the princess of night; little did he know the princess of night had recently gotten engaged to the spymaster without telling anyone, everyone knew they were flirtatious and close but knew not of the truth behind their relationship, two that as far as anyone knew had never and would never find their mates.

+

The day of the masquerade approached faster than Tamlin thought possible, he had a mask of his beast form crafted and set off for the night court, he decided he would travel with Lucien who was adorned in a new fox mask that showed his mixed court lineage: gold like his own with a crown of sun rays; both males wore regal clothing. Lucien, who had adopted some of the Day Court traditions, was draped in white robes while Tamlin was in a deep emerald green suit adorned with a long one shoulder cape that dragged the ground behind him, a gift for the Night Court tucked under his arm that was tied with a velvet bow and would be reminder of the history the two courts had before the first ultimate betrayal between the two current high lords. 

+

Rhysand and Cassian had spent the entire evening of the party setting up, Rhysand was dressed up as the suriel and Cassian as an attor.

“Rhys this is going to be a fucking splendid party.” Cassian cheered.

“The prologue to a bright new year.” Rhysand agreed.

“It’ll be a night, they’ll be impressed.” Cassian offered.

“Well one does one's best.” Rhysand mused and offered Cassian a drink from his desk. 

“Here's to us and to the Night Court.” They cheered clinking the glasses together.

“A toast to victory, what a pity that Tamlin will be here.” Cassian and Rhys joked between each other.

The boys  set off from the office to gather their dates, Nesta was dressed in a Black Gown, adorned with a silvery shawl and mask while Feyre was in a shimmery sheer black dressed made to look like bat wings with tiny ones on the back of her dress, a silver, crown and mask like Nesta’s.  While the group was still gathering in the living room of the estate house the ballroom in The Court of Nightmares was beginning to flood with partygoers and performers, dressed in an array of costumes and colors, in all sorts of fabrics from scratchy tulles to  shimmering satins and silks. By the time the inner circle, minus Azriel and his date that is, flooded into the ballroom. The party was in full swing with everyone excited that the wars were over for the time being and there was no looming threat in the distance for once, every face within the palace of the Court of Nightmares was a different shade and anywhere one could look another mask answered back. 

Colors painted the normally dark court brilliant whether it be a flash of mauve in its pale purples or a splash of puce that echoed like a blush across its wearer, greens and blacks washed the room with the reminder of life and shadows or like that or precious onyx and emeralds, traces of rouge mixed between painted lips and intricate brilliant silks and satins, beautiful blues like sapphires or the skies offered cool tones to the room offered a refreshing sight, yellow fabrics imported from day court that could only make one beam, reds from autumn that were so rich and vibrant it could make ones head spin. The entirety of Prythian had dressed to the nines with intricate costumes and masks themselves, masks of jesters, comedically painted versions of The King of Hybern, ghouls, geese, dramatic caricatures of the human queens that one could almost find offensive, faces of beats from all across Prythian were a common sight in the ballrooms. The sheer assortment of colors and facades could leave one guessing as to who was who, to some it was a challenge or a race per say to outdo each other with the complexity and grandiose of one's own costume. Everyone seemed to be drinking up the attention and the lights, a mix of champagne glasses and civil chatter or music and a full dance floor; it could only be described as a spectacle but as much as it was a sea of smiles it was a pool for gossip, those lingering in the shadows seething with peering eyes as a male danced with a female someone else favored or those in their circles of chatter breathed lies into existence. 

The inner circle had been spread out across the grand event but had finally pushed their ways through the crowds towards the throne dias, the only place that was really empty in the crowded underground palace. Rhysand who leaned comfortably against the throne in which Feyre sat finally eyed the Shadowsinger, dressed to mimic his own high lord, and his sister ,who he had a gown custom made for to look like the night sky above Velaris even her small tiara mimicked the three stars that sparkled above the city of dreamers, push through the crowd; he offered them a curt nod as the two joined the dancefloor. With the event as grand as it was in attendance it was no surprise that one would feel themselves being watched but even if you would try to run and hide from the lingering stares there was always some other pair of eyes that would find you in the new location. 

Mor had offered Elain her arm as a way to escape the sheer amount of eyes that lingered on them when they stood on top of the dias. Mor had dressed herself in a spectacular red, black, and gold dress that reminded herself of the faire hosts on the continent and she had helped Elain into a more modest pink priestess like costume dress. Elain’s laugh was melodious as Mor spun her around in her arms at the base of the dias. 

“What a night!” Mor had exclaimed as she had pulled Elain into her from a spin.

“What a crowd!” Elain had countered bouncing on the toes of her flats with a happy smile on her face as she looked up to Mor. 

Cassian and Rhys had overheard the two fewmale’s exclamations and retorted back with their own remarks. “Makes you glad we hosted it!” Cassian exclaimed as he took a drink from the champagne flute he held in his hand. 

“Makes you proud,” Rhys offered as he clinked his glass against Cassian’s own flute before taking a sip. “With all this creme de la creme.” 

Nesta had snorted, offering her own two cents “They’re watching us watching them.”  

“All our fears are in the past!” Elain and Mor had cheered and giggled as Mor swept Elain into a dip.

“Six months,” Rhys had started before being interrupted by the rest of the circle. 

“Of relief,” Feyre had offered as a fill in.

“Of delight,” Nesta raised her glass towards Amren in silent cheers.

“Of mother sent peace.” Amren had raised her own glass back towards Nesta proud of how far the female had come.

“And we can breathe at last.” Elain and Mor had sighed happily, as Mor pulled the shorter female in for a chaste kiss. 

“Here's a health” Cassian had announced before downing his glass and motioning one of the staff to bring him another glass.

“Here’s a toast to a prosperous year.” Feyre smiled, content in watching her family’s cheerful demeanor as they celebrated. 

“And may its splendor never fade.” Amren had finally turned to fully engage the conversation.” 

With a final round of cheers the dias emptied as the inner circle all moved to do their own things, Azriel and his darling shooting star moved towards one of the drink tables and away from the center of the dancefloor.

“Think of it!” She mused. “A secret engagement! Look, your future bride! Just think of it!”  She giddily offered a champagne flute to Azriel who offered a small smile back to her.

“But why is it secret? What do we have to hide?” Azriel had countered taking a sip from his glass, pulling her close to him with a flirty smile.

“You promised me,” She whined.

“You promised me.” Azriel pouted as he leaned in to kiss her. 

“No, Az, please don’t they’ll see!”  She squirmed trying to pull from his grasp.

“Then let them see,” he groaned. “It’s an engagement not a crime. Starlight, what are you afraid of?” 

“Let’s not argue,” She countered, trying to dismiss his questions.

“Let’s not argue.” Azriel agreed, taking a sip from his glass and releasing her waist. 

“Please pretend.” She begged.

“I can only hope I’ll understand in time.” Azriel sighed.

“You will understand, in time that is.” She held one of his hands in hers with a thankful smile.

Rhysand had found the two by the table, Feyre having moved to dance with her sister, Rhysand interrupted the two with a small nod towards Azriel and pulled his sister onto the dancefloor. The pacing of the dance had changed and both Rhys and Az were separated from their starlight as she was surrounded by a gaggle of females. Azriel had begun moving through the crowd till she could see him, he offered her his hands but just as their hands touched she was spun into the arms of another dancer; Azriel groaned, pushing himself through the crowds till he reached the beverage table where Rhysand now stood pouting and began to antagonize the high lord to go fetch his own sister as everytime he attempted to they were split up again. 

The music swelled and swirled as she was forced towards the front of the room, closer and closer to the dias, the music began to quicken and darken its pace, Azriel had noticed where she was heading and pushed through the crowds to catch her again after Rhys had shrugged him off.  He managed to just catch her and she pulled him into the final few spins of the number, the two smiling happily between each other as Azriel lifted her by the hips into a spin as the number began to swell for a final time, the rest of the inner circle somehow having found their way to the front beside them, as the music spun into its ending and the next song was beginning no one seemed to mind or recognize the music as a darker intro played.

She had froze in place, the familiar tune echoing in her ears as the rest of the inner circle turned to chatter amongst themselves.  Clicking of heeled boots made her heart race and fear began to slowly fill her chest; she was sure she was the only one who could hear the male’s gait and have it memorized so thoroughly, Rhys was the one to notice the change in his sister’s behavior and moved to question her. Though as he followed her gaze up to the dias he no longer needed an answer as to what was wrong. 

Tamlin had decided to make a dramatic entrance, as he was known for now, and while it was admittedly hard for him and Luicen to set up, it was worth it now to see the faces on the Inner circle and the rest of the Prythian’s high lords. He had handed Lucien a stack of music sheets and a heavy pouch of gold to bribe the musicians into playing for his introduction, a song he knew that would only matter to her: the song they had been writing together when the mating bond had snapped in place between them, their song. It admittedly was a bold move on his part, but he was planning on sweeping her back into his arms and declaring his intentions to her in front of the entirety of Prythian. Or at least that's how he had imagined it while talking to Lucien, he planned to beg for her forgiveness for everything that had happened to her family when she was younger, make a grand reveal begging for the girl to come back to him and pleading with her to accept their bond.  He had not expected for her to be on Azriel’s arm but then after all he wasn’t quite sure what he expected after all this time had passed, it was go big or go home with the gestures he figured.

Everyone had frozen as he leaned on the black stone and metal throne, a snarky smile on his face as he saw Azriel pale, saw his star’s eyes widen, saw Rhys move towards him before stalling just a few steps in front of the rest of the inner circle. They had been expecting him, just not like this, this was borderline disrespectful towards Rhysand and Feyre but he wasn’t here for them he was here for his darling mate. Feeling the tension of  their high lord and his inner circle  the entire gala ran quiet.

“Why so silent good messieurs?” he took a step away from the throne, straightening his stance and watched as Rhys ushered the entire room back a step.

‘Ahhh that explained it’, Tamlin considered their reactions before deciding on one reason as to why they would be reacting the way they were. ‘They don’t trust the reason I’m  here, they are so used to there always being a threat around the corner that they must think I'm here to ruin their celebration of peace.’

“Did you think I wouldn’t show up Rhys? You act like I’m not one of the Lords that helped usher in this peace.” Tamlin joked, though his tone suggested otherwise.

He took a single step down the dias and while addressing the entirety of the room he opened his arms with a smile. “Have you missed me, good messieurs? I have brought you an announcement.” 

It was true, he was so busy trying to figure out Hybern’s plans he had turned down countless invites to balls and galas and then after it was found out he was playing host to Hybern the invitations had stopped coming in completely. After he had helped Feyre and everyone escape Hybern’s war camp and it was made common knowledge he was playing double agent people were still hesitant to trust him and while invitations did start coming back in he often put them off to work on restoring his court instead. 

“I figured it would be best to announce myself here, at such a grand celebration, where everyone could see what it means to me.” He smiled brightly, his emerald eyes glinting in the faelight gleaming from the grand chandelier.

“I advise you to hear me out, my meaning should be clear. I intend no malice here.” Tamlin raised his hands as if to calm the crowds.

Rhys seemed to relax as Tamlin made his intentions aware, Tamlin gestured for his darling star to step forward Azriel’s brows furrowed and he tried to pull her behind him but all he could do was reach out for her as she shook his hands off and stepped past Rhys to lock eyes with Tamlin. Tamlin took another step down the dias and extended one hand out for his star to take, when she complied he pulled her tight against him. 

He dropped his forehead to touch hers, and he sighed as if it was the first breath of fresh air he had taken in in a very long time. “Our souls still sing as one, you never rejected me?” 

She took a sharp breath in. “How could I? I only ever heard bad or negative things about you but through it all you never once closed off the bond, but you never reached out for me either.”

Tamlin tensed as he smelt the underlying cool musk scent that he was familiar with as the Shadowsinger, mix with her own soft night wind scent. “You smell like the Shadowsinger…”

Azriel reading the situation with a negative connotation rushed forward to pull her away from the High Lord of Spring. Rhysand’s eyes widened as he processed the news of his little sister and old best friend having a mating bond the two had never consummated or had never been closed off or rejected like he had assumed it had been after everything that had happened; his attention had flitted from the sweet and sincere scene on the dias to Azriel ,who’s movement was rage filled and volatile in stark contrast to his normal behavior, before the male could pass Rhys took hold of his arm. The shadowsinger turned to look back at Rhys with a pained snarl on his face that softened when he saw the look in Rhys’s eyes, a plea to not make this any worse as they both knew Tamlin was not an honorable male and she was in so much danger being that close alone that if he were to walk up there Tamlin might very well sweep her away and start the next war to keep her as his. Or that was how Azriel perceived it, Rhys however wasn’t sure the exact clarification for how he meant it but he knew it was probably a good thing he didn’t let Azriel march up there; Rhys knew Azriel fancied his little sister and just wasn’t good at proclaiming it, he knew that the chance of Az saying ‘Fuck it’ and  storming up there with his rage scrambling any clear thinking would end up in one of them declaring a blood duel.

Azriel had been asking Rhys for weeks now for permission and advice on properly courting her, it was a ploy Azriel had ran by her as a way to keep the rest of the circle out of the details of their relationship, instead hiding the true nature within bedroom walls. It had been sudden for Azriel, his Starlight had been down in the dungeons on order of Rhys while he was out; he had just been coming back in from a mission and was about to start writing a report for Rhys when she was on her way out. She had stopped at the basins to wash some blood off her hands and Azriel didn’t know what quite compelled him to stop but he was glad he did so now, she had looked up at him with eyes sparkling like the stars and a happy smile on her face as she welcomed him back; his eyes widened as he took her in and his heart ached, he wasn’t sure what had changed between now and the last time he had seen her weeks ago, maybe it was the fact she was one of the only ones who genuinely responded to his letters more than the basic check ins he did with his brothers. Whatever it was though, Azriel knew he needed her close to him then and there, he had thanked her for keeping the dungeons in check for him and offered to take her out for dinner on the Sidra. That was how it had started over a year ago now, after the war with Hybern Azriel had proposed to her but confided in Rhys that he wished to simply court his sister, other than that to the inner circle they were simply flirting but did not necessarily belong to one another.

When Azriel had stormed into his office the first time begging Rhys for permission to court his younger sister and if he was allowed how should he go about doing so Azriel hadn't let Rhys get a word in before he had worked himself up and left the room apologizing profusely, it was probably for the best in the worst possible way because if Azriel had let him speak Rhys would have quizzed him on where this sudden romantic interest in his sister was coming from and probably denied the male outright. Rhys was over protective of his little sister, more so than he probably needed to be but no one was complaining so who was he to judge, Rhys had assumed Azriel was too worried and anxious to actually act on asking her out.  He knew Azriel cared about her more so than was probably good for the spy master and he had every intention of telling the spymaster it wasn’t a good idea if Az ever made his way back into his office, which just hadn’t happened yet so Rhy bid his time separating them if Az ever got too close to her for his liking.

It wasn’t that Rhys had anything against Az and her being together and honestly they would have made a cute couple but Rhys knew more than he probably should have, she was his sister after all and he was the one who had carried her half alive body from the cabin where she had been left on death’s doorstep ripped apart and bloody; it was one of the only things he could never forgive Tamlin for in all honesty, she had trusted him, he had trusted him. He hadn’t thought much of it about a week before the attack on her, his mom, and their other sister, when the she had winnowed in from the spring court drunk on Spring wine way after their father had already turned in to bed for the night; she had been rambling, hardly able to fly in a straight line when she had landed on the balcony and Rhys inwardly groaned as he pulled her up the stairs towards her room.

It was only after the door had clicked shut and he had sat her on the neat padded couch and asked the house for water did he think to ask her what had led to the late night drinking spree.

“Alright fess up, what got you in the drinking spirit?” He had asked placing the glass of water in her hand before standing up and moving towards the girls dresser and sifting through it looking for a pair of the girls silk pajamas.

“Tam-” She had started but was interrupted by a hiccup as tears started bubbling in her eyes.

Pulling out the pair of black silk pjs Rhys’s brows furrowed, a growl threatening to spill from his throat. “What the fuck did he do to you?”

“No, no, no Rhys… its not like that!” she pulled her knees into the couch and turned herself around to look over the back of the couch at Rhys as he walked back over pajamas in hand.

“Then how is it?” Rhys’s voice softened. “I thought you had music lessons with him today?”

“I did,” She confirmed. “We were working on this piece together, he was teaching me how to write music and well, we just kept moving closer and closer as we worked on the song.”

“And?” Rhys prodded sitting the pajamas on the coffee table.

She shifted back to face forwards with a pout. “It was going really well, he was super proud of the progress we had made on it. Like I said we kept getting closer, well when we wrapped the song up he just. Well he just leaned forward and kissed me!” Her voice was raised in a ‘can you believe the audacity of that man’ tone.

Rhys laughed. “You decided to drink because you were upset he kissed you?” 

She shot him a look that read ‘Why the fuck would I do that dumbass’ “Mother no! Let me finish Rhys!”

He had to refrain from laughing again at her attitude. “Go right ahead.”

“Thank you!” she huffed. “Well, when he kissed me I felt this like spark in my chest and I knew what it meant, he felt it too I think ‘cause his eyes widened and then he deepened the kiss and mumbled something about thanking the mother it was me as his mate. He was so excited he offered to take me out drinking as a celebration. We ended up calling it a night so I just winnowed back, took me a couple times believe me but when I finally made it back into the court I flew the rest of the way back up here. Cold Night air is not as sobering as you would think.”

Rhys smiled and patted her shoulder. “Well then congrats on finding your mate dear sister, with Tamlin of all males as well  there couldn’t be a better match. Get some rest, don't forget we have to fly out to Windhaven tomorrow afternoon.” 

“Yeah, yeah get out so I can go to bed.” she waved him off, grabbing the folded silk pajamas from the coffee table and making her way into the attached bathing room.

Rhys left to his own room and found himself at a writing desk he had tucked into the corner, writing to Tamlin his own form of congratulations; after all he had already considered the male a brother and now even more so if he was actually to be mated to his sister.

When the morning came she barely remembered the interaction with him, and had practically begged him to keep it a secret until her and Tam had a chance to talk. He had agreed as they flew out then winnowed into the camp grounds, Rhys wished he could have frozen those moments in time; when everything was happy and alright, when he didn’t get hung up on what could have been like those powdered icing sugar cookies he got from the bakery a block over from the river estate that had opened recently: his youngest sister would have loved those, she had one of the biggest sweet tooths around.

Five days had passed and he was needed back in Velaris, leaving the rest of his family in Windhaven but something just didn’t sit right with him like an anxious pit in his stomach. He should have told Azriel and Cassian to be on guard or something to have patrols out in the area around the cabin but for some reason he didn’t and now he blamed himself for so much. 

Rhys had woken up that night as his father stormed in the air buzzing and electrified with palpable energy. “Up boy, hurry get dressed. Something’s happened. I have already sent word to Windhaven to check we will meet them there.”

Rhys paled and his stomach dropped as he threw his leathers on half haphazardly. In all honesty he had barely slept maybe ten minutes here or there, he had just drifted off for maybe fifteen or twenty minutes finally when that door had swung open; in all honesty Rhy should have been exhausted but the adrenaline pumping through his system was convincing him otherwise. 

The night was a blur painted in red for him, when he had gotten there Cassian amd Az were sitting on a rock with their hands in their hands, they had been sleeping in the barracks recently in some way to show the others they belonged here just as much as they did, both males perked up when they heard the sound of Rhys winnowing back into camp.  They offered him a pitiful look that worried Rhys, his eyes darted between them and the door and just as they were beginning to stand Rhys took off in a full sprint towards the slightly ajar splintered door; he heard his father’s voice call out for him but he was through the door and standing in a pool of blood before any words processed in his head.

It was a mess, the table had been flipped and chipped on the counter the chairs were thrown across the room and had splinters or pieces missing, broken ceramics and wood chunks from dining sets were scattered across the floor; the living room was a mess in its own the couch had been flipped, wood pokers strewn across the floor in front of the fireplace with one tipped in blood and tossed to the other side of the room. By the cauldron Rhys was going to be sick if it wasn’t for the adrenaline pulsing through his body right now, blood was absolutely everywhere: splatters pools, streaks, handprints, you name it; What Rhys found the worst was the two bodies slumped over in the kitchen, absolutely brutalized in gouged scratches and gaping wounds. Rhys stilled, two there was only two in here his mom and the youngest sister both of whom where half dressed and had bones sticking out and gaping gashes in their back where their wings had been, he realized how bad the attack and assault had been due to the tear tracks and the disorder in their undressed states. 

An alarm was going off in his head. Where was his other sister? His eyes scanned the room as a sob bobbed in the back of his throat, they were born only a year apart and had grown up incredibly close together they acted as if they were twins despite the fact they weren’t. She had been here when the attack had been sprung he deduced, there were three plates made at the table and two others off to the side just in case Cas and Az decided to show up to eat with them instead of in the main house. She had been the person in the living room he reasoned based on the fact the bodies were in the kitchen, she would have been relaxing on the couch when they barged in and put the couch between her and the attacker she had taken the fire poker as a weapon, she wouldn’t have been able to get up to her room where her actual weapons were.   Yet her body wasn’t down here and there wasn’t a significant amount of blood in the snow, only the pool right outside the doorway, then his eyes landed on the footprints leading up the stairs and the small drops of blood trailing up the stairs.

He had never booked it up a staircase faster, his eyes following the trail on the floor; had the attackers still been there he would have been a goner, he stopped as he came face to face with the slightly ajar door to his sisters room. The boys bunked together which left her to bunk with their youngest sister and their mother had her own room; A small bathing room was at the opposite end of the hallway, he had to swallow an anxious breath as he pushed the door open slowly.

He had wanted to sob, the room was barely touched except for her, laying on her stomach on her bed, like care had been taken with her; the same scene as her mother and sister in the severity of the wounds on her back, Rhys would thank the mother everyday that while he was observing her she wasn’t in the same state of undress and that he was able to catch her weak breath. Her face was looking at him and yet her eyes were weak and open a small weak smile graced her face as she let out a small bloody cough, she had tried to call his name but all that had come out was a wheeze and more coughing that swept her into unconsciousness. Rhys’s brain went from being on a stall to being in overdrive as a sob wracked his body, he hauled her up into his arms as gently as he could and took off back through the halls of the cabin and down the stairs out into that frigid cold air.

When his feet sank into the snow outside  everything happened so quickly he could barely remember screaming that she was still alive, that they could still save her if they got her to Madja in time.  He knew their father had taken her from his arms and was gone within the minute, his knees had given out and it had been Cassian and Azriel that had caught him.   When he had finally made it back into Velaris the next night he refused to leave her bedside even when Madja advised that he should just let the girl rest, it took his father waltzing in with that dark look in his eyes that made Rhys finally step away.

The firm hand on his shoulder pulled him from his thoughts, his fathers hardened steel eyes met with his own. “I found out who it was.”

“Who was it?” Rhys’s voice was hoarse; he had barely said a word in the last 24 hours and any use of his voice was from screaming or crying.

“Spring court.” His father had told him and he had to take a moment to make sure he had heard his father correctly.

“Spring court?” Rhys had double checked.

“Yes, you seem surprised, has something happened?” His father had asked quizzically.

“I just don’t understand why Tamlin would have helped do something like that.” Rhys looked down with his brows furrowed.

“Look son, I understand you both have been friends for an incredibly long time but-” His father had started before Rhys had interrupted him.

“No, it's not for that reason!” Rhys had barked out with more venom than he had intended.

“Then for what reason do you mean boy?” His fathers gaze hardened.

“Just,” He sighed. “I don’t see why Tamlin would attack his own mate at all, especially when they both came across as happy about it.” 

“She's his mate?” His fathers eyes drifted to her sleeping body.

“She had just found out before we left, Tamlin was planning to ask his father for permission to court her properly.” Rhys mumbled.

“You know this how?” His father had asked.

“She was drunk the night before we left, spilled her guts about it to me. Her and Tamlin had gone out for celebratory drinks, after I had put her to bed I wrote a congratulatory letter to Tam and he had wrote back thanking me and asked me to keep it quiet, he said he was going to ask his father to properly court her and if he got permission there he was going to come to you to ask. I told him we would be up in Windhaven if he needed to find us to get your permission or if he needed to run away.” His voice was shaky as he stumbled to recall what the letter he had received from Tamlin had said.”He said he loved her and he was bound and determined to court her either way, even if he had to run away. Something had to have happened.”

“Possibly, I’m sure something happened or there was a lie somewhere along the way.” His father offered him a sympathetic nod in comfort. “Either way we head out tonight, you can deal with Tamlin and I’ll deal with his father and brothers.”

“Okay.” Rhys nodded.

“Be on the balcony just past midnight.” His father had turned to step back out of the room, his hand falling from his shoulder. 

The air hung heavy as he returned to his seat beside her bed, if he stayed standing he would begin to pace while thinking about what he would say to Tamlin tonight although he knew no matter what it would end in blood and violence.

+

When night finally fell, Rhys was leaning in the archway of the balcony before even his father had made it downstairs; he had spent too much time being able to brood on the situation and now his entire being was pure rage, he fully believed Tamlin had been lying to him about the entire situation now, that was why he had decided to go out to drink and that he just had to pull her along with him to not arouse suspicion. 

His eyes almost seemed darker than his father’s did when the older male finally had joined him down stairs, one set of darkened steeled violet eyes met another in an unspoken vow on how the rest of the night would go.  His father, the only one able to winnow in and out of the mountain palace’s wards, took the male by the shoulder and winnowed them as close to Rosehall as they could without setting off the wards and silent alarms, due to the estate having frequent visitors you could walk through the wards but not winnow and it was considered a ‘safe guard’ though it was one of the weakest safe guards Rhys had seen.

Getting into the estate was rather simple, it was late enough even the servants would be asleep and they had a tendency to not lock the door, Tamlin had told Rhys that once and in turn he had made a note of that to his father; as they snuck around the side of the estate ducking under window sills in case any late night wanderers or the heir and his father decided to get up for a late night wander, with a silent nod they tested the handle on the servants quarters door and stepped inside to a silent house. The servants quarters were easy to sneak through without a care for exactly how silent they were, it wasn’t until they reached the main hall that they tested every step with a soft foot before putting any pressure on a floor board, any noise could give their position away. He felt the familiar knock of his father’s clawed hands on his mental shields and accepted him in with a questioning look.

‘You take care of Tamlin and I will deal with Verdanon and the others. We split up at the top of the stairs.’ His father’s voice was stern in his head.

Rhys simply nodded following the older male’s steps, turning down the left hall as his father went down the right hall; Rhys looked over his shoulder watching as his father passed the empty room’s of Tamlin’s long dead brothers without a second thought, he turned back towards Tamlin’s door at the end of the hallway. His steps weighed heavier and heavier as he approached the familiar oak carved door, his thoughts drifted as his hand fell to the iron door handle a scratching sound on the other side of the doors followed by a frustrated growl and the soft sound of something with scarce weight hitting the floor caused the hair on Rhys’s neck to stand on end. 

He straightened his stance, he could hear the creak of his father opening the door at the other end of the hall ever so softly, turning the iron handle and inching the door open till he could see Tamlin stationed at his writing desk with his back to him and his head in his hands. 

Before Rhys could take another step into the room he was startled by Tamlin calling out to him. “I was wondering how long it would take for you to show up here.”

Rhys stepped into the room, forgoing any thought of being quiet as he heard the beginning of a struggle down his father’s way. “And here I am.”

His voice was venomous towards Tamlin and in all honesty he hadn’t meant it to be so dark, he couldn’t claim to know the whole story; it hurt him more when he saw Tam flinch in his seat.The flinch had his gaze sharpening on the blonde male and he strode forward quickly, unsheathing his dagger with full intent of sinking it into the blonde. 

Hearing the familiar sound of metal being wielded against himself Tamlin rose quickly from his chair, the light wooden thing clattering against the glossy hardwood floors as he turned to block Rhys’s attack with only a letter opener. It bought him just enough time to try and grab ahold of Rhys’s wrist with his free hand, even though the attempt failed miserably and the dagger had sunk against the bones in his arm. His eyes widened, and breath trembled as he took in the emotions etched into Rhys’ very being. 

“Rhys!” He called out with his voice wavering. “Please talk to me about this, I swear to you I had no idea what my father was planning to do!” 

“Don’t lie to me Tam.” Rhys had growled, pressing the blade hader against the bone of the blonde’s arm. 

“I’m not Rhys,” Tamlin swallowed a shallow breath, the edges of his vision beginning to turn white with pain. “I promise if you ask me for all the details of what happened I won't lie to you.”

The weight of the words hung in the air as Rhys’s gaze narrowed, without removing the blade from the male under him he extended his non dominant hand in an offering. “If you do lie I won’t hesitate to kill you I can promise that.” 

Tamlin nodded, dropping the letter opener and shaking the ravenette’s hand as magic sizzled in the air around them  settling into a small shooting star pattern; instead of the regular black ink bargains and promises normally settled into the one that seared itself into their skin was nearly white in color looking instead like a scar on their arms, a metaphor maybe Rhys thought now for the scar the damage of that night had done on their families. Rhys ground his jaw as he pulled the sword from its spot embedded in Tamlin’s arm, the latter flinching at the grinding noise as it was pulled from the bone.

Tamlin moved to pick up the chair as Rhys sheathed his dagger and noted the fact his arm was taking a moment to seal up, probably due to the damage to the bone, as his blood dripped against the floor he offered the chair to Rhysand. Tamlin sighed and leaned against the ornately carved wooden poster of his bed letting the raven haired male adjust and fixate his violet gaze onto his own green ones.

“You know the details of how we found out so I will spare you the details of that for times sake and instead will start us with dinner the next day if that is alright with you.” Tamlin had offered Rhys a chance to rebuttal even though it was more of a statement.

“That's fine with me, get on with it.” Was the responding growl.

“Like I told you I was ready to completely flee this court if it was necessary, Rhys, please don’t give me that look.” Tamlin had looked up at the other male with a miserable pleading look in his eyes. “I love her mind you, I’d still walk out of here if I didn’t have a clue how tonight is going to end.”

“If you love her, why would you hurt her like that Tam? Can you answer that question? She still hasn’t woken up, I hope you know that.” Rhys’s gaze was hardened into a glare that had the blonde sinking against the post to drop his head defeatedly into his knees.

“I tried to protect her the best I could at that moment in time, I wish I could have done more but all I could do was carry her upstairs so she couldn't see the carnage or her mother and sister.” Tamlin had sighed, the disappointment in himself obvious as he sank to the floor.

“You were the reason she made it upstairs?” Rhys questioned and Tamlin nodded.

“Yeah, but I should start at that dinner, not in the middle of it all. Please give me this one thing, Rhys.” Tamlin asked and Rhys could see the swirl of sorrow deep in those emerald orbs.

“Get to it then.” Rhys barked and Tamlin nodded.

“I was nervous, I stayed in my room the entire day trying to think of how to ask for her to my father whilst being surrounded by my brothers.” Tamlin had rested his arms over his knees fiddling with one of the several rings on his fingers with a sad smile on his face. “When I was called down for dinner I was so nervous I could hardly sit still, we always go by birth order for events of the day or subjects we wished to discuss so I of course was the last one to get asked. Normally I turn down the invitation to scramble back to my poetry books but they all turned to look at me when I had said actually I did have something I wanted to ask about.”

Tamlin let his head fall back against the wooden post. “They were surprised but were more than happy to let me have my piece, I started it with an upfront statement,  That I had settled on a female I wished to court, my father asked me who of course and I said her name that she was actually my mate and we both were aware of it but I wanted the chance to properly court her.” He broke up his sentences with a scoff. “I should have known better than to believe he would have been okay with it from the get go, should have figured there was something off when he said he'd ask your father and that should have been the end of the conversation but no I had to push it because I knew you all were not available in Night Court. I told him you all were going to be in the Illyrian mountains at the camp instead that your mother had a cabin on the far outskirts of the camp and that you all would be staying there and we needed to send the letter there instead. A couple days later he told me he had gotten a letter inviting us out there to meet with you all and that afternoon we set out to head towards your court.”

“You didn’t think anything of simply being informed of the letter and not seeing it with your own eyes?” Rhys had frowned at the blonde’s lack of consideration.

“I was too excited with the prospect of being able to properly court her and wedding bells on the horizon at the time to see the cloud of deception hanging above me.” Tamlin bit his tongue to prevent himself from getting snappy.

“Figured you smarter than that Tam.” Rhys taunted.

“We will see about that on the day you find your mate Rhys.” Tamlin countered with an eye roll, continuing with his story before Rhys could interject with another comment on his actions. “We made it out to the camp, I figured you were going to be there. Honestly I didn’t know you and your father had headed back to your estate yet so I thought nothing of it when my father simply knocked on the door. Your mother was the one to answer and my father was pushing inside with a blade drawn quicker than I realized, I stood in the doorway frozen as I realized he had lied to me. He attacked your mother and youngest sister first took their wings, and then he attacked her she had put up the most fight, had been yelling at me the entire time to step in but I could feel her fear and it doubled my own I couldn't move until my father dragged her over to me and dropped her at my feet saying I needed to finish her. He moved into the kitchen where you mother and baby sister were, when I realize what he was doing I pulled her into my arms and under the disguise I wanted her privately to myself so I could really cherish her I carried her up to her bed and sat with her, I cried and begged for her apologies told her I didn't know he was going to do what he did and that it was all my fault for not seeing through his lie. She reached out to touch my cheek, told me it was okay she wasn’t mad at me, and in turn I told her I would spend my whole life trying to find a way to make it up to her.” Tamlin’s voice quivered as he hurried to sum up the story, wiping a tear from his cheek that he hadn’t even realized he had shed. 

“I mean that Rhys, even if making it up to her is staying as far away as possible.” Tamlin mumbled looking up to Rhys who actually had pity in his eyes for the male.

“You truly didn’t mean for what happened to happen?” Rhys scowled. 

“It truly was not my intention, I figured by bringing her upstairs she would have the best chance to make it through, that by doing so she would have some chance to survive so that at least that way she didn’t have to watch her mother and sister be slaughtered; I knew if she stayed downstairs he would make sure her life was ripped from her, he had already taken her wings and there was enough blood on me for him to believe she was dead.” Tamlin sighed.

When no stinging came from the tattoo Rhys decided he was satisfied with the answer. “My father has slaughtered your brothers and no doubt is working on your father now. If my father survives the fight you will have to make yourself nonexistent and flee into hiding, you will never be able to see her again as long as he lives and I swear to you I will do my best to keep her from you even if the opposite is true. You have hurt her in a way I as her brother can not forgive, even if she does the second she wakes up I still will not; You will have to earn her trust all over again and until I am convinced you have redeemed yourself I won't allow you near her.”

“Those are terms I can agree to.” Tamlin looked up at Rhys hopeful.

“I will not make it into a bargain for your sake, it will simply be of my own determination if you have redeemed yourself in my eyes and I will not lay out the terms for what that entails.” Rhys stood from his chair and extended a hand to Tamlin who took it in kind to stand from his position on the floor.

Rhys pulled Tamlin into a half hearted hug, catching the blonde off guard. “For everyone's sake in this, I hope you do manage to redeem yourself. For what it’s worth Tamlin, you had always made her happy.”

Tamlin felt his heart shatter as Rhys’s words sank into his chest, that one word destroyed his world: had. Tamlin decided that one word would haunt him until he felt himself a good enough male to finally attempt to redeem himself for her. Though no words were spoken further as screaming and clattering spilled into the room from the hallway on the other side of the door, there was an unspoken acknowledgement between the two of what was to come. 

It was the last time Tamlin and Rhys had really seen eye to eye on anything, Tamlin never felt like he was worthy of trying to redeem himself and then everything with Amarantha had Tamlin feeling disgusted in himself, he let his self hatred for what he had allowed of his court, of his people, of his friends, and of himself outweigh the thoughts of redemption for all of the above. He drowned himself in paperwork, in Lucien’s understanding on nights they would get drunk and miserable about loves lost to them, in Feyre so he could forget what he should have had. His distaste in himself turned him uncaring and cold, he found himself unable to care for the once human girl because she would never really have his heart. He threw himself into trying to be enthusiastic with court relations and wedding planning where he had almost snapped Ianthes head off for how pushy and annoying she got to him, he didn't honestly care about the wedding it wasn’t her, the one he really wanted to be going through this with. 

When Rhys came to collect Feyre from the wedding Tamlin hated how thankful he was to the ravenette and wanted to turn in on himself for how hopeful he had gotten that Rhys might have dragged his sister along for show. When Feyre ran off to join Rhys’s side after nights of Tamlin being haunted with memories of his inability to protect dear little starlight caused him to lash out at her and seal her in the estate, Tamlin hated that he had taken his inner grievances out on her. He hated that when she had finally returned but fled with Lucien that he understood why both left him, even after everything he had been through with the day court's heir. It wasn’t until he had caught a glimpse of her after the high lord’s meeting where he had been so cruel did he remember why all of this was happening in the first place, all he had seen was a passing glimpse of her and those terrible scars on her back that his cold, calculated, purposefully arrogant, and admittedly self detrimental walls shattered again yet even more painfully this time; he wanted to call out to her to drop to his knees and beg for her to forgive him for every callous action he had taken but he couldn’t, no, he wasn’t worthy in his own eyes to have her own eyes land on him, it was the one sided interaction that had catapulted him into trying to claw his way back out of the pit he had dug for himself. It wasn’t until rhys walked through the archway she had just disappeared across that Tamlin realized he had been staring at the spot she once stood, all Rhys had offered him was a raised brow as he approached and a touch to the shoulder; Rhys knew he had seen her that her very presence had been enough to shake him at his core.

“I think I’m ready to start to redeem myself for her.” Tamlin’s voice was hoarse and it even shocked himself to feel how close to tears he was.

“Then do your best to earn it, for her at least.” Rhys nodded and patted the spot his hand rested at tamlin’s shoulder.

Tamlin moved to turn to walk back down the steps and back towards the other camp he hated so violently but could not do a thing about it, not yet, at least he had offered the plans to the other lords.

“Oh, and Tamlin,” Tamlin was caught by surprise when Rhys called out to him and he looked over his shoulder turning slightly to look back at the male who had a small smile on his face, his arms crossed, and the slightest teasing head tilt as he watched the blonde male walk away. “You were right.”

Tamlin’s brows furrowed. “What?”

“What you said all those years ago, about the idea of marrying your mate clouding your brain. I get it.” Rhys offered the oher a nod as Tamlin let out one sad, dry, laugh to himself.

“I told you so.” Tamlin had muttered as he turned away from the other male and slipped out the castle’s walls. 

The two had been against each other for so long that they both had forgotten what it had been like to banter with the other. Rhys’s soft smile turned into one of sadness as the doors closed behind his old friend, he looked down at the floor before turning to join his family in the courtyard that conjoined their rooms all together. He watched his sister play Azriel in chess from a spot leaning against a column, Tamlin realizing he had to change for her was the first positive mark in his book and he knew more were to come if such a fleeting glimpse was enough to move the male the way it did. 

Rhys knew she still cared about the blonde it was evident in the way she wore the emerald Tamlin had sent Rhys him home with the night they both became highlords to give to her, around her neck; Rhys didn’t think she had taken the thing off except for the one or two times the clasp had broken in the hundreds of years since. 

His belief of where her affections still truly lie was only solidified the night Elain had been kidnapped and Feyre had gone undercover to return her with the aid of Tamlin. When they jumped the cliff one of Hybern’s archers had shot an ashwood arrow right into his ribcage while he was still in beast form; it had rendered him unconscious and trapped in his form. She had rushed out of her tent at the commotion and her face had paled when she had seen the great beast with laboring breaths, Rhys had frozen on his spot as she pushed through the crowds to drop to her knees and began immediately assessing his wounds; processing there was no bane in his blood she had screamed at Rhys to give her his dagger and when Rhys didn’t move she was rushing over to take it from off his waist. When medics finally caught up to the scene she was ordering them around as she rolled up her sleeves and muttering apologies to the male as he was slipping the dagger into the skin either side of the arrow to cleanly remove the barbed edges without the ash wood splintering inside of him. When she had tossed the arrow off to the side and his body finally caught up with the removal of the arrow the medics were hauling him off to the tents and she rushed off to her tent to clean the blood from her shaky hands. He had gone to check on her that night, finding her absent from her tents and instead in the private medical tents crying over the blonde male; Rhys simply sighed before turning to leave without saying a word or even alerting her to his presence.

Everything since then had been leading up to now and somewhere deep in his chest he knew it was coming and expected it but could see how violent the situation could turn at any second with two males vying for the same female's attention. Rhys would never admit outloud if he had to choose between the two males on who he would have her married off to that it would be Tamlin, Azriel was a good male and less temperamental but he had females throwing themselves at him and he liked to toy with that fact and he had no doubt that she would get hurt if he decided to take that toying a bit too far; Tamlin though had only ever held any interest in two females, her and Feyre, but Rhys, Tamlin, and Feyre all knew it was simply forced and situational with her after the truth was revealed and while he was temperamental Rhys had seen her calm him plenty of times when they were younger. Plus Rhys had seen how Tamlin had worked his ass off after that night even restoring the entire Spring Court and Rosehall by himself, he had worked for this, he had worked to keep the unspoken promise between the two.

So as the reality of the situation currently on display for anyone in Prythian to see Rhys’s mind was going a thousand miles a minute as Azriel struggled against his hand and Tamlin’s eyes sparkled sadly as his green orbs took her in that close to him yet she smelled like another male.

Rhys’s nostrils flared and his head snapped towards him as he had to bite his tongue and grind his teeth when Azriel’s voice rang out against the murmur of the crowd. “She is to be my bride, take your filthy hands off her.”

The entirety of the inner circle’s attention stilled on the aggravated male whose wings were flared in a posturing behavior to make himself seem larger than the blonde male. Rhys’s eyes flicked over to the blonde male and his sister whose eyes had dropped to the floor and carried a self disappointed sadness in them from where he stood. 

Tamlin’s eyes steeled on the angry illyrian and turned to the female in his grasp, his thumb and forefinger coming to rest under her chin as his voice was soft and sympathetic. “Look at me.” When her eyes rose only to his lips he sighed. “In the eyes, darling.” 

Rhys watched as her entire posture changed, Tamlin offering her a small smile as he mumbled a small bit of praise her way, “There she is.” 

Azriel fought and yelled against him, even turning threats towards Rhys himself when he refused to let him pass, the two on the dias having an unspoken conversation; their eyes weren’t glazed over so Rhys knew the conversation wasn’t in their heads simply reading the others emotions in each other's eyes and over the bond, the two seeming to come to some understanding as she was the first to move.

Cupping one of Tamlin’s cheeks, the blonde nuzzling against her soft touch her voice was weak and she was clearly on the verge of crying from whatever Tamlin had shown her. “Oh, Tam…”

Tamlin simply pressed a kiss to the palm of the hand she held his face with but the action had Azriel pushing through Rhys’s hold, Cassian realizing at exactly the same time as Rhys both males struggling to get any kind of grasp on him as he surged forward. The sudden violent movements had her startling and her eyes glazed over for a split second as her pupils shrunk, Tamlin felt whatever emotion she had sent down the bond as he growled and pushed her behind him getting between her and Azriel. The Illyrian had no intention of hurting her but she was always one to easily panic at sudden violence that was directed in her general vicinity, well at least after a similar sudden wave of violence had cost her her mate and nearly killed her. The growl was a warning for the spymaster, as Rhys and Cassian managed to barely keep a hold of him, indiscernible threats and promises of violent actions fell from the winged males tongue.

Tamlin simply tucked the small female closer into his side and raised a brow above those hardened emerald orbs. “Is it to be a blood duel then spymaster?”

The hair on the back of Rhys’s neck stood up at the sincere threat that hung in the air, knowing as much as he loved Azriel Tamlin was a high lord, who was fighting for his mate and that was a monster one would not truly wish to push into a blood duel. “Azriel.” His voice was a sharp chastising warning to the struggling shadowsinger.

Something in the way Rhys had hissed his name had Azriel coming back to his senses, watching the way she desperately clung to the blondes emerald vest with shaky fingers.

He looked to the ground for a second before meeting the green eyes of the High Lord, his wings tensing closed behind him. “She looks for sympathy, I give her sorrow. She asks for honesty, I’ve none to borrow. She needs a tender kiss, begs it of me, in turn I give her ugliness so why does she love me? She yearns for higher things, things I can’t give her. The rush her song brings, the one you wrote with her, I can’t deliver that. Even when she plays and soars above me, I try to clip her wings and shut down whatever it is she's playing; can you answer me then why does she love me? I've tried to get her to leave the hurt behind even when I knew not the reason behind it.” 

Tamlin sized him up with a simple rake of the emerald orbs over the muscular figure of the shadowsinger, fully ready to pounce if the other male agreed to the duel, making sure he had one hand to steady her and calm the panic that slowly rose in her chest that he could feel echo in his own like a whisper. Rhys and Cassian exchanged looks past Azriel, questioning looks between eachother as a silent question of ‘Did you know about this?’ was exchanged, only for the looks to turn worried as Azriel slowly pushed their hands away and rolled his shoulders to stand at the base of the dais.

“She wants the man I was, supportive and caring, at least she thinks she does, She needn’t bother when I was acting like she was overly fragile and would shatter at the slightest touch. In reality beneath the facade I wear for her, that's nothing like me, just cruel, protective, and obsessive in all honesty. She knows little of what I’ve done to others but knows how I allow females to flirt with me at her expense. So what about you Tamlin, what makes you so deserving of her?” Azriel hissed, with a roll of his shoulders, Rhys and Cassian ready to pull Azriel back away from the dais if he seemed like he was going to storm up the dais at the blonde. 

The two offered another hiss of his name in warning and he looked back over his shoulder at them. “What it's not like he’s any wortheir of her than I am, he may be a high lord but I am not afraid of him.”

Tamlin straightened his posture, but angled his head lower like a predator would do when assessing if he should pounce on his prey now, it was clear where this conversation was going and what Azriel would decide on. He pulled her hands off him so she could take a few steps back from the possible fight that was to break out, and took a step down the stairs causing Azriel’s head to snap back in his direction.

“Not afraid of me you say, yet no one asked if you were in the first place.” Tamlin growled. “You think yourself more worthy of her, that you own more of her heart than I do?” 

“She is my finance,” Azriel hissed right back at him.

“She is my mate.” Tamlin countered, that rumble deepening in his chest.

“Your bond may speak to her, but her heart will always be mine.” Azriel snapped venom on his tongue, “I was the one to help her with rehabilitation while Rhys threw himself into new high lord duties.” 

“You think so?” Tamlin chuckled a dark teasing tone to it as he sneered down at the shadowmaster. “You really think that? That she would belong to you with all your… flaws. Dare I call them that instead of other things.” 

Azriel straightened as Tamlin took a few steps around him down the dais like an animal circling its prey; when Tamlin had become high lord the significance of the fact that habits of a predatorial beast carried over into his regular fae form from his beast form and stuck with him more and more as the years went by and he let the savagery take hold of him, as much as he had tried to lessen the evidence of that fact some habits stuck and he couldn’t unlearn them permanently having just become instinctual. 

Tamlin hissed as he circled behind Azriel and back up the stairs of the dais. “Look at you, indebted to your high lord for pitying you,  a cruel torturer who makes up for the abuse he suffered in his childhood by taking it out on those his highlord orders him to torture for information, it’s almost pitiful. Answer me boy, Shall we settle this with a blood duel? Let fate and the mother guide us here and let the cauldron take the hindmost?”

Azriel tensed at the turn of phrase, he recognized it from the human/fae war as something that was said to keep armies moving together at the same pace. ‘Cauldron take the hindmost’ it sickened him to hear it again a wish for the cauldron to enact its will on any who fell behind and could not support the cause, yet it enlightened Azriel to the fact Tamlin viewed this as a declaration of war.

Azriel scoffed, Hazel eyes sharpening on the beast like emerald ones in front of him. “Look at me? No. Look at you, a foul beast, traitorous, unlovable, who hurts anyone who gets close to him because he is an unworthy feral beast of a high lord who was never supposed to even inherit the title he was given. Call the stakes then, I’ll partake. May the Cauldron take the hindmost.”

Azriel and Tamlincould hear the audible gasps and disappointed sighs around them but were too focused on one another as Azriel climbed a couple steps to stand toe to toe with Tamlin.

Tamlin, brushed the mask from his face tossing it to the dark high lord who fumbled trying to catch it all of a sudden. “Then we shall duel tonight, for the hand of the Princess of the Night Court.” 

Azriel and Tamlin were getting snippy back and forth, yet Azriel nodded. “Tonight is fine. Draw the line.”

Tamlin tilted his head in a cocky manner, taunting the raven haired illyrian. “Is she yours or mine? You’ll lose tonight.”

Azriel hissed back. “I won’t lose.”

Tamlin puffed his chest out a mimic to the illyrian’s earlier wing posturing. “If you lose, you leave her be, you will never speak to her again and we will leave from here she may speak to anyone else from the night court but not you.”

Azriel agreed yet again, “Fine! And if I don’t? If I win?”

Tamlin scoffed. “The opposite will apply to me, i’ll never speak to her again and will close off the bond. I will never step foot in this court again unless strictly on business with Rhysand.”

Azriel nodded, stalking to the far side of the platform and stripping any excess accessories from his figure so they wouldn't get in the way during the fight, at least it wasn’t to the death like blood duel’s had a tendency to be. “Then let’s begin.” 

Tamlin moved to shake Azriel’s hand after discarding the eccentric cape and accent pieces, signifying the rules being set in place. Both men nodded with the agreed upon statement of “May the Cauldron take the hindmost.”

Tamlin went to step away, to move to his side of the platform, looking to Rhys to signify he was to be the mediator here, but as Rhys began climbing the stairs Azriel snapped, pulling Tamlin to him with a low warning hiss. “You think fate is in your favor? You think you are in control just because of a damned mating bond? You can't cheat on this one even if you tried.”  

Tamlin countered with a growl, more calm and collected than the other male. “This duel,” He scoffed. “All the rules have been rearranged, every move is riskier.”

Azriel pushed him away and rolled his shoulders, shaking out the aggravated nerves in his body with a quick stretch of his wings before they settled back against his back in a tense manner. “I will gladly bet against the bond, fuck it I’d even double down. Fate has redesigned itself before.” He had raised his voice, gesturing to Feyre. 

Tamlin simply took a deep breath, letting Rhys come to stand in between them in the center of the platform as he moved to take the waistcoat off as well and rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt. “Fate is on my side, it led me to her long ago and has always continued to do so. It will do so again today.”

Azriel was getting frazzled at the blonde's simple and collected exterior. “ I’ll wager that when this duel is done, I’ll have won her from you then.” 

Tamlin snapped dismissively over his shoulder as he turned back to face the male across the room from him and nodded towards Rhys. “Either way.”

Rhys looked to Azriel who gave him a frantic nod, Rhys sighed as he rolled his shoulders back and spoke loud enough for the crowd to here him. “May the Cauldron take the hindmost.” 

Both males lurched forward as Rhys stepped back to let fists fly at each other, eventually Azriel had Tamlin pinned to the ground with his knees either side of the blonde’s ribcage and trying to barrel down on the blonde’s face though many attempts failed and collided with the stone and tile floor leaving his fists a bloody mess.

“Her heart belongs to me. The engagement has secured that.” Azriel had yelled only to be stunned by Tamlin’s cocky smug smile.

“Are you sure?” Tamlin had flicked his tongue over his busted lip with a cocky laugh and a knowing smile plastered on his face.

“What?” Azriel had faltered.

“Are you so sure?” Tamlin reiterated, slowing down his speech mockingly as he  held Azriel’s wrists who struggled to reel back to throw another punch at the blonde.

“What do you mean?” Azriel's question was quick and clipped as if thrown off by Tamlin’s prideful ego in his questioning of Azriel and the lord’s mates bond.

Tamlin was quick to flip them, pinning Azriel under him the same way they had just been only with Azriel’s hands pinned under Tamlin’s knees. The blonde leaned back a smirk on his face as he pointed towards the girl curled into Rhys’s side, she could tell Tamlin was pulling punches, he knew he had won even before offering the duel, he could see it in her eyes and feel it in the bond.

Tamlin leaned down to grab Azriel by the collar. “The necklace that she wears, such a design is strange to see, wouldn't you agree? The color isn’t a standard one used in this court, it's representative of something else, of someone else that isn't you. Isn’t the color of your siphons and that you choose to represent yourself with a dark blue? That's a far stretch from green isn’t it?” 

“No-” Azriel had started a snarl on his lips. “Rhys gave her that.”

Tamlin snarled back with a smirk. “He gave her that for me, the night we both became High Lords an unspoken promise between us solidified in the emerald she wears around her neck. Doubt yourself now boy, If I wasn’t worried about her being upset I’d have had this duel be for your life.”

Both males snarled at one another in the face of truth, yet it was Azriel who continued to taunt Tamlin even though he couldn’t get out from under the Spring lord. “I call your bluff and we will see who wins out once and for all.” 

Both of them growling in eachothers faces. “He who wins, wins it all.”

Yet it was Tamlin who slammed Azriel’s head back against the tile floor by ravenette’s throat and hissed lowly “May the Cauldron take the hindmost.”

It was then as Azriel struggled to breath under the blonde’s grasp that the female the entire fight was over rushed forward. “Stop! Stop it both of you!”

Tamlin sighed, smiling and released the Illyrian’s throat as his wings thrashed beneath them both. Tamlin moved off of the illyrian, staying on his knees with his hair a mess and back straight as he looked up at her, an adoring look on his face as he caught his breath. Azriel rolled  onto his stomach and into a push up as he coughed and tried to regulate his breathing head weakly lifting to watch her take Tamlin’s  face into her hands.

Tamlin’s eyes sparkled as she cupped his face. “The duel in your honor has pleased you then?”

She smiled and laughed, “You always were a show off who was eager to please.” Before leaning down to pull him into a kiss.

“I’ve missed you, you asshole, making me wait so long I feared you had given up and moved on.”She chastised him.

“I could never truly do that, you are my only, you should know that my dear.” Tamlin crooned back trying to lull her to lean forward and give him another kiss, when she relented he hissed as the adrenaline wore off and the busted part of his lip stung. 

She sighed running her finger over the clotting blood, watching as his brows furrowed for a split second before his magic started kicking in to heal the cut. She hummed softly, “Stand and we will leave to get you cleaned up.” 

She offered a nod to Rhys who was checking on the defeated Illyrian on the ground, Rhys nodded back at her as he patted the coughing male's shoulder and back. Tamlin had rose wobbly to his feet, chest still heaving as she placed her palm to his chest an unspoken sentence asking for just a moment; Tamlin nodded and she stepped away and pulled a second necklace from its hiding spot below the neckline of her dress, slipping it off the small silver ring inlaid with the blue cobalt stone dangled on the chain and she hung it around the illyrians neck with an apologetic smile. The illyrian let a sob wrack his body and Rhys offered her a sad smile, knowing what he was about to say would probably hurt his brother more but Rhys knew the seriousness of this situation, he would be discussing matters of a wedding and a mating bond with the blond soon enough. 

His eyes flicked over to Tamlin, who now had a worried Lucien rushing to his side. “You may both stay here for the night, come the morning we will discuss matters of your mateship and wedding, the town house is yours for the night and the rest of us will be at the river estate if you need us.” 

The high lord had since tucked the female into his side, Lucien standing on edge with the waistcoat, cape, and mask in his arms, offering them to Tamlin Lucien dismissed himself. “I’ll be at my apartment then.” before he was trailing off down the hall to a winnow safe room.

Rhys made a gesture for the two to leave and she nodded, pulling Tamlin down the hall Lucien had disappeared into just a few seconds ago, pulling him into a small circular room the inner circle used to flit in and out of the court of nightmares. The chilly night air nipped at her collarbone and shoulders as she rushed him into the townhouse that her family rarely used anymore. Neither spoke a word, both nervous and on the edge as she ushered him through the door once the wards had unlocked to let them pass. 

Dim faelights lit the house in a soft yellow light fitting for the time of night, Tamlin stayed close behind her as she stepped into the memory filled living room and ran her fingers nervously over the carved wooden backing of the couch but stilled in the doorway to observe the silent house littered with some of Feyre’s paintings; taking a sharp breath she turned to look at Tamlin with a pleading look. Tamlin smiled back at her taking a few steps to close the distance, cupping her face in his hands for a change he pressed his forehead against hers and let his eyes flutter closed simply appreciating her presence.  

“I can’t cook for you since we should wait till we make it to Spring to-” She had started rambling nerves getting the best of her, yet Tamlin simply hushed her with a kiss.

“I’m not worried about that right now love, It's been hundreds of years since I have simply got to appreciate you, your presence, your very being. Let me simply hold you like this for a minute.” He sighed letting his shoulders sag as any and all tension left his body. “Plus I had plenty to eat at the ball, so I'm not really hungry, rather exhausted actually.”

She nodded quickly pulling him close to her to rest his head in the crook of her neck and let him pin her against the back of the couch, the sentiment was there but it caused Tamlin’s nostrils to flare, his pupils to find themselves in a slit like state, and a growl at the back of his throat. “You still smell like him, as much as I’d love to continue this I need to scrub his scent from your body before I lose my composure, well any I still have at least.” 

She straightened her back, a mix of aroused and startled at his possessiveness over her. “There's a bathing room attached to my room if you wish to follow me up the stairs then.”

He nodded, taking a slow step backwards to let her move freely towards the stairs, instead she entwined her fingers with his own and pulled him up the stairs behind her. Towards the end of the hall of doors was a door decorated in decorative ivy and faelights, she stopped to push the decorated door open and smiled as the faelights flickered to life within her room. The room Tamlin realized was decorated like how Rosehall used to look, oak walls a contrast to the normal darker wood if not stone walls that were normal in the Night Court, dark emerald green curtains covered the door to the balcony with more of the false ivy and dangling soft lights. Emerald Green seemed to be the frequent accent color in the room, the silk sheets topped with golden furs, the curtains, a throw blanket over a loveseat in the corner, even a rug on the floor was reminiscent of his court and Rosehall. 

Tamlin’s brows furrowed as she moved to toss the silk shrug style stole onto the small loveseat. “You made it look… It looks like the old Rosehall?”

His eyes that had been scouring the room fell to her figure that was pushing through a door into the attached bathing chambers, they stilled at the sight of the deep scars visible due to the open back of her dress. 

“Yes, I did, it just felt right. Some memory of that place before the darkness touched it needed to be preserved.” She smiled at him in the mirror as she wiped away the kohl lining her eyes.

Tamlin’s steps felt heavy as he took a few steps forward as his calloused hands fell to the small of her back and his head dipped to press his forehead between her shoulders sighing as his voice came out a weak whisper. “You are too good for me, you know that right?” 

The tender touch to her back had caught her off guard, her breath hitching as his head came to rest against her. “Tam-”

He sighed, his breath brushing against the sunken scars on her back and finding her eyes on him he offered a mischievous glance from behind her shoulder.  “I mean it Starlight and,” He leaned back down to pepper kisses across the indentions. “I will spend every day of the rest of our lives making it up to you.”

She turned around in his hold, pulling him down for an actual kiss; he smiled through it before sighing as he pulled away to rest his forehead against hers. “Don’t try and distract me here! I mean it and I intend to start with that promise tonight.”

Her brows furrowed in a teasing and playful manner she scolded him. “Tamlin!”

He chuckled as he scowled at her. “Not like that silly girl,” He stopped for a split second to consider his words. “Okay, perhaps like that but I should first ask if you've any body lotions. I intend to offer a massage first and then mayhaps I’ll make my downfalls up to you by devouring you for a few hours.”

[streets-in-paradise]

The Trial of Achilles

Troy (2004) Reader insert fanfiction / Achilles x Mycenaean Princess! Reader - Part 25

Word Count 20 K (yes, i am insane and writing this was a titanical task, but that shows you how passionate for this story I am. )

Warnings: Troy (2004) in brand anachronicisms here and there.

Summary: The chaotic circunstances of his arrival to the island, as the motives for the secretive trip, demand from Achilles some accountability. Fooling Odysseus in his own land is a temporary feat of short span, so he must try to work things out with his old friend. While in the task of proving himself to him and appeal to the good sight of his wife, the warrior gets confronted with his recent past.

So much had changed since he allowed himself enough time to be with the one lady he end up falling for, but it all was too abrupt. As the manifestations of the effect she had on him get tested to captivate the royals, retold memories of his old ways and the natural concecuencies of the dangerous fame he had pridefully crafted reach her as cautionary tales from those with sensical reasons to sustain horrible opinions.

Notes: There may be some typos unchecked because of how long the final word count is. I feel this one turned out more dialogue heavy than usual, but I had to cover so many interactions in order to advance the plot.

Credits to @creativepromptsforwriting, for a prompt I used in the dialogue. This has taken so long to write that I don't remember which prompt list it belonged in, or where was it placed, but still wanted to give my thanks for it.

References: The full neck-covering bead idea was inspired in this one. I like to imagine Penelope has one similar, even if maybe a bit less fancy, cause it's very queen-like.

Tags: @yerevasunclair @mysticaldeanvoidhorse @spideyanakin @spideyanakin-interacts @awakenedevildays @alaysha-of-middle-earth @zoegarfield @helie-brain @legendarypiratecheesecake @felicialawrence

Mischief may have gone too far, but he was after all in the land of the trickster king.

Observing the reception of Paris to his subtle intervention after hearing from him the trojan interpretation of his welcoming act made it irresistable. Achilles could have choosen to be more responsible in his playing, but letting the rumour spread was way more fun. Comparisons with gods were a riskfull game, but he wasn't afraid of feeding a misconception. Incapable of explaining the corpses he left behind in a rush of anger, it turned out trojans were already attributing it to divine wrath.

It was flattering to hear the little brother of Hector implying he suspected of him as a mortal disguise, but if he was going to be mistaken for a god he preferred to mislead the theory in direction of the one he represented the best. Let them say that the Princess of Mycenae was wanted by the god of war and the trojan prince would be a dead man if he intended to have her. Far from the truth, yet metaphorically close to it. Not the god, but his best mortal servant.

Across his years of fighting he had plenty of memorable moments, but never terrified the enemy enough to be mistaken by it for a god taking human shape. Suspicious attitudes and rumours regarding his divine heritage were allways there, but the trojans took that incredibly far. One small proof of the destruction he was capable of causing awakened religious fear in them.

His superiority as a fighter over Hector was inquestionable, confirmation of the fact that helped to boost his infamous pride. It was a calming detail to ease his mind from the circunstantial betrayal of Odysseus trying to match the trojan prince with the princess he loved. He could then feel sure he didn't even need to meet Hector in order to prove he was the best, because the evidence of his work spoke for him.

The lady made him promise he wouldn't mess with him and he had to stick to his words for her. It was clear that over the course of their meeting she had adquired an appreciation for the heir prince of Troy. From what her telling suggested, Hector was not shy to adress her capacities and treated her as a leader of equal rank. They were becoming friends in the way of royals, yet for as innocent as that sounded he got a stronger sense of unease regarding that than while hearing Paris cassually admitting he had lusted after her. The expressed frustration of the youngest prince in the persistent failure on winning her over was like a bad joke to Achilles, but hearing her praise his brother was sometimes more serious to him than it should.

Through her mind games she reassured him despite he never asked her for it, masquerading her confession of wanting to be his wife no matter the cost that choosing him implied. Rejecting a bright future as the queen of a new nation that would unify the world was not the great loss for her that by logical reasoning should be. Whatever Hector had to offer was not enough to make her reconsider it despite talking wonders about him in her descriptions.

Unspoken understandment between them allowed him to leave her for the day feeling a sensation that almost resembled peace.

As soon as he lost sight of her, Achilles started planning their next encounter. Instead of making any prior arrangements on when and where they would see each other, he preferred to keep her guessing because finding the way on his own was an exciting challenge. Exactly like the old stories of lustfull gods developing incredible strategies to cheat the protections surrounding some unsuspecting beautifull maidens, but playing out as a romantic game. She would be waiting for him the entire time, allways excited for the clandestine surprise, while to everyone else he would be invisible like the golden rain of Zeus.

At risk of taunting the lines between an innocent trick and sacrilegy, he wanted them to believe and affirm she was woman fitting for a god. It was the kind of twist that her fame needed to grow on its own, away from the accidental overshadowing of Helen or the control of Agamemnon's expectatives. Fantastic tales would also elevate their union in epicity, for who would dare to deny Achilles to have a woman rumoured of being watched by Ares?

It seemed a perfect move to make, untill returning to the hideout remembered him that he wasn't acting in complete secrecy. There was a campfire already started and the King of Ithaca awaiting calmly like in the scene of a post battle afternoon.

Achilles felt as if they would be about to have dinner in a militar camp commenting on the last bad strategical choice of Agamemnon to prepare for the next battle. That wasn't the case, but Odysseus probably wanted to recreate that ambiance in order to secure a calm discussion.

Smiling at him as allways, he later invited him to approach with a nice salute.

" Welcome, my friend! The men are delayed getting food for us, but they should be back soon. "

Achilles smiled back, but followed him hesitantely with the certainity of fearing a trick.

" How did you find me? I didn't send any heralds to the city announcing my presence. "

The myrmidon knew that his friend would never miss a chance to show off about his cleverness, and so he did.

" I got the message you wrote with blood in the shore of Asteris, I honestly should have guessed sooner that you were going to come because I have something you want. The rest was easy to figure out: you don't know my country better than me and the peculiar way in which you choose to arrive makes clear you would want to hide. This place is the only good hideout I showed you, and if your intentions match my guesses, you don't have time for explorations of the island. "

Before giving him any chance to debunk the claim, he dropped four words forming a well known sentence that Achilles received like a verdict.

" We need to talk. "

The cheerfull arrogance of the hero faded away for an instant as he sat next to the king.

" Odysseus, it's not what you think … I love her. "

Disbelief was the most inmediate reception that his very serious confession got, Odysseus was barely able to hide his chuckling by glancing at the opposite side of the natural shelter to do it before facing him again.

" Like you loved the daughter of Lycomedes? If it wasn't for me stepping in at the ríght time, you would have ruined the life of that young princess … It's all a game to you, isn't it? Seeing how far you can go untill a king will put you in place for touching his daughter? You are lucky I didn't tell her about Scyros, that would have broken her heart."

The weak light of the fire enhaced the anger of the warrior.

" You can't compare them! Back then I was a lad with no idea of what I was doing. "

Odysseus gave him a skeptical glance.

" In that sense, Achilles, you haven't changed much. I never saw you with the same woman twice, so I'm baffled to hear you speak of love. What can you possibly know about that? I heard you mock men who dream with a wife, saying they are sentimentalists conforming with few that will allways find obstacles to reach true glory. Hector is one of those, he wants to be a married man. Wouldn't you rather leave him remove the obstacle for you? "

Being comfronted with his attitudes of the past through that weaponization of his saids showed him in a drastical way how much had changed in such short time. He no longer recognized himself in that.

In fact, the mention of the woman he loved as some problem for his personal ambition that he needed to get rid of upsetted him.

" I have never been more wrong in my entire life, does that satisfy you?"

Odysseus wasn't convinced, but he wanted to keep digging in his perceptions. If what he heard was correct, an old friendly discussion that started the very first time he recommended him to settle down was closing in his favour.

" What happened to your secret advantage against all greek heroes? The man with no nation fighting for himself, living for fighting and having no one else to live for. Wasn't that your plan to outlive us all in history? "

Achilles heard the victorious taunting with exasperation, since it made very frustrating to try explaining himself. Elbows resting on top of his spreaded tighs as his hands covered both halfs of his face untill reaching the strands of hair falling at the sides. One stayed on top of his forehead for a moment, then he released a quick grunt before replying.

" I can't be without her, long distances and uncertain times bring me suffering. I need to know she will be mine, that I will get to keep her by my side. Perhaps you are right and I don't know anything about love, but I can tell she is the onlyone I ever loved. "

Strong words that managed to impress the one currently judging, but weren't enough.

" Can you clearly separate love from a whim? Do you love her or have obsessed with her because she is the only woman in the country strictly forbbiden to you? This could be just the natural evolution of your private battles with Agamemnon. "

The myrmidon answered the question with a counter-offensive ask.

" I love her and I know for sure that she loves me. Why can't you spare two lonely fools that had once rejected love over ambition thinking they weren't meant to fall for anyone untill they found each other ? "

Heartfelt yet sensical argumentation, but it ignored a pivotal detail.

" Can't do it if their foolishness has the potentiality of unleashing a war. "

Odysseus forced him to pay him serious attention before proceeding.

" Achilles, you will never get her without spilling blood. Killing to obtain what you want is not of concern to you, but the consequences would impact harder than you expect. Even imagining you consider this a serious relationship, Agamemnon will never accept you as the husband of his only daughter. You know this, there is no legítimate way for you to formalize an union with her. If you didn't came to steal her today, you will do it tomorrow, and the angry father will release his armies across the country looking for you. Ithaca will be the first place they would check, after Phthia, because he knows I am a friend of you both."

Achilles stood up out of sudden.

" Look arround you!!! Do you think he will ever stop? At least I won't be fighting for him If i become the cause of the war. "

Witnessing a classical reaction of his friend, the king confirmed some things were never going to change.

" Your love for her will destroy the fragile unity that keeps Greece standing, while the prince I found her could be our political salvation. I am still your friend, Achilles, but I won't put my family at risk supporting your madness. "

The myrmidon began to pace like a caged lion.

" Then I want an an audience with Penelope! I bet she still remembers her father hates you. "

The furious mention of what Achilles considered an hipocricy got the first passional response out of Odysseus.

" Penelope chose me and her father understood she would have hated him if he wouldn't have let her following me. He hated me, but proceeded as a caring father listening to his daughter and letting her feelings decide. It's precisely what Agamemnon is incapable of doing! His hate for you will allways come first, even at the cost of her happiness. "

Once again Achilles was sick of hearing things he had been thinking about all along.

" Do you think I feel at ease knowing that my fate is in the hands of Agamemnon Atreide? I will talk to him, I have the intention of doing things right for her. At this point you have to see that i'm trying! Do you know how many times has she offered me her body? How easy it could have been for me to irresponsibly enjoy of her love? I didn't do it because I care for her, and I can't imagine what that monster would do if he finds out of us the wrong way. "

Controlling his impulses was the biggest hardship Achilles had in most aspects of his life. Odysseus usually identified the source of all his problems in his extremely fearless attitudes and incapacity to restrain himself, constants in his healthy advices for the hero. Precisely for that, and despite the young lady had already mentioned that aspect of their relationship, surprise gave the tale some credibility.

Like never before, the invincible warrior felt fear and thought of taking precautionary measures before recklessly following his instincts for the sake of blind courage.

" I've heard of your awakened prudence, and i'm glad to find out it's not an unreliable result of her narration. If I wouldn't be so preoccupied, I would say i'm proud. "

Achilles smirked, giving a few cocky steps towards him.

" You better be, it's a hard challenge. Helps to keep me motivated, but I discovered that self control is even harder when you have real feelings for the woman of your desires."

Odysseus took his hands to the back of his neck, innocently stretching for a moment while matching the pridefull energy.

" First time, eh? I do can tell you what's like."

Achilles chuckled silently, allowing his friend to pat him on the shoulder as he sat down again to hear the description of his experience.

" When I am at the guest of some greater King, like the Atreides, they offer me all what their hospitality can grant. If it's someone who doesn't know me well at least, in which case they get surprised because I don't accept to take pleasures from their girls. They shrug their shoulders thinking is just one more excentricity from the brillant madman, a quirck of Odysseus no normal man should try to understand. If they ask why, I give them a joke matching their sensibilities because I know they don't care for the truth. It's a mundane mistery … How the king of liars could have choosen to be faithful? "

He leaned closer, as if they would be sharing some well kept secret seiling another step in their friendship.

" It's not a moral obligation I assume, but the effect of truest love in my appetites. I would never cheat for meaningless gratification because I want no one else other than my wife. Penelope was made for me and no other woman can compare to her. Those girls exhibiting themselves on command of their masters don't do much to me, what they can offer could never match even the memory of my wedding night. "

The myrmidon remained surprisingly silent, encouraging Odysseus to get more daring.

" Does any of this resonate with you, my friend? Has your insatiable desire been tammered and now you don't recognize yourself anymore? One woman didn't use to be good enough for you, not even one at the time."

The friendly teasing didn't made him proud neither offended him.

" Loyalty is easier than I thought, the problem is being without her. My fame preceeds me and she may be virginal, but she is not naive. Rumours about my bedroom adventures have reached her and I can tell she fears not being good enough for me. She speaks as if i'm sacrificing for her ignoring all the others, but I don't struggle with that. If Aphrodite herself would want to tempt me, she would have to take her shape. "

Odysseus had a hand on his chin, covering part of the mouth in meditative gesturing before composing himself to conclude.

" Something has clearly changed in you and there is no way I can deny that. The disaster of a man we all love and cherish would be making fun of the grounded man I have in front of me. "

The smile Achilles gave him did show pride that time.

" He is still a mess, only a lovesick one. For the first time ever, … at this age. I should be over it by now, this kind of feelings are for kids. "

Focusing on his own experience, Odysseus was quick to debunk.

" There is no age in which you become invulnerable to love. I'm trully glad it has finally found you, but I can't ignore you complicated things for everyone. "

In the progressively more friendly level the conversation was reaching, Achilles finally felt confortable to bring up the most controversial aspect without fearing he would loose control.

" Your trick failed, Hector doesn't want her. "

The glance of the ithacan king adquired a mischievous shine to the provocation.

" That's what she says, but you must know by now that the the gaze of men falling on her is the limit of her sharp perceptions. She used to believe you would never look at her that way. That's how she tried to tranquilize me back in Sparta, but I was perfectly aware she had caught your attention. Now you have fallen for her after just one visit to her palace … What makes you think the same won't happen to Hector? "

The flawless logic raised some concerns on Achilles, who untill then believed himself above petty feelings of jealousy.

" Spill now anything you think to know … "

Getting rid of any will to trick him, the king spoke with what was the true of his perceptions in the observed interactions between the young royalty.

" He may not be in love right now, but after a year of living with her in Troy? He would, I'm so sure I would bet gold on it. "

It wasn't exactly what he expected, but he tried not to reflect that. At least in the outside, Achilles kept calm encouraged by the fresh memory of her words.

" He will never get that far, not with my princess."

The determination in the saids encountered more teasing.

" Since when do you acknowledge the authority of Agamemnon? To claim her your princess, he has first to be your king."

" I won't submit to him, my feelings for her don't change my hatred. The only merit of that vile man is her, but he can't even see it. Ironic how the one who lightens my days came out from his darkness. "

Odysseus nodded affirmatively with a quick movement of his head, raising his eyebrows to match a surprised smile.

" She made you soft … "

Achilles experienced a silent amazement with himself realising the description didn't make him feel as insulted as it should.

After so many years of crafting a very specific reputation that was the opposite of softness, privately admitting vulnerability to his friend was somewhat freeing.

" She made me enjoy life a lot more. And I don't see anything wrong with that. "

The king believed him, but he still had many questions that needed to be answered. Achilles proved himself, but that only complicated the position of Odysseus. As friend of both parts in the pair, he celebrated the positive effect of the princess in the warrior. However, the danger he perceived from his perspective of king in their forbbiden love could not be desestimated. His concerns of protective friend watching over the inexperienced girl were eased, but not those he had as a watcher of the greeks.

It was the start of an understandment, but he would not take sides so easily.

In the palace, his wife was dealing with the remaining tensions the best she could. If his scheming worked in at least one of its goals, that was the undeniable fondness of the mischievous princess that Hector showed in her surprisive absense. Already horrified by the images of death he saw, the sudden dissapearance of the girl awakened his protectiveness. Odysseus begged him not to interfere, while Penelope had to comfort him with logical reminders of how no one would easily vanish from the small island and men who knew the territory better than him would easily find her.

To the surprise of everyone, she received her from the hand of Paris.

Far from an endangered victim, the young lady had the sparkling cheer of one returning from a refreshing walk in nature. When she approached to salute her, the falling locks near her face difficulted the physical aspect of the gesture. Penelope tucked some behind her ears in order to kiss both of her cheeks and noticed her getting abnormally tense, attitude that the queen read quickly.

The loose ends of every mistery conduced again to that girl.

Since Paris was behind them at a prudential distance and his glance would only reach the girl from the back, she was free to do what she had to. In a surprising move, Penelope exposed one of the shoulders of the girl and her eyes easily found the love marks she attempted to hide.

It felt like the image of a mother about to scold her daughter, something she was clearly unused to.

" Paris, darling.Can you search for your brother and tell him of her arrival while I solve this with her? "

The prince smiled and obbeyed, doing a gallant reverence for the queen before leaving them alone.

Penelope was terminant, showing her fast mind had already connected everything.

" This is a reckless mistake, unless your lover painted that on your skin for a reason. Paris is very perceptive for those things, it's a miracle this has a escaped him. "

The mycenaean observed her with admiration.

" You couldn't have possibly … ? Are you … ?"

" The men Hector was after were brutally murdered and there are signs of passion in the inner side of your neck … What kind of fool would i be to not realize what's going on? That poor man lost his mind thinking you could be in danger, we all did! This whole palace was turned upside down, but turns out you were on a romantic adventure with your secret lover. "

The young lady glanced innocently at her before defending herself.

" I had no idea! He lured me near the river and I couldn't refuse. I tried to make him reconsider and follow me here, but he wanted me alone and all for himself … "

Pride in her voice on the last sentence evoked a negative reaction.

" For your own sake, I hope he knew when to stop himself. If you get deflored here, Odysseus will get you married before the disgrace could be traced back to us. "

The warning scared her slightly coming from someone who knew him so well.

" We are not fools, neither animals. "

The queen showed hilarious skepticism, holding her chuckles to not allow her any corner of tension relief.

" Are you sure of that? He knew exactly what he was doing when he did this to you, which is very irresponsible. Now is up to me finding a convincing way to help you cover the evidence of his jealousy. "

Her relative returned the courtesy of her doubting ways.

" He missed me! And he is a man of intense emotions, that doesn't mean he is jealous. "

" Then why did he feel the need of marking you like this? Why did he took matters in his own hands solving the problem of Hector in his bloody way? Perhaps because he wants him out of here as fast as possible. "

The girl chuckled, amused.

" It was a mere coincidence. Those men angered him and paid the price, but he didn't know anything of Hector's motives with them. "

Penelope didn't want to hear any more excuses and simply expressed her verdict.

" I will call your very concerned handmaid so you can tranquilize her, then make a bath be prepared for you in order to fix the suspicious signs in your appearance. Later, you will present yourself to Hector and apologise for the worries you caused him. "

It sounded like an order, not advice.

" … I thought you supported me, but perhaps that was part of your husband's plan all along. "

Penelope noticed the brief shade of dissapointment in her face.

" I still intend to help you, but that doesn't mean I will let you forget your responsabiities. "

Standing in front of the queen made her feel small.

" I owe myself to you and Eny, but Hector has no business in this. He should be starting to prepare his speech for the council that will be mandatory after what happened, not worrying in finding me when I was never lost to begin with. "

Far from worrying for the protest, Penelope remained firm.

" You will do as I say because you still need my help. I enjoy playing the role of your confidant, yet unlike Helen, I can be strict when the situation demmands it. "

The ithacan queen was capable of being quite frightening, but that didn't stop the mycenaean princess from admiring her. Even when she would have to reluctantly obbey her commands, her presence was inspiring.

" … I wanted to keep his scent in me at least for one night. "

Penelope chuckled because she found the frustrating plead relatable.

" If you use your head and handle things carefully, you will someday have it for the rest of your life. "

The mycenaean groaned, but accepted it as the most convenient choice.

Cheer returned to her as soon as she saw her dear friend rushing through the halls. Ereny hugged her like a preocupied sister would and she felt inmensely sorry for the pain she caused her.

Before she could ever get to say it, the servant girl scolded her in an intimate way that would have ashamed any other lady if the would have had the chance to hear it.

" I can't believe you did this to me!! Do you know how hard it was returning here without you after you never came back to me? I told you to get back … Why couldn't you? We could all have been punished, and you could have died ... OR WORSE! I saw the curse coming to terms in your recklessness. See where your madness has taken me? I almost side with my king!!! "

Lena, who had arrived shortly after by walking at a normal pace behind her, showed silent support for the callout that Penelope intercepted.

" Eny, I am so sorry. " The princess apologised in the meantime, caressing the cheeks of her friend. " I take all the blame, you know I would never let any sort of punishment come to you. I would never forgive myself."

She looked at her in the eye and placed a tender kiss on top of her forehead.

" It was important, I wouldn't have left you otherwise. "

Ereny showed her a brief smile and that encouraged her to whisper her a coded phrase that was going to provide all the explanations she needed.

" … The lion came down from the hills. "

For as much as they would try, the presence of the ithacan servant difficulted any more sharing beyond the specifical code talking. The royal handmaid of the mycenaean seemed to forget her rightfull vent in the light of such shocking revelation. It was clear she wanted to know everything about it, but the tasks comanded by the queen didn't allow proper secrecy to share stories.

Precisely because she knew there was something to hide, Penelope wanted secrecy and only one of her maids was there to remain asisting the lady's bath. Lena offered herself for the task and refusing would have been suspicious, but was cleverly ordered by the princess to remain behind her back in order to avoid any accidental peeking of her neck marks.

The mycenaeans giggled to each other when, during one distraction of the ithacan as the lady tried the water, she showed those to her handmaid with a pridefull smirk.

Noticing some inside joke that excluded her was going on, Lena responded with sharp teasing.

" Did you found what you were looking for? "

Too centered on thoughts about Achilles, the princess almost forgot the context of her dissapearance.

" No, I never got to the thief. It doesn't matter, I realized I endangered myself for a meaningless thing. "

The ithacan provided a comeback nobody was ready for.

" That piece of clothing belonged to Achilles, so I understand why you had it in such high regard. It must have been dificult to steal. "

The eyes of the princess went wide with surprise, soon pointing daggers at Ereny for momentarily thinking that she could have shared her secrets with that new servant friend of hers.

Ereny defended herself with an imperceptible negative nod, and her lady started playing her spoiled princess character to deny the claims.

" That is an insane accusation! How you dare?? I think seeing me being soft with Eny has confunded you into believing you can disrespect me. "

Lena didn't back off due to any sudden fear and responded logically.

" I was in charge of his room the last time he visited, I recognize clothes I already washed. I knew it all along, back in the rivershore i tried to make you confess."

The mycenaean instinctively took locks of wet hair to the dangerous spot.

" I don't owe you any explanations, only the respect for this house that my love for your royal family inspires. "

Lena rested her shoulders carelessly against the wall, abandoning her servant-like posing.

" I' ve heard you tell his tales in the great halls, pretending you like to scare the trojans speaking of him because you are the weird daugther of the tyrant used to horrors. Excellent work deceving the men, but I see you are obsessed with him. I can picture your tighs squeezing under the table while your mouth describes his atrocities. I don't doubt you must have instructed one of your servants in Mycenae to get that small treasure for you from his room when he visited. "

She glanced mischievously at Ereny, who didn't have to fake in order to look clueless.

" Was it you, her most loyal one? Doing it again the next time would be too suspicious and she knows you can't replace it, that's why she was furious enough to try going for it herself. "

The handmaid found the guesses hilarious, but her princess felt more offended than she would have been if the cunning slave would have shown full awareness of the truth.

" Excuse me? What makes you think he wouldn't have given it to me? Why do you assume I had to steal it and I couldn't get it after laying with him?"

It made her laugh in disbelief, taking that alternative as a joke.

" You aren't the kind of woman he targets. No mean to offend, but you are too princess-like. The delicate palace flower would break in his hands. "

The lady was furious, even her friend feared she could loose her mind to the accidental provocation.

" I AM A PRINCESS!! HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO NOT EMBODY MY RANK?"

Realising she trully angered her, the slave attempted to explain herself.

" That's not what I mean, you are so up you are untouchable. No matter how beautifull you are, nobody in the country thinks of taking you to bed. You are the precious little virgin of Greece, while Helen is its whore."

Bringing up her aunt was crossing limits, and she warned her of it.

"Be carefull of who you insult, or I will make you regret it. Helen can't be blamed, men only imagine her as a temptress because everyone wants to have her. "

Lena took an instant to rephrase before replying.

" Since when has truth prevailed over the collective imagination of men? She is a whore in their fantasies and that shapes her fame. In their minds you exist to provide contrast as a pretty girl of virginal grace that can't, and shouldn't, be corrupted. If your father thinks he is Greece, then you are the country's daughter. They want you married and having flourishing offspring, but nobody wants to think of your defloration. That's why you have better luck with the trojans, and why they want the son of Troy at your side. "

Ereny mediated the discussion with some harmless logical commentary that could calm her lady.

" Achilles considers himself a rival of Agamemnon despite they fight on the same front. If there is someone here open to fantasize with her corruption, that should be him. "

It wasn't enough to convince the conflictive part.

" That bastard cares for only one thing and he wouldn't hope to find it in a pretty girl deprived of it."

The princess uncovered her shoulder and was about to turn back, only stopped by the eyes of Ereny pleading her not to do any more reckless movements.

" How quickly you declare yourself an expert in the matter! What makes you think you know what he wants?"

The answer was short, but crushing.

" I slept with him. "

Words falling on the mycenaean like a splash of cold water. Despite it was realistic to think someday she would stumble with one of his past lovers, she didn't consider it before, and certainly wasn't expecting it then.

It was a slap in the face.

" Should that impress me? "

She did a good work hidding her real feelings, diving a bit deeper into the bath water as she awaited for the answer.

" You won't take it, little princess … And even regardless of that, If I were you I would pick Hector over him anytime. Achilles may be like a god in the bedroom, but the cold treatment you get afterwards is not worthy. The trojan prince is a real man where he has to be, you can see it in his daily behavior."

Although initially insulting, she sounded well intentioned. A healthy warning from someone who believed herself in a position of better knowledge.

However, the man Lena described hardly resembled the one she knew. His expert performance of passionate moments was a fact they could agree in, but he was never ever cold to her.

" Maybe it's a privilege of my rank, but he has been quite sweet with me from the start … "

Lena didn't believe it, not even for an instant.

" You break my heart, so take this from someone who has been in the spot you crave to occupy. You would be a fool if you reject the chance for an engagement to Hector following your absurd infatuation with that vain piece of rubbish who thinks the world is at his feet. "

The mycenaean responded with some playfull splashing of water, comically exaggerating the disdain to make Ereny laugh.

" Can you be more specific on what makes him so terrible? That description is fitting for every single popular hero in Greece. "

If brutal honesty was what she needed in order to pay some real attention to the advice, the slave had no issues with going for it.

"Once it was done, he didn't let me touch him again. I thought with him it was going to be different, that he wouldn't treat me like it's usual among warlords and palace servants, but I felt like waste afterwards. Is that what you want for yourself, your highness? Is you fantasy to be with a self absorbed man that will turn his back at you when the pleasure runs out? "

Explicit references about intimate details were the last thing she wanted to hear. The maidservant of Penelope was complaining to her about her dissapointment with him, but that didn't make her feel better.

In the tale Achilles was a cold heartbreaker not much different from the men she liked to make fun of with her friends in Mycenae. Her faith in him was being questioned by someone who had valid reasons to do it.

The mixed feelings inspired her and she turned back to face her in order to observe the effect of her own advice for the servant girl.

" At least he gave you a taste of his passion, Hector has nothing for you. Do you think I didn't notice that, from all those excited maids trying to convince me about him, you were the loudest? Your fantasy isn't any less hopeless than mine. Hector is as less likely to take the palace slave of the foreign kingdom as Achilles is of courting the daughter of Greece. "

Being provoked surprised her a bit, but she took it as a good sign.

" I know my place, princess. Being too aware of yours may made you believe that you are special, that you would be the one making him act differently … But you won't, so who of us holds the greatest delusion? "

Silence reigned, since there wasn't much she could refute her with that wouldn't compromise her situation in the action. All the servant girl knew was that the mycenaean princess had an infatuation with the myrmidon warrior, but still remained far from thinking it could be a required one.

The last command Lena fullfilled before being released from her duty was presenting a golden bead, borrowed piece of jewelry that Penelope gave up to help her young relative cover the tracks of her lover from public sight.

Once the right clothing for it was picked and the lady got dressed, her maidservant invited her to sit and secured the jewelry arround her neck.

Noticing she needed some encouragement, she kissed her cheek from behind right before providing a spirit lifting reminder.

" Achilles may be a very physical man, but you are not to him an empty body to be filled. He loves you, and no one else knows how he is like in that situation. Feelings may not transform him in esence, but change the circunstancies of his choices. "

She placed on hand on top of her shoulder that the lady caressed while turning back slightly to show her a brief smile of thankfullness.

" I know, my dear, yet I can't stop the hurtfull thoughts. What if after fighting so hard to be together, he discovers I am not good enough for him? What If I can't satisfy him on my own? He has never been man of one woman … Even if he is making an effort for me, perhaps that will not last forever. "

Understandable doubt that she had to refute.

" Who cares about his wants of the past? That man is loosing his mind for you right now! He misses you so intensely that he has followed you here. "

Back in her original position, the princess toyed with the piece following the curious patterns of the gold with her fingertips.

" ... Lena said he refused to let her touch him later, but In my bed he so quickly falls for caressing that leaves nowhere. "

Ereny started to work on her hair, sounding like the voice of reason from her working placement behind her.

" She tried to disuade you based on her experience and you should be proud she felt safe with you in order to speak so honestly. Remember when you used to say you didn't want to be the jealous wife punishing the slave because the husband called her to his bed? "

The lady felt called out.

" SHE SAID I'M TOO DELICATE FOR HIM!! … That I will break in his hands and nobody has erotic expectations of any kind to place in me. "

Her servant was quick to explain the evident logical contradiction.

" That's just the reputation you crafted, and hers were the words of a stranger who knows nothing else. "

She remained silent for a brief instant, then confessed herself.

" … It hurted my pride coming from the lips of a woman that warmed his bed. I don't doubt she must have meant well, but she made me feel wrong… Inadequate, not fitting for the man of my aspirations."

Ereny twirled her finger in her locks, pressing softly.

" Achilles is a warrior, he may come back home with a war prize girl someday even if he wouldn't have in mind to sleep with her. What will you do then? Try to force him of selling her because you are too jealous? "

It was a good point to think about, if the princess wouldn't have spoiled it with her clever comeback.

" My father is his commander and he allways takes the girls for himself. "

The servant girl pulled her hair, grabbing with the right amount of harshness to show her dissaprobal and making her groan in protest.

" It was a joke! I know you are in the right, that girl is not my enemy … just as Achilles must be aware Hector isn't his. Although that is different, because Hector never touched me and he is not out there talking nonsense about him based on his fame."

She caressed the top of her head as an apologise.

" We are talking of Hector Priamide, any man with serious intentions on a lady shall beware. He charms daughters and their fathers without even realizing of his effect on those who know him."

The description got some chuckles from the princess.

" Penelope said she thinks he is jealous … "

" He has solid reasons! While you worry about his fleeting nights with palace servants, he has to hear of your meeting with a prince known for being an embodiment of the ideal husband. "

The clarification mattered very little to her.

" Achilles is the only one I want. "

" … But he must know he is not the kind of man wealthy families want for their daughters." Her servant friend interrupted, making a guess. " No matter how great his fame becomes, most think he is a brute. Your father speaks of him as if he was a stubborn beast. "

Reminders of that prevalent misconception brought her back to the times when she started encouraging him of rejecting the simplistic aspects of his legend.

" They know nothing of the man he is, Achilles uses that in favor of causing fright among them. "

She stopped for an instant, reconsidering something that had to be asked.

" Do you want to know what really happened to the enemies of Hector?"

It was the startpoint of her tale, what allowed her to share with her close friend most details of the encounter.

Once the question found its answer, Ereny insisted on their need to find a way of letting the prince know the truth, or at least an approximated version of it. Knowing of the mysticism that surrounded the facts and how tense the situation had made him, she considered he deserved to get some sensical response. However, both of them agreed in feeling that to tell him everything would putting too much trust in him. Even if he was an honorable man worthy of it, the secret was too intimate.

Through their bonding process, the princess got to start considering him a friend of some kind, but that didn't mean they were the kind of friends willing to tell each other everything.

Shared excitement temporally faded that concern, specially when she got to tell her close friend the most romantic details. It was easy to notice her loosing herself in the narration as the fresh memories would come back at her, particularly impressing the small audience with the anecdot of the tavern. Hearing that Achilles broke the rules of The Judgement playing by instigation of Paris was to Ereny like a confirmation of their common theories about him, reinforcing the belief of her lady.

His need of her was as strong as his thirst for glory, two mad dreams connected by his intense desire. Which one he intended to obtain first remained a mistery to her, but Achilles made her very aware with his answer that he had her in his highest regard. In the light of the honest advice against him from his past lover, the feeling of exceptionality that evoked became even more remarkable, but also a bit unconfortable. She began to wonder what would exactly mean to be his exception to the rule in the long history of his relationships, and if more girls like Lena shared with her the regretfullness.

Being the one he loved was an inmense privilege, the only of her advantages bringing her joy and one she worked hard for. Still, the invitation to think she could be the meaningfull among the meaningless implied he could have once wronged many of the women who came before her and that thought wasn't beautifull.

Facing duty hushed the will to meditate on details as she searched for the heir prince of Troy in order to calm him with her presence as Penelope requested. It didn't take much, since the trojans were gathered for dinner in an internal yard of the palace near the section of it they were staying in. Their own servants and the ones obbeying the royals of Ithaca were working together to settle the place.

A heated discussion was going on among the men, reason why they didn't realize of her untill she made herself be noticed.

" … I've heard you were looking for me. "

Her soft deviation hushed all the voices as the curious glances followed her, giving her the strange impression that something must have made them look at her as if they were examining her in a different light.

Paris smiled from afar, inmediately raising her suspects, but the brief visual contact with him broke as his brother approached her.

Hector seemed relieved, perhaps even happy to see her.

" … I searched for you as soon as I got the good news of your return, but the queen told us you didn't want to be seen in the state of your arrival after getting lost in the woods. What i find understandable, for a pridefull lady such as yourself. "

Instead of providing a further clarification to the excuse, she deviated the topic with an inconexed reference.

" Sorry about the wasted clue, Paris told me you got there too late. No one would have seen it coming, so I hope you aren't blaming yourself for the failure … Did you at least found any copper in their load? "

The apology was sincere, a prioritization of his problems in order to show she felt bad about causing him any troubles.

Hector smiled, expressing partial acceptance of the gesture.

" There was also amber, found in greater quantities, and luxury ítems of various kind. No signs of captivity in any of the corpses we found, so I can at least feel comfort in knowing no innocent prisoners of the criminals were slaughtered. "

With complete disregard for her situation, she intended to advance in order to find a spot among them and participate on the argument.

" Any leads to the responsible for this massacre? For what Paris told me, the situation remains a mistery, yet that doesn't mean we can't elaborate conjectures. "

Hector stopped her, grabbing both of her hands in an attempt to make her react.

" An army, for as small as it could be, leaves any sort of track. Whoever did this was alone and faded away with ease … When we were back we thought you dissapeared and I feared the worst."

She followed him, but tried to calm him by resting importance to his worry with jokes.

" Let me guess: you thought this asassin kidnapped me and Agamemnon would have made you responsible for it. That must have been frightening for you, it's certain that he would play the grieving father and fake the love for me he never had just to have the war he allways wanted. "

Although well intended, the tease didn't suit well with the prince.

His warm glance searched for hers and once she dedicated him her full attention he spoke with unmistakable seriousness.

" It was never about him, I feared for you … "

Defensive disbelief was her initial reaction and she tried to free herself because of it, but Hector had for her only reassurance of his caring affection.

" … My friend was lost in the woods while a deranged murderer remains on the loose. "

He released her hands only to bring his to the back of her shoulders in a brief hug that she accepted hesitantely knowing well that his men were watching behind them.

" The wellbeing of Troy is a more rational reason … "

He looked down and chuckled, partially agreeing with that yet not seeking to encourage that interpretation.

" … I care, that's who I am. Why do you allways need to unveil some greater motivation when someone shows concern for you? "

She shrank one shoulder, looking at the side as if the answer would come to her from the audience.

" Men claiming they want to protect me are usually protecting themselves, so I am naturally distrustfull. Even Odysseus, a man I love and respect like a father, has his own interest calculated ahead when it comes to me. I won't judge you for it, I believe it's your problem to think I would. "

Perhaps because the situation had limited his patience, Hector scolded her with no filtering in his phrasing choice.

" It's not my problem if every single man on your life has failed you: from now on and for the rest of this journey I will protect you untill you will get used to not endanger yourself. "

It made her back away, nervously observing the reactions.

" … Stop! Your men are staring, and for comments like that one people tend to think we should be … "

He cutted her off before she could finish the warning.

" Married? Do you think that worries me now? After the terrible day I had? And it keeps getting worse! My countrymen now believe we have been warned by an angered god. "

She advanced in slow placing towards them, stiffling a chuckle to avoid upsetting anyone.

" That can be debunked very easily! … Polydamas, what is your profesional opinion? "

The seer noticed her directing him a teasing smirk, indicating she was sure of trusting his verdict.

" I've heard the specific details on the horrrific scene, and the men who escolted you here seem to confirm the thoughts of Prince Paris regarding the strange events concerning you… It's hard not to suspect an omen of some kind. "

Vague reply that didn't satisfy her.

" And of what kind would this one be?"

Paris raised from his seat to confidently proclaim his conclussion.

" The god of war is seducing you, showing off his mighty strenght to prove he is superior to Hector because he must have heard the wrongfull gossips. He caused the accident that got you lost, probably hoping to introduce himself. I came in time to save your honor, so he appeared to us in the shape of the man in the tavern who, let me remind you, never told us his name. "

It was hard to believe the prince could have been so wrong and so right at the same time. Quite close to the truth, yet incredibly distant in his assumptions.

No god was coming down from Olympus tempted by her beauty, but she had the love of a mortal man who embodied all the atributes of the son of Zeus

" Ares? Paris, he was just joking! It was a game that you iniciated, so you should be aware of that."

Hector felt encouraged while hearing the first skeptical voice near him.

" Before I could possibly make him understand the implications of his words he had already spread the insanity everywhere."

Paris remained unbothered and ready to mock his disbelief.

" Laugh now, while you still can, because you may have to marry her pregnant and raise the child only so Agamemnon wouldn't unleash against us a demigod son of Ares raised to admire the brutality of Achilles."

The warning must have made sense to his brother in some extent, because the horror in his eyes spoke for him.

Lysander had abandoned his spot only so the mycenaean could sit in between the seer and the young prince while continuing the debate.

" For a man getting consistent rejections from me, I am very dissapointed by your lack of faith in my resistance. Did it never occured to you that before ruining your brother's life I could reject the god and suffer the curse for it? "

Paris tapped her shoulder with playfull friendlyness.

" I saw you melting with delight to the attention he was giving you, and I don't blame you. When he showed his face I stopped feeling the most handsome man in the room and that is not normal. "

Hector was amused of that clarification never presented to him before.

" Must we believe you saw a god in mortal disguise only because he made you stop staring at your own reflection? "

" He seemed very strong too, the type of man that could fight you and have chances of surviving." Paris cleverly clarified. " How many possiblities are to find a vulgar traveller in a tavern matching my virtues and yours without suspecting he hides a greater identity? "

The thought was clever, but the princess knew the truth and despite she wouldn't reveal it to them all, she wasn't going to allow the madness to escalate.

" Gods don't come down to fertilize princesses like in the old tales anymore. In fact, the House of Atreus hasn't seen a demigod since its foundation and for the sake of your upcoming meal, I will not remind you of how that ended. My misterious admiror is most likely to be a simple man, maybe a mercenary that uses Ithaca as a passing point in his travels. "

" … But you are the daughter of the most powerfull militar leader in Greece! " The young trojan insisted, too proud of his theory to give up. " Your father unleashes war everywhere he goes, feeding Ares like the most loyal worshipper. It would make perfect sense for him to visit the beautifull daughter of the king that keeps him so well served. "

" The god of war is also the protector of wronged women. If he cared to take a look on my family, he would have exterminated the bloodline generations ago. "

She caressed the hair of Paris as a soft calling for his attention as she concluded her point.

" It's very flattering that you think of me this way, darling, but I will have to dissapoint you. No amount of weird dreams or bird signs would convince me of such thing."

The leader of the trojans appreciated her intervention against the strange belief of his brother in the respecting terms she delivered it.

" We don't have any certainity of dealing with the same man, this shameless seductor could not be the murderer we are looking for. Finding him for interrogation could be a good first step, but it may lead nowhere because there is no clear connection. "

Standing right in front of them, he directed his following words to the girl.

" I sincerely hope it could be a coincidence. because If he is responsable for those horrors, I wouldn't want that beast near you ever again."

The sweet concern brought some superficial heat to her face, certainity embarrassement for being too aware of how wrong he was yet how unused she remained of having his protectiveness of friend.

" I can take care of myself, Hector. I am a grown girl. "

He didn't expect any less of her, but insisted.

" That doesn't mean you have to be alone for everything. "

The callout hurted her pride and she responded according.

" I don't want to get too used to have the helping hand of a friend that will leave soon feeling in peace with abandoning me. "

Hector took her hand, gesturally debunking her teasing.

" Who says I won't miss you?"

Paris was quite impressed and didn't miss the oportunity to mock them.

" I don't doubt this is the start of a beautifull friendship, but stop doing that if you don't want me telling bad jokes with Menelaus at your wedding. "

In the spirit of that playfull warning the contact was broken by mutual iniciative.

Under her deliberate request, more tales about the strange news of the day emerged from other members of Hector's crew. She listened with intense attention, having fun while looking invested in the mistery by faking amazement despite she had all the answers. At times, the prince dedicated her secretive gesturings of mutual understanding supporting her disbelief that made the advice of Ereny wander in her mind.

With no consideration for the pragmantical reasons, he reacted like a good friend. Keep lying to him while his men were descending into religious fear due to their inability to explain what happened wasn't easy seeing that Hector trully cared for her. The chaotic situation could be fun, but it was also very unfair for him.

The temptation of trusting in him was there, but fear of his reaction was too great to think of trying it. Like her, Hector had the goal marrying for love, but his context was the opposite of hers. Andromache wasn't for him a forbbiden choice, they were a well fitting couple to the eyes of his people and family. Greed and political ambitions were temporally difficulting things with the finding of another princess that was a better pick for those interests, but Troy wouldn't be too affected if the heir prince would reject that in favor of his romantical feelings.

Even the one act of selfishness Hector was going to allow himself wasn't, in fact, that much selfish. It was understandable to wonder if he would be as tolerant of a more threatening situation where chasing love could affect the political life of the kingdom. París, in the other hand, would support her without hesitation, but she doubted more of his capacity for secret keeping.

For the rest of the night she locked herself in her room to avoid any possibility of facing Odysseus untill the next morning. Preoccupations faded falling asleep to thoughts of her beloved, excited under the inability to predict when and how he would come back to her knowing they were separated by such short distances. The words exchanged with the maid of Penelope still haunted her at moments, but were not completely ruining her bliss.

Doing the riskiest bet of her life placing all her trust in him could turn out disastrously wrong, but he never gave her any reasons to think that. For as much awareness as she had of his fame being a heartbreaker, the man he was alongside her didn't resemble at all those rumours or the dark warnings.

Sunlight brought to her another challenge, given it was evident she wouldn't escape the king for long. Finding him by herself and showing courage to prove her determination was the best option for a start. Approaching the wrong claims of the trojans with irony, she left her room in a red dress with golden borders that matched perfectly with the nice necklace Penelope had given her. A dark robe finished the trick to perfectly hide the problematic area of her skin from public sight.

Unceasing barking and cheerfull screaming guided her in the right direction, eventually finding Odysseus in the middle of playing with his child and their beloved family dog. With them were the trojan princes, probably dragged into the situation for being passive bystanders.

It was the childish simulation of a combat, and Telemachus played in his father's side as if they had developed an ambusch for the brothers. Paris had already fallen in the grownd, his comedically nervous yelling was the echo she had heard before. Odysseus attempted to drag him, but Hector was capable of containing him while playfully fighting the child, scene that made her laugh on the spot.

Her chuckling caused a distraction that allowed the little prince a precise swing of his toy sword. Hector managed to stay in character, pretending a fatal wound that was leaving him in agony.

Proud of himself after sharing a glance with his father, the kid added.

" Worry not, I shall take Priam the corpses of his children. Let no one say the son of Odysseus wasn't taught of mercy! "

Being the onlyone who dared to acknowledge her presence, Odysseus received the myceanean with mockfull inclussion in the game.

" Look over there, my son. It's the maiden of Ares!"

Accepting the gesture anyways, she composed her own character.

" In fact, I am a servant of Hecate, and the goddess sends me to rise this brave heroes from the dead."

She reached Paris first, assuming he was the first one to go, and bent down next to him as if she attempted to check him.

" This will be a work of necromancy. They will wake up as the undead, revenants. Walking corpses obbeying my will, nothing that resembles their past self will remain there. I was commanded to create an army of the dead and I'm resurrecting these fine gentlemen to gross its lines."

The younger trojan stood up clumsily, holding hia chuckling the best he could.

Observing she was taking things into obscure territory, the father of the little boy had to interrupt.

" That's frightening! What's wrong with you? Apart from being raised by Agamemnon, of course. "

The accusation amused her.

" It's not the first time that happens, when I was a kid Nestor used to bring who was then his youngest child to play with me. Antilochus didn't use to appreciate my creativity."

" I wonder why, you are a delight. " Hector commented ironically while rising up. " That was not disturbing at all and I am not fearing for the fate of your future children asking you to play with them. "

The tease inspired her a way to indirectly annoy him and Odysseus at the same time.

" You don't have to, they won't be yours. If I am as lucky as your brother believes, my firstborn will be fearless from the crib exactly like the father. "

The provocation ended the fun for the King, but his curious kid was ready to ask her on the matter.

" Are the stories true? They are saying Ares is in love with you."

She dissapointed him with a vague explanation, lammenting the cuteness of his amazement with the rumour.

" Some people also say Helen was born from a swan egg result of the union of two deities, then her parents just adopted her. They only invented that because they like her, but they don't like my mother."

Paris attempted to rephrase her words in order to help the situation.

" It means she doesn't believe it to be true, for her it's just gossip I created. "

" It's an expiatory explanation for her misbehavior from yesterday. " Odysseus added, closing the topic. " I want the real one, but for that I have to make sure you won't be there to defend her. "

Telemachus understood what that meant in his childish way, guessing his father wanted to scold her, and gave him free space to proceed.

"You are in trouble, cousin."

He made a sound that worked as call for the dog and the animal followed him, getting waved with a cute hand movement by the mycenaean in their way.

Once the distant was enough to not be heard, she deviated the topic sharing her impressions on the kid with Paris.

"I don't know where he got that. ... Maybe it's because our family relation is too distant and confusing. Such a sweet boy, as the only prince he feels the outside pressure from other boys to grow up faster. Good to know he still has spaces to play. "

He showed a weird approval of her words.

"Boys used to mock me all the time, ... the men they have became still do. "

They shared a few chuckles untill Odysseus turned his attention once more at her, denying her of any deviations knowing well she was trying to soft him with a talk about his son before they could get to the controversial matter.

" Are you well rested, little one? My wife suggested me to let you get enough sleep after I came back home late last night. You were nowhere to be found, may I ask how that occured to you? "

She glanced at Hector right behind the king as if she begged for salvation, but the prince was equally interested in the answer.

"One of the clothes I was washing got stolen and I tried to chase the thief, but got lost wandering hopeless untill Paris found me. I'm baffled to hear you didn't return earlier thinking I could have found the way guided by some of your nice subdits. Did Hector convinced you that I could have been abducted by a madman? "

Troubless-looking through the whole exposition, she directly referenced that in order to test if Odysseus would reveal to have found Achilles.

"The search wasn't in vain, I ended up stumbling with an old friend and invited him dinner to talk about his problems. "

Bitting her lip to not show enthusiasm, she paced in direction to the opposite wall pretending to admire a fresco about sealife.

" I hope you were able to work things out with him."

Odysseus chuckled, amused by her confidence.

" Something has changed: I used to think he was stubborn and whimsical, expanding his wants beyond his posibilities just to play with limits. Now I know he is commited to a cause meant to fail from all rational standpoints."

It made her smirk, silent taste of victory.

Aren't you going to berate me for causing this mess? You told me to stay inside, but I gave a walk into the woods and got lost. "

Concern aside, he was impressed by her capacity to keep the conversation so precise yet coded to the banned audience that the sons of Priam represented.

"We are beyond that point, young lady. Warning you has proven to be pointless, so I will take action trusting you to a watcher. One whose vigilance you won't be able to cheat."

Some angry yelling would have been preferable, she was perfectly able to stand that and ignore it. Turning back inmediately, she found the king approaching the trojan leader and muffled a scream.

" Hector! I know by experience that she mocks the surveilance of mycenaean guards for fun, but I believe she won't be able to fool you. "

It surprised him as much as her, even despite he was getting used to the excentricities of Odysseus.

" I won't deny you are in the right, but what am I supposed to do? "

"Entertain her, but keep her at a prudential distance from Paris. He would collaborate in her schemes if he remains unwatched. If it suits you well, we can celebrate council by nightfall when you will be free from her."

Curiosity iniciated by the reprehensive hints made Paris be the first rising voice.

" Nightfall? Do you have any other greater problem requiring you today? "

The lady parted her lips in a soundless gesture that threatened the king with the chance of her spilling the truth.

" My friend will come for an audience and I would rather keep my obligations of domestic kingship separated from our common matters. "

The younger prince insisted.

" What can be so urgent to delay a call for council? "

Odysseus replied him to respond the excitement he guessed would be roaming the girl's insides knowing her warrior would be in the palace.

"He is a noble in decline that wants to claim right to a woman that doesn't belong to him, a beautifull maiden from Same of a greater noble family that would destroy him if they knew he enamored her. The request of audience is mostly to see my wife, he believes his luck will improve convincing her. If we don't give him an answer, he will proceed to do his will without my support. Since both families are from different corners of my kingdom, the conflict demands my arbitration. "

Incapable of perceiving any serious threats in that, Paris simply laughed untill the subtle sanction of his brother made him stop.

" That shouldn't be an issue, you are their king. Just bless the union and her parents will have to accept it."

The princess remained silent, but smirked in support and as a mock to Odysseus.

In the meantime, Hector tried to solve the misunderstanding caused by the blissfull ignorance of his younger brother.

" Paris, the political branching of mundane problems on the local life can have terrible concecuencies. Nobles can pick sides, and those can turn into militar fractions, each of them with the conviction that a fundamental right of theirs is being violated. "

His explanation was flawless, but overturned the greek girl's hopes of finding understandment in him and that got a bitter addition from her.

" ... And the next thing you know is my father comes to invade you taking advantage of the political unstability. Under the promise to bring order, peace and prosperity, his armies would loot your people."

Hector was confused by her cocky tone, product of a dissapointment he didn't know to have caused.

"Precisely the kind of comment I would avoid to not make you uncomfortable, but it's nice to get reminded of your critical awareness."

Odysseus had one last mock for her under the lines of his talk with the prince.

" Good to see you are having fun already, she is all yours."

Almost too angered to pretend, she tried to approach it giving back the same irony.

" Do you call this a punishment, Odysseus? That's very insulting for your foreign guest. "

The king approached her as the precise mix between an older friend and a father.

" I know you better than Agamemnon ever will, depriving you of involvement and information to act as the company of a nobleman is the worst I can do to you. "

He caressed her shoulder as if he intended to comfort her, ironical contrast with the core of his next premise.

" Young princes, mind to await for an instant as I put the child in place? "

He was playing with her, aware it would make her histerical.

" I AM A WOMAN! "

" Not legally untill marriage! " Odysseus mocked her while hugging her sideways, making her walk with him searching for a more private environment to discuss. " In the meantime, you are a responsability of the men in your family and I am the only one available here. "

The hall leading to the throne room wasn't too far from there and the slaves weren't occupying it on any cleaning, so it was good enough to at least whisper her a few words.

She released herself harshly as soon as no one was staring, ready to complain.

" You can't send me away with Hector while Achilles will be here defending our cause! In war and council you enjoy of fooling all sides, but this is different. "

He grabbed both of her hands, softly caressing the wrists indicating the gesture was secretive and not aggresive.

" I heard what he had to say, and the situation is worse than I thought: you were absolutely right. He has fallen for you, madly in love like I've never seen him."

Joy made her give a little jump with the upper side of her body, but he kept her still as insistence in the need for her to stay serious.

" Do you think I don't wish I could celebrate with you? Two dear friends of mine falling in love should be a motive for cheer, but I can't relax knowing the risks … The torches leading to your nuptial bed could as well set Greece on fire!! Achilles doesn't care, he is ready for everything with the hope of having you. "

She couldn't help to keep smiling and, for an instant, he almost considered telling more than what he should.

" Ever since I first meet him, I've allways been able to talk him out of serious trouble. For the first time in all our years of friendship, I doubt he would listen. The way he speaks of you had us both talking about love. "

Inspired in the sudden rush of hope his words gave her, she rushed to hug him.

" I knew you would be rooting for us!! "

Odysseus didn't deny the claim, but tried to remind her that his feelings remained in contradiction.

" What you have done of that man, your impact on him … It's beautifull, I am terrified. "

He kissed her forehead before concluding.

" I can imagine why Penelope must have made you wear her bead seeing that it covers most of your neck, but the image doesn't help to ease my will to protect you. Being honest, you look like a vision of the future showing the princess we didn't conceive yet. "

Traces of her anger were fading to such tender statement, so she pressed to make the hug stronger and later released herself complaining.

" Liar! You just want to make me cry. "

" It's true! Do you think I picked Hector for you only based on political convenience?" He sweetly insisted. " I knew the rumours about him, and turns out everything was right. That is the man every king would dream for his daughter."

She rolled her eyes, sick of hearing that description of the trojan prince, and the king defended his point.

" Don't get me wrong: Achilles is a great friend. I trusted that man with my life countless times and would keep doing it, but if a man like him would be courting a daughter of mine, I would probably loose my mind. "

It made her chuckle, what help her hide the brief dispair that a reminder of the warnings brought her.

" That is my curse, one of your slaves said I am the country's daughter. Most greeks must see their daughters when they look at me."

She looked down, but his glance followed hers untill it did the way back up.

" You are a wonderfull girl, and all I do isn't just for myself or the wellbeing of the country. I do it because the Achilles I know isn't worthy of you, and through this new side of him I discovered he will have to prove me that he can be the man I believe you deserve. "

The sweet exhortation invited her to twist the logic, as if the trial of Achilles could only take place under the secrecy provided by her working as a distraction for the trojan leader. In such terms she accepted, but that didn't calm her expectation for it. Being excluded was unfair, and the worse part of it was being left to wonder for the fate of the encounter.

Once the king settled the space for it and they were left alone reluctantly by a very amused Paris, Hector suggested her going to the beach for a long walk talking of anything she preferred. Given that a council was already scheduled, he even offered himself to share a short summary of her thoughts on her behalf through his speech with hopes of appeasing the anger he witnessed earlier.

A chance fort subtle inclussion in the political activity she was formally banned from didn't get her as excited as he expected. Although physically there with him, she barely paid any attention. It lead him to assume that she remained upset, because he couldn't think of any positive motives for bewilderment keeping her in dreaming state.

The single bother she took before following him was leaving behind the fancy jewelry innapropiate for the situation, while he had fully changed to casual garments. At least during the first instants walking out, Hector noticed her constantly fixing her robe in what he believed to be an attempt of covering her cleavage from any fails in the dress underneath. Particularly odd behavior, never before she had feared of his eyes and, unlike his younger brother, he never gave her any reasons for that.

Intending to ignore it to avoid awkwardness worked for a while, but her vague or simplistically affirmative responses to his attempt of discussing his speach invited him to step in.

"It seems that you are not with me today, or otherwise I wouldn't be talking alone."

He stopped walking out of sudden and her glance, priorly fixated in the sea, was once more back in him as she followed him.

" Forgive me, Hector … What were you saying? "

Exasperated by the situation, he released his frustration in a short groan while turning back.

" Are you still upset because I accepted this? Stop acting as if we were on a date you are determinated to ruin, it's most likely I would have seeked to stay close to you anyways because I am worried … If my brother is right and all facts are connected, there may be a man out of reason following your footsteps. "

The assumption, although partially right, was still very amusing for her.

" Is that how you choose to adress the god of war? So disrespectfull! "

Ignoring the tease, he presented his alternative interpretation.

" I am more inclined to believe we are dealing with a dangerously obsessive man that found his chance in your first long trip away from home. "

The very wrong description had a shade of accuracy, but she made fun of it anyways.

" Now that is talking nonsense! Do you mean a ' you will be mine or everyone else will suffer' obsession?… Please, Hector! If you find a single man in this country caring that much for me, tell me where. I may marry him. "

He turned back to face her only in order to tear down the cynic claim.

" You are a princess! Possibly the most unreachable one for most greeks. It's an unconfortable truth, but you must be aware that many men could be admiring you in silence. The more idealized your fame becomes, the easier is for a madman to pick you as an object of his obsession. "

Her jokes became more agressive, seeking to disgust him in order to close the topic.

" My own suitors wouldn't include me in their fantasies. They probably think of the mountains of gold, the countless cities to rule and all the gorgeous, perfectly trained concubines to satisfy their every need in their kingly bedroom."

The intensity of his eyes forcing her to keep staring back proved her strategy had failed.

" Nothing of that matters!! Disgusting men of nobility are the less of our concerns now. I suspect of a mercenary or professional assasin, something close to a warrior that lacks the virtue and discipline of a good soldier. This man probably frequents nobility circles in a downgraded position from where he lacks proper access to you. He came here knowing his prize would be less custodied, but not anymore … "

The act of theorization on itself, aside from the brillant result, was getting him too invested.

She was impressed, but still needed to do something about it.

" You expanded the idea I gave you! I like how your mind thinks, but I will have to dissapoint you. "

Adquiring some sudden secretive manners, she got too close to him in order to whisper her conclussion.

" Unfortunately, I only know of one man that merely resembles that description and he doesn't waste his time stalking princesses … If he wanted me, he wouldn't have stopped untill having me, and I wouldn't be a maiden anymore. Odysseus and Agamemnon would have no virgin bride to try selling you. "

Far from falling in her game, the prince followed her in his terms switching the logic of her words.

" That is dissapointing, i judged you a clever negociator. Regardless of who would be the man to be arranged for you, purity is your currency for the nuptial transaction and giving it away to that fool would be an irrational waste. "

She briefly raised her eyebrows and settled back the normal distance with a playfull smirk before replying.

" You speak too confidently for a dead man, because that's what you would be if he could hear you insult him. "

Skeptical of the advice, Hector could only share his mind with her.

" Obtaining glory for the sake of glory itself it's a vain, frankly stupid, motivation for a fighter. A so claimed invincible man that lives for the moment of his death? If Achilles doesn't want to be taken for a fool, he should stop acting like one. "

Nature provided her a decent seat on the rocks remaining at a considerable distance from the water and she headed there.

" You don't need to misjudge him in order to prove you don't underestimate me. Achilles allows nobles to think he is a fool, some mindless brute usefull only to do the bloody work that increases their wealth, but he is brilliant. The man knows his worth, no matter how hard Agammenon tries to devalue it in order to exploit him. If you talk to him, he would claim he doesn't care about politics. He was brought there just to fight, but he pressures the powerfull ones with the vital, deadly resource that he provides. Even if he doesn't dispute power in its traditional conception, he is an active political player. It's fascinating to observe, I believe you would benefict from conceiving your advantages in a similar sense."

A sudden realization, or perhaps just his will to tease her over the displays of admiration, guided him in the right direction.

"This silent admiror of yours we are theorizing about ... Would you wish it was him? I thought you were joking the first time we had this talk."

It occured to her that keeping control of the truth and revealing it on small pieces could be smarter than confessing herself to him.

" It doesn't matter, Achilles would never look at me that way. I am just the daughter of the king he hates, his approach is only a game to upset my father. While i'm lifelessly sitting on my throne of princess at the feast, I can only watch as his attention goes to the round of concubines performing their dances. "

Hector took her hand as if he intended to comfort her and she looked down to visually follow the gesture while he deepened it with speech.

" I am relieved, if that is the case. No matter how charming he may appear to you, that man is only famous in base of his rage and violence. His lack of control for anger and rumoured brutal nature could be a threat for your safety."

The observation surprised her not only. because its conclussion was unthinkable for her, but also due to how his argument was strictly directed towards her. From him she could have expected a callout centered on her duty of royal and the need of supressing a possible cause for internal war, or perhaps some dissapointment. If she feared to talk with him about it, that was never imagining his dissaproval could have personal reasons.

In his own contextually misinformed way, Hector tried to give her the advice of a caring friend. However, the wrong assumption made her flinch with disgust.

" I know how it looks, but he is not that kind of man. "

" How can you tell? Sometimes nobody knows untill it's too late. " He replicated, trying to accomodate beside her. " In one way or another, men that live for fighting take the fight home. It's a code of conduct I disencourage on my men: I want soldiers fighting for their country, not ruthless killers that can't survive without war because they need it to release violence that otherwise would be unleashed somewhere else. "

He looked up for an instant, as if he seeked relief or divine inspiration, then glanced at the waves crashing.

" I have heard too many of your horror stories … Do you want to hear one of mine? "

She agreeded wordlessly, simply by accepting to lean closer to him.

" Back when I was a lad, even younger than the young friend of yours you always tell me sbout, one of the many teachers instructing me for combat married this beautifull lady. From time to time we would receive them in the palace. They didn't have kids and Paris was still a child, so she used to stay playing with him while her husband would be training me. He was a formidable warrior, fearless and dedicated to his service. It was as if for him the battlefield was his natural place to be. He married a wife of his choice that had also chosen him and they seemed a normal marriage ... Untill one tragic night of winter in a particularly calm year, they shocked the entire city. "

He made a brief pause, respectfull silence that left implied what kind of tragic end the story had.

" After the funerals, father told Paris the tale of how Hera blinded Hercules with madness into killing his wife and children. It's the only explanation he found: a god that hated his success and happiness drove him mad. I didn't question it, but later in life as a commander of the army I found out there can be excellent warriors that abuse from the secrecy of domestic life to make of home their battlefield when there are no wars left to fight. Not all of them can be victims of divine induced madness."

His sensitive conclussion moved her as strongly as the story and she raised her head to look at him.

" I let you speak because I was intrigued, but your assumptions have gone too far ... Why are you telling me all of this? "

He grabbed her jaw, as softly as he would do to Paris when warning him about his choices.

" Because I would rather marry you, with all the loss that implies for me, than finding out in years to come that you shared the fate of that woman."

He caressed her cheek to soften the impact before concluding.

" In the descriptions I have heard, the infamous rage of Achilles is dangerously close to that image of sudden madness: fury that can't be stopped by any rational means. Before complaining of being invisible to him, wonder what would be of you if you make him angry."

She grabbed his hand to release herself.

" I appreciate your concern, but I need no savior. A lifetime alongside a ruthless man gave me a trained eye to see the difference between a soldier touched by war and a monster. I do not fear the fury of Achilles, it can be nothing worse than what the anger of Agamemnon has showed me. "

" … And don't you think you deserve better than distantly admiring a man that constantly fights with your father because he resembles him too well? "

She raised up harshly.

" Are you trying to provoke me, Hector? You have proven yourself a man I can call my friend, but you have no business in the wants of my heart."

Hector kept a calmer tone in a more practical speech.

" if your wish would come true things could turn out even worse, and this is the honest advice of a friend. I would speak on the same terms to my cousin, or sister, If I had one. "

She intended to walk to the sea, but his words made her stop in her tracks.

" I may appear a functional orphan, but I am not alone. Agamemnon and Menelaus are not my only family. I have others looking after me: Hesione, Helen, … Penelope and her husband. "

He looked down and smiled.

" Unwanted protection comes with the price of being my friend. "

She chuckled and turned back to give one step towards him.

" I know you won't believe this, but Achilles resembles you more than you could imagine. What I like the most about you can often be found in him. He may be your opposite in the sense of picking war over politics, glory over sacrifice, or never listening to kings, but he is loyal to his loved ones and very protective of them. "

Hector didn't seen impressed with the lovefull defense she made. The excuse of Odysseus, very plausible before the findings, was adquiring another meaning in his thoughts.

" I'm willing to pretend we never had this conversation, if you try the water with me. "

For as innocent as he made it sound, she was back in a state of calm looking alarm.

" I wasn't really planning to get in the sea today, just walk and get fresh air. My clothes are not appropiate. "

Hector stood up and grabbed her by the shoulders, barely leaning his hands on top of each while avoiding to effect any strong pressure because that wasn't his intention.

The robe, his fingertips were placed at each side of it.

" For how long would you try taking me for a fool? I know you are hidding something, you have been acting strange all day. An excellent liar like you wouldn't commit such mistakes if not struggling with the wish of being discovered."

Her eyes looked at each side, paying carefull attention to the movement of his hands.

" I told you about my secret infatuation … What else could I be hidding? "

He smirked before replying, amusing expression of his disbelief on the innocent claim.

" You have been unreasonably fearing my eyes since we stepped out of the palace, blame me for believeing this could give me a clue … "

He slowly uncovered her shoulders, revealing the dress underneath the robe, and inspected her carefully.

" … Odysseus has been teasing you all along, it's you crushing in one of his friends. The reason why I disregarded Achilles before was his absense in your tale, believing you would recognize him if you would have seen him. Not by chance you just confessed your feelings for him to me: for the very first time you feel guilty of your lies. "

Her hair fell back to one more delicate movement, with such bad luck that the side choosen by the prince to expose revealed her love marks inmediately. Hector had enough experience to recognize what the sight implied and she had no option but confessing.

" … I can explain, … I wanted to talk to you, but I wasn't sure if I could trust you with something so important. You know well that if my father finds out … Agamemnon would kill me, he won't care to hear reasons. "

Hector covered her again by himself. Once his eyes found hers she found will to go further.

" I love him, … And I know he loves me back. So passionately yet so tenderly. This? I believe it to be effect of his frustration in our intimate moments because he insists in keeping me preserved to avoid the punishment of my father when he can't be there to protect me. That's why you are here, Odysseus thinks he will fix it sending me away"

He released her completely.

" I want to be furious at him, but my anger is stained of understandment. He wanted me because I am the only one you could be trusted to if Achilles is chasing you. Not even him would dare to climb the trojan wall and steal my wife from my chambers. "

Before she would dare to object, he reinforced his leading of the moment.

" I need you to tell me everything that concerns both of us. No more secrets and no more half truths. Regardless of what the terrible reputation of that man makes me guess of him, you know I 'll never endanger your safety. "

Standing heat for the sake of discretion wasn't neded anymore, so she took off the robe.

" I will, but you have to stop talking nonsense based only on his fame. He is an unstoppable force of raw violence in the battlefield, and also a good man ... In his own terms, with a moral code that's the opposite of yours. You will see it if you get the chance, and you may. As it must be clear to you now, he has followed me here."

As her time for true confession approached, she had less oportunity to wonder for the situation in the palace. Facing the judgement of Hector had left her in a similar position to what she imagined Achilles to be enduring in the audience with the royals of Ithaca. Being friend of the couple wouldn't make it easier, precisely because they would be expressing their well intentioned concerns.

It was usual of him to show up in defense of his actions with no speech prepared. Either when insipiring his men before the fighting, or arguing in the council for expressed call of Agamemnon questioning his choices, Achilles would allways let words flow from the passion of his heart. He wasn't famous for the power of his words, but that overlooked quality of his was the delight of the myceanean princess. Far from self perceiving as a sweet talker, proud man of actions over words, she exposed him to a side of himself he didn't conciously cultivated.

Beating Odysseus in the field of words was an impossible emprise, but the basic understandment they had achieved kept alive the hope of convincing him. On a personal level, the loving husband who adored his wife valued the perpective he gained after falling in love. Appealing to that side by keep reminding him he was just another man in love was the best idea, something that would be easier in the presence of his wife.

The good sight of Penelope was an even higher priority for the warrior, since she wasn't a mere influence factor on her husband. As the eldest woman in the family of the girl he wanted to win, her opinion mattered with individual weight. If Helen was already counted among his allies, convincing her cousin would close the circle of undeground support on the level of familiar relationships. While the spartan queen had chances of influencing her husband in his favor, Penelope was the only woman of the family that Agamemnon trully respected.

When the gate leading to the throne room was opened for him, the sight he found was the opposite regarding his last encounter with Odysseus. His friend awaited the arrival keeping the kingly manners, yet smirking at his radiant wife sitting in the throne beside him. The handfull of soldiers that accompanied them the prior night, only subjects of the palace that were aware of his arrival, acted as escolt untill the king ordered them to retire.

Achilles smiled at the queen and she returned the gesture with sweet politeness, something between a ruler in a serious context and a hostess receiving a friend she haven't seen in a long time. When his eyes followed the way to her husband, his expression adquired a certain playfull cockyness.

No matter how he would try to replicate an audience enviroment, Odysseus would never represent the powerfull yet demeaning image Achilles had in mind when thinking of a king.

" I know that we tend to see each other only for war and this is what you do the rest of the time, but it doesn't fit you. "

Odysseus covered his mouth to hide a few chuckles and scratched his chin before replying.

" You requested an audience instead of a feast for your formal welcome to my country in this ocassion. Odd petition of these strange times! I've never imagined you would come to us sneaking like a thief in the night. I underestimated your passion, unforgivable mistake. I should have remembered that the ladies in the lineage of my Penelope can drag men into unbelievable places with their charm. "

The queen thanked the flattery with a soft glance, then interrumpted.

" His particular choice will surprise Greece, I have no doubt. Everyone has been looking at the wrong threat, now we have him here claiming ownership of the last unwed lady in the family ... Marking her like a possesive beast protecting its territory. What do you have to say of that, estimated friend of this home? Is the introduction to a foreign prince enough justification for such irresponsibility? The woman you pretend to obtain is a princess, and her body is under constant scrutiny. What's the point of preserving her for her safety, only to expose her to the doubts of gossipers talking down? "

Achilles accepted his guilt, even despite he was still a slightly proud of being discovered.

" I never meant harm to fall on her, but I must admit I wasn't carefull when I pampered her with my passion and that isn't entirely casual ... I do wish for those who praise the son of Priam with insistence to find something else to talk about instead of pressuring my princess to aim for the throne of Troy. They will know Hector didn't do that, he frustrates them because he wouldn't touch her."

Penelope measured her words with the right amount of care to warn him without angering him.

" His brother would, everyone knows he tried to seduce her during his first days here. Only once he gave up they gained authentical friendlyness. Has she told you that the prince is giving her shooting lessons? Paris behaves properly now, but it would be easy for people to assume that he kisses her neck from behind to reward every good try. "

" Prince? That man is a joke. " Achilles recalled in a mock. " He has no chances, frankly it's hilarious to envision so I didn't consider it. If rumours would point at him, Agamemnon would suddenly see I am not the worst option and the brilliant scheme of your husband would be over, because Hector wouldn't be available anymore. "

Odysseus did his contribution using his own argument against him.

" What would have been more clever and usefull to your cause than making Paris believe you are the mortal disguise of the god of war. One thing I learned about trojans is that their religious sensitivity is higher than ours: they are loosing their minds. "

" All of them, except for Hector. " Penelope corrected. " You may have alarmed him, but not deceived him. That is not enough to make him run to his ship and go home. "

She made a brief pause before getting into more intimate territory with her questioning.

" What is wrong with you? I know you enough to assume you are allways looking for a challenge. Why is it different now? "

Despite she aimed at his feelings, Achilles read it as questioning on his courage and directed towards her with arrogant pace.

" Hector has never harmed me, and I would never fear him simply because I fear no one. I don't waste time occupying my thoughts with childish jealousy, but I resent his presence because the popular perceptions of him damage my chances of fair judgement to get the right to my bride the way it's meant to be. Answer yourself with this question, queen. If she was your daughter, which one of us would you want for her? "

The smile in her face, product of circunstantial amazement, showed contrast with the answer he expected. Instead of listing his lacks, Penelope valued his intentions.

" Hearing you speak of her as your bride is a delight … Don't you remember how I used to warn you that this day would come? I once promised you make a peplos for your bride, and you responded me with some sarcastic joke about how you were never going to get married. Don't you think Odysseus had rational reasons to believe you could be taking advantage of that girl? We responded looking for a prince that would be safe marriage for her once you would flee. That doesn't mean we don't have faith in you. For as long as you denied the posibility to yourself, I always knew that someday the fine daughter of an achaean would tempt you with it."

Her encouragement was a relief for his heart.

" I didn't lie, never before I imagined we would be having this conversation, … but I fell in love with a princess and that changes everything. I know what I have to do if I want to be with her. Odysseus has his doubts, but I am not the lad he saved from the wrath of the King of Scyros. "

The speech pleased her, but it wasn't enough to satisfy her.

" Would you marry her because you want to or because you have to, Achilles? There may be no relevant distinctions for you, but I believe the implications can lead to completely different outcomes. "

" I want her in my life for as long as I have left of it to live. " The myrmidon replied terminantly, staring then the flow of words for his improvised, heartfelt defense." When I think of how I wasted two years since our meeting being already aware that I liked her … Maybe back then I suspected that she could be my temptation, that opening that door would make me vulnerable to wants I had for so long denied to myself. I returned home pretending nothing happened, but she didn't. For those years that sweet girl dreamed of me. … She was waiting for me, but I didn't show up, and instead of facing dissapointment she searched her way to me by herself even when she expected nothing. "

His voice adquired a sweeter undertone as he revisited for the judges his side of the story.

" I received her in my home for one day with its night and part of the next. That's all it took for her to remind me of how much I liked her once, and to make me like her even more. The chance came for me to find hospitality retributions, and as the unconfortable guest of her father I found the fate I used to reject more than death. Love of the real one, the kind of human feeling that turns a mortal woman into a goddess in your eyes. Now I dream of her, but lack of her blessed patience. "

Applying the same brutal honesty he had for everyone else on himself for the exceptional ocassion, his speech concluded directly for the queen.

" I was a coward, Penelope. In the time I spent running away from that sparkle between us your husband noticed ahead of everyone she could have been arranged to someone else. If he would have acted then, her wedding could have been our next opportunity to see each other again after Helen's. I won't risk that, her waiting is all what stopped me from losing the right time to discover her to my own foolishness. "

His intensity was not only a matter of introspective justification, but an impulsive release of repressed thoughts.

" She had strenght to remain silently infatuated with me while I was far away despite hearing the gossips about my lovers. Her only hope was seeing me again, believing I would never be for her. Now it's my turn and I can't wait, even if I know she is mine. I don't want any new princes arranging playdates with her, or gossips discussing of who should occupy my place. If someone else convinces her father before I would get the chance of doing the proposal, I will lose my mind. "

After such honest and extensive exposition of his case, the royals shared a complicit glance as if they would be guessing each other's thoughts. Penelope felt more inclined to use her judgement of woman and Odysseus, despite famous for his rationality, didn't have a heart of stone.

She abandoned her seat, standing right in front of the warrior.

" The fabulous descriptions we have heard from her fall short. "

In her brief pause she proceeded to kiss both of his cheeks, formal salute of welcoming friendliness.

" As a firm believer in marriages of love like the one I was blessed with, It is my personal will to support you. As the queen of this kingdom, I accept you need to provide us with some securities for our deal to be completed. "

Odysseus followed the interaction carefully untill she released him, aware that she wasn't trying to deautorize him. Her fair words where the bridge between the two extreme positions: letting Achilles walk free with the girl on the sake of love, or give her away to someone else before he could start a war against Agamemnon. After hearing the most intense speech his friend had ever given in his presence, conciliation of interests was the only wise option.

" Prove that you will not cause any more massacres in her name and I will seriously consider advocating for you to the father. If you want my full support, you must understand victory is not granted. I failed when endorsing Diomedes' proposal to Helen, and compared to yours, his goal seemed possible at the time. Used as you are to be invincible, you have to face the posibility of defeat ... "

He stood up, facing him close for his conclussion allowed by the distance that Penelope allowed to leave him space.

" ... No bloodbaths if Agamemnon's will works against you, Achilles. "

The myrmidon looked at the queen as if he aimed for a second opinion, but her reprobatory smirk let him know he was alone in that aspect. Even if he didn't believe much in it, the first try would have to follow the way of the king.

Surrender wasn't in his nature, so the forbbiden option wasn't completely banned.

" If she allows me to do it, or if he picks an old pig over me, I reserve my right of killing him for her honor. I am not Diomedes, no oaths will stop me. "

Odysseus let loose of his crossed arms.

" Seems fair to me, we shall reserve it as an extreme resource in case the vileness of the myceanean king may surprise us all. "

He gave him a path on the shoulder and they chuckled together like the old friends they were.

Penelope celebrated their agreement inciting their closeness with sweet encouragement.

" If the new perspective challenges you and you find yourself in need of advice, Odysseus is the best husband you can consult. The bright of his reason illuminates paths that remain dark for most men, and his eyes are the light of my life. "

Absolute adoration transformed the semblance of the king and Achilles resisted the urge of teasing him about it.

" I know I am not, by any means, the man a princess should want to marry. Never before I pictured myself as someone's husband, there is a lot to learn, … but I want to do it."

" A lifetime of training doesn't make her any more ready than you. " Odysseus comforted him. " We have talked about it. Being a wife used to be a natural part in her future she accepted with resignation, not a matter of love … I guess that, if our emprise succeeds, she would have to learn from the best wife to ever bless a husband with her love in the land of the achaeans."

With the formalities extinguished, Penelope approached her husband for a fleeting peck on the lips. Twirling later so she could face upfront with him embracing her from behind, she confessed herself to the guest.

" I am already taking care of it, girls get curious when love strikes. "

Achilles had a vague idea of what she meant that kept him gratefull and excited.

" What a bliss that you are, pendant of every detail. Although it surprises me you haven't allowed her to participate of our defense. "

Odysseus lightly confessed his own guilt.

" There is nothing she could add I didn't hear before, so I sent her on a playdate with Hector. They will be back for the pacted time for council I will celebrate with the trojans. If you act with discretion, she is yours for the night. "

The proposition pleased him and for so he showed himself willing to ignore what otherwise could have upsetted him.

" No palace maids or nurse slaves sent in your behalf to control me? "

His clarification didn't shock his friend, who calmly delivered a precise instruction.

"You know me enough to be aware that If you deflore her before marriage in my own home that will be the last time you would be welcomed in it for a long while. I don't care for how serious your intentions would be afterwards."

He didn't expect any less, but it was quite sweet to see his care for the girl was so genuine.

" Does Agamemnon know that you parent his daughter for him? "

Teasing was more in his style than admitting the process had made him feel like a suitor asking for permission of the father when talking to his own friend. Only the commentary of Penelope was helpfull to remember contexts, particularly in the progression of her seriousness fading. Their trial staged for him on that audience worked practically as a personal test. Surviving the critical judgement of Odysseus was hard, but nothing compared to the self centered, capricious mindset of Agamemnon already fixated on his hate for him.

Victory wouldn't be granted, but every small triumph deserved its celebration.

He couldn't wait to be with her and the waiiting felt too long knowing she would be back by sunset, but Penelope insisted on entertaining him with proper hospitality arrangements in the private comfort of her lounges. His deal with the royal marriage implied he had to remain in obscurity untill their matters with the trojans would be on a relative state of order the next day. Then, he would repeat a colorfull lie explaining the confussion he had caused without mentions of his romance with the princess.

Only one slave girl was trusted to his service on the ocassion. Old keeper of the secret, the loyal friend of the mycenaean lady attended him like if he already was her prince. Achilles took his chance of apologising to her for the concerning disruption and cheered her with news of Eudorus. Nothing of his conversation with the rulers of Ithaca was divulged, fearing she could accidentally spoil the surprise, but he made her an accomplice sharing her his plans for the night.

A pacted liberation of the zone for him would occur at a specific time safe to steal her for a while under the noses of the too distracted foreign guests. Once the door of the throne room working as agora of late hour council would be shut down in her face, she would be found there trying to catch details of the political arguments with intense curiosity.

Hidden once more as a stalking shadow when the moment to strike presented, Achilles observed the guesses coming to life. He easily spotted his girl walking like an intrusive presence among the trojan cortege. The form of her body was completely buried in a long, loose robe secured in the chest with a brooch, sight that made him smirk thinking of his passion driven mischief from the day before. He paid attention to the men she followed, noticing Paris walking beside her and shortly ahead of them the leader of the march participating of their conversation.

Distance from him was difficulting the communication and, given she was placed right behind him, at moments she would get closer to speak directly with him. Her rush looked like excitement, but his demeanour to reply was calm. His every gesture irradiated a sense of sophisticated confidence that was drastically different from what he had observed in Paris. Far from that hedonist ellegance, the royal bearing of a man born for kingship.

Achilles realized that his first sight of Hector matched the usual descriptions, except he seemed slightly taller and better looking in person.It was a temporary conclussion obtained from a very brief look before he vanished inside the room to be followed by all the men, when he catched him smiling at the lady as if he intended to reassure her for something.

An accord of some sort closed between them, he believed it to be probably of political nature.

The gates were custodied by two of the soldiers that saw him enter that room earlier in the day. Their presense was blocking her hearing of what was going on inside and they commited the crucial mistake of trying to expulse her from the spot. Watching her behavior escalate to their negatories was quite funny, specially because as he approached he got to hear her powerlessly talking down to men. Soldiers following the orders of those arguing inside, her closest outlet for protest.

When he emerged in arrogant pace, the argument had her so absorted that she didn't notice him heading right behind her as she kept critizicing the guards.

" … By the laws of our country I am banned from speaking, but nothing forbids me from listening … So I'll stay here untill you'll get sick of staring at my face in front of you. "

Achilles showed for the men a playfull smirk of complicity and their amused reactions confused her enough to realize something had changed.

" You will get tired first, pretty princess. "

She froze, turning back inmediately to find her beloved warrior smiling at her. In her eyes he appeared even more handsome than the last time she saw him, wearing a short black tunic that matched great with his long leather footwear.

" What are you doing here? "

Despite she knew of his arrival to the island, some of her surprise was genuine in the sense of not expecting to see him there at that precise moment.

" I came to see you, turns out I can't get enough of you. "

Achilles leaned a hand on her shoulder and sneaked the other to her waist, gently pushing to bring her closer.

" Leave her to me, brothers. I have it easier applacating her. "

With that trust sounding inside joke he dragged her away avoiding further questioning.

Nightfall kept most of the servants occupied on the kitchens preparing the meal that would follow the council. Depending of the halls choosen to navigate, desert spaces could be found while deciding which door would hide them that time.

He haven't had released her through the walk, but instead deepened the contact rounding her waist sideways with one arm. Everytime she tried to scape, he mockfully squeezed tighter.

" Odysseus didn't want to tell me about the audience, or where you left afterwards. " She finally spoke in clarification for her reaction" He said I would find out the result later … Now I see what he meant with that."

He proceeded to tell her the good news with some of his usual humor.

" He will support us only if I prove him i can behave … How was the playdate with Hector? Has he fallen for you already? "

The reminder made her chuckle a bit louder than usual.

" He found out about us, I had to tell him everything after he discovered the not so subtle gift you left me with yesterday. "

Better outcome than what he ever expected. It took him only one instant of peeking for any intruders in their moment before he pushed her against a wall so he could rip off the brooch and make her robe fall to the sides, observing his work with pride.

" Good, now he knows who you belong to. Is he afraid of facing me? "

He placed one delicate kiss in the affected skin, soft like a caress from his lips.

It made her giggle, covering herself later to resume the walk.

" Not at all. At best, he thinks you are a fool. At worst? That your violent tendencies and irrascible temper would become a dangerous problem for me if awakened during our arguments. "

The implications in that sentence shocked him, what kept him wondering out loud with certain frustration.

" Why everyone always expects the worst of me? "

She took his hand and assumed the lead, picking the next hallway that would take them to her room.

" It's a downside of your reputation, my love. For years you encouraged tales about your anger and brutality. When they describe you for him, most talk of you as a killer beast he shall beware of."

She gave him a peck down the cheek, reaching the side of his jawline, then concluded.

" Don't worry, he is aware of his mistake because I spent the afternoon telling him plenty of examples about how wonderfull you are … At least with me, I started to think I am an autentic privileged among the unlucky women that stumbled with you. "

The ironical tone in the strange phrase made him suspect something was wrong. His first guess was believing that his friend told her some unflattering stories he knew, maybe the one of his first failed adventure with the islander princess.

The tone of his voice adquired a sudden seriousness that was absent from the moment since the very begging.

" Whatever Odysseus told you, I can explain. "

She tried to be honest without compromising her informational source.

" He didn't have to, I had a close encounter with one of your girls. By far she doesn't recommend you. Aparently, you made her feel used after you were done with her. "

He tried to do a concious effort in remembering, but no idea of who was she talking about came to his mind.

" I've been in bed with many people, often drunk at some point of the action. "

The answer was quite frustrating for her.

" Is that your brilliant excuse? You dissapointed her so badly that as soon as she found out i have intentions on you she questioned my inteligence. "

They reached the right door just in time for his defense.

" My sentimental life was a sad mess before you came along, Odysseus made me realize of that when we talked. If I acted like a bastard, it's probably because I was avoidant of romance … I never gave myself the chance of properly meeting a woman I liked, untill you made it impossible for me to get away. And I am glad you persisted, because you opened my eyes to something new ."

[geometrymatters]

Sir Roger Penrose

To me, the world of perfect forms is primary (as was Plato’s own belief) — its existence being almost a logical necessity — and both the other two worlds are its shadows.

Sir Roger Penrose, born on August 8, 1931, in Colchester, Essex, England, is a luminary in the realm of mathematical physics. His journey began with a Ph.D. in algebraic geometry from the University of Cambridge in 1957, and his career has spanned numerous prestigious posts at universities in both England and the United States. His work in the 1960s on the fundamental features of black holes, celestial bodies of such immense gravity that nothing, not even light, can escape, earned him the 2020 Nobel Prize for Physics.

Penrose’s work on black holes, in collaboration with Stephen Hawking, led to the ground-breaking discovery that all matter within a black hole collapses to a singularity, a point in space where mass is compressed to infinite density and zero volume. This revelation illuminated our understanding of these enigmatic cosmic entities.

His work did not stop at the theoretical; he also developed a method of mapping the regions of space-time surrounding a black hole, known as a Penrose diagram. This tool allows us to visualize the effects of gravitation upon an entity approaching a black hole, providing a window into the heart of these celestial mysteries.

Within Penrose’s chapter, “The Godelian Case” (from “The Road to Reality”) the profound implications of Kurt Gödel’s incompleteness theorems are examined in relation to the connection between mathematics and geometry. Specifically, Penrose’s attention centers on the model depicted in Figure 2.1, which portrays a cubic array of spheres. Through this visual representation, Penrose explores the intricate relationship between geometry and mathematical understanding.

By introducing the model of a cubic array of spheres, Penrose highlights the fundamental role of spatial arrangements in mathematical cognition. This geometrical structure serves as a metaphorical embodiment of mathematical concepts, illustrating how spatial configurations can stimulate cognitive processes and facilitate intuitive comprehension of mathematical truths. The intricate interplay between the arrangement of spheres within the model and the underlying principles of mathematics encourages contemplation on the deep-rooted connections between geometry, spatial reasoning, and abstract mathematical thought.

Penrose’s utilization of the cubic array of spheres underscores his broader philosophical framework, which challenges reductionist accounts of human cognition that rely solely on formal systems or computational models. Through this geometrical representation, he advocates for a more holistic understanding of mathematical insight, one that recognizes the essential role of geometric intuition in shaping human understanding.

By looking at the intricate connection between mathematics and geometry, Penrose prompts a re-evaluation of the mechanistic view of cognition, emphasizing the need to incorporate spatial reasoning and intuitive geometrical understanding into comprehensive models of human thought.

(E) Find a sum of successive hexagonal numbers, starting from 1 , that is not a cube. I am going to try to convince you that this computation will indeed continue for ever without stopping. First of all, a cube is called a cube because it is a number that can be represented as a cubic array of points as depicted in Fig. 2. 1 . I want you to try to think of such an array as built up successively, starting at one corner and then adding a succession of three-faced arrangements each consisting of a back wall, side wall, and ceiling, as depicted in Fig. 2.2. Now view this three-faced arrangement from a long way out, along the direction of the corner common to all three faces. What do we see? A hexagon as in Fig. 2.3. The marks that constitute these hexagons, successively increasing in size, when taken together, correspond to the marks that constitute the entire cube. This, then, establishes the fact that adding together successive hexagonal numbers, starting with 1 , will always give a cube. Accordingly, we have indeed ascertained that (E) will never stop.

Penrose’s work is characterized by a profound appreciation for geometry. His father, a biologist with a passion for mathematics, introduced him to the beauty of geometric shapes and patterns at a young age. This early exposure to geometry shaped Penrose’s unique approach to scientific problems, leading him to develop new mathematical notations and diagrams that have become indispensable tools in the field. His creation of the Penrose tiling, a method of covering a plane with a set of shapes without using a repeating pattern, is a testament to his innovative thinking and his deep understanding of geometric principles.

His fascination with geometry extended beyond the realm of mathematics and into the world of art. He was deeply influenced by the work of Dutch artist M.C. Escher, whose intricate drawings of impossible structures and infinite patterns captivated Penrose’s imagination. This encounter with Escher’s art led Penrose to explore the interplay between geometry and art, culminating in his own contributions to the field of mathematical art. His work in this area, like his scientific research, is characterized by a deep appreciation for the beauty and complexity of geometric forms.

In geometric cognition, Penrose’s work has the potential to make significant contributions. His unique perspective on the role of geometry in understanding the physical world, the mind, and even art, offers a fresh approach to this emerging field. His belief in the power of geometric thinking, as evidenced by his own ground-breaking work, suggests that a geometric approach to cognition could yield valuable insights into the nature of thought and consciousness.

Objective mathematical notions must be thought of as timeless entities and are not to be regarded as being conjured into existence at the moment that they are first humanly perceived.

I argue that the phenomenon of consciousness cannot be accommodated within the framework of present-day physical theory.

His Orch OR theory posits that consciousness arises from quantum computations within the brain’s neurons. This bold hypothesis, bridging the gap between the physical and the mental, has sparked intense debate and research in the scientific community.

Penrose’s work on twistor theory, a geometric framework that seeks to unify quantum mechanics and general relativity, is a testament to his belief in the primacy of geometric structures. This theory, which represents particles and fields in a way that emphasizes their geometric and topological properties, can be seen as a metaphor for his views on cognition. Just as twistor theory seeks to represent complex physical phenomena in terms of simpler geometric structures, Penrose suggests that human cognition may also be understood in terms of fundamental geometric and topological structures.

This perspective has significant implications for the field of cognitive geometry, which studies how humans and other animals understand and navigate the geometric properties of their environment. If Penrose’s ideas are correct, our ability to understand and manipulate geometric structures may be a fundamental aspect of consciousness, rooted in the quantum geometry of the brain itself.

The final conclusion of all this is rather alarming. For it suggests that we must seek a non-computable physical theory that reaches beyond every computable level of oracle machines (and perhaps beyond). — Roger Penrose, Shadows of the Mind: A Search for the Missing Science of Consciousness