❛ &. optimus eorum ! 〉

—OPEN.

the taste of iron was RIPE in his mouth, his mouth twisting into a grimace as he avoided smiling and putting his blood-stained teeth on display. Not that he got away with it. He’d wiped his face as clean as he could, but there were still cuts and bruises and his knuckles - red as a fire engine. fuck subtlety right up the ass, he says. he spit out the leftover blood in his mouth and pushed a fry between his lips. perhaps the safest place to be in posh, freaky little areas like these was leaning up against the side of a fast-food restaurant where each meal did not even qualify as ‘pocket change’ for the residents. what was worth less than pocket change? WHATEVER. 

his expression fell. he still managed to run into someone he recognised. dandy. so much for ‘safe’. “slumming it, I see,” he remarked, shovelling another fry in his mouth. “all these grand and wonderful artefacts of colonial history and accelerated capitalism to visit and you found yourself in the parking lot of a mcdonalds? we have these at HOME, y’know. i mean, s’probably one of the more honest landmarks of modern capitalism, but i still believe when in rome,” he paused to lick some salt off the pad of his thumb, his whole lower lip stinging when it came into contact. “or in this case, romneyland, you do as the romneys do. see the sights, ignore the homeless, pretend to enjoy a soggy meal of mushy peas and fried fish with zero seasoning and call it a day after having two ‘pints’ and knocking the fuck out.”

rhysand attwood wasn’t one to be seen out of place, always seamlessly blending into his surroundings, something that was *meant* to be there. and no, it didn’t mean that he went unnoticed -- it would be painfully incorrect to assume he went anywhere without being acknowledged by at least a dozen people -- and now seemed to be no exception. silk clung to rhys’ broad shoulders, the material looking like gold spun into thread, the fabric falling over his chest and revealing his tattoos, contrasting his no longer impeccably porcelain complexion. the sun had been kind enough to gift him with the glow of it’s golden rays and had given him a kiss, a slight pink on his cheeks, the tops of his ears, the tip of his nose. he was divine, as was per his branding, and the only thing that managed to interrupt the resting expression of his flawless features was a flicker of recognition that had him picking up the pace of his once casual walk when he sees someone he recognizes. 

        before ‘sol came along, the only bruises on her body were the ones accumulated from weekly prayers – the brunette working up a light sweat as she kneeled with the congregation. church had N E V E R been a vital part of her life, more of a routine thrust upon her by lorenzo & dahlia romero. a part of her life that served the sole purpose of maintaining an image. back then, it wasn’t even an image – the brunette truly pure from the inside out. too wrapped up in her life’s perfection, maritza failed to notice her insides were beginning to R O T, souring her saccharine demeanor. her anger had no outlet, poisoning her beauty. like a child, ‘sol guided her through it – taught her just how T H I N the line between hate & lust could be. love had no place in reality – fiction that belonged in the fairytales maritza burned the day the truth was exposed. the flames licked at the edges of an aluminum bin, illuminating her porcelain features stained with mascara tears. after ‘sol, her hands were always S T E A D Y, movements calculated. she no longer blushed at every compliment, rather learned how to deliver them forwardly. the bruises on her knees no longer had anything to do with sunday mornings, throat raw to match the purpling skin. despite the W E D G E pushed between ‘sol & maritza, the brunette can still hear her voice guiding her, encouraging her, praising her – a shiver running down her spine at the sound of rhysand’s pleading tone. she was on the right track – at least that’s what ‘sol used to tell her. she grins at him, a cat so close to catching that yellow canary. “ but isn’t it ? ” she purrs, head cocking to the side as her heated gaze observes him. “ ya’ know how vocal i can be, ” she states conversationally, as if her next words were as casual as telling the time. “ how much i love it when ya’ call me your good girl. ” her lips find his ear once more, pausing before adding, “ how much you love it when i call ya’ papi. ” the switch to spanish is meant to tease him, to remind him of what he should have missed. his text still echoes – I DIDN’T MISS YOU. 

         she shrugs, crimson lips quirking upwards in a smirk. sighing, she steps back slightly as she murmurs, “ ‘m wearin’ somethin’. wanna peek ? ” regardless of his answer, maritza knows she’s going to give him one. ever so slowly she rotates, backside towards him as she glances over her shoulder. with a free hand, she lifts the bottom edge of the trench coat & S L O W L Y pulls it back to reveal just a sliver of black lace – the color perfect against her newly tanned skin & crimson lips. her mascara - laden lashes tickle the tops of her cheek bones as she winks, a honeyed laugh slipping out as she allows the coat to fall back into place. with faux innocence she murmurs, “ ya’ said somethin’ – ‘sides, i know how much ya’ love to R I P things off my body. i wouldn’t take THAT away from ya’. ” maritza knows she takes so much more than she gives him, free will an illusion when she packages herself as a walking fantasy. closing the distance between them, maritza places his palms against his hard, strong chest as she whispers, “ ‘m gonna ask ya’ again – did ya’ miss me ? ”

a venom as poisonous as it was sweet dripped from the flush, scarlet lips of the woman who thirsted for his blood, and he was thankful, brimming with an unyielding gratitude that ultimately caused him to yearn for more, to allow her fingertips to run along those strings of his that she was so intent on plucking, an instrument that only she, and she alone, knew how to tune. gone was self-preservation in the presence of something so wholly damning, everything about her, from her sensuous essence to the enticing way she could so easily inveigle those who dared cross her path. she often adorned silks and lace, satin and velvet, fabrics that only further enhanced her purpose of desire ... but rhysand was more aware of the way she donned a second skin, so much like him, speaking with an open daringness, each statement that perched itself on the tip of her pink, pink tongue something that was far from chaste, riddled in a filth that rhysand couldn’t help but subscribe to. she epitomized temptation, in each curl of her smile, every trailing touch of her fingers that left gooseflesh in their wake. she was all too aware of how good she was at this, and rhysand was, for once, the predator turned prey, falling pretty to the flash of vibrant color and her birdsong, only so she could easily lure him into a trap that would have him dead by his own doing.

‘ oh please, anything to me at this point will be interesting. especially if it involves you ! ’ she replies affectionately with a bump of her elbow. an exhale escapes her as she looks out to the setting sun and then back at rhys as she prepares herself to finally, finally let herself find some sort of relief in telling him what she’s kept bottled up within her. mattie typically hates burdening people with her own emotions and problems, but with rhys, at least, she didn’t fear judgment.  ‘ okay, yeah… i guess the only really big thing that went down was, um… i had a crush on rafe. ugh, that hurts to say now, ’ she interjects with a laugh followed by a small shrug, ‘ but i did. and it didn’t work out. we kinda had this big blow up at the gala way back in may and we haven’t really talked about it since, you know ? suffice to say, i’m over said crush now and don’t intend to really talk to him either… i mean, he said some choice words that i think he should apologize for. i think i let some things get to my head too, but i’m not sorry for it all, i guess ? ’ she pauses, a clear echo of her words to him and his words to her resound in her mind. ‘ so i guess that’s my update. your turn ! ’

— @attwoods ( rhysand attwood )

the heady scent of flowers in bloom on a hot summer’s day lingered in the air. as callie leaned back, she could feel a light petal brush against her shoulder, twining with her hair, and the cool metal of her patio chair chill her shoulder blades; the intricate pattern woven into the iron transferring onto skin slightly flushed from the sun. that same flush traced the tops of her cheeks, where it rested against the sunglasses that would mirror her brunch partner, rhys, back at himself. between them, a table littered with fresh fruit — scattered grapes with glittering pearls of condensation, dewy melons that were so sweet they had made her jaw ache, and strawberries so bright they nearly glowed like jewels, almost too pretty to eat. everything, this morning, was a mix of the balmy — the brilliance of the sun and soft, warm bread — and the cool — the bite of metal under her legs, the frost of the glass between her fingertips. they sat partially sequestered by a trellis of vines to their left, allowing callie and rhys the occasional peek of a passerby, and allowing them an occasional peek of the two agents, too.

licking sugar from the side of her lips, leftover from the the rim of her prosecco punch, callie glanced over at the boy across the table. “ are you ready to order ? ” the tang of pineapples still rested in the hollows of her cheeks, chased by the sweetness of peaches and the lingering hint of vodka. alcohol wasn’t something callie drank anymore, at least not often. but sunny days, and picture perfect cafes were meant to be moments of indulgence. they hadn’t done this in a long time: driven out to l.a. on a hot summer morning with the privilege of nothing but good food, bottomless drinks and some time away on their minds. perhaps it was the weight of exams finally off her shoulders, or even that this sun-speckled cafe seemed so far removed from a dark debriefing room or a shadowed bar. setting down her menu and drink, callie really looked at the boy with brown hair and straight shoulders in front of her. “ a penny for your thoughts, rhys ? ”

the array of fruit was a scattering of colors, reds and pinks and yellows, so breathtakingly vivid, the sun's golden rays beating down on them, illuminating them in a buttery glow; to call it picturesque would be an understatement, their setting something out of an intricate art piece, each pigment and shade carefully chosen and being brought to life by an artist’s brushstroke. the sky was a lovely blue, free of clouds or any obstruction that could possibly interrupt the beauty of the day. their surroundings were fitting, feeling as if they were lounging in the garden of eden, greenery winding up the adjacent trellis, the scent of jasmine tickling his nose as he drank it all in -- a free day in los angeles, spent in the company of an individual who was a lovely presence, full of warmth and kindness and ultimately someone who made him feel at ease. the walls of obsidian that shrouded the vulnerable nature of who rhysand attwood was had been lowered for the occasion of spending time in callie’s company. she was harmless, someone who had a natural inclination to heal, to help -- rhys didn’t feel the need to raise his guard, and it was more refreshing than he would ever be able to convey. 

‘ i reckon i’ll have to order a mimosa ... and french toast. i miss france. oh ce que je donnerais pour être en France -- have you ever traveled there ? or anywhere in europe ? ’ the light breeze that was characteristic of southern california’s wonderful weather caught in the locks of his hair, newly sheared in an attempt to keep curls from getting into his eyes. he looked lovely, was the thing -- they both did, embodying a contrasting masculine and feminine beauty that drew the eyes of those around them. rhys was used to the attention though -- he paid it little to no mind, having long forgotten the significance of certain glances that were thrown his way. it was a lot, he knew; being under rhysand’s heady green gaze wasn’t an easy feat, but callie had been doing well thus far. he appreciated her, almost as much as he appreciated the delicious spread of fruits that was displayed before them. opting to try a strawberry, rhys hesitates to allow his white incisors to bite into the fruit, and instead adjusts the thin scarf tied at the center of his chest, the only fabric that obstructed the visibility of his unblemished skin and the ink that was there. but with callie asking after his thoughts, rhys decided to allow his mind to wrap around his current situation, and decides to bite into the strawberry, the hue of the juice staining against his lips and making them a brilliant, flush color, one that would draw any eye directly to them. as he wipes the juice from his mouth, tongue chasing after the sweetness, he’s suddenly very glad that the tinted ray-bans that rest on his nose hide the cloudiness that was now brewing behind his eyes. ‘ i’ve managed to get myself into quite a predicament, callie -- i don’t know where to go from here, if i’m being honest. without ... revealing too much about the other parties, i have to ask you -- what do you think of speaking to more than one person ? at the same time ? ’

noemi watched him, quietly and at a distance like if she moved too suddenly, moved too close they would both be consumed in flames. her face was a blank slate albeit for two subtle but distinct features: full lips curled ever so slightly downwards with worry and brown eyes quietly analyzing the man in front of her, the faintest hint of compassion glistening on the surface. there were few things she knew about rhys to be absolutely true: 1. she cared for him in a way that was difficult to explain, 2. he was a book full of beautiful words in a language she couldn’t even begin to understand. so she thought carefully through her actions, through her choices. her eyes flickered away from him and settled on a target. four perfect shots fired, and she pressed her lips together to prevent her face from falling into something sort of awestruck. god, he was talented; she couldn’t pull her eyes away. the sound of metal clattering against the ground echoed through the shooting range, just as violent, just as forceful, as the gunfire it replaced, but she didn’t flinch. her demeanor remained calm, soft almost.

the tension in the air was so palpable, you could take a knife to it, over and over and shredding it into tiny pieces each with a different word for anger printed across it. her gaze fell on the discarded weapon, then slowly moved upwards to catch his fists, balled up so tightly his knuckles were white, slam on the table in front of him. his voice dripped with venom as he spoke, and she noticed that it came from a completely different level of his temper. this wasn’t a tone of vexation, the tone he’d taken with her weeks ago in his car. this was something much, much darker, rooted deep inside a part of his mind that she hadn’t yet seen. when he said her name, chills ran down her spine, and she knew that if she never had to hear it spoken that way again, it would be far too soon. you should go. her head tilted just slightly, mind racing. he was so controlled, so together. it was something that noemi admired, something she envied, yet here he was, breathing ragged and wild, dark shadows of emotion clouding his features. she inhaled, then turned on her heel without a word.

she disappeared for only a moment, only long enough to move to the back of the shelter and grab three more cases. when she returned, she still didn’t speak. noemi simply moved to where he’d dropped the pistol, picked it up, and brought it over to a loading table. she held it in her left hand, her dominant hand, and pressed the magazine release with her thumb, catching it as it fell from the handle. her right hand cupped over the slide and cocked it back, and she didn’t blink as a gold bullet shell popped out of the top. the entire action was effortless because it was safe. emptying a weapon was second nature to her, but loading it, pointing it, shooting it; that was something she was still working on.·‘ rhysand, ’ she spoke his name softly, but confidently, and her movements were no longer cautious as she moved towards him. he was so used to people walking away, to people giving up after one try, but noemi had never been that for him, and just because she was seeing this new side, a dangerous and dark side, didn’t mean she was going to start now. standing in front of him, she hooked a finger underneath his chin, finally locking eyes with him.·‘ hey, ’ her hand dropped to her back pocket. in the left hand, she twirled the empty gun so the handle was now facing him, in the right hand, she held a new magazine, shiny golden bullets tucked inside of black metal ready to be shot,·‘ show me. ’ she realized how ridiculous it sounded, how anyone else would be asking him what was wrong, would be ripping into him for such harsh words. noemi, however, just wanted him to focus. she couldn’t get anywhere with him if his thoughts were drowning in blinding rage.·‘ i have never, in my life, seen someone handle something so dangerous so gracefully so–… walk me through it, ’ she stood firm, offering him the things she held in her hands, offering him herself,·‘ please. ’

the sound of her departing footsteps did nothing to quell the emotions he felt rising like bile in his throat; he knew that if she stayed, the part of him that she didn’t recognize would be enough to cause her to abandon him for good. he knew that there was no way to stop someone from seeing your true colors, the darkness that was so deep and inherent that there was no amount of brightness that could take away from it. but he also knew that noemi was persistent, and for some reason, she hadn’t given up thus far. rhys could only harbor so much hope in himself not to fuck this up in a way that was irreparable. but before he can even really let the fact that she had walked away really settle, he heard the approach of her footsteps once more, no longer tentative but something that was ultimately more confident. rhysand’s whole frame was practically a live-wire, a thrumming energy beneath his skin that made him feel ready to catch and go ablaze. all he could do was stand, stay right where he was, and carefully watch each of her movements as he tried to regain control of his breathing.·

rhysand really had to give it to noemi -- she was particularly skilled at distraction, being able to take his mind away from his mother, even for a moment -- and the way in which she was going meticulously through the motions of unloading a firearm had him watching like a hawk, making sure that she did it with carefulness and precision. he wouldn’t want anything to go wrong, and if something had because he had been too angry to pay attention. but she does it with almost no fault, a few of her tendencies indicative of the fact that she was still a beginner, still not fully comfortable around a gun.·

✩ — RHYSAND !

        maritza looks too overdressed to be walking around campus – or rather underdressed. her appearance is calculated, designed to attract in order to reach her end goal. her thick, dark hair falls in loose waves, make up crafted to accentuate her eyes & plush lips. the scent of tom ford wafts from her body clad in a lacy, black lingerie set concealed beneath a tan trench coat. the metal pierced into her tongue still feels N E W, a toy she hasn’t gotten a chance to use yet. her heels tap against the sidewalk, gaze focused as her mind goes over the plan she spent hours creating. step one – find H I M. her first destination is the training room – an educated guess, based on the fact that rhysand is disciplined – dedicated to honing in his craft when he can. it must give him a sense of C O N T R O L, maritza thinks. it’s idealistic to believe – maritza learning first hand that control gained can be taken away just as quick. step two – seduce H I M. it should be easy, the teasing she planned should be enough to crack his exterior – to break him down until his thoughts surround her & her alone. maritza blames sol for her possessive streak, the blonde always disregarding her staked claims. shaking off thoughts of her first ( & O N L Y ) heartbreak, maritza steps into the building & begins her descent down the hall. the anticipation builds, her toes practically curling at the thought of what could happen if everything goes according to plan. 

        rhysand is F O C U S E D, she can tell as much by his body language. she can read people’s physical reactions as easy as a book, maritza programmed to C A L C U L A T E a social interaction so it played out favorably. despite her impatience that causes her heart to race, maritza waits for an opening. & when it comes, she approaches him the way a predator would stalk its prey. except she knows the other is hardly prey – another predator with a different hunting tactic. she hopes his thoughts are too occupied to hear her approaching, the element of surprise would work well in her favor. he looks G O O D – a reminder of how long it’s been since she’s seen him. his figure seemingly carved like a grecian marble statue, accentuated by the tight, athletic shirt that hugs his torso. her fingers tap lightly on his shoulders, moving until her pads feel the metal of a gold chain beneath them. she tugs purposefully, knowing he N E V E R takes off his necklace. it was one of the first things she noticed about him, a cross that seemed reminiscent of that one that hangs delicately from her neck. “ rhys, ” she breathes out, crimson lips brushing against the shell of his ear. “ why haven’t ya’ returned my texts ? ” she asks, grinning wickedly as nibbles on his ear lobe, tongue flicking out so he can feel it – a taste so the devil can tempt an angel. ( @attwoods· ) 

the blade of the knife in his hand glinted under the wan light of the training room, the technique he had employed to make sure that it caught the golden glow of the room something that he had been doing for ages. he didn’t ever want a knife to be in anything less than pristine condition. currently, his mindset was to maintain a c bit of control after the absolute meltdown he had days before, anger being wielded by someone who had no clue how to handle it. there was collateral damage, sure, but at this point, he knew there was nothing else to be done about it. it wasn’t like the situation had been totally in his control, anyway, but here ? in the training room ? he felt more himself than he had in days, a display of knives on the table before him, some sheathed in their holders, others put aside so that he could meticulous wipe them down. it was easy, mundane work, but it was enough to keep his mind off of the pressing matter that were his still raw emotions, only being able to keep a slight hold on them. in a way, rhysand felt reckless -- well at least, for him, like if he is pushed to the edge in any other way, there would be something forcing his hand to allow himself to fall. 

he was setting down on of his perfect points when he felt the warmth of body against his own, a trailing touch that instantly indicated who was behind it -- maritza romero, sin personified, her tone dripping in debauchery as she slithered up to him like a snake around it’s prey, slowly wrapping herself around him until he was suffocating with want. he didn’t know how to feel, not now, as he felt her tongue against his ear, a bit of cold metal causing a shiver to crawl up his spine, a spider-like quality to it as it equally irked and aroused him. he knew she was brazen, always forthright about what she wanted ... but rhys wasn’t sure he could say how he really felt about being the center of her attention just now. it had been, admittedly, quite a while since they had shared a bed, but it was like falling back into an old rhythm, and sort of indignation or apprehension only something that work against him as she tried to get him to let down his walls and allow her inside. large hands find an intricately small waist, and he pretends not to notice that his fingers can practically touch as he pulls back from her slightly, green eyes meeting a tempestuous brown, hiding all of the secrets of what exactly she had in mind for him. ‘ ritz.’ and admittedly his voice is a plea, but rhysand can’t really bring himself to discern where that plea is rooted. his eyes shut for a moment as the memories of how exactly she feels in his grasp, but they instantly flutter open as he reminds himself of the cool metal that had touched his hear when she let it glide across his skin moments before. ‘ we both know that our strong suit isn’t exactly conversation. ’

maritza: is it frustrated ?

maritza: horny ?

maritza: all of the above ?

maritza: a refresher would be nice, but ... i'd say im 85% sure

maritza: good to know

maritza: aw u missed me ??

rhys: No.

rhys: Don't tease me, Ritz.

rhys: I'm sure a refresher is exactly what you want.

rhys: I didn't /miss/ you.

maritza: jealous ?

maritza: bc you're the best

maritza: & it's been a while since i've seen u

maritza: you're right, my mistake.

maritza: sorry for bothering u.

rhys: I don't think that's the word.

rhys: Are you sure about that?

rhys: Stop, you're not.

rhys: Bothering me, I mean.

        cool. calm. calculating. these are words that encapsulate rhysand attwood, the ever-unshakable man he’s come to know over the time they’d been living together. and yet here he is — unbalanced, infuriated, volatile ? these are words that are supposed to signify the entrance of rafael, known for his temper as well as he is for the perpetual anger that settles along the curve of his brow, not rhysand’s. the pure emotion on his face is as shocking as the idea of rhysand having an outburst in any way, shape or form. the spots of red high on the pale expanse of his cheeks, the way every line of his body is tense and screaming i’m ready to fight; rafe knows this stance well. his bones feel like he’s home in that stance, and that’s part of the reason it’s so alarming to see it on rhys. he’s never thought them alike until this very moment. 

        “ public place, rhysand, ” he replies evenly ( another term he’s used to pinning on rhys, ever level-headed; rafael as the voice of reason feels utterly wrong ). somehow, their flipped roles don’t feel quite as wrong as ‘rhysand’ leaving his mouth instead of the traditional ‘attwood’. the syllables are softer, curl more easily around his tongue, but he supposes it’s only right that everything about this situation is just off-kilter enough to keep him on his toes. 

        he only remembers the gun at his hip, out and loaded for long-forgotten shooting practice, when he’s taken a step closer. for a second he thinks — is it such a good idea to have that in his reach right now? — but then, of course, he remembers that rhys has his own, anyway. this is a shooting range. if for some reason he decides to take his anger out on rafael with a gun, well, they’ll finally be able to decide who’s quicker to the draw: rafe’s fists or rhysand’s aim. “ did it stop you from getting your usual bullseye ? ” he continues carefully, nodding toward the destroyed phone on the floor. “ i’d be pissed, too. though i will say that a human target usually works better, in that case. it’s more satisfying. ”

rafael bolivar wasn’t an individual he had anticipated to come across, not by any means -- their relationship was forged of a mutual dislike, stemming from a loyalty that they both possessed. both two men who were shining stars, coveted for their skilled and regarded with weariness, those that came in contact with them not regarding them as peers, but as others -- rafe’s temper was notorious, something that scared off the likes of those who weren’t sure what to do once he wielded it, rhysand’s stoic nature something that only further intimidated those who thought to speak to him. they were two sides of the same coin, however -- juxtaposed in a number of ways, finesse and brutality, collectiveness and raucousness, light and dark. there wasn’t one without the other, and had he possessed the ability to clear his mind and allow his thoughts to calm him, he was sure that he would be itching to make further comparisons, to see just how well they balanced each other. 

instead, he was grieving the loss of control, mourning the death of the person he had shown to the world for so long. because it hurt, each bit of this hollow regret, the iciness of his exterior being melted away as the burning entity of his wrath causes him to overheat. and he was breaking down in front of someone who seemed to wear his anger on his sleeve, a suit of armor to shield him from everything he knows will inevitably reach him. but there was a strength somewhere in the weakness they both seemed to feel, rhysand was sure of it, though there was no way to stifle it, molten rage destroying everything in it’s path. 

maritza: u know enough rhys.

maritza: i think a lot people do since they've seen me naked

maritza: what can i say ? ive missed u & that particular talent

maritza: life's more excitin' that way isn't it ese ?

rhys: What a way to entice me. Reminding me of all your worthy suitors.

rhys: If there are so many, then why are you texting me?

maritza: c'mon babe u know me better

maritza: why would i do that ?

maritza: how fortunate for you

maritza: i must've forgotten the reciprocation part

maritza: since i visited home.

rhys: Do I?

rhys: I don't think anyone knows you, Ritz.

rhys: That's not a very subtle way of asking me to remind you.

maritza: im sure your prospects have been non-existent

maritza: w. me bein' gone & all ...

maritza: maybe

maritza: or maybe not

maritza: guess you'll never know thks to that vivid memory of yours

rhys: How is that you manage to make a question sound like a threat?

rhys: Well, the knees...thing. That you said. I do have recollection of that.

maritza: glad we can agree on /that/

maritza: im sensing some hostility, are u tense attwood ?

maritza: bc i think we both know how to fix that

maritza: fine ! guess you'll never know if i got my tongue pierced or not ;)

maritza: have a nice life !

rhys: I'm not tense. Why do you think I'm tense?

rhys: Wait.

maritza: hola ese !

maritza: did ya' miss me ?

maritza: this is 'ritza btw ;)

maritza: if u forgot i can always get on my knees later to remind ya' ...

rhys: Miss you?

rhys: I didn't delete your number. That would be dumb, since we go to the same school, and everything.

rhys: The memory of...such things is vivid enough that I don't need another reminder.

gunfire. gunfire echoed through ioa’s campus, muffling out the excited sounds of the upcoming weekend. her run slowed to a jog, then a steady stroll as she pulled out her headphones, just to be certain that it wasn’t accompanied by the sound of panic. she flicked her wrist, looking at the screen on her watch and frowning at the time; it was late evening and she’d been so busy with finals, so busy with training, so busy working with atlas, that she hadn’t had a moment to breathe on her own. this run was meant to be exactly that, but there was a nagging feeling in her stomach brought on by the fact that the same screen that warned her of dwindling sunlight reminded her that she had exactly zero new messages. not a word from rhys all day, and she was frustrated by how exactly that made her feel. noemi’s mood rarely depended on other people, and it was startling to her that in the hours she’d gone without hearing from him, with no response to her check-in, she began to sort of––… miss him.

another gunshot. ‘ fuck, ’ she swore under her breath as she tucked her headphones back in and turned right, towards the shooting range rather than towards the trails she always ran on. it was a decent distance away, uphill, and she felt the relieving burn in her calves, a burn that always made her push harder. physical exertion was her way of challenging herself, pushing her body to its limits and ultimately breezing right past to meet new limits. she’d made a habit out of shattering glass ceilings in plenty of aspects of her life. ioa didn’t slow that down. her pace only decreased when she got closer, noticing that there was only one active station, one set of targets. she grimaced, inhaled, then quietly made her way underneath the shelter.

not quietly enough. there he was, tall and dark with a rage worn so beautifully, noemi swore, for a moment, that she had come face to face with ares himself. when he whirled around, voice ice and gaze as sharp as his favorite knives, she knew this was no greek god. this was rhysand attwood amidst a fit of uncontrolled anger; this was infinitely more dangerous. ‘ unfortunately, i think that might leave a lot of us out of a job, and, ’ she shrugged, inhaling as she steadied her nerves and wiped the sweat from her palms of the side of her leggings, ‘ i’m not exactly ready to go back to miami yet. ’ she studied him for a moment, now more than ever hating how difficult he was to read. she remained where she was, not yet stepping any closer, but sunlight reflected on shattered black glass, and she felt an even deeper level of concern. rhys had always been so stoic, so controlled, so she couldn’t imagine what would have caused such an outburst, and she wasn’t sure he was ready to tell her. so her gaze moved over to the handgun at his other side. ‘ don’t stop because i’m here, ’ she moved a little bit closer, still keeping a comfortable distance in hopes of not overwhelming him, ‘ you’ve still got three targets left standing. ’

heat began to creep up his neck as her words played on a loop, an incessant reminder of the catalyst behind his growing displeasure. he wasn’t in a mindset to relax, to calm down -- there was too much that was plaguing him, making him forge who he was and give up everything to the emotion that only felt more intense due to his way of consistently relying on repression. but it was no use -- practice made far from perfect as he began to feel the pull of unending vexation; he was like an addict and to feel as strongly as he did now ? he wanted to let it go, to release it, to find some way to make it stop somehow, eventually -- that may be his only route. to ride it out, an addict who was experiencing the side effects of the damning drug that was the wrath he now felt coursing in his veins. 

noemi mendes’ voice was something that he had once told himself put music to shame, a tone that was so wholly comforting he now didn’t know how he would go a day without it. but there she was, speaking to him in a way that shows her weariness, an apprehension blooming from the desolate graveyard, gravestones inscribed with dates of all the moments that rhysand attwood had lost it -- here lies the control you once thought you possessed -- and he couldn’t even look at her, the words readied on the tip of his tongue sharp enough to cut and sting, to leave a mark, a trickle of blood in it’s wake. he became wrought with worry then, not for her, but for himself, for what he may show in a moment as vulnerable as this. their ... situation was already delicate enough; noemi didn’t need to see what he was like when he was angry. rhys, the master of controlling what he felt, of putting it somewhere he couldn’t reach it -- it had all come back. everything. he couldn’t see straight.